Utah County, Personal Space, Look Into It

I posted a thought about my feelings on the residents of Utah standing in my personal space ... repeatedly ... and thinking their car, if it swerves just fast enough to swerve in front of mine and slam on it's breaks in deadlock traffic will obviously get to the location "first".  There is more to say ... and my blog is where I say pretty much anything that's on my mind, so here I say.

Please note to the right the image of personal space.  You will note there are levels at which personal space is managed.  There is the audience zone, social zone, friend zone, and intimate zone.  I first enountered individuals assuming we were at the intimate level when I moved to the Azore Islands.  As I stood in line for a gelato, I could feel someone's breath on my neck and their shirt brushing against my back side.  Every time I moved forward, they moved forward.  I couldn't speak any Portuguese at the time, so all I could do was try to use my obvious unnerved body language to illustrate the national language of "get the hell away from me".  The islanders missed the memo.  I remained personal space intimate with every islander, at every store, every restaurant, every everywhere for 2 years. After having lived in Japan where everyone stays at my favorite personal space of audience level, and don't touch each other rather preferring a bow, these islanders were a little more than I could take.

We moved back to the states and the correct parameters of my personal space were reestablished.  I can speak english fluently unlike portuguese, and when I mutter the phrase, "are you gonna buy me breakfast in the morning?" that means you have entered my intimate space and unless you are indeed going to buy me breakfast in the morning, time to back away back into social, better yet, audience zone.  I haven't had to utter that particular phrase more than a couple of times since we moved back to the states ... until we moved back to the motherland.  Utah, oh blessed utopia of social ignorance, so great to be back.

I have noticed many things since moving back to Utah after 17 years of being away. The list is long, and on the off chance my mom will read this I will act like a lady and just stick to the personal space and ignorant driving. I am not going to blame Utah in general since I never noticed this growing up in northern utah.  I had either drank the kool aid and didn't even notice this was an issue, or perhaps I had to spend three years in Japan to reprogram my behaviors.  Maybe this is a Utah County thing (let's just assume it is as all things in Utah County). Either way, I would like to declare my personal space.  I am NOT intimate with everyone in Utah, stop assuming we are friends, socially I stand in jaw gaping awe at all of you most days, so it would be best you just stay in audience personal space.

I am concerned that Utah County, not unlike a 12X18 miles island I spent 2 years of my life on, has also not gotten the memo on body language.  When I move forward in line, that is NOT your cue to take a step forward yourself and physically touch my body.  Walmart will still take your coupons even if you are after me.  I don't coupon, I promise, my whole shopping cart filled to the brim will take less time to check out than the 4 double, triple, BOGO, fight with the cashier and wait for a manager, items in your cart.  Yes, I am glaring at you in the smallest iota of space where I can actually turn my head and not be in a position to kiss you directly on your lips.  Spit on you?  Might happen.  Back off.

When you hear me mumble it's because I'm being kind and not trying to make your Utah County ears bleed with my random threats of hostility and foul words launched at your personal understanding of social norms.  But, be forewarned, this assumption of yours that we are intimate is happening every where I go!  My patience is short after 6 months of having each of you breathe down my neck, touch my butt, and keep on moving forward.  Yes, I do get in front of my cart to unload my groceries onto the checker's line.  Why?  Because if I am in front of my cart, then you are behind my cart, and I can edge it backwards towards you hinting at the fact that you should back away.  If I bump you with said cart, it's not an accident, do you see me smiling or apologizing?  I bump you because you are not getting my subtle body language and I am happy to provide you with a definitive answer to my personal space needs ... back off.

There is a Yogurt store chain of sorts here in Utah County.  You are given a cup/bowl at the front door then directed to various yogurt dispensers and toppings.  Since I hate buffets, this is my fresh hell, but my kids seem to be fans.  When I am standing at the yogurt dispenser trying to help my 3 year-old, don't crowd me.  We are not intimate.  Audience level.  When we head over to the toppings table, don't run ahead of me so you can get to the assortment of crap everyone has sneezed on and touched so you can get a big spoonful on YOUR yogurt first.  Trust me, the trough size tubs of oreos and gummy bears will still be there even if you aren't there first.  You don't have to be first.

This brings me to my next issue.  Driving in Utah.  The whole personal space issue seems to segue nicely into what I am beginning to believe might be a local phenomenon.  Being first. The local interstate (I-15) has construction running down each side of it for miles throughout Utah County.  A very special aka maniacal borderline schizophrenic person was put in charge of this nonsense and decided as each phase of road construction stretches to the next (all at the same time) it is important to thereby change all of the merge rules, detours, and sometimes just completely eliminate interstate exits.  There is not a day I am on I-15 that I don't see at least 2 accidents ... that slow down the whole process even further. 

As if it isn't frustrating enough ... this special form of construction know how affords me the delightful opportunity to merge into one lane along with everyone else who has been going 65mph in 4 lanes.  The traffic is deadlocked, it's not moving, and every damn time some fool thinks driving in any lane but their own to merge "first" is a definitive right.  There is never any warning much less a blinker or even a honk when said individual (sometimes even two cars) speed up and start to edge at the side of my vehicle as to indicate, "I WILL be first so you need to back away and let me in front of you."  As I look down the interstate all I can see is a single line of deadlocked traffic. Initially, I don't understand their rush and assume they will get back into their proper in line position.  No, no in Utah, drivers will be first.  I can now FEEL their tire edging against mine.  WTF?

I look over briefly to ascertain the type of individual who is obviously violent, rude, and must be first.  WTF?  A van full of polygamist wives and their 10 children?  Are you kidding me?  Then there are days I see what appears to be a kindly grandmother look at me with the devil in her eyes as she swerves in front of me, slams on her brakes, and narrowly avoids both of us being one of those daily roadside accidents on the interstate.  It would seem this behavior is not limited to anyone.  Polygamist wives, grandma's, soccer moms, it doesn't matter.  You have a Utah license plate?  Utah = first.  I guess my Colorado license plate throws them off into thinking I am not local and thereby not entitled to first. 

