Soccer WHAT?!

Coach,

You have been selected to coach in the Pre-Kindergarten league for Saratoga Springs, Spring Soccer League.

We will be having a mandatory coaches meeting on April 5th at 7pm at the City Offices.  We will be going over rules, roster, schedules, handing out equipment and jerseys.

Please reply to this e-mail if you CANNOT attend, otherwise I will assume you will be there.  

Thank you

Recreation Director

Discussion:  Last week in my e-mail "inbox".  Let's backtrack.  I signed Caden, (the questionably sane mean as hell 4 year-old child) up for soccer so he could learn to "play well with others" before he starts preschool in the fall. I'm "concerned" he'll get the boot from preschool for his lack of "social prowess", if you will.  HOWEVER, when signing him up for soccer I obviously assumed FAR TO MUCH of my fellow Saratogoan Springs, Utah parents. Like, they would CHECK THE BOX!

It started with a box. There was a box you could "check" on the online form if you were interested in "helping coach".  I checked said box with this thought in mind, "he's my third kid, I've parented 4 year-olds two times before him, parents are predictably still super involved with their kids sports endeavors at this age praying for an athlete and some parent out there really loves soccer (gross) and wants to teach their "love of the game" to the next generation (sick) and they have been waiting all season long for their coaching debut to begin! I am for sure in "safe zone" checking this box as being assigned as designated snack mom.  I can do snacks, I can organize parents and parties, I cannot coach soccer. 

I suffer from what I think could probably pretty easily be diagnosed with little effort as a sort of PTSD (post traumatic stress syndrome) from playing assorted sports as a child.  I was the first in the line up of four.  My parents just did what every other parent does and follows the rest of the lemmings.  This little lemming had to play soccer... and dodge freaking ball (the dumbest sport on the planet) with girls who's mommies didn't teach them that ladies don't throw the damn dodgeball so hard it renders other kids knocked on their ass as their feet fly out from underneath them just before the teacher blows their well meaning (albeit LATE!) whistle and screams, "Brittney, you are only allowed to throw with your LEFT hand!" Seriously, Brittney, you know who you are, and baby Jesus did not approve then or now.  Dislike.

The freakishly large man paws and obvious overly testosteroned "Brittneys" of my childhood world made sports impossible.  My mom thought since I was obviously a girl, perhaps I should be raised a lady?  Ladies do not charge balls or each other and they sure as hell don't get physical with the whole mess.  They do not grunt or huff or spit and knocking the BOYS feet out from underneath them during dodgeball is NOT going to get you to the prom anytime soon. This logic worked perfect in my world because I feared a) aggressive physical contact with questionable man children posing as lady children b) being hit by the ball. 

Soccer ... rush the ball, kick the hell out of each other, rinse, repeat.  Not okay.  Stupid.  My first soccer game?  I was THRILLED to score a goal ... for the other team.  It did seem a little to easy tottling down the field kicking away that ball with little or no defense getting in my way but rather keeping my own team away from me. I still, to this day, get a visible chill up my spine when we drive past "Shady Lane Park" when I go home to visit.  Why did my mom allow me to continue to play past year 2 of "most improved player" in a row?  It is literally translated, "you SUCK, but we have to give you something and it sure as hell isn't MVP ... soooo you didn't kick a goal for the other team this season, IMPROVED!"  Why did I have to reach adulthood, albeit parenthood to realize my parents collosal mistake in making me compete against Brittneys would later cause PTSD? Obviously, I still have a few issues to work through.

I have coached basketball, loved it (that game makes some sense to me).  Loved watching my son make his first basket, and admittedly even felt a testosterone Brittney moment or two even when the basketball team was so young they literally didn't keep score and "everyone was a winner" (um, my team actually won, they were not most improved players, they won, I kept score in my head).  I checked the soccer coach box for oranges.  I will do my part to prevent scuurvy (apparently a scourge of the soccer world because that can be the only reason for this universal orange wedge phenomenon gracing all soccer fields from 50 thousand years ago when I played until present day) and bring orange wedges.  I will cut orange wedges until I am orange because I know there is a kid on that team who hates soccer and hates being there and only looks forward to orange wedges. 

