So Sue Me!

Today I am going to share with you a story - a story that will make your skin crawl. A TRUE story. Think "The Glass Castle" in 2011.  Proceed at your own risk...

A recent report told of a 23 year-old brother and his 20 year-old sister from Illinois that were raised in such a tragic, gruesome environment, they felt they had no other option but to sue the one person who had destroyed their lives - their own mother.  It is true. They were forced to sue the very woman who gave them life - for negligence, and for causing them "emotional distress". What could they possibly hope to gain? How about $50,000 in damages?

From what I can tell, they had all sorts of reasons to be upset. The evidence submitted at the trial was compelling. Look at the horrific text from a birthday card this terrible mother sent her poor, unsuspecting son:

“Son I got you this Birthday card because it’s just like you … different from all the rest!” the message read inside. “Have a great day! Love & Hugs, Mom xoxoxo,”

(Shudder) How low can a parent stoop? Oh the humanity!  It started early - one time this "mother" actually told her son to put on his seatbelt- his seatbelt!. But wait, it gets worse...

While in college the neglected son did not receive enough Care Packages. Meanwhile, left at home to face this menace (in their $1.5 million house) the poor daughter was subjected to a most horrible fate - a midnight curfew. Midnight! Had this woman gone mad?

These are actual pictures of the poor kids.  See how the abuse and neglect oozes from their Accutane-treated pores?

Of course justice was not only blind, but heartless, and it ended poorly for the kids. Just yesterday the Illinois Appeals Court dismissed the case, saying that mom's behavior wasn't "extreme or outrageous".  I know, I know, it's hard to respect the legal system after a travesty such as this. Hopefully they can both move forward and live semi-normal lives.
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The more I thought about it, the more I realized that i would have had a much better case than these two against either one of my parents (may they rest in peace).

At the risk of offending some of your delicate feelings, I'll highlight a few of the things that I suffered as a child at the hands of my parents.  Things that make the Illinois kid's scars pale in comparison.

• Two words: Pickled Beets

• My father would shoot free throws underhand. It was all I could do to go outside and face my friends.

• Flashlights and Pinworms - 'nuff said.

• My father watched "HeeHaw" every Saturday.

• We were the last family on the street to get a color TV.

• 16 hour car rides with AM talk radio.

• My father got his masters from UofU. Yes, he was a Ute. Oh the shame!

• Repressed memories of Lawrence Welk.

• I only had one pair of rainbow-stitched, saddleback jeans. ONE.

and if that's not enough

• I had to drive a Datsun station wagon - on dates!

I'm sorry if this has been difficult for any of you. I just wanted to illustrate that I had a case. A really strong case.

(It's amazing I am so well-adjusted.)

I did find one great quote in all of this:  The mom said that she still loves her children, but they wanted "the benefits afforded by a family relationship, but none of the restraints."

Chicago Tribune Article

Sunday Naptime Profundity #8: Pizza & Traditions

This is a followup to our NE Pennsylvania pizza experience. It was quite filling. You should probably read it first. (here)

(Note:  Yes I know that enjoyment of food is relative. Everyone has their own tastes. Some are just more refined than others...)

--

After we finished eating our pizza, I was thirsty - thirsty for knowledge. We went back to our hotel and I pulled out the laptop, determined to learn more about this new "traditional" pizza.  Boy was I surprised!

Apparently we had just dined in "The Pizza Capital of the World". Don't believe me?  Google the term "Pizza Capital of the World" and look what comes up: Old Forge, Pennsylvania. I dare you. Yup, it was news to me too - me and anyone from Chicago or NYC.  (Here is a CNN article talking about it.)

It turns out that the pizza we had eaten, and mocked, is the pride and joy of this tiny area of Pennsylvania. The folks there are so enamored by their unique style of pizza, that they built pizzerias on every corner, and staked their claim to the title of "The Pizza Capital of the World." Who knew?


So it looks like their "traditional" pizza WAS traditional - to them. And the shock and despair of throwing two "cuts" away may have been sincere.  (I'm still not about to store leftover pizza on the TV - I have to draw the line somewhere.)

The problem is, even with all the tradition, the fame, the cheese, we still didn't like the pizza. Maybe it is an acquired taste.

As I am wont to do, I started wondering if there was a lesson to be learned from all of this, and, if so, should I share it with you. There is, and I will.

Sometimes we are too judgmental.

Just because things are different, doesn't make them bad.

People are people, even in Scranton.

"Just because it's a tradition doesn't mean it doesn't suck."

There you are. That is the message I took away from "The Pizza Capital of the World". Even if I am wrong about the pizza, I am right about the message.

