WISHFUL THINKING

So remember how we felt the frenetic urgency to buy Julia a dress (eight months early) for next year's Homecoming dance? And we were so excited when we found it because it was modest and cheap and blah, blah, blah perfect? Yeah, well, fail. Or more specifically, "Asian cut" fail. Basically, it was made for a girl without shoulders and missing some of her ribs and Jules still has all her bones, so things didn't work out.

Jules was kind of upset when I zipped up the dress and she realized she was immobile. Within seconds—and I am not even kidding, you guys—I had a claustrophobia attack just looking at her. I actually started to hyperventilate, thinking about not being able to get that dress off. It looked completely capable of squeezing the life out of her...and me, vicariously.

She was almost as relieved as I was when we yanked it off of her amidst trying to suck air back into our lungs. I packaged it up that very minute, returning it to the factory, so that some other poor fool could have the same beautiful experience. And then Julia lamented, "IT'S NOT FAIR! I WANTED THAT DRESS SO BAD! WHY COULDN'T IT LOOK LIKE THE PICTURE?"

Which brings me to a disease so many of us suffer from called, "Wishful Thinking." The wishing, wanting, imagining and coveting of everyone else's best case scenario.

Just last night, Jules sent me a DM on Twitter. Of course, I never saw it because I'm Twilliterate. So she hacked into my account to pull it up for me.  It was an advertisement for some sort of naturally curly hair product and diffuser. In the fast motion ad, the girl swiped on the mousse, diffused her hair dry, and within 15 seconds, looked like a goddess. Jules' accompanying comment, "I want my hair like this soooooo bad. Let's get some 'moose' and that dryer attachment and see if this works."

Me: "MOOSE? HAHAHAHAHA! Hon, you don't have naturally curly hair."
Jules: "Yes, I do. It's totally got a curl when it air dries."
Me: "No, ummm...I'm sorry to be the messenger here, but that's not a curl. It's like, a slight curve. On about three sections of hair."
Ster: "Yeah, sorry Jules. You have fuzzy hair. You let it air dry last night, and look at it right now—it's fuzzy."
Jules: "I KNOW it's fuzzy right now. But I CAN MAKE IT BE NATURALLY CURLY!"

This went on for a while, Jules insisting she had naturally curly hair, and her parents telling her the truth. But I knew exactly how she felt, because I remembered the days when I saw girls with long, flowing, glorious blond hair set with spiral perms. And I wanted that hair more than life itself. So I'd go to the salon with my dirty-dishwater-above-the-shoulders hair and say, "I want a spiral perm." Of course, what I really meant was, "I want long, flowing, glorious, sexy hair." Which they promptly misinterpreted, and I came out of the appointment with crazy ass worms shooting out of my skull.

I also remember wishing I had Amy's teeny, tiny waist and cute bum. This dream was shot to Hades with a diet that consisted of fries, bologna sandwiches and Swedish Fish. The bum fail happened when all of my family greeted me after I sang in a choir concert and said, "Did you know you don't have a bum? We especially noticed in that dress that you have no bum at all. In fact, it's kind of like a frog bum, where your back goes straight into your legs." My friends were happy to concur.

I wished for full lips, but they're as thin and tight as an O-ring. I wished for Janine's flawless skin, but my nose outshines the north star and I have one pore as big as a nostril on my cheek. I wished for my obituary to say, "She never knew an idle moment" but as I type this while still in my pajamas, I can see this hope dimming like a flashlight with a dead battery.

As my thoughts and time are devoured by this disease, I notice that I am no more inclined to appreciate what I do have, as I am consumed by what will never be. And just like the dress Julia tried on, it has the capacity to squeeze the life right out of me.

But there is a remedy. Wishful thinking can be cured by a glass half full. Doesn't matter what it's full of,  just as long as you see what's in there.

Sure, my lips are thin, but now you notice my eyes because my mouth doesn't distract you. Yes, I am still in my pajamas at almost noon, but HOW AWESOME IS IT THAT I AM STILL IN MY PAJAMAS AT ALMOST NOON?! And okay, my bum is flat, but I never, ever have to ask my husband if "these jeans make my bum look big?" The answer is always no, no matter how hard I try.