Despite what would appear to be a pacifist sort of license plate with the state of Colorado and their "legalized" status, please note: I do not have half a blunt hanging out of my mouth, my hair isn't in dreads, and I don't have a rasta sign emblazoned with the letters MJ on my bumper.  I am an SUV gas guzzling proud to be an American God Bless the USA if you bomb us fire right on back and p.s. if I have to be in this state one more day of my life I might be incarcerated for slapping the person in line behind me thinking they are allowed in my intimate space mother of four boys who isn't acccustomed and cannot allow moronic behavior to exist or my boys would tip the power balance at home, AND my only bumper sticker is a magic sticker given to us from our friend who is a New Hampshire State Trooper that indicates, "don't pull me over, I'm one of you", woman who fully supports the 2nd amendment and would probably pack heat if I didn't have small children at home.  Oh, and I'm a bad shot, so tempting fate when I do finally lose it, (any day now) isn't ain your best interest.  That bullet could go anywhere.  Might even singe off your long braid down the back of your little polygamist head.

I may not look like "first" to you when you stand in line and breathe down my neck and then swerve your 15 passenger circa 1982 family van in front of my Expedition, and you may feel as if you are entitled (don't get me started, that is another blog entirely, Utah and Entitlement Assumption) ... enough Utah County, enough.  Everyone gets to their intended destination when they are supposed to get there.  I'm not intimate with any of you, we aren't friends, socially I'm genuinely disconcerted with 95% of you, and you are already gawking at me for not having an RULDS2 bumper sticker so you probably should just remain in your audience position of personal space with me .. or the next time, the very next time, prepare to be second.

"You're Here in Utah to Be My New BFF"

Uh, I have a BFF.  In my worldly travels I have met 4 women I would call BFF.  They live all over the globe.  They are the four people on the earth that I know if I called for anything they would be on the first flight to rescue me from whatever predicament.  I don't randomly make BFF's.  BFF has criteria in my world, strict criteria, and crazy as hell gets you off the list ... but apparently someone didn't get the memo.

Drew's scout leader came to the house last week to explain the scouting program here, badges, patches, etc. etc.  I still think it is the fleecing of America (do a task, get a badge, pay for a badge at the scout store, have to attend 21 campouts for your eagle, more badges, more cash, I could go one and on but this particular subject I have already blogged on before.  The scout leader seemed nice enough, a little off, but well intentioned and very into his scoutarama.  He told me he was convinced hiswife and I would really hit if off.  Okay, well, have her call sometime.  I was polite.  First mistake.  You can't be polite with crazy.

The next day at noon ding dong at the door (figuratively as in crazyding dong and ding dong as in thesound the door bell makes).  There stands scoutarama's wife, two kids ages 14 and 11 (I think).  Guess they don't know how to work a phone (and if you know me, nothing ticks me off more, call, call, call, it gives mea second to at least decline or put a bra on.  Always call.  I was right in the middle of something, but thought I would be polite enough to sit down with her... the kids went downstairs to watch tv, play the WII, XBOX, whatever, and hour after hour passed.  First one, then two, then six.  Yes, she stayed from noon - 6p.m.  The only reasonshe went home was because Jon came home from work and she figured we could go ahead and havedinner as a family without her family.

The visit:  There needed be 6 hours of vissiting because "Cybil" couldn't seem to settle on one of her many personalitites. In her life (she was a little older than me) she had been a teacher, sherriff, super model (if you saw her your jaw would have been on the floor like my own), and one more think I forget.  Mayby lion tamer, but I'm adding that one for the ridiculousness factor.

She asked if anyone from church had come to visit.  I told her no with the exception of after 2 1/2 months the next door neighbor came over to indtruduce himself as our home teacher (first time I'd met the guy and he's the nextdoor neighbor ... don't get me started), BUT, we were literally walking in the door from Jon's rece3nt vasectomy.  Jon was high as a kite hobbling up the stairs muttering random nonsense and the boys wereasking Jon ifthedoctor cut his balls off.  Their timing could not have been worse. Of course, they wanted to sit and chat at the door.  I finally had to tell them Jon was a danger to himself and others so it was time for me to leave.

This whole story was accompanied by her story.  Apparently 11 years ago her husband had a vasectomy.  He now has (I don't know if this was immediately following the vasecotomy or an old age thing) "performance problems" and has to take a pill ... which gives him a headache ... but really gives her a headache because it takes so excrutiatingly long for "it" to be over with.  Uh, uh, uh. "Well, Jon seems to be fine so for, uh, uh ..." I was stammering for the words to possibly come up after she tells me her husband is impotent and she's sharing this information with an essential stranger!

So, on to her super model days.  She apparently married a millionaire and they had two children.  Therewas an ugly custody battle, people threatening to kill people, including one fellow who wanted her mother to give his kids piano lessons for free so he offered in trade to kill the ex husband.  Uh ... the same ex now flies over her house in his plane (real plane, papaer airplane, not sure) to check in on her because he is obsessed with her and wants to kill her.  She lost custody of the two oldest kids (shocker).  They are now adults.  One ofthem wants to go to school at one of the most prestigious schools in the country, but she wants in state tuition so she asked to use her Mom's Utah address.  I asked which school thinking, "thesearen't exactly honor code chicks, I think BYU frowns on living with your boyfriend".  Her response, "Dixie College."  "Dixie?  Dixie?  Dixie?"  I felt like I was in a new dimension.  Since when did Dixie college become one of the most prestigious schools in the nation?  I repeated, "Dixie?"  "I mean, okay, I can understand if you lived in Massachusetts and your kid wanted to go to Harvard and wanted in state tuition, that makes sense to me ... but Dixie?!"

I don't think she liked my response, butshe continued. "And I told her since she doesn't live with me than NO she could not ue my address because then every school in Utah would know and her kids would not ever be able to get into a college (I think Dixie would let them in) or University since they knew they family was dishonest (my friend suggested only BYU would look at this situation as an immediate honor code violation screwingtheir chances of going to God's school).