As individual, families, businesses and church units, we sometimes embrace traditions that maybe don't deserve to be institutionalized. Sometimes we really think that those  traditions make us unique, superior, better, wiser, righteouser, etc. (Yes, I know righteouser is not a word - but it should be) But sometimes things become enshrined as traditions because we are too comfortable - or too lazy - to figure out a better way to do things. Can it possibly be that there are better ways of doing things out there? Ways to improve families, youth groups, wards, relationships, ourselves? Do we keep looking for ways to improve, or do we claim that we have it all figured out and put a sign up saying that we are the best? 

The problem is, sometimes we define ourselves by these "institutionalized traditions" and behaviors that aren't all that great.  In my opinion, Old Forge, PA has defined itself by embracing a tradition of mediocre pizza. Do we ever do that? Do we define ourselves with by accepting mediocrity?

Have you ever heard anyone say:

"Yeah, I have a short temper - I guess I'm just wired that way."

or "I'm not a big believer in attending church - my parents were pretty fanatic about it."

or "Our family always takes mom out to dinner on Mother's Day."

or "I'm not very good at getting my home teaching done - I don't see the point."

or "I work because I have more to offer than just being a wife and mother."
or "I guess being late to church is just our family tradition."

or "I'm just not much of a reader."

You get the idea.

I can also look around and find people and families who have embraced excellent traditions - traditions that I would like to emulate. Traditions of family unity, service, of missionary work, of kindness, of temple service. Why settle?

I've got to make sure I don't support "Institutionalized mediocrity" in my own life, family, work or calling.

----

Elder Russell M. Nelson recently spoke to the BYU-Hawaii graduates and said:

"You enter a world caught in a steep, slippery slide of diminishing moral values.

Against that backdrop, your character and integrity will stand out in stark contrast to the surrounding masses mired in mediocrity. You will be anchored to eternal truth." (link)

---

--I'm gonna go check the  top of the TV to see if we have anything leftover for lunch.

Pizza - the "Traditional" PA Way

This is a long story. Suck it up and stick with it, and you will be rewarded. Today is the story, and Sunday is the follow-up message. Milk before meat. In this case, pizza before wisdom.

Last week my EC and I spent an evening in NE Pennsylvania. Scranton to be precise. (No, we didn't see the Dunder-Mifflin offices, or meet Pam, or Jim, or Michael Scott. Duh. It was Saturday)

Not being too familiar with the fine cuisine of NE PA, we decided to go out for pizza. Pizza is safe. I've had good pizza all over the world. It's hard to go horribly wrong with pizza. So with a quick tap on Yelp! and Google Maps, we headed south to Moosic, PA, to a well-reviewed Italian restaurant- praised for it's pizza. The restaurant was big, and by the way everyone seemed to know everyone else, full of locals.

We were seated back by the kitchen, and after a few minutes were brought menus and water. We went straight to the pizzas to figure out what we wanted. There were six choices.

Open Face Red
Open Face White
Shrimp and Hot Peppers (?)
Double Crust Red
Double Crust White
Double Crust White with Spinach or Broccoli

Then there were a few normal toppings listed as well.  We figured the "Open Face" was a regular pizza, and the "Double Crust" is what we usually call a "stuffed crust pizza." But we must have been looking a bit confused, because the waitress (Renée) came by and asked if we needed some help. It was pretty obvious that we weren't locals.

Me: Tell us about your pizza
Renée: Well, we have two kinds, the red and white. My favorite is the double white. It's very filling.
EC: What do you put on the double white?
Renée: *blank stare*
EC: Back home they put mushrooms or chicken or...
Renée: Chicken? Really? They probably have some chicken back there that they could chop up and put in...
Me: No, no, that's OK - but what do they usually put in a double white? (I was starting to get curious)
EC: We aren't trying to be difficult, it's just that this is a lot different than pizza at home.
Renée: *kicks into explaining to a small child mode* Well you see, the filling is mostly cheese, and they don't usually put anything else with it. It's my favorite. It's very filling. *stares wistfully off into space*
Me: So it's a top crust and a bottom rust with white cheese in it?
Renée: *defensively* Yeah, but it has rosemary in it and onions baked on the top - you know - TRADITIONAL.


Traditional? Suddenly it all started to become a little funny - and we were already in one of those slap-happy moods.

So at Renée's urging, we decided on the Double Crust White with Spinach, you know, to make it healthy. The traditional way.

Renée: What size? 6 or 12 cuts.
EC: Is that like a 6 or 12 inch pizza?
Me: Then we'll get a 6 inch open face red, and a 6 inch double crust white.
Renée: *Looks at us like we are mildly retarded* That is a lot of pizza.
Me: Oh, is it 6 slices?
Renée: Sorta. They are called cuts. 12 cuts would be a lot. It's very filling.
Me: OK. We'll do 6 cuts of the white.

