On Bobby Pins and Needles

"I can be anywhere in this house and within two feet find a Bobby pin." Padre lamented tonight as he exited the shower. J and I were deep into a game of Monopoly so all I could do is shrug.

But lately, it's true. Usually I don't use very many. But you can always find one somewhere on the couch, on an end table, on the floor when you are sweeping. (Those go into the garbage.)

The odds of finding them every two feet was the result of me trying out some hair styles. After looking at Whippycake.com , and seeing cute- and tempting-hair accessories I saw new takes on old hair styles. Some bordered on the rocker version of some of the FLDS women I'd seen in the news some time back, but I was willing to see what my tresses could pull off.

I went through a million Bobby pins. I ratted and teased.

The end result was a bird's nest atop my head. And I felt the possible feelings of a newly hatched baby bird sitting in that nest, being jabbed by gazillions of twigs that were gathered by their loving parents.

I even tried the pompadour. The front part of my hair hasn't seen that kind of height since the 7th grade Cobra bangs I etched in hairspray.

But the cute accessories on the professional models from the site, accomplished with pros doing their hair, wearing items with names like:" Mall Rat, House Puppet, Girl on Fire, Calamity Jane, Finicky, and Tardy"; pushed my creativity button.

I came up with looks like: Fried Chicken, Colossal Mistake, Persnickety and Home Schooled.

It just didn't look the same. Granted, I didn't have the cute accessories, the different kinds of pins to work with, or talent. But still. Quite the let down.

Either I am going to have to ask some of the older ladies in my ward how to do an Anne of Green Gables look and try to modernize it, or just stick with what works.

And Padre is just going to have to deal with the fact that Bobby pins mysteriously multiply.

A good site to reference: bobbypinblog.blogspot.com-- I wish I would have consulted it first...

Oh, HONEY!

This post is not about significant others. Rather, how all this studying with J is making me ask: "Why is that?", too, and finding some cool stuff by tinkering with questions in my mind. Which leads to some fun finds.

The Bee finding started with a BYU magazine, received in the mail. One of the articles had super magnified pics of.. drumroll..., BEEs. These pictures had been on a Exhibition in Provo, Utah. I just missed it.

So I went to the the photographer, Rose-Lynn Fisher, web-site to learn more about her 17 years of studying this stinging worker. Using a Scanning Electron Microscope (SEM) she magnified bees, dipped in a thin layer of gold, and what she came upon was something akin to Calvin's adventures on alien planets in the comic strip, Calvin and Hobbes. Frontiers of art and science, that never ended upon each magnification. And all compiled into a thick book of her pictures!!

I showed J the cool pictures and we noticed the bees's bodies not only covered in hair, but some varieties had hairy eyes.

"Why would that be(e)?" I asked myself. -It's hard enough that they have thousands of crazy shapes imbedded on their eyes, then to have to deal with hairs protruding from them.

Imagining J as an electron turning and twisting around the rocking chair nucleus atom from last week I was also interested in this microscope and wanted to look through one. I was wondering how those crazy turning electrons could magnify so much and then Rose-Lynn could make digital images of the wonder.... so the hair question seemed pretty much a random question. But, heck, if she could spend 17 years studying them- then I am sure she answered that basic Q.

What I found was that those seemingly annoying hairs is one HUGE factor in gathering pollen for the bees. When in flight, the hairs create static electricity, pulling as much pollen in as they can. Brillaint.

Searching further, I discovered that over 3,000 hexagons comprise the eyes. The photographer made the analogy that what they litarally see, becomes the reality in their hives: hexagonal honey combs. Comparing that to man's "vision", she pointed out that what we "envision" become our reality. That could be a deep topic for another day.

So I stuck to the basics.

I learned that more circles can fit in a hexagon, which is important for those bees, cause they need all the space they can get to put in that delicious honey in their hives.

Honey (raw- not cooked above a certain temperature.) has 17% water inside of it. which helps with HYDRATION. (Getting IVs frequently of fluids that really caught my eye) I went on to discover the antimicrobial benefits of the honey, the resin it picks up from trees, mixes with its excrements, and uses it to fix the walls of the honeycomb.

Because of the digestive enzymes it mixes with its concoction, it is PRE-DIGESTED, so easily converted by our bodies and sent straight to the muscles, cells, and tissues.

I had to call a local company, Brownings, to ask the owners about that little mixture the bee uses to "glue" its wax hexagons. Talking to, Andrea, the store manager, I learned a lot more.

Sure, I'd known it was a good health food, but I didn't know the possibilities that it held to help me in my own situation.

I'd mixed it with lemon for sore throats, put it on toast, and wiped it off sticky fingers. But I'd never learned that it was packed with all B vitamins, 40% protein, and tons of other vitamins and minerals. Pre-digested. Good for those with some serious problems with digestion. And the ability to help my cells retain water.

I shared all of this with the Torment. Who then put me to the task of finding out some little recipe called Pinole, or something. And how an ultra-marathoner asked the question: "Why Do I hurt When I Run?"

Apparently, it led him to a group of running fanatics in a remote Canyon in Mexico where they run all day. In their bare feet. -Or flip flops or something. All while smiling and having fun. hmm.

His book is called: "Born to Run."

Not being a HUGE runner, I realized that maybe it was because I always wore shoes.
But, it piqued my interest that someone would go to that great of length to find out some interesting info. Like what they eat to keep them going all day.