Speaking of school ... of course ... she home schools.  But not for most of the other reasons I've heard, "better education, crowded classrooms, more one on one time with the kids ..."  No, she home schools because her 14 year-old moose of a child (we're talking at least 6'2" and well over 230lbs) was threatened by two "no hablas" (my sister in law married to a hispanic guy tells me this is the PC term when referring to other mexicans).  The daughter apparently has some form of tourettes, undiagnosed except by the mom, and her needs aren't being met at the school ... and she slaps at random things in the air if you put a light above her head.  Cool at parties, not cool at school.  So her kids, bullied and disabled.

We then started in on women issues.  Close your ears Cousin Andy.  She told me she had a thyroid problem and was on synthroid.  Oh, me too.  She almost fell off her chair, "I KNOW what's wrong with you!!!!"  Huh, what, get back on your chair lady.  "How are your periods, heavy light ... how many days do they last ... how many days between your cycles?"  WTF?  I said, "uh, they seem normal, all systems working." She infromed me she had no health insurance, but her and the kids saw some holisitc vodoo shaman of sorts that has them hold empty bottles in their hands representing their ailments and then they are cured after some session.  Huh.  Of course you do.

There is so much more to tell ... but I can't possibly fit it into one blog (and yes, while staring at her I thought, "lady, you're gonna need your own blog page because I can't clog up mine with stories about you ... because you are crazy as a jack hare and provide me with to much raw crazy talent").  On a final note, I will say she informed me of one important factor:  Captain AirSoft "so you know I'm a cop, right" up the street, he carries weaponry to church.  A loaded pistol down the back of his concealed back holster, and one down his sock.  She was reconfirming what her husband told me the night before ... but added he is one of about three people packing the heat at church.  Crazy does NOT get to pack heat to church.  I'm asking to be on mandatory greeter pat down duty at the front door.

Prison Rules

Prison Rules essentially means, no rules accompanied by possible violent outbursts.  Since God decided in His wisdom to give me not one, two, or three, but four, count them, four boys, Prison Rules is a phrase that we sometimes throw around.  Prison Rules occur when the boys are in the basement out of eyesight.  You might here a winny, whine, or even full throttle scream of terror, but in prison rules boys won't tattle.  If one of the boys threatens to tattle, I have never seen this so I am just assuming, I think the prison rules code of honor allows every other boy in the basement to drag said whiner/tattler back down the stairs, physically or verbally beat the Prison Rules honor code back into his mentality (never, ever, never tattle you little whining ninny).

Prison Rules exist in our home on almost a daily basis.  It isn't for lack of parenting, it may be fear, or (to sound like a good parent) it might be "allowing the kids to work it out for themselves."  Sure, a verbal and or physical assault may get hurled along the direction, but isn't that what boys do?  Isn't that the best part of having boys and not girls?  Girl whine, have to get everyone within a 50 mile radius involved, always hold a grudge, and when you think all is well, the whole event may rear its ugly head 20 years later when the offended and offendor least expect it - see High School Girl Fight references (the hostility started early with barbies when one little girl always had to be ken and the other was always skipper or barbie ... one day the ken barbie holder knew she would prettier, or more talented, or smarter, or have a better boyfriend, one day she knew that pent up hostility would manifest in the High School girls bathroom over lip gloss.)

Boys.  Prision Rules.  When a boy hits a boy, the other boy hits back.  This could result in a hit, hit, hit, hit situation that last a few minutes, but never longer than an hour.  Their brains get tired along with their muscles so they both declare themselves victrious and walk away.  The thing about prison rules is that it also resembles mini anarchy.  Testosterone levels that reach a certain level seem to explode into all of the cousins ability to think with some form of cognitive ability - gone, I mean it's just gone.  They then share their one combined brain cell, which I might add, isn't always functioning on all cylinders.  Prision Rules, anarchy.

Prison rules is enacted at my mom's house when all 10 male cousins and the one female (better start Judo early little one) gather.  We immediately send the male cousins into the basement where within 10.2 seconds they have ripped every chair off of Nana's couch, unfolded every blanket (not for huts, just to strangle one another) and dumped the toy bins from here to China. It might be seen as a thing of mastery, but to the mom's, and especially the Nana, it's a thing of complete and total frustration!  She has even had to put a padlock on her "craft room" since the recent discovery that the youngest of the prison rules detainees decidedthe 2" foam letters looked far more decorative strung all over the floor, stiars, and general 1500 sq. ft basement than in their protective jar.  Poor Nana.  But as parents, we know ... let them be ... let them be ... and don't get sucked into prison rules.

Occasionally we do hear the whine or winney and the three sisters go silent.  "Is it mine, no it's yours, no it's mine ..." silence.  Then a wail ... "Moooooooom"  We look down the stairs to see whichever our children had been whining is being dragged back down the stairs via prison rules to have the crap beat out of him so he realizes prision rules have a code that does NOT include tattling.  One one particular occasion the whiening was hitting an ear peircing decibal level. My sister looked at her husband and said, "Jake, go down there and regulate."  Jake looked her straight in the eye and said, "I'm not going down there, YOU go down there."  Even the adults fear prision rules. You could be tied to a chair, blindfolded, held under a flashlight, waterboarded, who knows what these little guitmo prioson guards are capable of.  Occasionally one of the boys will manage to excape the basement for some mom time.  He stays away from the basement for at least 30 minutes.  After 30 minutes, the boys will forgive/forget this prison rules "turn and went red coat" he can again be one with the crew.

Since prison rules reign supreme at Nana's, most of the adults spend our time hoping and praying there is no real harm done to one or all of our children that we won't know about because of said prison rules.  When there is a moment where we can transfer the prisoners to another destination for OTHER people to deal with them, we jump at the chance.  A few weekends ago this happened.  The three youngest members of the prison rules gang, Caden (3), Noah (4) and Emerson (2) were going to stay at Nana's while the REST of the gang (all flipping 7 of them) went to the pool.  My sister dropped them off, told them not to drown, (we are a nurturing bunch after all) and came back to Nana's. 