A minute later she returns to the table.

Renée: I almost forgot your chickpeas and bread.

Chickpeas marinated in Italian dressing. We weren't quite sure what to do with them. Put them on the bread? Dip the bread into the marinade? Eat them with a spoon? What do the locals do?  The chickpeas did remind me of 33% of my mother's 3-bean salad that I didn't like growing up.

And then we sat. Forever. After about 45 minutes - (about 30 minutes since we stopped being hungry for dinner - full of chickpeas) Renée brought our pizza to us and warned us to be careful because it was very hot. It looked huge. And very filling. Each "cut" looked like a meal unto itself. Note the onions baked into the top:

By now we were finding everything hysterically funny. I had my phone out to take pictures of this traditional pizza. I put a cut on my plate, and a lava-like flood of cheese and spinach gushed out.

First thought: Cheesy goodness!  But Renee had been correct. It was very filling. By the third bite, my wife was ready to be done. And as the pizza cooled down the crust started getting hard - as in "this is destroying the roof of my mouth" or "I am not strong enough to put my fork through this" hard. By the time we finished, the pizza had progressed from "cheesy goodness" to "interesting" to "I don't care for this" to "this is nasty".

My EC ate 75% of one "cut" (Wimp.)
I soldiered on and ate 2.5 cuts. Then I was done. I would not need to eat, or be able to go to the bathroom again, for days. It was a lot of cheese (offset by the healthy spinach).

Renée came back to the table and saw that we had stopped eating. She looked at the two remaining cuts and appeared concerned.

Renée: Was everything OK?
Me: Yes, it was fine.
Renée: Did you like it?
EC: It was great, but..
Renée: It is very filling.
EC: Yes it is.
Renée: Do you want me to wrap this up for you?
Me: No thanks, we are staying in a hotel, and don't have anyplace to put it.
Renée: *looking stricken* Are you sure?
Me: Yes, but thank you.

Looking hurt and confused, Renee took the leftover pizza back to the kitchen. She was obviously taking this personally.  We then heard voices coming out of the kitchen. We couldn't hear all of it, but we knew it was about us.
...Don't want it? ...like it?...wrong with it?...

A minute later a different waitress came over to our table - looking stressed and baffled.

Connie: Are you sure you don't want to take this home?
Me:  We are. We don't have anyplace to put it. We are staying in a hotel.
Connie: You could wrap it up and put it on the TV and eat it in the middle of the night.
Me: No, thanks, that's OK.
EC: Would you like to take it home? (ever-considerate)
Connie: Oh, I would love to, but I can't. I love this stuff. It's very filling. *stares wistfully into space*

Connie takes the pizza away with a sad fondness that I don't quite understand. We tried our best to feel bad about it, but failed. Instead, we focused on not laughing out loud.

Besides, we had a flat-panel TV that lacked any kind of pizza-storage area.

So, for us, the Double Crust White with Spinach was a "fail". But it was an adventure, and probably one of the most memorable dining experiences we've ever had.

I guess I'm just not a "traditional" pizza kind of guy.


Sunday: The "rest" of the story...

Please Stop Saying That: High Councildude

• This is the fourth of a series of things that we hear at church on a regular basis that I wish people would stop saying. They are not big, honkin', scary things, just little expressions that you hear frequently that just don't quite work. (Grammatically or doctrinally) The introduction to this series is here. The first post is here, the second here, the third here.

(FYI: Yoda is not a member of the High Council in an LDS Stake. He is a member of the Jedi High Council. They are not the same thing. Just want to be clear.)

In the LDS Church, every Stake has a High Council. It is a group of 12 men who sit in council with the Stake Presidency. Members of the High Council have many important assignments, and are called on to take care of many essential aspects of running a Stake.  It has been said that high councilors have all the responsibility, with none of the authority. They function with authority delegated by the Stake Prsident. (It is a great calling.)

Members of the High Council are most well-known for the talks they regularly give in the local congregations. Part of church culture is the running joke that the high council are ultra-boring speakers. Unfortunately, this legacy is often well-deserved. (YMMV.)

Over the years, I have noticed that many members of the Church don't know what to call a man serving in the High Council. In my ever continuing quest to help each and every member of the church know what they are talking about, I will do my best to instruct.

Four common attempts:

1) High Councilman.  NOPE. Sorry, no such thing, although this is very common.

2) High Counselor. NOPE. He doesn't counsel, he is on a council. But it is tricky, because it sounds just like...

3) High Councilor.  YES. This works

4) Member of the High Council: YES. Also acceptable, albeit cowardly.