So let us waste no more time trying to squeeze into a restricting ideal that diminishes our potential and lung capacity. Yank that thing off your head, and climb into something that lets you breathe the way Heavenly Father intended you to breathe! Brush out that wormy hair, put on some skinny jeans and apply some powder to your shiny nose.

Truth is, it is highly likely that someone is looking at your best case scenario and suddenly finds themselves infected with Wishful Thinking.

FADE TO BLACK

We had a shiz-load of demon piggy wind last night and today. Followed by rain. Followed by snow. Followed by thunder. Followed by hail. Followed by me giving the middle finger to the stupid schizophrenic skies.

I've spoken of this before, but if satan had a bride, it would be February. She comes in under the guise of red hearts and love, but ends up destroying your mental and physical health with her fugly weather and boxes of nuts and chews.

But even in the midst of all this mind numbing wretchedness, my brilliant (she said objectively) filmmaker son, Ashton, was able to create a masterpiece. He called me up the other night and said, "Hey, remember a while back when I filmed Aunt Kara's family? I was going to make something really inspirational. It kind of took an unexpected turn. Anyway, I just sent you the link, and want you to watch it while I'm on the phone with you."

So I clicked the link and IMMEDIATELY sucked as a mother. There on the screen—in all its light filtered soft focus glory—was everything I should have been when my children were young. But wasn't.

I tried to feign happiness for Boo, as I saw her children be beautiful and well dressed and obviously straight A students (even the 18 month old), while they made cookies in a clean, sunshiny kitchen, all smiles and benevolence. Plus Kara, so patient and gentle with only one chin and one digit on her jeans. I was pretty sure that when I made cookies with my children, I was wearing an apron over a stained nightgown while I shoved yesterday's breakfast dishes out of the way and intermittently wiped left over mascara out of the corners of my eyes. If I even made cookies? Hard to say.

Then it faded to black...and a few seconds later, opened on a new perspective.

It's what happens when the music ends that made my heart sing. Turns out the song had drowned out the reality. So the next time you suck as a mother, crank up the chosen soundtrack of your life and know that, one day, you'll remember this through a soft focus lens.

ENJOY!

CRYING GIVES ME A HEADACHE

Forty years ago, my parents built the most magnificent house you've ever seen. It had two stories, you guys. And by two stories, I mean a bi-level entry that led you upstairs or down. Listen, I don't know where you come from, but around here, that's two stories.

It also had glorious brown and gold sculptured carpet, two and a half bathrooms and a wobbly, non-functioning banister that was for "looks only". What can I say? We were a decadent bunch back then.

Since ours was one of the first homes in the new subdivision, we felt the responsibility to fill in the vacant air with lush landscaping. And being poorer than church mice, on account of blowing our wad on glittery popcorn ceilings, we could only afford Cotton-less Cottonwoods. Otherwise known as "trash trees".

These trees were the prostitutes of the neighborhood. With their come-hither leaves and bare trunks, they lured us in with a cheap price and promise of summer shade. All the while refusing to put down roots and actually commit to a long term relationship. They grew a few inches every minute, so by the time they were two, they were big enough to hold a tree-house. At the five year mark, they were twice the size of our home. Teenaged boys would scale the branches and look into my window and my neighbor, Tish Graham, would call and warn me not to get undressed with the lights on. But I'm not gonna lie—I was kind of flattered they thought there would be something to look at.

Fast forward about 20 years. The tree in the backyard succumbed to a bug infestation and cracked in half during a summer storm. We knew it was just a matter of time before the same thing happened to the front tree, and were worried because the branches hung so close to the house. My parents checked with their insurance to see if they'd pay for removal. No, they said. We won't pay for prevention. We want to make sure the cancer has spread before we get you in to see the doctor.

Enter stage right—the new son-in-law, Sterling. Eager to please his wife's parents and feeling manly—bless him—he spoke up with confidence and declared, "THIS IS EASY. I KNOW JUST WHAT TO DO."

And we believed him.

He picked up his chain saw and went to work, cutting down a few of the smaller branches in preparation. This soon became tedious, so he figured he'd just get right to it. He tied one end of a rope around half of the tree, and the other end to the back of his Pathfinder.