I checked the box ASSUMING far to much and now am left with ... facing my demons on a field of oranges.  I don't even know the rules, my kid is questionably borderline (look it up in the DSM IV), and I will not be able to reign him in and might forget to benadryl him (of course, I'm kidding, sort of) because I am trying to remember what the hell a corner kick is for or why a full back is a full back (I loved being full back, it meant by my teams goal, fully back, AWAY from the opposing team lest I get kicked in the head or with the soccer ball) and why it's important everyone doesn't mob the ball. 

Jon knows soccer.  He refuses to coach, but if I am just inept enough I think he might step in.  Way to go little town ... now we all suffer.  Seriously, CHECK THE BOX!

Speaking of today ...

It's 8:28.  A year ago today I was sitting in a labor and delivery recovery room in Denver, Colorado holding a 7lb 6oz bundle of blue.  The end of the train ... the fourth blue bundle to come to our family.  To say I was exhausted after the marathon 20+ hours to his delivery would be an understatement.  To say I was grateful would be ignorant.  Gratitude does no even encompass the feelings I felt this day a year ago as I stared into the blue eyes of this little person I knew I would die for but I had only met moments ago.  Maternal instinct is real ... if it could be bottled, there would be world peace, I'm sure of it.  Everyone had/has a mom, and if the sheer realization in a bottle of maternal instinct being unleashed on another was part of the equation we'd all get along ... because at the end of the day do you really want to face down the snarling gnarl of a mom who's kissed the tears away from her kid who YOU put into said hysterics?  I rest my case.

I walked into the nursery this morning and stared at my bundle ... now a grinning toddler.  He rolled in his crib, put his butt in the air, rubbed his eyes, and shot me a toothy little grin.  This moment .... is heaven.  I spent the day wishing each moment would continue and my kids would stop growing and life would stop running.  There are days I wish would come to a close the moment they begin.  The days you wake up to a kid saying they don't  ... and before they finish the sentence you are cleaning up puke sort of days. Today was not one of those days.  Today was a day for savoring life and the moment I was in and for being grateful.

I see my children, from ages 14 down to now 1, and I wonder where the time goes. My grandmother asked me today if I thought I was more relaxed with this last child than my others?  I told her I think everyone gets more relaxed with successive children ... but that is sort of a sad commentary on life if you think about it?  There are many different kinds of moms, but there isn't a single mom that sets out thinking they want to be a bad mom.  So where do we get that we aren't the best mom? 

I'm getting older ... my siblings have been asking me for years if I am 40 now so it's just become an accepted family fact that I am and have been 40 since I turned 33. I'm at the "people are talking about the 20 year high school reunion this summer" age.  I have a sister in the "people talking about the 10 year high school reunion" age.  She and I had a conversation a few weeks ago about being a mom. Despite the age difference, my uterus apparently can't tell time so we share children the same age.  She has the luxury of youth and can still pull off wearing trendy clothes.  I have the luxury of questioning if a person my age wears THAT if they look like they are just trying to hard or if they wear THAT they look like they are victims to a salesperson who told them the dress looked, "super cute!". 

So, in my questionably trendy apparel she and I chatted over meatballs at Ikea about motherhood. As I sat there juggling my two kids, and she juggled her two kids, I realized the ease with which I shrugged off things.  So my 4 year-old wanted a giant slab of chocolate cake for lunch?  Yep, guess that's what he was having for lunch.  10 years ago, my now 14 year old, no way.  I would be shoving chicken nuggets down his gullet battling for the prize of mommy knows best as he kicked and screamed.  Why?!  It has finally come to me ... it's not that I stopped caring about my kids, I love them dearly, I stopped caring about what other people thought about me as a mom and more about what my boys thought of me as THEIR mom. These little creatures are my jury on motherhood and hopefully we will have a relationship that endures from toddlerhood through puberty to still liking each other. 

