The Big Bang Theory

When I hear someone say "The Big Bang Theory," my mind goes to a couple of places...

1) The scientific one which I am not a fan of other than how it may have appeared to look according to google images...matter unorganized.

big bang theory n. A cosmological theory holding that the universe originated approximately 20 billion years ago from the violent explosion of a very small agglomeration of matter of extremely high density and temperature.

The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company. Updated in 2009. Published byHoughton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved.

(from a religious point of view, it looks like unorganized matter which the creator may have used???)

2) Then there is the big bang theory television sitcom...BAZINGA which I am more than a fan of for a variety of reasons:

Leonard, Raj, Howard...

Sheldon and "Penny knock knock, Penny knock knock, Penny knock knock." I adore each character and the personalities they possess, but that is a whole different entry.

3) The big bang in which I am referring to was the one that made it's debut in the late eighties, early ninties atop some young woman's head. It was an artform that required tools...hot curling iron, hair comb and mass amounts of hairspray. It was so difficult for my type of hair (a quantity of soft, fine, stick straight hair. The perm did not help my big bang matter either other than it became the matter unorganized mentioned in the first big bang theory) that my big bang fell forward covering the upper half of my face. The big bang also became known as "West Valley" or "Valley Girl"look. It is my opinion that much of the damage to the ozone layer was due to achieving this desired look. Reflecting causes me to accept the belief that our minds can play tricks on us. How in the world did I ever envy this wall of bangs, and yet, envy I did. New styles come and new styles go. Thankfully this one went, but there were some that held onto these bangs like they were going out of style. (They were.)

(The above photos were pulled off google images. I needed a picture to help readers understand the humor in this story.)

I was a 6th grade educator at the time. Sixth grade is a particularly difficult time for most. The 6th grade human body is transforming the child to an adolescent. The emotional state wants to be independently grown up while still clinging to the little girl depending on parents to care for her. Cliques are formed. The opposite sex has somehow lost the cooties to the flirties. The appearance becomes top priority during the body's low priority development of acne, body hair, odor, voice change etc. Unfortunately, these changes are more visible in young women than in young men. I remember the completely undescribable awkwardness that I felt in my 6th-8th grade years!

One young woman approached me in tears. She was beside herself and I could not understand why, She was smart, adorable, well groomed, popular, always dressed fashionably and so I asked where those tears were coming from. Apparently, the other girls in her circle of friends had given her the boot because she had worn her hair the same way two days in a row. Some may question the reality of something that seems to be so trivial, but I lived this shame in the area of clothing I selected.

(Briefly, as Jr High and High School Students, my circle of friends scheduled the week to be Monday and Wednesday were "nice pants day." Tuesday and Thursday were "dress day." Friday was "levi's day." This was the rule that we fervently abided by. Once in a while there would be an extra curricular activity that would require a switch in apparel. The person would then let the others know of the change in the schedule. If per chance the word did not get around, it was grounds for the silent treatment from the one left out of the loop and utter terror for the others, "Oh crap...didn't you tell her?"
"I thouhgt you were going to tell her..." It was serious and usually meant conjuring up the lamest excuses as to why the one, was not in form.)

The pressures for girls was intense. Now take that and multiply it by 5,000 if you are the new girl, you are shy, and you have developed into a young woman before the rest of your peers.

I had been notified that a new family had moved into the school boundaries. The mother and two girls came to introduce themselves to me. One girl looked too small for the 6th grade and the other looked to be at least sixteen years old, so I let mom take the lead. The shallowness in me was looking at the one woman's perfectly mastered tall, straight up bangs. The profile view barely revealed one row of hair. I could see that this girl would rather be anywhere other than here. My heart felt compassion for her and I hoped that the upcoming experience in her new school would be a positive one. The 16 year old look alike was really 12 years old and I was the one that would be the master of creating a positive and safe environment for her. I found a seat for her. The class welcomed her and then we went about business. I hoped the new awkwardness would fade for all of us.

There were a few boys that endeared me with their wit and charm. One young boy was behind the new girl. We were having an intense math discussion and I was put out that he was not paying attention to me, so I called on him to answer the question. Maybe I could redirect his attention. "Can you tell me if this is the correct answer?" He shrugged his shoulder apathetically. That bothered me even more and so I took it upon myself to scold him for not having his eyes and attention on me. In a very serious and somber manner he replied, "I am sorry Miss Hart, but I can't see anything over (blah blah's) tall bangs."
A range of emotions spiraled through my body...devastation and complete embarrassment for our new student, shocked at his response, mystified at what my own response would be, stifled laughter at his truth.( I have had to move seats in a movie theatre before because of the overpermed hair of a patron that sat down in front of me.) As I continued to look at his facial expression, I felt laughter rushing up my throat, like lava spewing out of a volcano, like soap suds growing out of my washing machine. I turned towards the board and started erasing for fear I would not be able to fight the smile that prefaces the unbearable laughter.