"As soon as we cut through that big branch," he explained, "I'm going to pull it away from the house with my SUV really fast." This sounded reasonable to us. Course, nobody did any sort of math...mostly because that seemed like a lot of work. Permit, you ask? Well, that's just silly. We didn't need no stinkin' math or permits because we had faith. Plus a couple of grown men in the neighborhood joined in to help, which was as good as a blessing.

By then, the entire community had gathered around, setting up lawn chairs and placing bets. The excitement was contagious. I was told to keep all of the small children away while Larry Waite shimmied up the tree with his chain saw, and Sterling and James Barnhill climbed into their vehicles, ready to pull, "really fast".

With the snap of the branch, the men punched their accelerators and were both promptly yanked right off the road and into the air backwards, as the tree took a split second to decide, then chose to do whateverthehell it wanted to do. And it wanted to fall onto the house.

Every. Single. Woman. watching this scene threw their hands to their faces, gasping a HUGE lungful of air, then exhaled and exclaimed in unison the exact same sentiment: "HOLEEEYYYY SHHH..."

You know the rest.

That was the last sound we heard. Nothing more to say. There was a great exodus as everybody gathered their winnings and their chairs, then walked home in absolute silence.

Well, you would think this would dampen our spirits. Terrible things like a tree crashing through a house should surely merit weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth. But the following pictures tell the tale of how my parents responded:

May I always remember the lesson I learned that day—as Marjorie Pay Hinckley so brilliantly understood: "The only way to get through life is to laugh your way through it. You either have to laugh or cry. I prefer to laugh. Crying gives me a headache.”

JUST IN TIME FOR VALENTINES!

SO.

My darling dad had a heart attack. I know—JUST in time for Valentine's. I think he takes his holidays  too seriously.

While spending some time in the E.R. and waiting rooms, I've learned a few things I'd like to now share with you:

1)  There are about fifteen bajillion things missing in hospitals that might make the patients and families more comfortable or even save lives, but those all pale in comparison to the one thing they DID do right, which was a Diet Coke and Dr. Pepper machine with very special rabbit poop ice. You can't stand there and tell me that a loving Heavenly Father doesn't exist when the proof is right there in front of you.

2)  While chillaxin' in the waiting room, you may be blessed enough to sit next to a family without any working filters—thought filters...mouth filters...TMI filters...volume filters...all faulty. My mother and I were pleased to be regaled with shouted stories that consisted of these delightful tidbits, and I AM NOT MAKING THESE UP:

"So I threw her out. Ain't nobody comin' at me with a gun, threatening to kill me and staying in my house!"

"Bubba's in the middle of his sex change operation. He's not real comfortable just being gay. He wants to be a lesbian in the gay, um, community. It's not goin' like he hoped. Gonna take more time to get everything worked out down there. Hopefully it don't take too long for 'im to get happy."

"They was all gathered together with their bee-uuuu-tiful family for pictures. Ever'body looked so niiiiiiice. There was so much love in the room, you could just fill it! So much love. And ever'body was there.  Ever'body. Course, not them kids who got adopted out through social services cuz of the abuse and stuff, but ever'body else was there."

Did I mention I'm not making any of that up? Let me reiterate. Not making any of that up. And there was more...so much more...but I accidentally looked up and caught one of them watching my face, so I had to excuse myself and let Mom soak it in all alone. Her head exploded.

3)  It takes several people who are on their toes to keep a patient from dying. On account of there seems to be a missing link in every chain of command. So like, when you go from the first floor to the second, everything they just put into the computer evaporates. And they'll need to take your blood 17 times, because, oh, did somebody already take it? And the boy bringing in your breakfast didn't get word that you'll die if you eat, so when he enters the room somebody in the family needs to scream at him, "WHAT, ARE YOU CRAZY? THIS MAN CAN'T EAT! HE'S GOING IN FOR SURGERY!" and when he leaves, somebody at the nurse's station needs to scream at him, "OH MY HELL, DID YOU JUST FEED THAT PATIENT? TELL ME YOU DID NOT JUST FEED THAT PATIENT!"  So yeah, it takes a village.

4)  My dad likes jello.