Ahh, relax.  My two sisters, my mom, my new niece, and myself.  The three little ones had a watering hole (small pole) in the backyard, a trampoline, lots of sunscreen and an unlimited access to Nana's garage refrigerator with every drink under the son appreciated by the palate of small boys (juice squeeze nasty things, hawaiian punch, etc).  We all sat in mom's bedroom oohing and ahhing over the new niece while the boys played outside. The bedroom window was open so we could hear them laughing and giggling so all seemed well.  Never, ever think all is well when you hear boys giggling.  It's not.  It never has been.  It never will be.

I left Mom's (Nana's) room for about 30 seconds to get a glass of water from the kitchen.  I heard giggling on the back porch and looked outside to see three little butts facing me, leaning over the side of the deck, laughing.  "Gentlemen!"  All three of them turned and looked at me like cats with birds in their mouths.  "What are we doing?"  Prison rules, prison rules, never rat out a fellow felon.  "Uh, nuffin'" they say in tandem.  Then I hear my sister laughing from the back room and she and my Mom come out to the kitchen to share the funny news.

Apparently in the 30 seconds it took me to get from Mom's room to the kitchen, the three toddlers had discovered that if you launch a can of Hawaiian punch as fast as a little chubby hand can hurl down into the stair well, it will either explode or splash everywhere.  If you drop more than one at the same time, well, I cannot begin to explain to you the massive entertainment value for these three idiots.  While I was in the kitchen, sisters and mom in Mom's room, Mom suddenly hears Caden (my child of course) say, clear as a bell mind you, "oh my gosh ... Nana's gonna be sooooo mad."  Giggle, snort, giggle.

Mom immediately went to her window and scared the crap out of all of them when she said, "and why is Nana gonna be so mad?"  This was at the same time I was saying, "gentleman!"  They lied, all three of them in prison rule honor, they all lied.  Needless to say, they were banned from all future trips to the outside freezer for liquid refreshment and forced to drink water during the rest of their tenure.  Prison rules ... a couple of hours later the 7 returned.  I saw them driving up the street and all I could manageto say was, "ladies, batten down the hatches, they come." The rest of the evening was spent in crowd control.  This poor youngest niece.  Hope she studies prison rules.

Caden , Bathing Beauty

Air Soft Guns, Law Enforcement, Papa Smurf



AIR SOFT GUN (notice BRIGHT ORANGE tip)

There are four facts you must understand so this story makes sense.

1) The above picture is an "airsoft" gun.  It is a toy.  A toy male teens and 30+ adults D&D, livin in their parents basement and eat dpritos and ding dongs all day, blog, chat, research, and love.

2) Air Soft guns are required to have a large orange tip on the end so they are not confused with "real" guns.  This gun above, does it look like a "real" gun to you?  I say no, some say yes, some are morons.

3) We have one set of friends here in righteous cloud floating Saratoga Springs., Utah County, Utah.  Mike and Jen.  Mike works at the prison (I won't say which prison to protect anonymity, but it's in bluffdale).  Mike and Jen were the first family to build a house in our neighborhood 4 years ago.  Across the street, let's call him "Pat", built his home.  "Pat" and Mike already knew one another.  "Pat" was a former prison worker with Mike ... and according to Mike, "Pat" cried, daily, because he was a "puss" and the other prison guards found great joy in exposing his lack of machismo at every turn.  I did ask, "seriously, he cried EVERY DAY?"  Mike said, "Cort, I'm not kidding, every day, it was pitiful and hilarious all at the same time." 

4) "Pat" tried for years to get out of the prison system.  He applied "everywhere", and was finally employed by the DMV.  (I think it's a step above mall cop).  He does have an unmarked cop car, with a light.  He has been given permission to write tickets if so deemed necessary.  He has given a ticket to Mike's wife for running a stop sign ... while his kids were in the back of his cruiser ... as he was taking them to school.  Guess those days of crying in the prision are still with him.  "Pat" apparently gave alot of tickets while cruising, running errands with the family, in said unmarked cop car.  For sure, macho, and his family needs to know. The ticket he gave Mike's wife?  Mike handled that.  "Pat" no longer uses his unmarked cruiser for family errand time ... and his ticket giving days have been suspended.  He's now in charge of driving around looking for stolen cars. 

This is a long, but necessary explanation of the REST of the story.

Drew has made one friend here.  His name is "Steven".  He's a good kid, we like having him around, and he too loves the airsoft guns.  One day Steven brings said airsoft gun to the house, and somewhere between shooting and cocking the gun, it was broken, over cocked, or something, and Drew was the last to use it.  I entered the scene when the two of them were at the kitchen table trying to super glue the part of the mechanism on the gun back together. Steven seemed "terrified", Drew looked like he was going to lose a friend (he felt horrible).  So I asked what happened, etc.  "It's a toy guys, don't sweat it."  Steven's response, "you don't know my Dad ... you don't know my Dad ..."

It's true.  I didn't know his Dad.  We had not yet become friends with Mike and Jen.  I didn't know Steven's Dad looked like Papa Smurf, cried daily at the prison, worked for the DMV, and had his cruiser privileges revoked.  I was "concerned" at Steven's terrified tone over this toy.  A kid scared with that phrase ... somethings not okay at home.  "Should I call my Dad?"  Well, honesty is the best policy in my experience, and if it's really that big of a deal, we can look into replacing the gun.

Steven called his Dad.  I hear screaming in the other end of the line.  Steven didn't get many words in through the screaming of, "what's wrong with you, not replacing, how dare you, etc."  Daddy dearest then hung up on Steven.  "You don't know my Dad ... he gave me this gun a year ago and it was $180."  Huh.  Seconds later Steven's mom calls.  She yells the same comments, then hangs up.  "You don't know my mom."  huh.  So apparently his parents were both highly rational people.  Minutes later, Jon arrives.  "Steven, Jon can fix just about anything, let him try and fix this."  Ring, ring, Steven's Dad instructs Steven to come home for dinner.  Michael tells him Drew's Dad is trying to fix his gun.  Steven's Dad, "Pat" says, "NO!  Bring the gun home, now"

So here we stand.  I HAD told Steven we COULD replace the toy gun.  Drew gets a text from Steven, "when are you going to buy my new gun?"  WTH?  Jon and I discuss the situation.  I want to talk to the parents.  Jon doesn't want Drew to lose a friendship over a toy.  The saga goes on for weeks.  Steven texting Drew, "when are you getting my gun?"  and sprinkling in other "what's up" comments.  Jon researches said gun. #1 It was recalled 5 years ago for the exact piece that broke when the two of them were playing with it #2 It was recalled, not new a year ago, and brand new it was $50 #3 Someone lies.