Then with a firm tone, still facing the board, I said, "THEN MOVE!" I hoped with all my might that the sound of my voice and the words I spoke would change the grimace on my face. I waited for the awkward moment to pass. I held still until I had regained complete composure. I remained nose to the chalkboard (I think the awkward moment was now with Miss Hart--"what the heck is she doing?" kind of thing) until I felt safe to face my students and resume math which felt about an hour in humiliation's time frame. "Now class...let me show how to arrive at the correct answer..."

Once in a great while, I will come across a "big bang moment." With a smile on my face, I will think back to the wonderful moments and memories I had with these children. There are other moments when I look back on old photos and wonder what descriptive phrases went through the minds of others when they observed the hairdo I was sporting...

Volcanic Laundry

After Rick had washed, dried, folded, and ironed 10 plus loads of laundry, I thought I would contribute to the household duties. I had spent so much time trying to complete unfinished projects that the family laundry had risen beyond a normal load or basketful of laundry. (I felt overwhelming grateful and guilty at the same time.)

I placed the white items in our frontload washer. I made sure this batch was only white (referring to another post). I made doubly sure that I did not put anything in that mass of clothing that was bound to shrink (also referring to another post). I was absolutely sure to use laundry soap rather than bleach (once again, referring to another post). I measured the soap while the dialogue check list bombarded my thoughts..."hmmm there doesn't seem to be enough soap...oh well, it is a small enough load...I am sure it will be clean in the hot water and at the least, give the items a fragrant scent (you know, the one that you see on all the commercials)."

Then off to my other tasks: organizing the projects, scanning photos, filing bills and Noah's school work and yatta yatta yatta...I was rather pleased with my multi tasking.

Noah, passed by the laundry room exclaimed,

"Mom, why are there white bubbles coming out of the washer?"

In a questioning tone and completely bambazzled I replied, "What?"

He reapeated, "There are bubbles coming out of the washing machine."

Immediately, a Brady Bunch episode came into focus. Bobby Brady did not want to get in trouble for soiled clothing and so he attempted to do the laundry in order to hide the mishap. Unexperienced, Bobby put too much soap into the machine, when he returned to check on his clothing, it had been overtaken by lava monsters of soap. As I rounded the corner, I saw the bubbles spewing out of our machine like a science experiment gone bad.

I pulled down the washer door to see white rolling magma...I mean soap (and me)... just ready to explode. "Unbelievable!!! When will I get this right?" I stopped the washer, 

wiped up the bubbles on the floor and went to dinner wth my family. I had hoped that the foaming, froth would go away while I was gone.

Naturally, the one negative event caused the numerous positive events to suffer...I had to produce a total mind shift as I was determined not to let it ruin my evening. I laughed instead because I knew one day it would be funny.

I guess I will be doing more laundry...
This image and quote posted on facebook informed me, I still have a great deal more to learn.

And I Speak Spanish...

I am what some would call a “people person.” 
I just plain love people and of every age, race, and background. I believe I learned that skill from my parents. 

If there is an opportunity to visit...I will. If I can find a way to make someone feel happy or do something meaningful for them, I do. If I can be clever and use my creativity in 
some way...hooray!

Working in the Concierge at the Marriott was the ideal job for me. I was to make the surroundings were pleasant, display a beautiful array of food and snacks for the guests, provide them with helpful information, answer questions about the area, fill the coffee maker, make dinner reservations, listen and visit... take a real interest in them, schedule appointments, smile, smile and smile some more. I enjoyed the job and the amazing people that I worked with each day.

One particular woman that I worked with was engaged...soon to be married to a handsome Hispanic man. He had come to spend a bit of time with her at the Marriott Concierge. I was introduced to him and then invited him to sit down and enjoy some of the evening’s hors d’ oeuvres. I was going to provide a 5 star hospitality to him. I felt that it was important to leave a good impression on others and so I would try to find a way to connect. I saw that the young man’s plate was empty. 

“Is there anything else that I can get for you...seconds of anything?” 

He was grateful and expressed his appreciation in a compliment towards me. “You are very kind and good at what you do.” 