5)  There is no amount of gratitude too expansive to express, in prayer and word, that there are people on this earth willing to take on the physical and emotional burdens of people in crisis. From the men in EMT uniforms who wheeled gurneys past us several times at 2:00 a.m., to the janitorial staff wiping up toxic spills in vacated rooms. From nurses who had to find and stab veins that were too modest to show themselves, to doctors who have spent the best years and dollars of their lives educating themselves on the myriad of ways a human body can experience epic failure, and then sit down in front of a worried wife and daughter to dumb it all down for their limited understanding made worse by the anxiety party in their brains.

So those are the things I learned. It seems this life is made up of a lot of reasons, my friends, to clutch our chest and exclaim, "Oh, no!" Fortunately, we live in a world of pop machines and miracle drugs and ER staff and little baby cameras that can be threaded up your arm into your heart to take pictures of an artery that is 90% blocked before it takes your life.

May I gently suggest we remember to say, "Oh, yes!" as morning follows night, and our world is made right again.

My world was made right when Heavenly Father gave them to me. For which I say, "Oh, yes!"

SOMETHING TO HIDE

I just painted my finger nails mint chocolate chip ice-cream green. I know. Big mistake. And not just one coat, but TWO, on account of I was on the phone talking to my sister and she was busy shouting for her toddler to stop shaving her arms, so I zoned out and when I woke up, the damage was done.

Which brings us to today's elephant in the room. Lisa's hands are no longer age appropriate.

Actually, Lisa's hands have never been age appropriate, on account of she was born with extremities that belong to an old woman—some sort of mix-up in Heaven—pretty sure somebody's gonna get fired over that one. I have no sweat or oil glands, thus not an ounce of moisture and so many wrinkles it would keep a palm reader busy for a lifetime. But I've learned to live with it and even made up some really awesome lies to get me through elementary school. I had to. Kindergarteners are cruel, people. And somebody really ought to make them illegal.

We were forced to play a lot of hand holding games back then. Red rover, red rover and ring-around-the-rosies would seem benign to a normal kid with sweaty palms. But little miss cracked and bleeding over here considered it a death sentence.  When the teacher announced it was time for P.E., the panic set in.

It always turned out the same. Some kid would grab my hand, then jerk away like I had injected them with venom.

"EW! GROSS! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOUR HANDS?"

Then they'd stare at me accusingly before making a deal with some other unsuspecting child to "Hey, trade places?" That kid would then repeat the actions and words almost verbatim, and so on and so on until I was out of fresh kids.

So I lied.

One day, when the inevitable confrontation came, I chose a new response.

"Well, see, one day? My dad was working on his car. And there was this big pan full of something he needed for the car. Like car oil. Yeah. It was car oil. But it was really bad car oil. Poison car oil. And he told me not to touch it. He said, 'Lisa, don't touch that!' But it was too late, because I had already touched it. And from then on, my hands have looked like this."

I held up my wrinkly paws for them to examine, and like a car doing a 180 on a racetrack, they went from vengeful villagers to Christine Daaé.  I was a creature to pity and they yelled to each other to, "COME HEAR WHAT HAPPENED TO LISA!" Lots of them asked what kind of poison oil it was, so they could never, ever, ever touch it themselves, while the brave ones gingerly reached out, hoping they would live to tell. From that point on, fewer kids recoiled and I was a little bit famous.

I didn't feel a bit bad about it, either. You do what you have to do in order to make it through those horrid years. We all had something to hide, and if you could blame it on poison car oil, more power to you.

(I also used to lick my hands in order to mimic sweat before grabbing onto my unsuspecting square dancing partner, but that's another story for another day. And I'm sorry, Troy.)

Anyway, right now, on day three of this polish, I am realizing it's the adult version of poison car oil. If I can get you distracted by the absurd color on my hands, you might not notice how corpse-like they are, and that 7 out of 10 fingers have splits so deep I had to fill them in with super glue.

Scary as hell, right? I told you we all have something to hide. 

JUST FILL IT IN

To answer your question, yes, I did just buy my daughter a dress for the dance. And you're right, the first dance she'll be able to attend is Homecoming, as in next school year, as in almost nine months away. And yup, it's entirely possible that she won't be asked.

In making the purchase, we bet on the probability that Jules won't gain an ounce, an inch, nor change her mind and want a different style. But I feel like this is a safe bet, because if there's one thing I know I can count on, it's the predictability of teenaged girls. Right?

I don't feel like you're nodding your heads.

The online shopping experience went about like I expected; Jules being enchanted with every dress she saw, which were all missing the top and bottom half, but completely confident her mother could just, "fill it in".