It involves Chia seeds and cornmeal cakes. And LOVING to run as if it wasn't a workout but like driving a nice sports car; the body.

My question: "How do I grow Chia seeds in Idaho? Or can I? And can I turn my attitude around about running or working out?

This experiment will take a bit, but I will let ya know what I find. And whether or not the Queen Bee plucks her eye hairs cause she just sits around and eat Royal Jelly and mates. My guess is she has a drone pluck them or her body simply eliminates that annoying problem. If you find the answer, let me know.

Magnet Mother

The other morning I encouraged Jaden to get up with the fact that it is Friday.

"Hoo-RAY!" I shouted like a cheerleader. (Except my enthusiasm was fake and forced.)

He laid there, like most of us do, snoozing. -Getting more out of that three minutes between the alarm,than in the whole night. (Don't you love that droopey feeling? It is more blissful than Florence's Chocolates and what heaven must feel like: a state of relief that you don't 'have to get up' and leave your warm blankets, step into the cold of your room to dress even colder jeans and walk out into the Artic of Idaho weather.

Like someone speaking from the dead, because he was laying there in the same state of serenity and only his lips moved, he startled me with this:

"I am NOT doing homework today."

The week was a short one, due to the holiday, and he didn't come home with OFFICIAL homework, i.e. something to be turned in by the end of the week. He thought he was off the hook.

It was an excruciating week keeping him on board with the fact that he did in fact have Home Work. Implemented by his mother, at home.

I had to pull tricks out of the hat to keep his attention on tasks such as; improving his penmanship, going over past tests to make sure he understood why he got a question wrong and doing his daily reading.

Tuesday, I tried the dry erase board he loved so much when he was littler. That worked for 4 minutes before he figured out I wasn't just drawing, but pounding in tally marks and punctuation. When I wrote a sentence to him, because we weren't speaking, and then asked where a comma goes, he stopped "playin" the dry erase game.(he'd pounce on me for the hypocrisy if he read my blog.)

Using a library book I've had to re-check out three times, I did all these activities to teach him about magnets, the earth's magnetic field and atoms.

In between moments of attention span, he'd play indoor hoop. I sat down and did a water color picture to get him to get over the fact we weren't going to Wal-Mart to price Air Soft Guns nor were we heading to the hardware store to get a horse shoe magnet.

He fell for it and drew an aircraft carrier with water colored pencils.

I trapped him, while he was in the tub, and read Lemony Snickett's The Bad Beginning. (I've done this many times with other books.)

When I had to do dishes or make dinner I feigned I needed something to inspire me, and that it helped to laugh while working. When I asked if he could read Lemony to me he rightly acknowledged that it was hard for him to read that book because it made him laugh so hard. And then cry. Which is true. I could barely use the 20 minute time frame of reading because most of it was spent laughing.

By Thursday, he learned every trick I'd used.

So his stance Friday morning was completely fair.

"You can't make me do ANY homework today." He said opening his eyes.

"You don't even want to paint?"

He thought a second then eying me like an art curator, said: "We do that at school too."

He was on to my scheme. Drawing, painting, artsy stuff, or even asking him a thought provoking question, was an attempt to "teach" him. And he was against any form of me stretching his brain.

"Okay, you got it. NO homework. What are ya gonna do with all that time?"

"Play my DS." He said excitedly, as he jumped out of bed and got ready for school lickety split.

Name that Cure

(Dan Akroyd and Chevy Chase in Spies like Us)

I love the part in this movie when the pair are pretending to be Doctors. Shaking each doctor's hand, they introduce themselves to several of the specialists and doctors in the tent.

"Doctor." shake, nod.

"Doctor." in reply as he,too, shakes and nods. Doctor.... Doctor.... Doctor....

After repeating this with each foreign Dr. they commence to do a surgery. They of course are NOT Doctors. When I get talking to several of my Doctors within a short time period. This scene from the movie always comes to my mind.

When I am exhausted,after trying to relay information from the Dr. in Utah, to the Dr. in Idaho who might have to contact another Dr. across town for whatever reason, makes me stop and laugh about the circle that I am going in trying to accomplish getting healthy.

J offered to come up with a cure for my disease to alleviate this sort of chasing around. I was impressed with his desire. I was really impressed when he told me what he would call it:

Al- fa -Med -iss

Laughing I asked:

"Do you know what Alpha means?"

"Nah, I just started with the beginning of Albuterol (an asthma med) and then added the rest." the little Dr. replied with a smile.

Elastigirls

The other day, J's team narrowly missed getting schooled by a girl team. They could pass, rebound, and set picks like you wouldn't believe.

They were executing plays like an NBA league. Using our boys as a warm up for later domination. By pure luck the buzzer blared with us a couple points ahead.

That was close.

Sweating and thoroughly beat, J came to me and some other parents. His fellow teammate was expressing the clearly equal opponent they had just "conquered".

"Yeah, those girls are really flexible!" J said wiping sweat from his forhead with his wristband. .......!(me stymied and unable to utter a word but a tried to stifle a laugh that was close on its heels.)

I didn't notice them stretching before the game. And I need to clarify what he meant by flexible in that context. All we could do was chuckle and breathe a sigh of relief we still had our hides after such a game.

However, J could be more right than we realized. Girls are able to multitask. Like play basketball against cute boys and not let it mess with their game.

Driving across town to our house, he sat daydreaming in the back seat, looking out the window.