I let this simmer.  I posted on FB for ideas. Everyone had great ideas.  I let it simmer longer.  Jon bought a new gun.  I didn't agree.  Steven has not been given the gun.  And as luck would have it three days ago I turned the corner after running some errands and a beam of heavenly light shone down on the front of Michael's house.  There was Steven and his Dad, "Pat" working in the front yard.  PERFECT opportunity to talk to both of them, get "Pat's" take on the situation, and have Steven confirm or deny his new gun $180 story.

By this point of the situation, I knew of Pat's prison crying DMV cruiser ticket revoking days. I had, however, never seen him in person.  I am tall.  5'10".  Steven is at least as tall as me.  "Pat" on the other hand is no bigger than Papa Smurf ... as I approached his front porch he stood up on the first step I can only assume to put himself into a posturing position wherein he stood only 6" shorter than me rather than a full foot.  This was not his smurfiest moment and judging from the size of Michael I could only assume his mother must be a gorilla.

Papa Smurf removed ONE of his ear buds.  He was on his "IPOD" listening to tunes.  The removal of one ear bud is the same thing my 13 year-old son does to me when he doesn't want to listen to me but wants to act like he is.  long story - short version.  I introduce myself.  Tell "Pat" how much we like Michael, he's a good kid, and we want he and Drew to be friends.  Then I launch into, "so the parents' haven't had a chance to talk and I just wanted to see where all of us stand on this situation."  In a non smurfy way, Papa Smurf informed me of the following, "well, in our fammmly, we teach our kid that if he breaks sometin belongin' to someone, he replaced it." (these aren't typos, this is real)  Okay, this was their parenting style.

I responded, "okay, well, our concern is we jsut want both boys to learn a lesson of responsibility."  I then told "Pat" about Jon/s reseach of said gun, recall of said gun, no way said hun was a year old, and brand new 5 years ago it was $50.  Pat wasn't having it, but I continued, "Jon has found a similar gun for $50, we've spoken with Drew, and Drew has agreed that he will earn half the cost of the gun to repay the broken gun given the whole situation."  Pat repeated his caveman parenting philosophy of toy replacement followed by the following ... hand to God, I can't make this up...

"So you know I'm a cop, right?"  Uh, yeah, we're friends with Mike and Jen, so I heard that.  (In my head I am thinking about his "cop" status, the crying at the prison, the DMV status, etc. but I held myself together from falling into hysterical laughter.)  Pat put both hands on his hips and said, "well, since you know I'm a cop (again, now biting my lip to avoid hysterical laughter), I can tell you that the gun isn't a year old, it's a few years old.  It's been sitting in my closet waiting for the time when I thought Michael was old enough to be responsible to use it.  Because (again, hand to God I can't make this up), you know, I use this gun in law enforcement."  "Uh, you what?"  "Well, yeah, you know, when people have this rifle pointing at them they don't know it's not real and they don't want to get shot so they submit."  (In my head I am thinking the following:  this is a clear, bright orange tipped gun.  I know NOTHING about guns, but I know this is not a real "rifle". 

Sometimes when my head has a thought my mouth doesn't take a moment to clear the thought before I speak.  This was one of those moments when I said, "huh, well, note to self, if I ever decide to go on a crime spree in Utah county I'll just keep running when the airsoft rifle is pointed at me because I know all I'm gonna get is a small plastic pellett to the ass, and Bradyn's been hit in the butt by one of those pellets, and it just left a mark for a few days."  Papa Smurf ... not pleased... not happy ... not amused. 

"Well, let's just let the boys work this out amongst themselves, I mean, if you and your husband just want to get him the $80 gun then that's fine with me and my wife."  The what?  Did I hear you correctly?  The what?  Brand new this "toy" was $50, before recall, 5 years ago.  He repeated his $80 comment and said, "but if it's an issue of the money, then I mean you can just get the $50 rifle."  Again, thoughts left the mouth.  "It's NOT an issue of the cost, I assure you, we could buy Michael 20 airsfot rifles if we wanted to, it's the principle of the lesson being taught to these boys that I am worried about .. it was the terror Stevven exhibited at the thought of telling you the gun was broken that concerned me to suggest we could replace the toy if we needed to.  He was terrified of your reaction ..."  "Well, he should have been."  I held it together, I wanted to waterboard him on the spot  and ask him to apologize profoundly for being an ass, but somehowthat seems lillegal and there would then be air soft pelletts flying all over Utah County looking for me.

Papa Smurf decided to repeat lettign the boys work it out, and he put his ear bud back in.  He took out his ear bud, "is Drew in scouts?"  Uh, no, rainman, where did that come from?  "Okay, well, I used to be the sscout leader (really, that inspires faith and hope that this douche bag was in charge of young minds) but it's someone new."  I had it at this point.  I looked at Michael, who had stood silent the whole conversation and said, "hey, send me the scout stuff okay, I'll call the guy if Drew's interested, oh, and come on by the house anytime, Drew would love to hang out." 

I politely said goodbye, but Papa Smurf was already back with both ear buds in listening to what could only I think he was ticked for 2 reasons a) I have a uterus b) I'm a foot taller.  This does not bode well for an individual sufering with "little man syndrome".  People suffering with this syndrome usually drive big trucks with giant wheels and bumper stickers that say "no fat chicks".  Probably because a fat chick would beat the hell out of them.