I shared my sage wisdom with my sister.  We, the sisterhood of motherhood, screw each other over (sorry, there really isn't another analogy befitting here) repeatedly trying to best one another at motherhood.  We set the bar at a completely unreachable level and dare one another to try and ascend.  We don't verbalize we're doing this, but we do it every day. For whatever reason we take our children and put them out as our badges of merit as women.  We forgot that we are supposed to help each other because we got lost in outdoing each other.  And for whatever reason ... God and I will chat about this one day ... we as women don't start to "get it" until our kids are having kids and we tell them to not make the same mistakes we did.  I'm cracking this code early and refusing to wait until I am begging for grandchildren. 

Moms ... ladies ... relax.  We should give one another time and space to let our kids eat chocolate cake for lunch and not judge their parenting skills.  We should go to the store in our cookie monster pajama pants with our kids faces still wearing the leftover peanut butter and jelly from breakfast because that's what they wanted even when eggs and toast are the normal choice and we were to tired to fight that battle or the one after breakfast about wiping their chubby face.  We should high five each other in the aisles that we even had the good sense to put on a baseball hat with our cookie monster pajama pants that was at least in the same color family so we look like we tried! 

We should not stare and leer at the mom trying to get her screaming toddler to get off the ground at the store ... we should step in and say, "sister, no worries, all of mine  had a complete meltdown at this very store and have rolled on the ground at this very spot on more than one occasion!"  I had a friend who told me she actually packed a wooden spoon in her purse that her kids KNEW about as a form of sheer anti terrorist prevention from them acting up at the store.  The existence of that spoon meant they kept it together.  Do you think this friend was a 20 something mom?  Hell no she wasn't!  She was a late 30 something mom who was so tired she resorted to the spoon and threat technique and then TOLD people about it.  Sister, give it a high five.  They should hand out spoons at the door of every walmart to every mother. 

I live in a county, in a state, that happens to have the nation's highest prescription drug abuse problem.  I don't live in a ghetto, or an economically deprived area.  I live in an upscale fervently religious suburb, nobody wears cookie monster pajama pants to the grocery store, people go to church every sunday, and children are shined and sparkle like new pennies before they leave the house every day.  Of course, when the door closes, the nationally reported data is screaming out the reality that mommy puts on her size 2 jeans and does a snort of meth because it keeps her thin and peppy and able to accomplish the unsurmountable task of simply keeping up appearances. Prescription drug abuse?  Check.  Drug of choice?  Meth. Check.  Users?  Housewives. Check.  Sadly, it's a fact, it's written down, it's reported, people know, words out, and the spiral continues because there is no way to keep up with unrealistic fantasies of perfection.

For whatever reason, speaking about today, I saw things different.  Maybe it was the realization that I was never going to be bringing a newborn home again and that I needed to take each moment of every day with each of my boys and cherish it as time was fleeting.  Maybe I am just a little older, maybe all that talk about 20 year high school reunions has me thinking about the past and the future.  I ended today with some sobering news.  My friend has cancer.  She is a mother but has never had children of her own.  She may live to 50, she may not see 40.  Cancer doesn't really care about your expectations of life. 

Speaking of today ... we can't slow down time, the world will continue to spin at an eternally dizzying rate.  Technology will force us to bow down to it's excess and expectations of immediate reward.  But maybe, just maybe, that maternal instinct can be bottled just a little bit at a time and offered out to one another ... mommies united.  I have to believe that God in His wisdom granted women the maternal instinct to nurture not only our young but one another.  It is only a mother who can change the current of a roaring tide to shield her young from the stormy sea.  Women need not have children biologically thrust from their loins to be called mother, we are all mothers, and we all need one another to justify our efforts in meeting what we know our creator has in mind for each of our individual paths. 

We cannot slow time, but we can enjoy the time we are given and the lives to which we are entrusted ... and we as women can allow this time to be one of amazing joy rather than guilty nonsense of not being enough.  We are enough.  We are flawed, but a power greater than we will ever understand continues to send flawed creatures perfect miracles.  I have to believe that means womanhood, sisterhood, whatever we may want to call it, worthy of a high five in the cookie monster pajama pants. Amen.