"Mom, she was cute." he said referring to a girl that he was supposed to be guarding like glue.

On, no. An Achilles heel. Or an excuse. - I doubt he was that shy of her that he went ahead and kept as far away from her as possible or that he was being a gentleman by letting her have the right away- right to the basket.

"Son, those girls were GOOD at basketball. Whether they are cute or not. Makes no difference. You play against them like you would ANY other boy, er, kid. (How else are we gonna get better?)

Instead of game footage, I am gonna have to teach J about some Greek methology. Go over Riordan's Lightning Thief book with him again. Now that we have some real life examples to draw from, he might understand how it was real hard for those Greeks to resist looking at a woman, who could turn a kid to stone, despite her hair crawling with Snakes.

I am hoping for a two in one lesson with this activity. But I imagine I will have to go OVER and OVER this concept clear into his HS years.

Cowboy Boots For Valentine's Day

Living at home provides me with ample writing material. Today, youngest yet tallest sibling, came home with today's post. Is V-Day for men or women? Or both? And can an older man successfully ask out a way younger girl at the Tanning Salon?

First of all, I need to add the disclaimer: sometimes spring/winter relationships do work out. A guy leaving a Post-It note stating his height, age, type of car he drives and amount of children, to entice her to want to go out- is a chance that some men are willing to make. So the girl can at least make an informed decision about dating someone twice her age.

It is totally viable to believe that he would want to stick around after she'd entered and talk it up with the receptionist until she had finished tanning.

After her not exiting in adequate time, he borrowed the receptionists sticky pad, and left his stats. To his good fortune, she exited and he could TALK to her!

Well, listen to her talk to the receptionist anyway. Somehow the conversation turned to Valentine's Day. B. Bee took the stance that it is a holiday for women.

"What is a guy gonna want for V-Day? If he wants after shave or whatever, he's gonna go to Wal-Mart and get it." she stated to her friend.

I have to admit I do have my own theory on the day and I have some proof about what men, and desperate men, do at the last minute on February 14th.

When I worked at Florence's Chocolates, a lot of men came in, right before we closed, to get a gift for their Valentine. To walk into a shop with a line running from the glass counter almost to the doors was probably disheartening for many. It was overwhelming for us employees.



The line, mostly made up of men, waiting for the guy in front of them to "hand pick" the remaining divine chocolates made by Florence in Rexburg, was as assorted as the little morsels of heaven sitting under the glass.

Some men hovered over the encased chocolates like they were looking at diamond rings at the mall. Unsure about making the commitment, debating how to best spend their money.

Should he go with Milk chocolate or dark? Nuts and caramels



or simply assorted? For a few bucks more they could put them in a decorated heart. Was it worth the extra cash for the pretty box or the already assembled, shrink wrapped ones readily available?

And then there were some men who would let me take the reigns and choose which chocolates for them. Money, nor what their sweetheart liked best, was of importance.

A few knew exactly what to get, cause their wives had told them or they knew what she loved.

"Oh, she has to have the orange cream in dark chocolate."

"You are out of Macadamia Nut with Caramel? You're kidding me. She's gonna kill me."

There weren't many gals coming to get chocolates for their guy. And some knew exactly which ones to put in- their favorites.

So B. Bee might be onto something. And men should take note-- women are talking about V-Day. Now. Find out her favorite chocolates before hand and get them bought. The long lines are not worth the wait in the 11th hour, especially if you have reservations.

"Tanning Salon" guy was absorbed in B. Bee's theory
(or just in her) as she tried to transition, from the awkward moment, from the salon to her car. As she started to edge toward the door he said:

"I bet you're the kind of girl that is buying cowboy boots for your guy so he can be as tall as you."

If B. Bee is gonna be spending any money on shoes , she's getting them for her.


(Florence's famous Cherry Cordials. These go the fastest.)

Rescued from Life's Storms; Jaden's Moment.

Have you ever had a moment that made time stop swirling around you and essentially rescued you?

Last night Jaden and I had that happen, at a High School basketball game. Much of you know that Jaden loves basketball. At age 2 he was saying "Hoop" and practicing it night and day. His love of the game leads us to practices, collecting cans and shoveling sidewalks to afford shoes and leagues, and me occassionally taking stats for the local HS. Why do I take stats? Well, it lets us get into the game free. And I, like Jaden, love the game, too.

Despite life flying with school, homework, extracurricular activities and adding my health to the equation, it can make a flurry of activity, snowball into a blizzard. Life just passes by so fast sometimes blinding you to what really matters. One minute Jaden is fitting the hard earned shoes and the next I am pushing my finger next to his toe up against the end of them.

And then something happens that makes you stop, all those moments, of hard earned time, come to a halt.

At the last minute last night, I had been asked by the head coach of Skyline to do the Varsity's away game stats. I wondered if it would be smart to go, but did it because like I said, that team brings me to my feet- even when I am supposed to be neutral as a stat keeper. (tough for fans) And because their last game against our town rival was so amazing and Jaden has played the game footage over and over and over. Along with annoying everyone by playing his indoor game in the hallway cause the hard wood floors are better than his bedroom carpet. (Down there no one can see his awesomeness either, and like any team he enjoys an audience.)

So we drove clear out to Ammon on close to an empty tank of gas.

Arriving at the HS before the needle pointed to E, we rushed inside and I sat down and readied the stat book. There weren't a lot of kids at the away game so Jaden sat by me, next to the stat table. So he could "help" tell me who made what shots.