School starts August 23rd.  Please pray Drew makes another friend.  Papa's Smurf's behavior is not smurfy.  His wife must be a gorilla judging from Michael's size.  There is no way I could handle a friendship with a smurf and a gorilla.

                                                                           

Doesn't this Kid Know I'm the Mom That's Crazy as Hell?

Prison Rules in the Suburbs

Today I have one thing on the calendar.  I get to meet a new neighbor and tell her how fortunate I feel that we've moved into a neighborhood where her little man-child is free to roam the streets and/or neighborhood park demonstrating his stellar social skills.  Further, I can't wait to talk about her husband's career choice ... his son is quite proud Daddy's a judge.  Judge of what, I'm not sure, but apparently not a judge of character as his man-child demonstrates.

In our little planned community we have parks .. planned parks ... where the little suburbanite children can play with their other suburbanite peers.  I've only ever experienced one type of throw down in these little utopias ... but that was by the meanest kid in the world from Colorado.  Here in the land of Zion, Saratoga Springs Utah County no less, people seem to be one way or the other.  Your either a cloud cruiser (you float on clouds), or a walker.  We're walkers.  We don't have a cloud and live by the mantra that if you spit in the wind it's bound to come back and hit you in the face.  It gives us a lot of personal wiggle room when our kids misbehave in public places. 

In Saratoga Springs, Utah County we see alot of pleghm floating around.  Apparently spitting in the wind doesn't have the ramifications we imagined.  They spit alot, but I'm not sure the phlegm has yet caught up with the cloud floating masses.  This mentality has created man and woman children with phenomenally naive social skills that would get their little asses a swift beat down anywhere else in the world.  Yesterday, at the planned coummunity park, Bradyn was fortunate enough to be intoduced to a phlegm spitting little by product we will refer to as "the boy".

Bradyn grabbed a buddy and they headed for the park yesterday.  The two of them are rather unassuming kids and Bradyn, although my 100lb built like a brick linebacker 3rd grader, is a sensitive fellow.  Captain Sensitive met "the boy" when "the boy" saw fit to introduce himself with a social ca-cah (crow sound) flauncing his peacock feathers and obvious king of the neighborhood park status.  "The boy" looked at Bradyn's friend, pointed at Bradyn, and said, "who's this fag?"  Huh.  I've never been asked my name with that amount of passion in the statement.  He's obviously well trained at home in social etiquette.

"The boy" is about 3 years older than Bradyn and his friend, so his friend treaded lightly when he responded, "he's not a fag, he's my friend."  "The boy" wasn't quite satisfied with this response and he obviously was concerned about Bradyn's financial situation so he responded with, "what's your dad do for a living, pick up trash? My Dad's a judge!"  Huh.  Bradyn apparently informed the kid his Dad does not pick up trash for a living.  Good comeback son (we'll work with him).

"The boy" returned the comeback with again asking Bradyn's friend who the new fag was.  At this point, Bradyn and his friend were a little scared so they hightailed it to the friends house to get his 15 year-old sister to come meet with "the boy" and explain to him that Bradyn was indeed not a fag and his Dad does not pick up trash for a living.  Their plan was thwarted when the sister refused to meet "the boy" because she didn't really care.

Bradyn recounted the whole social interaction that night at dinner.  Now, for most situations at our house we live by prison rules.  Prison rules are the only way to successfully manage having 4 boys.  Prison rules dictate no snitching and only come see me if there's blood, and it has to be alot of blood, minor trickle, work it out.  The boys have learned that in prison rules you just work it out ... social interactions, battles, brawls, whatever.  But, I've never had a man-child bring it to the doorstep referring to my man-child as the by product of a trash picking up father who procreated with his mother to create what obviously appears to be a fag to socially superior peacocks of the park.

I stared in awesome wonder as Bradyn finished his story.  I nodded.  I was quiet.  I wasn't quite sure what to say.  The fag comment.  We're not homophobic in our home, but come on, this wasn't a reference to the kids sexuality, this was a nasty little trash talking socially retarded child who apparently didn't get the memo that the word fag is not okay.  It's a slang better reserved for the underbelly of the planet sporting confederate flags and trailers in the woods complete with rotting couches on rotting front porches who throw around the word "sumbitch" when referring to their family members.

The daddy picking up trash for a living ... and "the boys" Dad being a judge.  Jon indeed does not pick up trash for a living, but I think if he saw "the boy" he might momentarily change his profession to pick up trash, aka "the boy" and take him to the county dump where he belongs.  While my mind was processing the whole scenario I weighed out prison rules against getting involved versus real live bullies.  The one thing I have in my aresenal as a mom is fear.  A man-child, no matter how tough he thinks he is, when approached by a mom will either a) pee his pants b) flee the scene of the crime and pray the mom doesn't ever talk to his mom.

I calmly asked Bradyn if he told "the boy" that his mom was crazy as hell because she is the mom of 4 boys and she might have to visit the park to get aquainted with the judges nasty mouthed by-product.  Bradyn smiled.  I wasn't really kidding.  I asked Bradyn if he told "the boy" what his dad does do ... and if he added the part that daddy spent 12 years in the military and is freaking mercenary (not a mercenary, his purple heart nomination came from the time he was in Iraq and his MRE had rotten M&M's ... it caused some PTSD) who brings down the pain when he plays Call of Duty on the x-box?  Bradyn had not informed the kid he had a crazy as hell Mom or a mercenary for a father.

Bradyn and I chatted about "the boys" social skills seriously needing a brush up, and told Bradyn next time he interacts with the boy he should for sure arrange an introduction between "the boy", his crazy as hell mother, and his mercenary father.  So I slept on all of this.  This morning I have made a decision.  Prison rules aside, I can't really stand by and have this little snot, "the boy", roaming free around the neighborhood frew to spew his venemous slander ... especially at my kid.  Today, I have chosen to open the Mom arsenal.  My sources, Mom's have sources, never doubt that Mom's have sources, have already informed me of "the boys" locale. 