 “How sweet” I thought, “Here is my chance to connect. I will return the gratitude for his kindness in his language rather than just a simple thank you. Then he will feel at ease and comfortable being in the lounge. My friend will be pleased that I have gone above and beyond to give quality service to her beau.” 

So with batting eyelashes and blushing cheeks, I replied, “Garcia.” He looked at me with questioning eyes and so I repeated even louder...”Garcia,” He was still puzzled and so I exclaimed,”You know Garcia...thank you.” His eyes opened wide and with a chuckle said, “You mean Gracias.” Oh my heck...of course I meant Gracias. Duh. I knew that. Gracias. Gracias. I say it all the time. How could I make this mistake?” Rather than laugh it off with the gentleman, I stood there in a stupor while my thoughts continued the dialogue that was playing out in my head,

 “Well, Garcia is close...almost the same letters and Garcia is also a wonderful Mexican Restaurant that my family frequents...so I can see the confusion...nope, not a good enough excuse for this blunder...Gracias...everyone in the whole wide world knows the word Gracias. Geez...I go out of my way to make a situation better, only to create a disaster on my part.”

I click back into reality to find that the heat in my face is now flushed with embarrassment. As I turn to walk away, my thoughts whisper in a rather mocking tone, “So much for making a great first impression thank you very much, or should I say Gracias very much or was it Garcia very much?” Maybe that is why I quiver to think of learning a second language... 

Wooden Roses

I have the most wonderful Grandmother. We have been dear friends for quite some time. We like to call ourselves the “Odd Couple” after the old sitcom with Felix and Oscar. . .two polar opposites. She is elegant and classy, where I am loud and clumsy. She entertains with fine china and gourmet meals, where I eat on paper towels and whatever can be heated in a microwave oven. She practically lives in the Garden of Eden, where the only green thumb I have is when I color with a leaky green marker. She has a house of order and beauty, where mine is creatively ordered chaos. She was a dignified hostess for the Church Office Building, where I played in the Nursery and boisterously sang songs with puppets in the Primary. Though we are oh so very different, we have grown to appreciate the diversity in each other as it gives us reason to rejoice and to laugh.

My Grandmother is the youngest 93 year old woman a person could ever meet--driving in her sleek, silver jaguar, regular bouts to the Temple, a calendar dotted with engagements and appointments, keeping her mind sharp with Forbes and Stocks, thrice weekly jaunts to rehab to maintain her strong and vibrant body. . .there is nothing holding her back.

(visits to Grandma's House for Halloween)

(Three Generations of Wmoen)

My Grandmother and I have been meeting once a month for dinner over the last 11 years. I have missed that as of recent. Finally, the opportunity presented itself and it just so happened to be the Monday previous to her 93rd Birthday. One should know, she mingles in high places with famous people and so I was thrilled to have the occasion to celebrate this special evening with her. 

President Monson and Sister Haight at Grandpa's 90th Birthday

(Tonight, Howard excorted her to the dance floor at Maddie's Wedding Reception)

My Father was her escort to the Red Butte Cafe.

My Grandmother’s Birthday, surely a celebration deserving a touch of class and elegance. . . set my mind in motion. I stopped for a card with just the right wording, a balloon to emphasize the event and the most beautifully, perfectly shaped red roses. I could scarcely believe that nature could produce such perfection. Out the door I went with my gifts in hand and a smile in my heart.

My Grandmother and Father were patiently waiting at the table where good food and fantastic company were only moments away. I presented her with the gifts and she was a gracious receiver, even a few tears in her eyes. She expressed her love and appreciation most tenderly. My perception was, that she had been emotionally touched. For a moment, my head began to swell. . .that even I could pull off an act of class.

We ordered. We ate. We laughed. We visited. We reminisced over the “pink keds” that my dad had given my mom decades ago. We indulged in rich memories, company and food. It was a celebration.

My Father reached over for the tiny, red roses. He put the roses to his nose to breathe in the glorious scent that only perfect roses could bring. I watched closely for that look of approval. . .Rebecca. . . well done. Instead, I saw the “one eyebrow rise” which was the gaze of confusion and question. “What was he doing?” I thought. His next move was bold and revealing. He gently reached  down to touch the roses. The facial expression shouted what was evident now. . . those roses were NOT REAL! ! !  Not only were the roses not real, they were WOODEN ! ! !  

My mind set about on it’s own private conversation, “Are you kidding me? Did I really just select WOODEN ROSES for the most quintesscential woman I know? Oh crap ! How will I get myself out of this one? My dignified, elegant Grandmother deserves the very finest and I have just given her WOODEN ROSES. . . in which she would probably get a sliver trying to put them in one of her vases.”