The national anthem was played and the audience honored it then, the announcer for Hillcrest, boomed over the mic. Calling out players' names who would stand up from their chair, run down a tunnel of team mates, shake hands with the refs, and finally shake hands with the visiting coach.

Eventually, Skyline's #10, Boston Murdoch, was called out. I didn't really notice, as I was making sure I had names straight with numbers, etc. But suddenly, there was #10 standing in front of Jaden. He had gone through the teammate tunnel, and now had his Fist outstretched toward Jaden.

For a split second we both sat there in confusion. I thought maybe he needed to get something straight for the books. But then I saw his dead focus on Jaden.

And that's when time stopped. I turned to my son and took him in. Jaden, who was still stumped, sat there paralyzed.

"Go ahead, give him knuckles." I encouraged and made a fist, to show him what to do. (he's done it a million times.)

Jaden returned the gesture. The guy to my left, who was MCing and the refs smiled. Like I said, I don't know if Boston had gone through the refs or coaches yet, and the MC guy was waiting on us to get on with it so he could announce the next player, but they all took in the moment with us.



The next few seconds continued slow motion, emotion started to well up in me and I had to fight back tears.

Later that night when Jaden recounted what happened, I asked why he didn't respond sooner. "Mom, I was stunned, that was my player."

Again, I had to fight back tears. #10 is my player now, too.

Boston isn't just anyone. Before my divorce during a time that I was struggling through a toxic case of E. Coli, his mother babysat Jaden who was two, and me.

Jaden would play 'Hoop' with Boston and his younger brother, Stockton, out on the driveway of their home. I would either be on the couch, talking to their mom or resting on their daughter's bed.

WE moved from that neighborhood and into my paren'ts house. Jaden grew and so did those boys. His memory of times playing with his hero were lost, except to me.

After Skyline's rival game with Idaho Falls High School, (see skylinehoops.net for game footage.) Jaden asked me a lot of questions about, Boston, #10. Jaden needed to know more about this kid with the sweet shot sinking young man.

'What does he sound like when he talks?' I couldn't answer that interesting question, because #10 is a quiet, humble, good kid. I could only tell him that he smiled in the halls at school when I subbed, and was respectful of teachers and others. That I'd never heard him swear. And he was a good student. That's all I really knew.

"We should invite him over, Mom!" he suggested next in a a sincere, believing manner that only a child possesses.

So #10 coming over to him at the stat table was as magical and pure as Christmas morning. And we sat there in awe for a moment, I soaked it in so I could capture it later on paper. But you can't capture some things. There just isn't a way to communicate the accumulation of so many events that led up to that moment.

Maybe Padre's pics in this post can relate some of the feeling...

Jaden's belief in the team winning, led him to leave my side in the 4th quarter and by himself go in the hallway, dribbling and shooting at the wall within my view through the opened double doors.

I had to gather him up at the ending of the game, he begged to stay and asked why we had to leave "so early". Never mind that the basketball hoops had been drawn up. The kids didn't care, they were tossing it up at the wall.

Once I coaxed him out into the dark night and sub temperatures and were heading for home he made a comment to the effect that we'd won. "Actually, we lost." I told him. "We did??" He asked once again stunned.

But that fact didn't shake his excitement. Win, lose. Didn't matter. His player had singled him out and he was on cloud nine the whole way home.

"I want to do something for him." he said.

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Buy him a car or something."

"I think he has one already. I bet he'd like a note or you could draw something for him. Definitely put this down in your journal."

"Maybe I could send him a note and a sucker or something."

He wrestled me around at bedtime to get the excited jitters out and finally clonked out.

We were home, safe. And all was well.

Imperial Mother Part II. The Finale

They called him 'The Bird' because it was the only generic term the POWs could use to let each other know when the pshycohtic monster was headed their way.

His real name was Mutsushiro Watanabe. Born to a wealthy woman, the prison warden for the American soldiers had lived "a privileged life.. studied at prestigious Waseda University...enjoyed French" and swimming in private swimming pools at the beautiful homes his fam owned. He also was obsessed with nihilism. Unbroken; A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption. Random House. Copy rite 2010. p. 233. By Laura Hillenbrand.)

Louie, the hero of the book Unbroken, said that this man's relatives all held coveted military positions. The Bird, ranked in lesser positions and finally placed over a POW camp, became so jealous of this that he went berserk and took it out on the others on his own team and of course on the prisoners.

Whenever he was about to morph into the crazed torture addict, his upper lip twitched. What I found amazing was that on occasion, he would go back to the prisoner he'd whipped for 5 hours or the man he'd tied up for a few days and cry to them. Beg of their forgiveness. Then turn on a dime and beat them again.

Obviously, his "teammates" didn't want to hang out with him so he'd resort to a prisoner, bringing him into his office to play cards or talk. And when his prison camp was captured in 42 by the Russians, The Bird, deserted his post as guard and went underground til McArthur stopped looking for him.

I haven't read the book in a bit because of the emotional investment of reading about that kind of suffering. As I mentioned in the previous post I came across an article by Amy Chua I thought I had accidentally picked up the book.

When I was reading why she was Superior to western mothers


(they had to play piano AND violin)

and she described how she pounded the song: 'The Little White Donkey' into her 7 year old, I had to do a double take. Was I reading Unbroken or the paper?