First thing this morning I am going to walk to said locale, with my son, and introduce ourselves as being new to the neighborhood.  I will smile sweetly as I ask to meet "the boy" so I can get a visual of whether or not he has a blackened rotting front tooth (hillbilly style).  I will watch in pleasure as the boy is called to the front door to see his victim, the fag, and his mom standing on his turf.  I will take notice when the boy pees down one leg knowing that his time is at hand to be called out on his social interactions at the park.  I will tell "the boys" mom how obviously proud he is of his daddy and his profession as a judge ... and how "the boy" is convinced and ready to comment that any other kid at the playground has a dad who works in sanitation.

I can only hope that "the boy" has a mother who is also crazy as hell.  I can only hope she isn't beat down and sweet and allows her 15 children to run the neighborhood and her household like a hillbilly haven.  Further, I hope the judge has a large wooden paddle, possibly with holes in it to prevent wind resistance while teaching "the boy" social skills are taught in the home.

Dr. Smiles, aka "the fleecing of the teeth in Zion"

Yesterday I took all three boys to the dentist ... okay, all 4 boys, but Bennett still has a fine mouthful of "gums".  Before I proceed, there need be an understanding of "dental in Utah".  I went to a gianormous High School in Northern Utah.  My graduating class had well over 1500 kids.  Of those 1500 kids, I am fairly certain that at least half of the graduating class (all the boys) went to dental school ... except for the 2 I know of that actually went to real doctor school (don't be offended dentists, you are doctors with better hours).

It's not that I think dentists aren't "real doctors" ... I'm just at the odd age now where dentists (okay, most medical professionals) are considerably younger than me and I've decided young aspiring utah dentists (see half of utah population) assume dentistry to be a more 9-5 operation suiting the utah male and his large family.  And yes, according to my mom, it is bizarre to be in a dental office and have your mouth examined by the same kid who graduated with one of your kids in High School. Fortunately we have not lived in the motherland for the last 16 years, so I have never had to have my physician walk in and say, "wasn't I friends with your little sister?"  That might destroy me.

So, at the end of the day: teenage utah male+go on mission+marry a sweet girl+ want 14 children + the means to support their family + the time to actually see said family during the week+ and to be close to family within Utah = Dentists on every plot of land, in every building, on every corner, and all wanting to build their practice.  I can't fault them for the build their practice instinct, they are young, this is their business, their 12th child is on the way, they are not even 30 years old yet.  The competition?  Don't get me started.  We get these magazines once a month telling us whats happening around the local towns.  The magazines are full of advertisements and at least half of them are dental.  Half of them.  I'm not exagerrating.  So there are a ton of options there ... and a ton of young dentists looking to get your business and money in their wallets and somewhere along the way hope you will tell your friends and so on and so forth.

SO, here we have it.  Dentists everywere.  We called our insurance company, found on "in network" and called them.  Dr. Smiles I believe is his aka ... not kidding.  Sounds nice enough.  The staff took down some information over the phone about insurance, etc. names birthdates, etc. and confirmed the date and times. It was 2 weeks away.  Beginning 10 days prior to the appointment I start getting text messagess from the dental office telling me I have these three appointments for the boys and to respond yes if we will be there.  Okay, yes, click.  This happened DAILY.  The first one I understood, okay covering their bases making sure people will be at their appointments.  The second, did you forget you already sent this to me?  The third time, you must have forgotten. Fourth time, really?  Really? Fifth time, if you send me one more of these frigging text messages ... YES WE WILL BE THERE! Still got 9 more texts.  Ignored all of them.

Finally the big day arrived.  We walked into the office where the kids immediately went to the 3X4 room  sporting a love sack, tv, and two xbox controllers.  I went to the front desk hauling with me my larger than life 20+ pound 5 month-old.  The front desk girl seemed nervous as she immediately asked me, "um, we need more insurance information."  Uh, okay, I already gave that to her on the phone when I scheduled the appointments, but okay.  "Um, do you have a policy number on your dental insurance?"  Before she could finish, what I can only assume was the head office secretary, (who was sitting behind the front desk on the phone) barked, "we can't treat them WITHOUT insurance."  "Uh," I thought, "we have really good insurance you nasty hag."  I called Jon and asked for a policy number.  We didn't have one and he was in the middle of telling me he thought it was his social security number when hagdalena magdalena barked out, "it's probably the husband's social."  Uh, okay rain man, glad you figured that one out.

It was then, and only then, the front office clerk handed me the sign in paperwork for all the boys.  Wierd, but okay, doing their job I guess.  I started filling out all the paperwork and somewhere between marking my children's medical conditions, "no, not pregnant, no, no drug usage, no, no hep c" (I hate those things, how many pregnant-drug using-positive hep C 3 year-olds are there out there?) they apparently discovered we did indeed have insurance because hygenists appeared to take the kids back.  All three went back, i finished paperwork, then headed back.

The hygenists x-rayed and cleaned the kids teeth.  Nice girls, but it didn't escape my attention that every person on that office staff had the exact color/shade of blonde hair, similar hairstyles, and size 2 behinds.  It was a little stepford dentistry, but, again, okay.  After the cleanings, all 4 boys and I were shoved into one exam room to wait for the dentist.  We sat there ... and sat there ... and sat there.  Caden got bored at about minute 10 and started rifling through the drawers in the office.  I tried to stop him until minute 20, then I just let him shove as many toys in his pockets as he could.  Bradyn discovered Caden's maneuvers at minute 25.  I tried to stop him from taking the toys.  At minute 30, I allowed him to start shoving toys in his pocket.  Drew discovered the toy drawer at minute 40.  Tried to stop him, actually tried to shame him for getting into the baby toy drawer.  He only shoved one toy in his pocket at minute 45.   Minute 50 ... dentist and nurse finally arrived ... toys were falling out of my kids pockets.