The easiest way to test if you are using the term correctly is by using it in a complete sentence.  For example:

• The definition of a good high councilor talk is that it should have a good beginning, and a good ending, and they should be as close together as possible.

or

• Have you heard about he high councilor who dreamed he was speaking in church and woke up and found that he was?

or

• High councilor talks always have a happy ending - everyone is happy when they end.

or

• If you took all the Mormons who have fallen asleep when a high councilor was speaking and laid them end to end, they'd be more comfortable.

So, no more high council, man.

(Please note: Any comments that include both the names Yoda and Kimball will be immediately deleted. Not because they aren't hysterical, but because they are.)

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Yeah, it happened.

I was at the counter, deciding if I should purchase tickets for my wife and I to enter an exhibit, and it happened - the cheerful young lady working the counter said those inevitable, eventual words:

You know, I could probably give you the "Senior Discount".

I was rendered speechless - which for me is a rarity. I said no thank you (?) and staggered off to find my wife.

I knew that this question would be coming - one day - but not yet. Sure, last month there had been some colossal mistake at the "American Associate of Retired Persons" (AARP) offices, when, through some complex computer glitch I was accidentally sent a membership card application.  I'm sure it happens all the time, and I don't judge them.

But face to face? Sure, the girl was young, and trying to be polite, but to hit me with the Senior Discount? I will gladly accept any and all Senior Discounts when the time is right - but...

I'm 49!

After I caught my breath from the suckerpunch, I explained to my EC what had happened. Did I get sympathy, or understanding? No. Did she even try and alleviate my pain with humor? No.

She simply said, "Maybe it's because you are wearing your peepers down on your nose like that."

Of course! How silly of me. It was the glasses all along. I felt much better knowing that this young lady had no idea of her gaffe.

I also felt much better after my wife called my reading glasses "peepers".

Maybe I could get her an AARP card.

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Brother Joseph and the Chocolate Bar

Yesterday we visited a small town in Pennsylvania called Lititz. One of the main tourist attractions is the Wilbur Chocolate Store/Museum that has been around since 1865. In 1884 they started manufacturing chocolate. (Yeah - now I have your attention.) It was interesting enough, but it was almost closing time and the workers obviously wanted to get us all out so they could go home.

We did buy a little box of chocolate covered "sponge" on our way out. Some people call it "honeycomb", I grew up calling it "seafoam".  I just realized how far I have veered off my purpose of this post...

So, I looked up the history of chocolate on Wiki , and confirmed my fears:
"It is believed that the English company, J. S. Fry & Sons made the first chocolate for eating in 1847" (source)

Why does his matter?  It matters because it means that Joseph Smith never got to eat a chocolate bar! He was killed in 1844. That is so wrong! After all the things that Joseph did for us, our faith, and the world, you would think he could have at least gotten the chance to enjoy a chocolate bar. (I hope you all know by now that I have a great love for the prophet Joseph, if not, please read this: (Previous post) )


This morning I had some quiet time, and my thoughts turned to Joseph's lack of chocolate, and I started thinking, if I had the opportunity to give Joseph a candy bar, what would I choose? Would I go with a pure chocolate bar? MIlk or dark? Snickers? Ooh - Milky Way?

Then my amazing brain began to pursue this idea further.  If I could escort Joseph Smith around for a day, what would I do with him?

It seemed easy at first. Then it got more complicated.  Would  keep him to myself and my immediate family? If it went public, that would be the end of the day - the media, the crowds, etc. So, I figured he could just hang with me and my family.

Here are some things I would do, and would not do:

I would:

Buy him a candy bar.
Let him drive my truck. In an empty parking lot.
Take him for a ride on the freeway. (Me driving)
Take him for a drive to see church buildings and temples.
Have FHE. Even if its not Monday.
Show him the good and bad of the internet.
Have him autograph my Triple Combination.
Set up SKYPE call with President Monson - me included!
Take him to see a 3-D movie, just to watch his reaction.
Apologize a lot. For myself and society.
Break out the BBQ ribs.
Have him explain to me how the translation process worked.
Sit and listen to him tell stories until he can't talk anymore.
Bring close friends and family together and have a testimony meeting.
Try my best to explain how grateful I am to him.

I would not:

Buy him a 44oz caffeinated beverage.
Show him "The Work and the Glory" movies.
Take him to the mall.
Try and amaze him with my knowledge of the scriptures.
Let him watch TV or listen to talk radio.
Show him my garden.
Ask him to do chores.
Try and explain things like tattoos and piercings.
Videotape the experience.
Show him this post.

Oh, and my answer to the orignal question is "Reese's Peanut Butter Cups".  But not the full size ones, the miniature ones wrapped n foil. (No, not the new tiny ones without wrappers)

I know I already presented the perfect list and choice, but now it's your turn. If you could spend the day with the Prophet Joseph...