I wanted to run away and hide. I wanted to carry the roses to the car for her and then accidentally take them home with me . . . anything to keep her from discovering that they were not real. She had made such a fuss over them. . . as did I in recounting the story of how  I very carefully selected the “cream of the crop” Well, this cream of the crop just got whipped and soured. I thought “Ding Dong. . .Rebecca . . .you classy?” No. I couldn’t even do that. I felt it would have been better to have done nothing at all.”

Dad carefully placed the flowers back by the card. Our eyes met and I couldn’t read whether he was thinking, “Oops . . . I can see how you were misled,” or “Why on earth would you buy WOODEN FLOWERS?” Either way, I came out appearing much like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of OZ. . .”if I only had a brain.”

As we were getting ready to go, I knew that honesty would be the safest way out (I couldn’t even buy, let alone remember any of the scenarios that I had concocted in my head.) She made a comment about how lovely the roses were and I retorted rather spirited, “Lovely ? ? ? Just let me tell you how lovely they are. . .have you ever heard of any such thing as WOODEN ROSES amidst real roses in a florist?. . . neither have I? “ She  was utterly amazed, shocked, and absolutely speechless and then the awkward pause followed with laughing hysterically. Sometimes it is just plain old good to have a reason to laugh and laugh we did. . .and then laughed some more.

We parted ways and my negative self talk kept me company the rest of the way home. . .but my Grandmother on the other hand did the most marvelous thing. She took those WOODEN ROSES and with her class and elegance, made them something special. She took them home and put them in with the most beautiful bouquets of REAL FLOWERS the others had sent. She didn’t hide them or throw them away. She displayed them amongst the best. Yep . . . that is my Grandmother. Even in my disaster, she brought out their beauty.

Over the next couple of weeks, my dad told me that of all the bouquets received, mine were the only ones remaining. Pure symbolism embraced my mind:

   My Grandmother is a woman of strength and character. Like the  WOODEN ROSES, she stands firm and steadfast, in perfect form and beauty, in principle, the gospel, and elegance. Like the WOODEN  ROSES so  carefully carved, she has carved a life of generosity and set

an example of truth, knowledge, and a zest for life. Like those WOODEN ROSES, whose petals won’t drop and colors won’t fade, her life is eternal.

I thank my Grandma for bringing Life and Beauty to the WOODEN ROSES.

(Grandma celebrates the Christmas Season Opening at the Lion House 2012)

Old Age

Noah was in the car with me and I could see from my rear view mirror, that he was deep in thought. A few minutes later and again in a somber voice, he says, "Mom, do you know what I really wish?" I think, "Here it goes--a game boy, a horse, a trip to Disneyland..."I say,"What do you wish, son?"and he said, "I just wish...well I wish dad could bend over."It was all I could do to contain my surprise and my laughter.   Rick is a wonderful father. He will throw baseball after baseball to Noah and he will take him golfing.  Rick has two hip replacements, sore knees, sore shoulders, sore everything--I'm sure Noah has seen how hard it is for Rick to bend over and collect the balls.

I am a Choirister in the Primary.We are talking about building Eternal Families. Sister Harris brings a picture of a "Grandma" to discuss how she is part of the family and can contribute in many ways. "What things does your Grandma do?"and there cute Camden says it direct and plain, "Grandma's have to color their hair." Well, I have been coloring my hair for a lottta years now--so does that put me in the "Old Category?"

So just when does one make that transition into "Old Agedom" (is it when you start making up your own words:) ) Is it when you iron shirts with windex instead of the spray starch? Is it when you cook the rolls with the saran wrap still covering them? Is it when the streaks in your hair are more silver than gold? Is it when you water your plants with a glass of milk instead of water? Is it when Noah's friend's parents, have parents younger than you? Is it when you qualify for the Senior Discount (or when someone asks you, will that be 2 seniors and 1 child?)  Is it when you lose more things than you find and some of those things are the rest of your sentences? Is it when the remote in your hand does not seem to "select" the item you are pushing on until it starts ringing and you realize, you are trying to use the phone to do the remote's job? Is it when you prefer Raisin Bran to Fruit Loops? Is it when  CNN becomes the new Prime Time TV show? Is it when you are tempted to cleanse your face with Downy Wrinkle Releaser instead of Sea Breeze? Is it when you do not recognize a single Name Brand of clothing, or any of the Popular Singing Groups? Is it when the students you taught, are now teachers?  Is it when you eat more Rolaids than M&M's? Is it when you start asking too many questions? If any of the previous are qualification for "Old Age," then I am definitely old.