She described the cute, little obedient 'donkey' following its master in a complicated piano piece. I wouldn't know. However, did play 'The Little Burro' for one recital around the same age, but it wasn't even close to the complicatedness of poor Lulu's training. And we couldn't afford lessons with 7 kids in the fam. And I wasn't about to use my paper route money on piano lessons.

I thought I was watching The Bird unleash his mental games on a prisoner as I read how Ms. C "taught" her daughter to play. There was retaliation. The girl ripped up the score. It was encased in protective plastic, (maybe the same kind of protection we give the United States Constitution to keep it safe) little white donkey, I mean Lulu was kept from eating dinner, using the bathroom or getting water until her right and left fingers synchronized.

Poor Amy lost her voice from yelling at her that she was garbage, had told her she would miss Christmas for the next three, four years, that the Dollhouse she had was going to the Salvation Army.

Miraculously, Lulu played the piece. She kept playing and was happy. They cuddled together that night in bed, giggling and laughing at jokes. Again, The Bird's crazy bi-polar shift in attitude comes to mind.

I had to look through it a couple times to see if it was a joke. Did the WSJ really print this to make a point that the Chinese women are better mothers because they only play violin and piano 4 hours a day, and drill math and science. And that's why America has such pathetic scores in education?

Three different pictures came to mind as I read her article.

The first: Star Wars. Amy hasn't seen movies and neither have her kids. So they won't get the analogy. You don't have to be a Star Wars geek to recall the cool footage where there are legions of "Clones". The same looking, thinking, and acting. With the flip of a switch they fight for somebody else. NO Q's asked.

What Amy will recall is Hitler's version of Star Wars and his minions of brainwashed individuals that eventually took out the Jews because they were sub par. The Germans were too "Superior" to have that kind of muck running around! (Dr. Chua, a Law Professor at Yale, married a fellow Law professor, who happens to be Jewish. Way to stack the genetic IQ odds in your favor!!!)

And finally, a scene from Stephen Ambrose's book The Wild Blue. Boys from all walks of life. Dr.s, Lawyers, merchants, farm boys who'd never owned a pair of shoes or graduated HS, figfhting to free those under Iron Fists. Yet, these men, who were actually boys cause they were around 17 and up, would be jovial boys and play baseball, tackle football but when it came to suiting up, they got their game faces on, became men and entering metal heaps of freedom in the form of B-17's and fought.
Amy's parenting tactics don't allow for playing sports or having friends, or any other reindeer games for that matter.

After reading the comments posted for her article I was relieved to see several Asians feel appalled that she would group them in with her. But that is part of Amy's mental game; to help sell her books and essays. Another interesting tidbit is she wrote a book touting that; exporting the free market breeds ethnic hatred. I couldn't have seen more purposely weaving of ethnic rivalry than in the title of her self appraising article in WSJ. But you know moms... we all like to brag about how cool our kids are.

The woman was too 'weak' to put herself in a class of her own. Or at least own up to the fact she is on par with The Bird up there. She wanted to start a "fight". (Don't worry, folks, she can handle criticism. She was taught that she was superior to begin with and that tearing her down, was actually building her up by her parents. So this is like a compliment to her.)

This is my take on what defines Superiority. Freedom and this country's infancy may bring some interesting side effects that the world loves to point out but I can promise anyone with Ms. C's mentality: the only way you will find out whether someone is, truly wise, courageous and loyal, a leader vs. being a 'little white donkey', is if they are put in an environment of freedom.

The true test comes when and in a place where a man/woman is free to choose for him/herself whether to master and govern his mind, on his own free will.

When one is a slave, (or hostage, denied and reigned upon) subject to a master who dictates his will over theirs, we can't tell the strength of the person but only the weakness. Individuals dependent upon Superiors, and Puppets in their master's hand. Granted who knows what we would resort to under fear?

Bravo to Ms. Chua who cloned herself without the use of science. I would have placed this article in that section of the WSJ.

The article helped me realize that allowing your underpants to get so tightly wrapped around the axle, can get you published.

(Not Confucius, but a great reminder about what being dumb can do. Taken from the back of a Honda Motorcylcing Safety Manual.)

Inside Magazine, Cool Bryan, and Imperial Madres

I have been really taken by Outside magazine. Poring over their articles. Salivating at some of the sweet gear that I could buy and use for motivation to get out there. And of course scoffing at some of people's stupidity, mainly mine.

In a nut shell, I am sold on going Outside. Whether you have the gear, the goals or simply the gumption to step outside when it is cold, I think you should do it.

However, I think it only fair that Outside magazine do a spotlight on me, doing stuff INSIDE. Climbing microscopic cellular summits. Carrying and doing mountains of laundry and me needing the 'Cool Wool' they advertise. Whether you are telemarking or needing to wick the sweat away from Everest-like hypothermic night sweats, it is about survival. The can shoot cut of the edge tech pics of my cells doing battle with disease, occassional infection and just plain workin'.

I have my doubts that they will be impressed that I sat on my couch in the living room, folded a couple loads of laundry, read parts of Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, and ultimately blogged after breezing through their mag. But my neighbor, Cool Bryan, made a 15 ft. sculpture; OUTSIDE.

He and some friends quietly made King Kong, with ripped abs, behind my back and I didn't notice until they finished. How is that for some inside vs. outside activity?

You gotta have stealthy neighbors though.