- What would you do?
- What would you NOT do?
- What candybar would you buy for him?

(The obvious answer: "I would do whatever he wants to do" is unacceptable for this exercise. And boring.)


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Just Getting Started

The attractive woman seated next to me on the plane was asleep. I was stuck in the middle seat - I had offered her the window to score some points with her. She had a pillow tucked up against the window, with a flimsy blanket wrapped around her. Careful not to wake her, I carefully lifted the edge of the blanket and slid my hand underneath until I reached her leg. She didn't stir...

Wait a second! You thought?  After all this time? It was my wife! You people. {shakes head} Do you think I would take a middle seat for anyone other than my EC?

My EC, my loving Eternal Companion and I are traveling to celebrate our 25th Anniversary. Yup, the big silver. We are pretty happy about it, but I have noticed that the farther away you get from the church, the bigger deal it is to people.

25 years? Congratulations!
That's amazing!
How did you ever do it?

In my mind, 25 years is great, but it is just a "blip" when I'm planning on spending forever with her. I mean, 6 billion years from now, 25 is going to seem kinda cute, rather than amazing!


While I was watching her sleep, I studied her face. We started out at the same age, but she looks younger than I do now. Still beautiful, still fascinating. Sure, there are some new signs that shows that time is moving on, but for having 5 kids, there should be more. When she's sleeping, she still looks like a little girl. (And she's going to kill me for this)

Like most women, I know that it took a tremendous leap of faith for her to decide to hitch her wagon to me - perhaps the greatest leap of faith that she will ever make. I was a destitute student. Liberal arts. Unemployed. Goofy. But, she must have seen, or felt, the inklings of potential, because she said yes. If there are times that she still questions her judgement, I don't fault her, and I don't want to know.

My EC invested her present, as well as her potential future with me. She had dreams of becoming a mother, to stay home with her kids, to be righteous active family in the gospel, and be married to a strong priesthood holder. And she expected it to last forever - and still does.  What a gamble - to stake everything on a goofy BYU student. What a tremendous expression of faith in me - that she felt, 25 years ago, that I might be the one she could get there with. (Too often, for too many people, it proves to be a bad bet, or things change and it doesn't work out. But I have seen many more men blow their part of the bargain than I have women - In my opinion, women take the much bigger risk)

In return, I try to be, and do, those things that she needs. Those are the things that I signed up for. My single greatest responsibility and priority is to do anything and everything I can to take care of her, and provide her with those things she needs - forever. So far, it is working. In return she strengthens me, supports me, teaches me, loves me, and exists as a daily reminder that this earth life is wonderful, and that it can be eternally.

I am not all that interested in living forever if she is not with me.

25 years = half my life. Sometimes it does seem like forever, but it has gone by in a flash. An eternity in a heartbeat.


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You Provide the Punch Line...

(Yeah, I never thought I would be posting, or joking, about Hitler, either.)

I read this week that during World II, British spies looked into attacking Adolph Hitler with hormones. The plan was to have spies that were close enough to Hitler to secretly put estrogen in his food. Unlike poison, his food tasters wouldn't notice it, and the effect would be gradual.

The spies thought that by dosing him with estrogen, he would become "more docile and less aggressive" - like his sister.

The plan was never implemented.

Apparently, scientists discovered that giving Hitler estrogen would only result in________   (Punch Line here. Give it your best shot - I have several)


Link to the actual news story here. No, I don't make this stuff up!)

Packing It In: A Tribute

It is difficult to say goodbye for the final time. The greater the time spent together, and the greater the shared experiences, the greater the sense of loss. It has been difficult. Last week I threw my backpack away. Thanks, I will be OK. I must press forward.

You see, this backpack had been my travel companion for almost a decade. It had cradled 4 different laptops in its protective sleeve. It had guarded the cameras that helped document my family's history. And it held snacks. Lots of snacks. And water bottles.

There was a spiffy little pocket in the front that made it convenient for boarding passes. I had an exciting "secret" pocket- just right for passports and cash, and even a special tiny opening just for my headphone cord. Yes, it had it all. It was the perfect backpack.

It was... until the straps started to fray. Now I'm not accusing it of being weak, it had weathered many storms -  I get teary thinking of the time that we were bouncing around together, in the back of a small truck in Africa, and diesel fuel sloshed out and soaked it. I thought that was the end. But, with determination, soap, and hard work, it lived to see another day.

The straps were another story. Years of valiant service  had taken their toll. As the straps would fray, I would cut them off. Over the years they grew shorter and shorter, and I knew the day would eventually come where I would have to put it down.