For the sake of Noah and my own fears, I am going to color my hair and have blonde streaks put in and attribute the above to "Blondeom."

Now Just What the Heck Kind Of Color is That

Reason Number 2 to distance myself from laundry...

I thought I put in a batch of whites...

Yes, I know I did.

(My proof...these are our garments. I don't even know if you can wear this color in the temple.)

Now just what the HECK color is this?

Cream? No!

Ivory? No!

Pink? No!

Off White? No!

White? Heck NO!

Ugly? Yes!

What have I done?

Lovely Tulips Never Die

There is nothing that can brighten up a room like yellow flowers. My co-teacher and friend in our room had brought back some of the most gorgeous tulips from an all too short weekend. The moment I walked into our classroom, I was cheered by the vase of yellow tulips. (My friend loves to work in her yard and garden. Her kind soul is always sharing her harvest with me...so this was not an unusual occurrence) I commented on their radiance. Her responce was simple, "I thought we could use a little color to brighten up the room." I agreed as I silently gazed...I just could not get over the perfection of the blooms. Thought: "I must bring my camera tomorrow...I hope they will last."

Sure enough, day two appeared every bit as exquisite as the day before. My friend was not in the room and so I took advantage of this photo opportunity. "Click" "Snap" "Click...Click Click" I did not dare touch them or rearrange them for fear petals would drop. I was more than pleased with the photographs I had taken. Day in and day out...the lovely tulips remained in their glory. I do not remember how many days had passed when I had walked over to see the tulips up close. As I glanced down I noticed that these flowers were not in a vase of water...but a vase of smooth stones !!! I still was not convinced. I timidly touched the petals and sure enough they were crispy, bendy, plastic flowers. I had been duped once again. 

First, it was the mockery and disbelief of my grandma watering a plant of plastic flowers so long ago. It was so obvious to me that her pot of flowers were an absolute imitation...plastic...fake. I could not get over the sheer amazement that she actually believed those flowers to be real. I did not have the heart to inform her. I knew the day of discovery was sure to come. I also knew I could never fall for something like that...plastic flowers. 

Then it was the wooden roses...I realized, no one was above trickery regardless of age and eyesight. 

It was beginning to shake my confidence. How many other imitations have I taken for real? Even as I type this, I wonder..."Were the rocks real or just fake?" I will have to check them on Tuesday.

I was beside myself in a humorous way to think that I really must be getting old. Later on during the week, the Groendyke family had gone downtown Salt Lake City. As we were passing one of the Trax Stops, I noticed the seagulls perched above. I commented to Noah..."look at all the birds waiting to ride the Trax." He replied, "Mom...those aren't real birds. Those are statues." My eyes remained fixated waiting for one of those darn birds to move. Nothing. As we passed other Trax Stops, I noticed the same arrangement of birds. "Really? Did I REALLY just believe they were real birds?" Once it had been pointed out, I was humbled with embarrassment. Now I began to question everything I saw. I was alone and driving waiting to get on the ramp to 215. I was stopped below the underpass. There above were perched several birds...none appeared to be moving. Thought: "No way...are you kidding me...they (whoever "they" are) place fake birds on the overpasses too? Just before the light turned green, I saw a few move. Now I felt silly that I thought the real birds were fake. How many times I had nonchalantly driven this route many times and never really paid that much attention to reality of the birds. I look over to the next car and wonder...do others spend there time thinking about these kind of things are do they even care?

Months later...I show up to work. The yellow plastic flowers remain in a vase of smooth rocks. I smile in part because they do brighten up the room, but mostly because of how captivated I was by what I thought was the beauty of nature. Admit it...they are lovely tulips.

Thumbs Up

I learned a new word today:

gaffe |gaf|nounan unintentional act or remark causing embarrassment to its originator; a blunder : an unforgivable social gaffe.

Oh my word...this word I know and live so well. My life and world is full of GAFFES. I guess this blog could bear the name, "God Made Me to Laugh at My Gaffes." I have not only embarrassed myself, but others through my blunders and naiveness. There are several gaffes that have created quite a stir that I could not possibly mention in public save a few key words. For instance, the shiny round disc I held up in the aisle,  "Does this belong to anyone?" I thought that colorful package was a disc cover for someone's floppy disc. Then there is the one with the kleenex box in front of the Idaho Falls Tigerettes and their mother's before a performance...to ease the fear of performing... You know the joke is on you when no one laughs and jaws are dropped as if in utter shock. Then I ask, what could possibly be the matter?  Some kind soul would then pull me aside and whisper in my ear the crude meaning of my joke. It is enough to keep anyone quiet for a long time...but oh know...not me...I am just a one gaffe after another.

