Things I Learned During Our Independance Day Celebrations

1. I learned that using a porta-potty at 9:30 AM isn't so bad, but using that same porta-potty at 6:00 PM is vile.

2. It doesn't matter if you go early to the parade to set out your blankets in a good spot, everyone is just going to stand in the street and block both your view and the progression of the marching band. Also, no one listens to motorcycle cops telling them to back up, because there is salt water taffy being thrown from the floats and there are four thousand adults trying to make sure that their kid gets more than all the other kids - who cares about the people who are actually trying to watch the parade?


(This was our view of the parade. And below is my 6'2" sister and 6'5" father who could not see anything, even when they stood on each others shoulders.)


3. I have the capability to yell at perfect strangers.

4. In spite of ten thousand morons choking the life out of the parade, it was still kind of cool to see my kids having fun waving to people while they rode in the parade with the V-Dub Club of Northern Utah. (None of the VW's broke down in the street. I was surprised.)







5. Taking my one-year-old to a restaurant when he has been in the hot sun all morning and missed his nap time by two hours is a bad idea.

6. Having my grandpa come to our house for a holiday meal and fireworks feels a bit like winning. Cause there are commonly six different families fighting for his patronage. Take that, Extended Family!


(He doesn't usually wear those.)

7. Pulled pork sandwiches topped with coleslaw, plus corn on the cob, watermelon, fruit pizza, and apple pie trumps any burger you could grill.





8. My brother is pretty much the coolest uncle ever. He makes my kids weapons and lets them beat him up.





9. I have pasty-white, unshapely legs.



10. I can be the nice mom and buy the kids glow sticks, and I'm cool for about ten minutes. Then my dad buys light-up swords, and I become the cheapskate. That's ok though - grandpas are supposed to be the favorite.





11. Trent really likes fireworks.

Utah Hot Spots; Vol. 1

We have lived in Utah for three years now, (I know - we're shocked, too), and we've been around long enough to know where the "hot spots" are. And I use that term loosely, because my family's definition of fun is likely different than most others'. For example:

We love the Brigham City Museum. We have actually only been once, but the kids were so impressed that they have begged to go again, and can we please bring some friends? I myself have thought of bringing my own friends, because the horror that is "Eliza's Attic" is more frightening than any spook alley I have ever been to and should be shared with as many unsuspecting folk as possible. It is dark and cold in the attic. There is strange light coming from the fake fireplace where you can see a stew simmering at a nice bubble with chicken's feet sticking straight out. A window sits on one cramped corner where you can look in and see your own head sitting atop a mannequin wearing funeral clothes. Everything smells old and musty, and the floor creaks with every step. My kids ate it up.

The museum staff is kind enough to provide a study sheet to go along with your tour of the attic. All of the interactive displays are numbered, and my mother, children and I will never forget display #4. You open a small chest and there is a "child" laying there in a white gown. The corresponding question on the study sheet is, "Why is the baby in the chest?" My kids couldn't imagine why anyone would put a baby in a chest, so as my mother begins to tell the kids that not everyone back in pioneer days had a crib for their baby, so they had to put the infants in drawers or whatever... "Nope," I interrupted. "The paper says that the baby is in the chest because the baby is dead."

Oh the screams and laughter that erupted from that attic!

And that's before we even got to the top of the short staircase that promised a surprise behind the door. We opened that door and were greeted by a life-size black and white image of Blind Man Jones with his gaping mouth and facial deformities. There was even a rubber rat hiding behind the door. Ethan fell backwards down the stairs in his haste to put distance between Mr. Jones and himself, and we all screamed involuntarily and didn't feel bad at all, because obviously the curator of this po-dunk museum was going for a fun-house type of horror. We began to wonder if this was some kind of joke and where were the hidden cameras?

The next question on the "educational" museum sheet was a multiple choice question asking what we thought Blind Man Jones' occupation might have been.

A) butcher
B) barber
C) mailman

My vote was butcher, but probably not in the sense that most think of a butcher. That museum director has a very sick sense of humor. I like him. Or her. Also, "barber" could have been a plausible choice because it would explain where Utah Hair came from. Turns out, however, that Mr. Jones was the town mailman. Can you imagine the confusion when Mrs. Roberts got a letter that belonged to Mrs. Abbot and Mrs. Abbot received Mrs. Roberts' tax bill? Actually, my mailman is such a gem that I wouldn't have a moment's hesitation in trading him for a blind model.

Outside of "Eliza's Attic", where the normal parts of the museum lurk, Mom and I tried to show the kids how to churn butter, and one of the museum volunteers offered to help the kids case their own sausage. Shockingly, they were not interested. They only wanted to go back and look at the "dead baby".

On our way home that afternoon, we took the opportunity to quiz the kids on what they had learned that day.

"And do you remember why the baby was in the chest?" I asked.

"Yes, because the mailman killed her," answered Ethan.

Yep, I think they got the gist of it.

Religious Shortcomings

I don't always do "Mormon" well.