You might have ordinary neighbors that do ordinary things. Wash their cars. Their kids compete in normal sports like football or basketball.

Not mine.

I have exceptional neighbors. Ones that excel beyond what I ever could imagine and are really qualified to be in Outside magazine. I could get you an "in" with them.

When other neighborhood kids are going to Tee Ball, mine are learning how to play bag pipes and getting into prestigious colleges.

"Cool Bryan" went on bike rides with J on his unicycle, strung a rope between two trees in his yard and practiced balancing on that with his unicycle or doing back flips from it. While most citizens run or walk around the green belt, Cool Bryan is Extreme Pogo Sticking with his side kick, Max, while picking up chicks around the Snake River. (all the while getting oustanding grades- you will see where I am going with this in a second.)

They hangglide, snowmachine, fly gliders, Scuba dive and dirt bike along canyons in southern Utah. With their mother.

(I read an article today in WSJ by Amy Chua. She entitled it: 'Chinese mothers are Superior to Western mothers,". Her brazen article is sure to bring her monetary bravado and sell a lot of books. However, for a Yale Law School Professor, I expected more smarts. Ms. Chua, you should come visit Idaho.

Unfortunately, 'Cool Bryan' went back to college, he is majoring in Computers and taking classes that teach him to leap small buildings. But don't don't worry, Amy, he learned to play a musical insturment. Just not the violin.

"But I'm Angry", A Study in Self Control.

Warning: There are no pictures in this post. Just raw, writing and personal philosophizing. I am not even spell checking or editing.


Padre loves sleeping in his own bed. I don't blame him, it's really comfortable. So when he gets to leave on work trips, he rants about missing his bed and throws in some travel travails that border with the movie: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

The one that made us laugh the most as we sat around the table and listened to his re-telling involved a young man in an airport. Each pocket he had was overflowing with some sort of contraption; An Airport Toy like an airplane. candy. He wore his hair long, somewhat skinny for the look of his age and it was apparent he was struggling with an infirmity.

The boy's family sat down and Padre witnessed the young man get irked about something he waned. "You can't have that." the adult with him calmly replied.

"I want it."

"No."

The adults tried to reason with him as much as possible. "But I'm angry." he countered. And then he became unglued.

And apparently he physically reasoned his way out of having to act civil because eventually he just bit the seat he was sitting in and had to be distracted with a chew toy that was made for someone his age and size.

In light of Padre's other predicaments on his tripl complicated layovers etc. etc. We all laughed at his story because deep down we could all relate.

So when I read an article in Outside magazine about Triathletes and Ironman Competitors that have gotten bored with how easy those were, signed up for what is called The Death Marathon, I had to read it. Because surely, these were the elite of the elite in self control and mastery and I wanted to know "what it took" to be them. And to rub in the feel of guilt of not even running a single marathon or summiting any peaks in the world.

Yet barely into the article, where the author pushing a wheelbarrow with manure in it back and forth, after diving in cold water for pennies he'd counted after a running up and down the same mountain, only to have a note at the bottom have him run back up the hill, lugging a bridge and a book to help him translate Greek, I was really befuddled with the stupidity of the whole thing.

I had to keep reading to find out what kind of person I needed to be to fall into a league with these amazing individuals who just wouldn't quit despite sleep deprivation, no food or drink, in Concentration Like Conditions despite the stupidity of it all. And want to pay for it. Becuase that had to be the mark of a true athlete/individual.

The author had rattled off the list of injuries he'd suffered BEFORE the marathan, the bad back he had, yet the training he did running up and down a mountain with a back pack on to get ready for the unknown tasks that the owner of the race would dole out on them.

Did I mention this was a race? With the owners yelling into their faces to quit and they wouldn't finish, the author explaining that his knees, now the size of cantaloups, were making it hard for him to even walk he kept going, telling himself he was NOT a quitter.

What idiot does this? I am asking reading quickly to find out the answer, yet in my mind I see myself. Doing dumb stuff and not quitting while I am ahead. Each time I read about the contestants reaching the summit of the peak only to be told to carry down loads of gravel to the bottom and then a sign telling them to turn around and fill in holes in the trail with the gravel on the way back up even though it is raining, I see myself trying to make it to the Dr.'s office, drop the script off at the Store, turn around 30 minutes later and go pick it up. Why didn't I just ask for help? Get a ride. Have someone else to the leg work?

Add trying to do the other million and one things I "think" I gotta do, and I feel like the guy with cantaloup knees. Finally, I read the epiphany the author has when he realizes he's gotta stop. And the drill sargent owners are clapping the "quitters" on the back like they are heros for admitting that their egos really were the only thing they were fighting out there. Congratulating them on knowing when to stop because that is the true mark of a winner of a Death Marathoner. I think. The guy who won did look pretty stellar.

The author realizes that it is his own race that he is running. He's gotta take into consideration what he's doing to his body. The aftermath. Listen to what his body is telling him; stop.

I sit there and let my hypocrisy sink in. Initially, jealous at their abilities, I realize I am playing the same game. Fighting the same battle and making choices today, that will affect all my tomorrows.

A few minutes before I was thinking, this idiot paid money to go to this and spent 6 weeks in Physical Therapy afterward and added to his impressive list of injuries. Which were quite remarkable. But how stupid! Now I am reviewing all the moments I have pushed myself too hard. Granted it is on a smaller level. Much, much, much, smaller level. But still. How stupid?