I think my backpack knew the time was near as I loaded my laptop inside, and took that last, fateful journey to Costco. You see, I had been told that there were laptop sleeves there for only $15. I took my laptop to try one on for size.

As we entered the warehouse, I switched shoulders, but the strain was just too much for the tired, frayed strap, and it broke. Right there in the middle of Costco. 10 feet away from the computer cases. My backpack had held on until I was able to find a replacement. Or what I thought was a replacement. It turns out that the sleeve may be fancy and modern, but it is a "one trick pony". It doesn't have the vast array of uses that my old friend had.

I have looked high and low for a worthy successor - to no avail. One day, I'm hoping to find one that can fill the void in my life, and on my shoulder. Until then, I'll rely on my memories, tainted with regret. It deserved better than the dumpster.

A the risk of being too personal, I would like to share a few special moments that we shared:

Exploring the rain-slicked cobblestone streets of Edinborough, Scotland.

Getting a taste of American history at Mount Vernon, home of George Washington.

Relaxing in a rustic cabin at the base of Mt. Hood, Oregon.

Enjoying a cowboy show with the family in Durango, Colorado.

One of our many visits to destitute African villages.

One experience that is burned into my memory needs to be saved for another post.  But it will include the following: NYC, limo & projectile vomiting.

There are so many more...but there is no use living in the past. I think I understand the important lesson taught by "P.S I Love You." I will find another backpack...one day.

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Sunday Naptime Profundity #7: Spats

A disclaimer:  I have absolutely no authority to voice my opinion on any subject. I am not a professional counselor. I am not a professional "Life Coach". I am not your church leader. I have absolutely no business telling anyone how to run their life.

But here I go again anyway... 

---

Half my life. That's how long I've been married. It is a nice feeling - I like knowing that my life with my EC has eclipsed my life without her. It has been a great 25 years so far. One of the reasons I can look back fondly is because we rarely fight. In fact, I can say with 100% confidence that we have not had a single fight, quarrel, argument, disagreement or cross word yet. Today.

There are a couple of odd things about arguing with the person I love most in this life.

#1: We rarely argue about anything that is actually very important. It is always dumb little stuff. (In retrospect) Think about the last argument you had. What momentous concept was it about? Life goals, euthanasia, eternal salvation, social injustice? Nope. In my case, it was what did I do with the shopping list. I would love to know what your last fight was about...(please don't overshare)

#2: There is a very specific look that my wife gets that I recognize is "THE LINE" that I should not cross. At this point, I have a choice to back off, or proceed with certain peril. Sometimes I choose to proceed. (Idiot) I just can't restrain myself. Once in a while I cross the line unawares, but I must admit that usually I cross it with determination and agency. (Again - Idiot)

There is a saying I hear sometimes that says "You can either be right, or you can be happy, but not both." That bothers me. It seems to be a total capitulation. Going through life with that kind of martyr attitude would foster resentment. I would rather be kind, right and happy. (Which requires much more charity, and a really good set of communication skills)

In my continuing quest to help improve your lives, I have assembled a few quotes that might enlighten you about arguing:

The first is by a great American humorist, the second by a half-drunk songwriter, and the third by yours truly.  The first two share a theme. Give them some thought...

"When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging."

-Will Rogers-

"The more I dig in, the deeper the hole."

-Roger Clyne-

"Fathers and husbands: Everyone in your home will be happier if you consider it part of your job to repent fastest and apologize first."

-MMM-

What? That is so sexist to put this burden on the man! Why yes, yes it is. The way I see it, if a man holds the priesthood, and is considered the patriarch in his home, and is supposed to be leading out in that home, he needs to be better at repenting and apologizing that the members of that family he is trying to lead.
I think God said it better in D&C 121:41-46. 

Have a peaceful Sabbath.

Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Mormon Humorist, LDS Comedy, Daddy Blog

MMM Vacation Mishaps: Tuscany

I have been a lot of places, and a lot of stupid things have happened to me while traveling. So, I thought I would share some of them. My goal is not to make you jealous of my travels, but I totally understand if you are.

My EC and I were enjoying a lovely stay in a small hotel in the Chianti region of Tuscany, Italy. Yes, it looked just like this:

But the trip was far more interesting than that terrible movie with Diane Lane in it. (Not that Diane Lane isn't interesting. I find her fascinating...)

We were renting a Fiat that had a manual transmission. I have never been afraid of the stick, but the shifting in that car was really weird.  I often messed up, causing grinding and embarrassment, and my fair share of honks. But it was great fun on the open freeway...!

After we checked out of our hotel, I backed the car out of the parking area directly in front of the hotel. I stopped, shifted into what I thought was 1st, and gave it some gas.  It rolled backwards a foot before I hit the brake. I was still in neutral. So I tried again. Another foot backwards. 