Because you have to have a wreath made of sticks hanging somewhere outside your house in order to be a good Mormon. I don't like stick wreaths.

One of these would also get me in the club, but they're not my thing either:



I don't drink alcohol, I pay my tithing, I willingly go to church every Sunday except Stake Conference days, (which are optional skip days for people with kids, right?), and I sort of keep a journal, if you count this thing you're reading. So I'm not a complete failure, but there are issues beyond the stick wreaths.

For instance, casseroles kind of freak me out. Always the canned green beans and mystery sauce and always some kind of crunchy topping that ends up being stale corn flakes because we shouldn't let things go to waste.

And I don't have stick figure children on the rear window of my mini-van.

I can't sew or play the piano, and I'm really not qualified to help plan any functions because I lean more towards the "less is more" theory, rather than trying to out-do anyone who came before me.

And then there's all that swearing that I do. *Head falls in shame.*

Ah - I feel so much lighter now!

It's possible that there is hope for me though, because I do insist on making a Jell-O salad every Thanksgiving. And there's fruit floating in it, too.

Also, I'm learning to feel proper guilt.

The other day, my neighbor brought over some Filipino egg rolls, which were called "Lumpo" or "Leempo" or something like that. We devoured them in no time and then I put my neighbors dishes in the dishwasher.

Several days later the dishes were still sitting on my kitchen counter, waiting to be returned, because what kind of Mormon would I be if I returned her dishes without food on them? It's an unspoken rule:

The only time you can return dishes without filling those dishes with a "Thank You treat" is if the person made a cake or cheesy potato dish for a funeral and you are returning mass amounts of 9x13 baking dishes. If someone brought you a something-or-other "just because", then you may not return that dish empty. If you do, then you risk being the social outcast at the next Enrichment Night, which Andrew affectionately refers to as "Bitch n' Stitch".

Well, as further evidence that I am not an ideal Mormon, I don't go to those Enrichment Meetings. But that's not to say I didn't feel that obligation riding on my shoulders to make something to put on my neighbor's plate so that I wouldn't appear to be an ungrateful apostate when I returned it.

So one afternoon I finally whipped up a box of Pillsbury cake mix and dutifully poured it into cupcake molds. I topped them with some cream cheese frosting and a light dusting of sprinkles to distract from the fact that I had not made the cake from scratch.

I did a taste test to ensure I wasn't about to deliver unpalatable cupcakes. They were disappointingly dry. I blame Pillsbury, because I never have that problem with Duncan Heins. I considered starting over and making cookies, but then I thought back to a news segment I had watched with Andrew earlier in the day.

It was a report showing that Utah has risen to fourth place in our nation for the highest amount of prescription drug abuse. (I wonder if there's a trophy or plaque associated with that?) When the expert was asked why that might be, she stated that their studies show that people consider it safe to take prescription drugs for non-medical use because they are not, after all, illegal substances. (Forgetting the fact that the way they obtained them is probably less than ethical.) The expert then stated that a lot of mature, adult people are taking them to help them deal with issues or pressures in their lives that they feel otherwise incapable of working through.

So I stood there, staring at my plate of dry cupcakes, and while I could not make disappear the pressure that I felt to deliver them with my neighbor's dishes, I felt proud of myself that I didn't have to take a Vicodin to get me through it.

Rethinking the Nick-Name "Beehive State"

Yesterday I baked peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, and this morning, they are still soft. I am so pleased that I have finally mastered baking at 4,414 feet. When we first moved to Utah in early 2007, I made multiple attempts at Snickerdoodles, which all turned out fine except for the hockey puck factor which came into play about 3 hours after the baking was complete. Well, no more, my friends. Yesterdays cookies are still soft and chewy.

And thanks to the baby gate, they will remain safe.

Another odd phenom occurs in Utah, this one involving parties. Baby and bridal showers, to be exact.

Everyone knows that Utah's favorite recreational activity is to multiply and replenish the Earth, but did you know that Utah beats out every other U.S. state with an average of 21 babies born per 1,000 people in a year? Vermont is our caboose, averaging a tad more than 10 babies a year per 1,000 people. Not shocking news, I know. *Most reliable data retrieved from babycenter.com.*

All those babies means a lot of baby showers. But here in Utah, or maybe it's just my crazy family and extended family, and WAY-extended family, you get invited to baby showers for people you don't even know.

If you have a cousin who was once neighbors with the daughter of the man who owns the pumpkin farm that you once took your kids to, and that man once sat next to a pregnant woman at church, you will get an invitation to that woman's baby shower. And it will be addressed to Brittany Kessler because they aren't really sure of your name, but they didn't want to exclude you or your gift from their party.

And then when you get to the party and there are eight women who are ready to put their Lamaze to practical use, you will have to ask six people to point out which woman is the guest of honor because the first five people you asked will also be clueless.

But if you like peanuts and mn'm's wrapped in pink or blue tulle and tied with a satin ribbon, then you won't have gone to that party for nothin'.