Earlier in the week I'd read a Walt Whitman quote to the effect that those who are able to learn what to leave alone, are rich.

My pride plays a big part in me not being able to leave something alone. Take the simple task of shoveling the sidewalk. Simple thing for most Death Camp attendees, but not what I 'should' be doing. But I don't want to be told what I 'can't' do, especially by my body. So I do it. Along with the other thins I ought to just "leave alone."

Exercising self restraint can come in all shapes and sizes. You don't have to be on the verge of Mt. Everest facing a drastic change in weather while running out of oxygen, to make life altering choices and find out about yourself.

Albeit Outside magazine isn't going to be interested in how I braved the brutal Idaho sub temps to get the drive shoveled the other day, or how I opted to lay down and do nothing in order to let my body heal today. But I have found I haven't had to go further than a bed at home or in the hospital, to face my own Mt. Everests.

Sometimes I think it would be easier to be able to run up a hill to vent the anger than to deny my pride the pleasure of escaping the menial, unglorified task of outwardly doing nothing.

Just deep breathing.

Telling my mind to stop thinking and just float while

my body wages war on itself. Reminding myself over and over to just stop doing those "other things" for a time.

Stop reading and studying.

Put the pen down, regardless if those thoughts or ideas never get written. Just sit with myself and the moment for the sake of all the tomorrows, instead of today.

It isn't easy to gauge. And I find myself feeling the words of the boy at the airport, stuck in a body that couldn't communicate or do what he wanted it to do, uttering: "But I'm angry."

I might need a chew toy before this is over.

Dough Guts and Dye- Its



With all the trips to Donut Shops to suffice the grandkids along with yummy treats from the neighbors, and indulging ourselves on a daily basis over the holidays, I implemented the post holiday, healthy eating rebound.

(Basketball season has a way of doing that to you.)

I was hoping breakfast this morning wasn't too obviously healthy and that J would eat it. Instead of cold cereal, I cut up half a banana, opened a yogurt and scrambled egg whites.

J came upstairs, sat down with and, with one sock on,  started eating. With him corralled in a captain's chair, I wetted my hand under the faucet and tried to drench his rooster tail. Muttering something like: "I love your strawberry blond hair." And under my breath (I HATE calics! sp?{)

"I want to dye it like B.Bee's." he said in a real casual, non-chalant way.

Thinking that he had caught onto the healthy breakie (breakfast) and we should diet avoid by cutting most meats I asked:

"What on earth for?" The guilt all mother's feel routinely, washing over me and hoping he didn't get a body complex due to me by changing the eating routine for both of our sakes I heard him continue:

"Really dark and then a stripe of white."



Relieved, I sank next to him up to the table and asked:

"Who does that with their hair?" my face screwed up into a question mark; the typical, 'Mother Knows Best' look and thinking someone at school had his hair like that.

"B. Bee." he said stating the obvious.

"BESIDES her?" As I recealled the thick chunk of white high light next to her dark hair.

"Lots of people, Mom." he sighed. Then looked down at his plate and asked:" Why aren't these scrambled eggs yellow?"

ME: "They are just the egg whites."

 J:"Could you at least put food coloring on them?"

Dough Ga Nuts and Mail Carriers

Padre loves to take Grandchild to Daylight Donuts. All of us will accompany them to one of the stores, just to hear, 'K', say his version of the little treat; "Dough GA nuts."

When the moment when my sis can get him to a store, all of us scramble and descend upon Daylight Donuts like a Navy Seal Op. Padre is texting other easily amused relatives, verifying times with Sister and going over past visits with Kade to the "Dough Ga Nut" shop. Everything he does, is fabulous to us.



It was one of these ops that I was walking outside the other day, make-up bag in tow so as to not miss the boat, that I met our new mailman, 'Lou'.

I have put off introducing myself to him for some reason. Maybe because for years, we had such a unique carrier. Ralph delivered smoke laden letters later in the afternoon when I was younger, I'd avoid all contact with him, if possible.

In winter, like it is now. When the temp is at a decided 11 degrees, you have to dress for the elements. For Ralph, that consisted of his United States Post Office issued hat. A blue, tan and furry on the inside, hat that covered his ears in a way that made him look like a happy, stray mutt.


(Ralph on the Runway would have been more believable as a Postal Worker.)


Ralph was anything but happy it seemed, unless he laughed, then you realized he was putting on the disgruntled act. His laugh seemed to start in the deepest, inner recesses of his gut travel up his lanky body, through his tobacco laced esophagus out his mouth where it would ring out through the neighborhood, letting everyone know you had stopped to talk to him. Or he'd stopped to talk to you.

He also donned a handkerchief that looked like a vintage version of a confederate flag or something. I honestly never zeroed in on it to be honest. This he hung in front of his face like Shaun White's iconic hanky he wore as he tore down the slopes in Canada to win the gold in Snowboarding.



Ralph didn't have a lot of gold, and didn't wear the hanky for fashion purposes but I imagine he thought about this as he was parked at the top of the streets taking several, long drags on a cigarette before venturing down a lane. We figured he was up there looking through the Victoria Secret magazines while he was at it. But really he just watched out the front window of the little Post Truck.

Ralph's medal was in the pending retirement. I know because when I returned home to live with my parents, I started talking to him more.

His wife, died a few years back, and he'd occasionally mention this when I went out to collect the mail. We'd talk about the economy, he'd complain cause it was making it so he had to work longer in order to have enough to retire. By the judge of how many packs he smoked on his route, I figured he had his remaining days calculated into the retirement equation.