Kitty and Emerchin, Frenemies

In my last post I said, " ... when I had each of my children I gained another blessing.  As they age, I lose a little more pride ... daily.  I think all new moms need to learn the following phrase: "Who do you belong to?  Where's your Mommy?"  I use this phrase in stores when my children act like they need and have not taken their medication. I'm not claiming that mess.

It's no secret that my children act like little fools 98% of their lives.  I don't blame them for their behaviors ... they are male children and I am firmly convinced (I can say this, these are MY male children) that there MUST be a chromosomal abnormality science has not yet revealed to the general public that deems all males incapable of reasonable thought process.  Hand a boy a hammer and he'll hit whatever is closest to him ... a person, a rock, a frozen giant Costco size container full of Hawaiian punch (yep, my boys have done that). 

Hand a girl a hammer and she'll look at you, reason for a moment in her mind, look around for WHY you gave her the hammer, realize there isn't a nail in sight, and hand it back to you and say, "why did you give me this hammer?"  Working versus non working chromosomes of reasoning ability.

Occasionally I get the foolish notion that I can test this chromosomal abnormality and its limits and I take my children into public.  Given my obvious lack of attention in health class, and Jon's irrational fear of the vasectomy, I find myself now almost 38 years old with a 3 year-old and 11 month old in tow.  By Utah standards I am a) waaaaaaay to old to have children that young this old b) behind the curve because by 38 I should be standing in the wedding line at my children's wedding or celebrating the birth of my grandchildren c) they are two of four children ... by 25 I should have had at least 5 to call my own. 

I didn't live in Utah when my babies made their appearance.  The first three are spaced a nice even 5-6 years apart.  It gave me time.  Time for amnesia to set in about the abnormally large 16" head circumferences I had to deliver, time for me to gather myself together to act like I had a clue how to parent, and time to have one or multiple children at school and only ever have one at home with me the way God intended.  God is laughing now.  Not so funny.

My sister recently moved to Utah County (silly, silly sister).  We decided to take her two under three kids and my two under three kids to lunch and shopping last week. It was a moment of weakness, there were crepes mentioned for lunch, what could I do, it was crepes!  After a morning of strategic planning rivaling that of a the best planned military mission, I managed to get myself and the two kids out the door on time with only one of them screaming ... the three year-old.  But at least when he screams I know EXACTLY what he's calling me.

We picked up Kati and her two kids and we were off.  The crepes for lunch ... not exactly as planned (sort of okay compared to what I had imagined in my mind for weeks prior!).  But on the way TO the crepe lunch, we passed some of our favorite places.  "Kate, look, Ross, TJ Max, Pier One ... " the stores were endless and I had not been "shopping" in forever.  We suggested to Emerson (age 2) and Caden (3) that we should go to some "stores".  They agreed, awesome.

The rest of the day is sort of a blur.  It started in Ross ... Kati and I were lured into a sense of security with those two little monsters until suddenly we hear a "wack", "smack", and blood curdling scream.  Emerson and Caden share a love hate relationship.  They are besties for the first few moments of their time together ... then they are frenemies ... then they beat the hell out of each other.  Gratefully the days of "mine!" have not been heard in awhile ... they've been replaced with violence.

Caden usually screams, Emerson pouts.  My kid is louder, of course.  The day ended with store #2 (no way these two were making a store #3).  I bribed them both with a stop at the "Krispy Kreme" for "boys who behave".  They were "manageable" and the meltdowns were minimal.  Of course, I did have to bust out with the, "who do you belong to little boys" phrase when they started acting foolish at store #2.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw some women looking at me all disconcerted as if they were really two errant lost acting like little fools children.  Her disconcert was replaced with a "get me the hell out of here before I have to get involved with those two monsters" dead sprint the other direction as they started running the aisles.  Rookie.