Jules: "OH MY GOSH, I LOVE THAT ONE!"

Me: "Um...I can see her pasties."

Jules: "It's okay, Mom. You can just fill it in. OH MY GOSH, WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE?!"

Me: "She's only wearing gloves. And shoes."

Jules: "YES, AND I LOVE THEM! You can just fill the rest in."

I told her it's not that simple, but she assured me it was. When I brought up needing to cover the entire bare back, she reminded me, "It's just a triangle, Mom. It's so easy! You just put in a triangle." When I pointed out there was nothing to attach a sleeve to, she grimaced in disbelief and, once again, explained how easy it was to—(eye roll)"Just add some material then make a sleeve."

And to think I thought there was more to it.

Which reminds me of people like me who expect other people to perform enormous tasks, because they have no idea of how complicated and nearly impossible it is. This was a conversation I had with my photographer brother:

Me: "I love this picture, Chris! Except for my face looks fat. And I look old. Can you put in a triangle? Like, make me thin and young and fix me?"

Chris: "Um, yeah...actually, I already did? I removed your other two chins, filled in your thinning hair, put computer Botox in your forehead and whitened your teeth. Oh, and I took off seven unsightly moles—one of them you really ought to have checked out. It took me over three hours to do this and I used five different programs. So...yeah...this is you...fixed." (nodding head and trying not to make eye contact)

Me: (pursing lips and suddenly less confident) "great."

Not what I wanted to hear. I thought he could just fill it in, you know? Just swap out my 47 year old face with me at 23. If I had the inclination...or talent...or 20 years to spend learning the skill, I totally would have done it myself. It's just an imaginary face. How hard can it be to make it up and attach it to my body?

Anyway, back to the dress. Fortunately we found one with all of the necessary organs—bodice, back, sleeves, length—no need to transplant any material from another donor. And even though it would have been SO EASY, as Julia insisted, I'm beyond grateful to the dress makers who filled in the space between shoes and gloves, so that if she does get asked, her date will have a safe place to put his hands when they dance.

One of Chris' awesome family shots. A brilliant way to record your posterity, as nobody knows how many chins you have. 

COOL KIDS

HAPPY MARTIN LUTHER KING DAY, FRIENDS!

It is a hideous day here in Utah, painted in 50 shades of gray (not the porno book).

I hope you're all keeping your holiday holy. So far, I've managed to stay in my pajamas and sit in front of the fire to read my scriptures, the newspaper and only got up five times to refill my icy cup with vanilla coconut syrup and brown beverages. As I always say, keep your spirit pure and your drink dirty.

I actually woke up earlier than I intended, because my sisters are MLKD breakers and started a group text at the ridiculous hour of before noon. So I put my phone on "do not disturb", but it was too late, because the worry-about-something-I-did-in-5th-grade portion of my brain had been stimulated, and I couldn't go back to sleep, so I joined in.

At first, the conversation started out totally benign, with funny one liners and talk about a baby shower gift.

Laughing+ shopping=true love.

But then Kara and Natalie went all ape shiz crazy and started TEXT SCREAMING the words JUICING and GREEN SMOOTHIE and HEALTHY WAY TO START THE NEW YEAR.

What in the?! I felt defiled. And they are currently dead to me.

So Nicki and I started our own thread, without them. And yes, our thread weighs more and has a lot of extra chins, but I kind of think our thread is where all the cool kids want to hang out.

We chatted a bit about our weirdo healthy sisters, and then she admitted she was consumed with anxiety because she has to support her son by being his victim tomorrow morning. Guess what this young man decided to choose as his career? DENTISTRY, YOU GUYS! Aka murder.

AND...not only that, but BOTH OF HER DAUGHTERS DID THE SAME THING! Double whammy hygienists. Murderer's assistants.

I think we can all agree that Nicki has failed as a mother.

And until her kids see the error of their ways and choose to come back to the truth, all we can do is pray for them and go shopping.

And yes, shopping does, too, help.

It's science. And if you don't understand, I can't explain it to you. (condescending eye roll)

Now that I've wasted nearly the entire day, I shall ready myself for bed, because it is time for me to pay homage to Mr. King.

He had a dream, you know. I plan to do the same.