As a Flight Attendent, I had many such instances. We were in New Orleans on Mardi Gras. It was a full plane with partying and already intoxicated individuals. There were blow horns and sparkly hats and beads. This group of people needed more than the typical soda and peanuts or pretzels. Passenger A: "Can I have a Bloody Mary, a cup of water and coffee with cream... oh and do you have change for a hundred...maybe some alka seltzer too?" and on it continued passenger after passenger. Finally, we had moved beyond the first two rows. It wasn't long until I heard, Passenger B,"Mam, do you have a towel and a refill?...I had a little spill." Out of sheer frustration, I blurted out a cliche that came to my mimd..."My are we all thumbs today?" Immediately upon completing my sentence, I glanced down and saw ten stubs, not fingers, stubs. Clearly it could have easily been mistaken for "all thumbs." I wanted off that plane yesterday. First off because of my stupid remark and second, the thought that I may I have hurt some one else's feelings was more than I could bear. I do not know if he had been in an accident or if this was something from birth. I  do know I was sick inside and I am sure the look on my face reveled just how sick. With compassion and a couple of words, "it is okay," he brushed it off, but it replayed over and over in my mind.

Then there was the day that a handsome African American passed by me. Somehow we ended up visitig about diverse subjects. We were off on the topic of watches. I was collecting them at the time, especially trendy Swatches. Thet were plastic, creative watches that were Swiss. I looked him square in the eye when I spoke, "yea I have seven, but my favorite is the one with the black face." Really. Did I really just say that to a black man?

What about the man from church that was blind. Somehow his cane found me more than once. He was in need of a ride home. I was happy to do that for him. I had a sheild in my window to protect the dash of the car from the sun. As I directed him to the passenger side of the car, I saw the shield, "Just let me get the BLINDER...I mean the thinganajig out of the window so you can SEE, I mean so I can see..."  Later on, it was "let me know when you SEE the street sign I am to turn on for your home." Everyone knows that a blind man can't see and yet much of our conversation required seeing..."Have you seen any good movies lately? Do you think she is cute? Is your house that one or that one," as I point to both sides of the street.

The harder I try to avoid the blunders, the bigger they become. Now living in a world where you have to be politically correct, I overthink everything and leave people wondering if I have a speech impediment. There have been occasions when I hear the little voice in my head say, "Why do you have to be so dumb?' Then I remember, it is those very things that people find so endearing. I think I am hilarious, yet I know I am not and just want to be...so if I can get a laugh or two when the discomforting situation has ceased and time and humor have added their touch...so be it.

One day my mom was seated at the dinner table with some pretty prominent people, in fact, the children were not allowed to attend. I had been suffering with major allergies. My mother had given me an antihestimine to help with the sneezing and runny nose. It was long over due and my sneezing started up again with a vengence. I ran up the stairs to the dining table. My mother asked,"Can I help you with something?" With confidence, I said for the table to hear, "Mom I think I need a hysterectomy."

Off on the Champs Elysee in France, the taxi drive asked me in French "Quel age avez-vous?' (How old are you?) I wanted to impress him with my wonderful one semester of BYU French and responded
"sept" which would be seven years of age. I was sure he had asked me how many people were in my family. His eyes were bulging with surprise. I went back to my hotel room later, found my handy dandy French Dictionary and realized the reason for his disbelief. All the whilde my mother is practically yelling thinking that if you talk real loud, the taxi driver will understand.

The first time I say the word "GAFFE" was in connection with Vice President Joe Biden. I guess I am in good. or not company when it comes to being a "GAFFER."

 

Little Girls, Pretty Hair, TERROR

Truthfully, what is it about me and darling little girls with exceptionally adorable hair?

Picture this:

Salt Lake City International Airport, many people and a great deal of Security. I have an innate desire to compliment and make others feel good about themselves. That includes children. I love to be playful and as an educator, a primary worker and an aunt, I thought I had a unique gift with children. Not today. There across the way was a charming and very captivating little girl. If I had not known better, I would have believed "Goldilocks" had just stepped out of the infamous children's book. There they were, the most perfectly formed golden locks of hair. I have always envied the loose natural curls of others. I could not resist. I walked up to the little darling and said, "You have the most beautiful hair I have ever seen. Where did you get such gorgeous curls?" There was no "Thank you." Not even an "I know." Her face became distorted. She stomped her foot and sharply pointed her finger at me and then screeched at the top of those little girl lungs..."STRANGER...STRANGER. STRANGER. STRANGER." I was totally taken off guard and as I glanced around, everyone's eyes seemed to be upon me. I tried to tell Goldilocks here that I simply wanted to tell her how cute I thought she was but the more I talked, the louder the volume...humiliation and embarrassment.