The problem was, there was only about one more foot between me and the front wall of the hotel. But, being strong-minded (stubborn) I tried one last time. I made sure I had found 1st gear, and eased off the brake - we didn’t roll. I gave it some gas, and I proceeded to run into the front of the hotel - in reverse.

The collision caused a small amount of damage on the bumper of the car, but it put a hole in the hotel wall. Not a big hole, but a hole. In the hotel. Here is a picture that my EC took while as my drama ensued.

Doing my best to suppress curse words, I finally found the stinking 1st gear and sulked back to the parking area. My wife was offering condolences and trying to calm me down as I got out of the car. (I don’t cope with my own incompetence well.)

How many Lira does it take to fix a hole in a hotel? Or is that Euros? Will my AmEx cover it? Am I really the infamous American idiot tourist?

I walked to the office to confess my crime. A lovely Italian woman looked up and asked me, in Italian, if she could help me.  Now I speak passable “tourist” Italian, but the words, liability, deductible, and malicious intent were not in my limited vocabulary.

And she didn’t speak English.  So I forged ahead... in Italian.

Excuse me?  I have a problem.

Yes, may I help you?

I'm sorry, I don't understand.

What is your problem?

I broke your hotel.

You what?

I broke your hotel.

How do you mean “I broke your hotel”?

I mean I hit your hotel with my car, and broke it.

How is it broken?

I made a hole in the wall.

A hole?

Yes, a hole.

With your car?

Yes, with my car.

Is it a big hole?

No, it is this big. (Showing a plate-sized circle with my hands)

Oh, I understand. Please wait here.

She leaves the counter - I’m wondering if the Italians use handcuffs.

A few minutes later she comes back with another non-English speaking Italian woman.

May I help you..

I broke your hotel...

We finish going though the same dance and the second woman says something to the first woman so quickly that she sounds like an Italian auctioneer. They both laugh. This is killing me.

The second lady came up to the counter to give me the news, in English.

Not you worry, you go now.

You don’t need to come see the hole?

Not you worry - you go now.

OK...thank you.

So, shaking my head, I left, wondering if this was the end of it, or it would show up as an extra charge on my credit card:

Room service: $25.00

In-room movie: $15.00

Plaster and stucco: $750.00

I never heard from them again. Nor did I hear from the guys at the rental counter that were too busy playing cards and smoking to come see the damage to the Fiat.

I like Italians.

Time's Running Out, My Pretty!

I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too! 

(Last week  sat down with the intention of writing this post. Instead, I ended up whining about earbuds and yardwork. I am easily distracted...)

Ever since I was a little boy it bothered me that Dorothy never just turned over the hourglass, or at least laid it on its side to give herself more time. (No, I am not giving any background story on this idea. If you don't know what I am talking about, you need to crawl back under your rock.)

Last week as I was working in the yard, a song came up on my iPod from a little-known band I love named Roger Clyne & The Peacemakers called "Hourglass". It isn't one of their best songs, but there is a line in the song that says:

Sand is rushing through the glass,

Turning now into the past so fast,

Turn the hourglass over.

My first thought was of Dorothy's ineptness, but my second thought was about these boys I was doing yardwork with. They are going to be gone so fast. I wish there were ways to slow things down sometimes - to turn the hourglass over.

Right now, a lot of my blog friends are laughing and saying "Yeah, right! I can't WAIT until these kids are out of diapers/pre-school/elementary school/high school/the house". I get it. I really do. There are periods of time when I wondered what we were thinking when we brought these FOMLs into the world. We surely weren't t thinking how hard, expensive and exhausting it would be.

But..now that some of the kids are in college, on missions, and graduating from high school, it pains me. I didn't like donating baby stuff to the D.I. I didn't like storing a stroller and crib, just in case one of our yet unborn grandbabies eventually needs it. I did not like saying goodbye to that stage in my life. My EC really struggled (struggles) knowing that she is done making babies. (I do, however, enjoy not changing poopy diapers or dealing with sour milk puke.)

All of this got me thinking about the "When" mode. A place that all of us enter, and some people never leave. The "when" mode is best characterized as this:

I'll be happy when I...

...get out of High School

...get on my mission

...get home from my mission

...get into college

...get out of college

...have a career

...get a raise

...get married

...have kids

...get the kids out of the house

...have grandkids

...send the grandkids home

...retire

...am safely dead.