We made it to Krispy Kreme ... thank goodness for the drive through so Kati and I didn't have to yet again place on display our athletic prowess strapping in each of the four children into the seperate car seats in the Expedition to exit and enter the vehicle.  However, as luck would have it, the two special chromosomal lacking male children with no reasoning skills in the BACK of the LAST seat of the Expedition decided they needed to take off said car seat belts as we pulled into the drive through.  Apparently they needed to have full body language capabilities to place, excuse me, scream their donut order. 

Kati said, "what, what? get your seat belts on!" I noticed there was about 2 cars ahead of us in the drive thru lane so I jumped out of the drivers seat to get into the back, back, back of the Expedition and strap both their happy butts back into the car seats.  By this point Caden had reached full meltdown potential, Emerson was pouting and also reaching meltdown, and I couldn't get their stupid car seats attached to save my life.  All I could mutter was, "please, please, I pray they have Vodka in their donuts." Kati giggled, but I seriously thought Vodka in a donut was genius for this sort of situation.

We placed our order, and waited ... and waited ... and waited for an abnormally long period of time.  Apparently Krispy Kreme didn't get the, "don't make the mom with the 47 children screaming wait in the drive thru lane longer than 3.5 seconds when donuts are involved ... madness will incite."  Madness did incite.  I didn't catch the beginning of the argument, but I saw in the rearview mirror Emerson and fists of fury flying Caden's direction.  Caden started screaming and slapping back.  Honestly.  At least throw a punch at each other you ninnies!

Kati and I tried our best to ignore them, until Caden screamed out, "Moooooooom, tell Emerson to ..." I cut him off and said, "Caden, we'll let the police handle this situation."  I know, it makes no sense, but it also makes no sense that a Krispy Kreme in Utah County where desperate meth snorting housewives driving 15 passenger mini vans filled with sister wives and hollering polyglyt children don't sell Vodka donuts! 

Kati started snickering, then we both fell into hysterical laughter when Caden screamed, "call the police right now and tell them to take Emerchin to JAILLLLLL!!!!!"  Kati told Caden she was calling "whine-1-1-" right away!  Then the babies started to get persnickety ... the donut lady (sans the Vodka donuts, losers) finally gave me my goods (aka donuts, NOT HOT, again, losers) and then came the situation of "how" to get the donuts back to the back, back, back of the Expedition without one of us having to crawl back there.  I grabbed the bag from Kati, filled it with two donuts, and said, "flick it with your wrist like this" and with the grace and agility reserved only for an olympic event threw said bag containing two donuts to the back, back, back seat ... only to successfully wack Caden in the head inciting screams (since he had lost all reason at this point and was still suggesting, rather demanding, his 2 year-old cousin be taken to jail immediately for questioning!). 

Kati managed to talk him off the ledge as he opened the donut package ... but she made the fatal error of saying, "Caden, okay, give Emerson one donut and you have one donut."  Emerson was starting to tear up and I heard a whimper.  Even HE knew this request had about a 1% chance of success.  Caden started to lose it again ... so Kati excercised her best donut hostage negotiation skills promising Caden we had MORE donuts if he would just give Emerson one of the two donuts in the bag.  Caden complied ... donut coma was soon to follow with all four children, all was well.

Moral:  Listen in health class, space your children at least 5 years apart, never take male children shopping even if they act like they will behave, they are genetically incapable, Krispy Kreme needs to look into Vodka donuts.

Cadenisms ...

Caden is my three, almost 4 year-old son.  He's "precocious" to say the least.  The other day I read an article about when you should start to worry about your toddler's speech. I have an adorable nephew with a speech issue. Most of the time I have no clue what he is saying, but my sister can tell you with 98% accuracy what he said. It's the 2% of the time heaven help her if she or anyone else doesn't understand the poor kid, because he knows EXACTLY what he's saying ... the rest of us are just morons for not understanding him. 

He has no problem letting the rest of us know we are morons when he repeats the phrase multiple times ... with each repeat SLOWER and LOUDER than the last.  It's sort of like an American in a foreign country (I've seen this one first hand).  Everyone speaks English IN THE WORLD, right?  So, if you just speak slower and louder english everyone in the world understands, right? I think only Americans do this ... I've never encountered a foreign vistor to America speaking slow loud languages outside of English.  I digress ...