(I do not know this little girl. I found her image on google...but this is almost identical to the golden curls I saw. The girl at the airport was a little bit younger and this will at least give one an idea of why I could not resist saying something.)

On Sundays, I would lead the singing in Primary. For the most part, the children enjoyed coming to Primary. There was one little girl that appeared to be terrified of Primary. She would cry and eventually be returned to her parents in another room. One day, she had come in to the Primary Room with her father. She sat on his lap in the very back as if to ease her into the routine of Primary. The rest of the children were singing and enjoying "Pick and Choose." It just so happened that the next name that I selected from the box of names, was that of the little girl. Here was my chance to show her how  fun  how absolutely safe and fun Primary could be. With much prodding and convincing she slowly walked to the front of the room. This enchanting princess of a girl had corn rows and hundreds of dark braids all over her pretty little head.

I bent down to help her post something on the board. I stood up to send her back with dad. The button on my sweater had become caught in her hair. I could not stand up. She tried to walk away and felt the tug on her head. All I could do was hover over her. No one could quite figure out what I was doing. The little girl began screaming and crying. I began to panic feeling that I was making her Primary experience a trauma. I offered comforting words and then asked for help. Clearly, dad could not assist because of the location of the offending button. One of the women from the Presidency came up and rescued the screaming child. I felt like such an idiot! The little girl was carried back to her seat (not by me) crying hysterically. I tried to regain composure and get my group of singers singing again. All I could think was really? Did that just really happen. Yes...yes it did happen and it would not be the end of my gaffes.

Hey Good Lookin

I was a shy young child. I had girls in the neighborhood that were great friends. They were not the problem. It was anyone outside that circle of friendship. We used to walk home daily from school and on Sundays, from church. Adele's home came first and then Nan's. I had to make the last few yards to my own home by myself. It usually was not a problem unless it was really dark or there was a strange dog. One Sunday, while walking home from church, I glanced in the distance and saw three teen boys. They were the hotties...older...much older and oh so cute. Desperately, I began to hope that they would finish their conversation and go inside. No such luck. I had just said good bye to Nan. I dreaded that I would have to make that walk alone past them. What would I say? Would I pretend that I did not see them? Was there an alternative route? Maybe...just maybe they would not notice me. No matter what, I had to keep going.

I put my head towards the ground. I felt the heat of embarrassment rise from toe to head. Each step closer meant increased panic. The walk seemed to be an eternity of steps. Then, as if in slow motion, their head turned my way. Dwayne put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Rodney, in a rather flirty voice said, "Hey good-lookin...what ya got cookin?" It is in those moments that I worry about most...you just never know how I will handle an awkward situation. Before I could even think how to handle the compliment, like with grace and finesse, I blurted out a response. I can hear it still, "Hey good lookin, what ya got cooking?" "Lemon meringue pie" I had never baked a pie and of all the pies, why did I say lemon meringue...I was too young to operate an oven and yet it came out just as smooth and every bit as flirtatious as the way they had asked the question. This reaction seemed so foreign to my nature that I was even more self conscious. Not only did I talk with these "foxes" (what we used to call someone we thought was great looking as in "He is such a fox!") but I had to say something soooo stupid. I felt my comment made me appear far too arrogant...that I indeed was acknowledging that I was good-lookin by my quick response.

The words had been spoken. I could not take them back. I would see these hotties again at church  the following Sunday and most likely around in the neighborhood. They may have chuckled or found it humorous. . .I do not know . . . the last stretch home was a blur. I cannot look at or order  lemon meringue pie without thinking of Rodney, Bob, and Dwayne and hearing in my mind..."hey good lookin' what you got cookin'?" 

That last stretch home...

Holy Crap

Speaking of Da Vinci, our "sugar coated" dog, he is big. No, he is huge and weighs about 110 pounds. Me oh my, is he ever strong. I have been bucked off, knocked over and smashed more times than I could count. If we had purchased him as a full grown dog, I would have been terrified, but he was a puppy and I learned to love this dog and grow with him. I am sure he was just as afraid of others as they are of him. The moment there was a knock at the door, he would race to his kennel. Then, Da Vinci would scoot to the back as far as he could and bark incessantly as if to say, "get away . . .you frighten me. . . don't you dare get near me." Others perceive his bark as, "I am going to eat you up, tear you to shreds, and throw your remains to the birds." Da Vinci is also very protective and if there is even the appearance of someone hurting Noah, Da Vinci is there with a vengence ready to nip and defend .