Amulek and Alma teach the idea that our personalities don't magically change after we are resurrected. If we are miserable here, we will be miserable in the next life. If we are happy here, we will be happy there. I worry when I hear folks complain about how unhappy they are and say they can't wait for the Second Coming/next life. Apparently,it doesn't work that way. (Alma 34, Alma 41)

The Apostle Paul seemed to have nailed down this problem. In his epistle to the Philippians, a couple verses after his famous "admonition", Paul said:

"For I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content." (Philippians 4:11)

Not me. I have not developed the ability to find the contentment wherever I am. Far too often I am looking forward to the next big thing that is going to bring that illusive contentment, or even the next little thing.  In addition, I  struggle with a little regret that I didn't squeeze enough significance and contentment out of the time that is already gone. It went so fast. And there is no slowing it down - there is no way to turn the hourglass over .

I do know that when I focus on my family and try to spend more/better time with them, I find more of that real contentment.

Does it slow time? Not a bit. In an instant all of the kids will be grown and gone from the nest. We will have pictures, videos and memories of their childhoods. But I am building those memories which will be of great value when I am old(er).

We will also remember if we hated this current stage of life, or loved it. And that is probably how we will look back on it eternally.

A Ticket Out

Roadtrip! Yesterday we decided on a last-minute getaway for a last hurrah before the drudgery of yet another school year sets in. My EC, and the two youngest FOMLs were good to go. The three oldest had things they wanted to do, or (heh heh) jobs. (I can't tell you how much I enjoyed typing that word: jobs.)

I will paint the picture using words, because I'm not about to paint the story and digitize it, and then post it. Mind you, it isn't because I couldn't, but words will suffice.

It is almost midnight. I am in full "Driving Dad" mode: Cruise control set at 9+ the speed limit, a 44oz beverage within easy grasp, snacks, and Switchfoot blaring on the stereo. Life is good. My EC is asleep in the passenger seat, one of the kids has headphones on, lost in Nintendo DS-land, the other is probably asleep - I haven't heard or seen him for at least an hour.

The freeway is almost empty. On the straightaway there are no cars ahead of me, or behind me that I can see. On the other side, I can only see one oncoming car. Yup. Well before we pass each other, the flashing lights come on. Grr!. Adrenaline kicks in, pulse elevates, curse-words are suppressed. The patrol car flashes his headlights at me - yeah, I know they were aimed at me, as I was the only car on the road. He immediately pulls toward the side of the freeway, looking for a place to cross the median so he can come get me and ruin my insurance rates. At this point my viewpoint changes from my windshield to my rearview mirror.

The patrol car heads down to cross the median and stops. Completely. With a big cloud of dust. Perhaps he forgot you should only cross at designated crossing areas? Hmm? From what I could tell, he couldn't get through.

Worried that he might be stuck, or injured, I doubled back to make sure he was okay. Yeah right! It didn't even cross my mind until right now.

I hit the gas, and watched to see if he was coming after me. I could see billows of dust and flashing lights as the patrol car returned to the freeway - his side of the freeway. Then he was out of sight. For the next few minutes I drove paranoid, watching through my mirrors to see if he would emerge like the t-rex in Jurrasic Park. He never did.

And the streak remains intact.

What streak, you may ask?  The streak of 20 years without a speeding ticket. Yes, I am pretty proud of that, considering I like to drive fast, and I have been pulled over six - count 'em - SIX times. Each time the officer had me cold. Each time I drove away with either a written or a verbal warning. Ha! 

How does that happen to a mere mortal? What is your secret? I would like to think that it is the aura of goodness that I radiate whenever I talk to people, of the wit and charm that flows so freely, or the disarming George Clooney-like good looks. Believe me, those things are nice to have, but they are not my most effective anti-ticketing weapon.

What is it then?  Lean in closer, and I'll tell you...

Honesty. Honesty? That's it?  Yup. It has always worked for me. Don't know that it always will, but so far, so good.

Sample conversation:

License, registration and proof of insurance please.

Here you go.

Do you know why I pulled you over?

I was speeding. (Not a question, a statement)

Do you know how fast you were going?

I was going 80 when I saw your lights.

Do you know what the speed limit is here?

70.

That's right.

(often at this point the officer begins to look confused)

Is this your wife? (Her frightened/concerned look is actually very helpful here)

Yes. (duh)

Are these your kids?

Yes sir, all five of them.

Alright, I'm going to go back and check on your information...

Forever later, he comes back, hands me my stuff and says:

I've written you up with a warning this time.

That's a relief.

I appreciate your honesty. (3 times the officer has actually said those exact words)

Thank you so much.

Now slow down and be careful.

I will officer, and thanks again.

Ta-duh! Yeah, I know it shouldn't work, but it does for me.

Now, I am not going to discuss the morality/immorality of speeding. I will save that for another day. For now I will just relish in the fact that I am not sitting here trying to schedule traffic school.

.