Moms clearly understand everything their children say, it's the rest of the world that needs a translation.  My "precocious" child has a vocabulary that rivals that of an Ivy League graduate ... or a sailor. Caden likes to talk ... all the time ... non stop.  For people who just meet Caden his chattering is "cute" ... for people who spend more than 10 minutes with Caden they look at me and say things like, "wow, he really has alot to say, doesn't he?"  This statement is usually accompanied by the statement, "does he ever stop talking?"  No, no he doesn't.  Yes, yes, it is EXHAUSTING listening to non-stop chatter. 

My grandmother is not so fond of his chatter because she's seen the "sailor" side.  ie: last summer my sister informed me Caden (in front of my very southern and proper grandmother who would not let us say the word shut up or fart in her presence growing up) shoved her beloved teacup poodle's chubby butt off the couch with the phrase, "get off the couch you damn dog!" I don't know where he comes up with this. We certainly don't use language like that around this house.  Stop laughing.

Not unlike my nephew with an actual diagnosed speech problem, or a slow loud english speaking american in a foreign land, Caden is quite convinced his words are accurate.  They aren't.  They are wierd. I worry.  Hence, I read the article, and for the past week I have been picking out some of his vocabulary that makes perfect sense to me wondering if he makes sense to the rest of the world.  In the name of "remember when", I present to you: "Cadenisms"

Aaisssun:  aka our dog, Addison.  As in, "Aaisssun, Aaisssun, get off the couch you damn Aaisssun!"

Orngen:  crayola refers to it as "Orange"

Pepeerinoni - aka, "I picked all the pepeerinoni off my pizza cause I didn't like the rest of it."

Annarana - Aunt Maranda

Hot Lava Springs - aka the place we are having our family reunion, Lava Hot Springs, Idaho

Carnoon Nebword: Caden's favorite television station ... I blocked it from the tv when I realized the snarky sarcasm was worming it's way into the vocabulary of each of my children's verbal sparring techniques.  They don't need any more suggestions. These two words are most often heard in the phrase, "Mom!!!  Where is da carnoon nebword?!?!  Did you bwock it again!?!"

Bideamin: aka, the little pieces of sugar candy (flintstone vitamins ... really? Jon thinks they are saving their very lives by having a daily dosing ... they could eat a gummy bear and have the same nutritional effect).  "Mom, gibe me my bideamin!  Hurry, I'm gonna get sick!"

Emerchin:  aka his 2 year old cousin, Emerson.  "Emerchin!  Stop it! Mooooooom, call the police to take Emerchin to jail!"

Owibia:  aka Olivia, the little pig cartoon

Kenyans:  aka, "I wanna watch da kenyans!"  WTH?  It stands for the movie, "Despicable Me ... the "minions"

Myneagrasswidahaead: ditto, WTH? Apparently its a key on the computer keyboard that he repeatedly points to and repeats in a slow loud tone until you tell him to go away.

Flowerboon:  aka the NASTY blanket he attached himself to as an infant that has circus animals on it he is insistent are flowers ... and we call blankets "boons" in our house (thank you Drew's stellar vocabulary skills when he started talking) hence, "flowerboon".

Stway: aka, "Mom, I need a stway!  Stway!  Stway!" A what? "Stway for my juice!"  Ahh, straw.

Cubbins:  "Mom, will my cubbins be at Nana's?" (cousin)

There are more, but this is all I can think of right now.  Unfortunately, he also says some delightful words with lightening precise accuracy ... some people might call his language, "gutter".  "Drew, I'm gonna slap you in your baaaaallllllsss!" followed by his own maniacal, hysterical laughter ... and most often screamed in large public gatherings so everyone in a 3 mile radius knows I am parent of the year.

When I had each of my children I gained another blessing.  As they age, I lose a little more pride ... daily.  I think all new moms need to learn the following phrase: "Who do you belong to?  Where's your Mommy?"  I use this phrase in stores when my children act like they need and have not taken their medication. I'm not claiming that mess.

Three is the Magic Number

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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.