Bennett had about lost his cool at this point, Caden was bouncing all over the room, Bradyn was chattering non stop, and Drew was lying down in the dental chair ready for his exam.  The dentist sat down, put his hands in his (the dentist's) lap, looked at the nurse and said, "did we get their insurance information settled?"  I looked over at the nurse only to see she was not looking at my kid's x-rays on the computer, but rather our financials and dental coverage info.  "Yes, that's all worked out," she said.  "Oh good, okay, what's their coverage?"  She rattled off something about teeth I didn't understand and finished with, "they have full coverage."  The dentist smiled, slapped both hands in his lap, and said, "ok, great!"  It was then, and only then, he actually started to examine Drew.  WTF?

One after another he examined the kids.  Every word he said was contrary to what every other dentist had ever told me about my kids.  Drew needed braces, let's take some more x-rays, Bradyn needed a root canal (on a friggin baby tooth!) and had 4 cavities (this was not news, Bradyn has the bad teeth in the family), AND Bradyn would also need braces and let's take some x-rays on him (uh, he's 8, and every dentist has told me both kids would never need braces ... including their check up 6 months prior) and Caden had 20 teeth (this was not contrary to what the other dentist told me).  Bennett had lost all control at this point, I was scattered, and the nurse got on eye level after the kids exams and told all three of them, "why don't you all go into the waiting room so mommy and I can talk about some appointments and insurance."  Again, I repeat, WTF?  All I could muster at that point was, "how long is this going to take?"  "Oh, it's fast, about 30 minutes."  Bennett wailed and I told her she had 30 seconds.

I waited in the exam room for about 3 minutes and Bennett had now lost all sense of perspective.  I could only pat his butt and rock him back and forth so much.  I left the exam room, headed to the waiting room, made a bottle, strapped him in his carseat, propped the bottle in his mouth, and started to gather the boys.  The nurse, almost literally, came breathlessly flying out of the back room.  Apparently she had noticed I was leaving the building, 30 seconds was up.  "Um, okay, can you just give us 2 minutes, we have everything ready to go."  I wasn't sure what that meant, but she seemed like this was a desperate attempt to keep her job so I followed her to the back office ... where I met the HEAD office person ... sitting behind a giant mahogany desk ... and she started shoving paperwork at me talking a thousand miles an hour telling me to sign this, sign this, here's what this means, sign this ... I thought, "am I buying a car, I'm feeling the same sense of bending over and taking it like a man." 

I signed.  My eyes were glazed over at this point and I could hear Bennett screaming from the waiting room.  "Okay, so let's schedule those appointments for Bradyn and then let's get you and your husband scheduled for an exam and cleaning."  Uh, I hadn't said anything about Jon and I.  I pleasantly refused scheduling for Jon and I and told her I would call her on Bradyn because Bennett was screaming and it was time to go.  She tried desperately to give me the tough car salesman sell.  I think, like a car salesman, she didn't want me to get out of the office and actually think about what I was signing.

I left, got the kids home, and finally had a moment to think about what had happened.  Really, a dentist asking about our insurance?  A root canal on my 8 year-old ... on a baby tooth?  Won't treat without insurance?  What if we didn't have insurance?  What if we were paying cash?  Then what?  Why was there so much pressure to schedule Jon and I asap?  Why did I get a 1000 text messages 10 days prior to the appointment?  My head was spinning and everything seemed "off".  Of course, I called my mom.  Maybe I was nuts and she could make sense of this.  After all, I was with Bennett and had shattered nerves at the dental office.

Mom DID make sense of it ... the dentist was fleecing us.  Huh.  Yes, yes he was!  I had never been to a doctor, ever, dentist or otherwise, that started the exam with, "what's your coverage?"  Something was very, very wrong.  The next morning at exactly 8a.m. I get a call from Dr. Smiles front office, "hello, when are we scheduling those appointments for Bradyn, you, and Jon?"  I had slept on this whole experience the night prior and by 8a.m. that morning this front office girl was little more to me than a morsel to chew up and spit out.  As my little sister would say about an individual that enters into a verbal sparring match with me, "wow, aren't they the brave little toaster."

The brave little toaster got an earful ... she was a nervous little toaster and I was only half finished with my thoughts when she transferred me to the hag who said we couldn't be treated without insurance the day prior.  Bad move.  I repeated my tirade.  It included the words, "fleecing, ass, do you realize there are 10 other dentists in this tiny town, insurance fraud, when I'm through you will be out of network, husband in charge of making sure the gazillion dollar new adobe plant is built, contractors hired, and then the facilites managed (major news in Utah, many new jobs, huge economic boost, LOTS of out of staters moving into our little town), and never assume the haggard looking mother of 4 won't hesitate to use any and all influence at her disposal to make sure word spreads far and wide about Dr. Smiles ... you screwed up, we have REALLY good insurance, maxing out our coverage ... send me my kids x-rays so I can get them into a dentist with some semblance of integrity." 

She paused, did the whole, "sorry you feel that way," line (I hate that phrase, yes, I do feel that way, it's the most condescending phrase in the English language), backtracked, and told me the dentist is really involved in the insurance end of the practice.  Was she joking?  Would she really tell me that?  Yes, I had a response.  It was fortunate I was tired of talking to her and it was time to feed Bennett or this brave little toaster was headed to the scrap heap.  She tried to tell me she couldn't send me the x-rays.  Before she could finish her sentence I suggested she DO send me the x-rays because I OWNED them as I had PAID for them with my, you screwed up you dumb hag, REALLY good insurance.  She digressed, but told me I had to sign a release.  "To send them to my house?!"  Whatever, send me the release form.  Jon had his vasecotmy (another story, of course, there is nothing simple and fast without a story in the Eldridge household) later that afternoon so I had to put off calling another dentist for Bradyn's teeth. 

Now I'm rethinking that I didn't make that call to another local dentist before the weekend ... I'm pretty sure all the dentists talked to each other on church sunday.  I may have to find a dentist the next town over... in a different stake. (For those of you that don't know what the terminology stake means, see "mormon congregation of gathered little congregations with one leadership forming one mega conglomeration with another leadership all working in tandem".  There are lots of stakes in Utah.)

If you graduated from High School with me, and you are now a dentist, all 750 of you, take notice.  Build your practice, be successful, but let the front office staff handle the finances.  Never, ever, ever start an exam asking, "what's your coverage?"