At our home, we take turns taking Da Vinci out. It is not my favorite of duties, but I would rather do that than clean up his duty inside the home. We are sure to put him on the leash so that he will not go after someone or something . . . or run away for that matter. For the most part, it has not been a problem. I have more trouble getting him back into the kennel. When Rick is away, I cross my fingers that I will be able to find something in which to bribe him. I have been late for work a few times while I waited for Rick to come home and do what I couldn't do . .  put Da Vinci in the kennel. The bribe used to work beautifully, but he was on to me. I would throw the treat into his kennel. Rather than obediently stepping into his kennel, he would put two paws in and leave two paws out. That way, he could still have the treat and I was unable to shut the kennel door. The moment the kennel door begins to shut, he would push his big rumbumpus up against me and pull a reverse.

One particular weekend Rick was out of town. My biggest worry was seeing that Da Vinci made it back into the kennel before Church started. Noah and I were already running late. I was dressed in a skirt, white dress sandals with a heel, and my hair completely finished. I had leashed Da Vinci. All seemed to be running smoothly. He stopped abrubtly. His ears perked up and then without warning took off full speed after a cat he had spotted. I screamed at Da Vinci while holding on to his leash with all my my might. I could not keep up with him in my Sunday shoes and yet I was unwilling to let go. The cat jumped the fence and so Da Vinci made a sharp u-turn. At that moment, I envisioned myself at the end of a long line of people at Classic Skate. The good old " CRACK the WHIP " game.  I flew and I mean my feet left the ground. It all happened so quickly. I landed on the blue wheelbarrow and down into a pile of Da Vinci's poop . . . his crap! I was hurt something awful and I did not even know how to explain what happened to my pride. The next thing I knew, Da Vinci was chasing that cat down the street. I could hear Da Vinci's nails on the concrete. I stood, brushed off my knees and went to retrieve that darn dog. I was still shaking. I looked over the wall and thought, "that cat is toast . What will I tell the cat's owner? Will Da Vinci even come back? "

Da Vinci did come back and fortunately without a cat. I grabbed his leash and immediately took him inside. Noah had been waiting to put Da Vinci in the kennel so we could worship on the Lord's holy day.  I had holy crap that needed to be wiped off. After I had cleaned up and my knees had stopped shaking, Noah and I headed for church. . . Da Vinci of course would be in the dog house with me for months to come.

I Won't Sugar Coat This...

Our great dane, Count Da Vinci d'amboise, has been an incredible challenge for me. I love the dog dearly and accept that he is a part of the family, but doggone it, if he has not done a number on the home, the carpet, our shoes, our yard...you get the idea. I call him the garbage dog. He waits until he thinks no one is looking his way. In a slow and sneaky manner, he finds his way to the garbage. His face practically fills the garbage can. He muzzles around licking off all the wrappers until he has found the perfect treasure.

Upon hearing, "Da Vinci, what are you doing?" He scuttles about and makes a mad dash for his kennel. Sometimes, we are in the other room and he will still sneak food into his kennel. He has eaten loaves of bread in one setting. He ate Rick's steak off his plate when our heads were turned. Don't even think about putting your hand in the kennel to retrieve the item. His growl is fierce and he shows his teeth. It can be frightening even though I know he is a gentle giant. He is just protecting his goods.

I do not know how many times Noah has had food nipped right our of his hand. Whenever there is food, we must take precautions. The other day, I had made french toast topped with a heaping pile of powdered sugar for Noah. "Don't let Da Vinci get your food. Keep an eye on him, he will get it." All was well. Noah finished his breakfast and was on his way to school. I had put away the food and wiped of the table.

Busy me, went to begin my day. After checking my emails, I walked into the kitchen. I noticed a strange dusty spots on the carpet. I couldn't make sense of it and so I looked harder. It appeared to be a paw print. I thought to myself, "I wonder what Da Vinci has stepped in now." Ding! The moment of reckoning...please tell me it is not the powdered sugar. I glanced to the table where the sugar had been left. Sure enough, the sugar wsa no where to be found.

I peered into Da Vinci's kennel. There was Da Vinci, sitting so innocently inside his kennel. He was covered in white powder. There below this big mass was a layer of powdered sugar and an empty plastic bag. This was only going to be the second time in the morning that Da Vinci's kennel had to be carefully cleaned.

From here on out, Da Vinci better be a super "SWEET" dog.