I didn't recall the month, or day that Ralph stopped. I saw a few sprightly, in shape figures deliver in his stead and figured he was on vacation or something because the toned legged carriers kept switching up.

Finally, I started to see the same, ordinary looking carrier come at an early hour. This took me off guard and caused me to inquire: "Did Ralph retire?"

"Yup." the kind man said. "Ralph's delivery days are finally over for him."

I don't even think I asked his name, til today, when we were in a real hurry to get to the Dough Ga Nut Shop.

The Carrier put mail in Neva's old mailbox across the lawn on the south side of our house. I waited with my cosmetics under my arm for the man to walk through the worn down path of snow that he and papergirls and boys make every winter.
(some customers wouldn 't let you walk across their lawn and complained, can you believe that? And of course The Post Register wouldn't let ya just huck the paper from the street as you rode your bike. I would have taken state for sure in shot put, had that been the case.)

Lou, pulled out our freshly sent mail, bills and catalogs and handed them to me. I asked his name, told him mine and apologized for not doing so before. "Guess I was sentimental about our old carrier who we had for a long time."

"Ralph?"

Yeah, ya know him?

Oh, yeah. He's retired, beard down to here."

He held his hand horizontal at his navel.

Pinochle with Knuckle Heads and Party Poopers

Last night we celebrated the New Year.

Gma brought her deck of cards to play Pinochle; ("Any card-game lover will agree that when it comes to the most challenging game, pinochle takes the cake, the baker and the bakery. But they will also agree that this fast-paced game is a complete entertainer and an addiction hard to give up. The game is complex, no doubt, and has several variations attached to it. Let’s take a look at what the game is all about." Taken from a googled site about Pinnochle.)



a game stemming from the French word binocle meaning "glasses" but we Americans mispelled and mis- prounounced it when the Germans came over and shared it with us. So poor Mary Lu had to try and teach four of us how to play the "strategic, nuanced" game of: Pinochle.

After doing her best to help those of us who offered to learn, it became apparant that we weren't gonna get it before 2011. My sister in law broke the news to her that maybe another night would be better cause she and The Torment were going home pretty quick.

I asked: "So Gma, Would you rather Play the game 'Would You Rather' or play Pinochle?"




"I'd rather play this, but not with you guys." !!!!!!!!!!!

Ouch. When a woman with Parkinson's can play a game of cards and stay up later than you says that....

Instead of Blurt, Would You Rather or Apples to Apples, my family hones in on what the game we really excell at more than most: story telling, quoting movie lines, and raw jokes involving each other.

This game usually takes turns, but if you dominate with say Ace Accusations or are the King of Comeback, you might not win. So in our defense, you gotta play this game a lot if you are gonna keep on your toes. Pinochle takes away from being in on this quick paced battle of wit.

We all went into the living room, where the chiefs were sitting, and settled into a the continual round of 'The Game'.

Sometimes real life, sad and devastating news of others is shared. The Torment retold a story of picking up a body when he worked for a local funeral home that was as haunting as Dickens' Christmas Carol.

Mary Lu followed with a story that happened either at the end of the 1800's or early 1900's that topped the Torment's gruesome event.

Off of Idaho State Route 34, in Franklin County, is the place of my Great Grandpa Ed's famous childhood stories.

They (some local people around Cleveland) found a dead body that was frozen in the sitting up position. At the time there was only a post office, school, store and LDS church. So they placed the body by the pot bellied stove in the church put hot rocks on the body to keep it in a horizontal position and waited for it to "meld" (a Pinochle term but used differently here)into good burial position.

For whatever reasons, they had a dance. When I asked Gma why, she said, probably to pass the time while they waited for the body to thaw. There wasn't much in the town so you can see that the church was useful for several reason.

The teens didn't know about the dead body, laying there while they danced the night away, when they were rounded up for the party. Great thuds on the dance floor brought all of their attention to the silent wall flower by the stove. Needless to say all the party goers were shocked to see a "man slowly rising."

As not to stay too long on the doom and gloom of death, Gma segued to another story her Daddy told her that his buddies played on him. It, too, involved a dead body.

I didn't consider the easy access to dead bodies back then would be a card the youngsters would exploit, but have since learned a thing, or two.

Not knowing the particulars other than Ed's pals asked the local store owner, housing a dead body in his cooler, if they could put a sheet on it and play a prank on their friend, Mary Lu recanted the old tale.

Ed, followed his friends into the store, back to the cooler and obediently pulled back the white sheet. Falling to his knees he prayed outloud that the Lord would strike his friends dead.

Never hearing this story or not filing it away into memory, I shrieked. After I'd covered my mouth for a second, looked at the calm collected chiefs as if nothing were spectacular, I asked:

"Who were his friends?"

Shaking her head she said: "I don't know, Mandy." lacing her trembling hands together to steady them, "All I know was that one of 'em was Ern Porter."

Around that point Grandpa looked at his watch and said to his son next to him on the couch (Padre: "That heater of yours went damn near three minutes."

So Grandma, won The Game, outbesting the clever quips of my brothers, who had stayed for awhile then left for their parties.

Grandpa, the softy, stayed up til midnight with her, and had Gma come sit next to him as they watched the ball dropped. -At least that is what mom said he did cause I turned in a little after 10.