I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

Not to imitate Kacy’s theme of self-loathing…it must be something in the air….

I thought I would share a triumph followed by a spectacular fall from coolness.

Yesterday, I had on my cool new jeans, the ones worth discussing in a subsequent blog. After a decent day of feeling decent in my jeans, I decided to stop by Kacy and Christian’s house. They were going out to dinner, and graciously asked if I would like to go along. Since dinner out is always better than lonely dark house, I accepted and we had a wonderful time.

Once back at their house, Christian valiantly put the kids to bed while Kacy and I chatted. We were tired and full of Korean food so we slumped down on their comfy overstuffed furniture.

During a particularly interesting and witty antidote I was telling, Kacy began to point and laugh at my crotchal region. (When you’re full with yummy Korean spicy pork lettuce wraps you are exempt from sitting like a lady.) I looked down and saw a single piece of rice clinging to my sexy new jeans.

“Oh,” said I. “I must have dropped some rice.”

“No!” Kacy laughed with increasing intensity. “There’s more!”

I looked a little further, and lo and behold, there was ANOTHER clump of dried rice! Yikes. It was getting embarrassing.

“Oh, I must have dropped more than I thought!” said I good-naturedly.

“No!” cried Kacy once more. “It’s all over!”

Without getting too graphic…I must have dropped a whole SPOONFUL of rice in my lap and proceeded to grind it into my crotch with my every movement. My new jeans! My pride! As I walked like a bow-legged cowboy to her trash can to throw away dried rice I discovered not only more rice…but a new level of humiliation. Luckily, Kacy and I are to the point in our relationship where I can pick rice off my crotchal region in front of her and she can laugh it up with no discomfort on my part, nor malice on hers. But I must say that I felt a strange new sensation much like the need to go home and clean out my fat rolls: negligent and slovenly…even *gasp* sloppy.

So much for the sexy jeans. The effect was ruined. I wanted to run home in shame. But, see, this is where everyone needs a Kacy in their life. Someone to ground you. Some one to help you “keep it real”. Someone to tell you when you have a LOT of rice smashed in to your crotch and then laugh it up uncontrollably. Thanks, dear friend. Thanks a lot.

A Chosen Vessel

The other night as I was driving to pick Todd up from school, God blessed me with the rarest and most fleeting of gifts. For about 10 minutes, the combination of a long day and allergies allowed me to sing JUST like Billie Holiday. I was almost as good as David Sedaris. So I milked it, and all the way to campus I sang “All of Me” at the top of my lungs. Well, that was the only song I could remember, and only one verse of it at that, but perhaps someone along 800 North needed to hear Billie sing that song that night, and I was there to make it happen. Thank you, Lord, for making me a vessel for good…or for good jazz anyway.

Karaoke is Cheap Therapy

So last Friday night was our Relief Society’s retreat. We called it “Girl’s Night Out” and truly did some very girly things. We stayed up until past mid-night eating good food (like nachos), doing Dance Dance Revolution, lounging and chatting on 6 foot bean bags, giving ourselves manicures and pedicures, and singing karaoke.

I love to sing karaoke; in fact, I provided the machine and all the song discs. But as an ardent people watcher, I LOVE to WATCH people do karaoke. For me, the Karaoke characters fall into the following categories:

The Diva: This is the person who chooses really hard songs. These people are hard core and usually pretty brazen. They will belt out a ballad including all the vocal gymnastics they sing along with on the CD at home. This person can usually sing pretty well, and is not shy about letting you know that. They get mad if they don’t sound good, and blame it on the bad acoustics.

Idols: Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, or Celine Dion

Preferred venue: stadium or arena

Can’t perform without: pyrotechnics

The Beatnik: This is the person who prefers a smaller more discerning audience. They chose songs by folk artists, hippies, and acoustic performers. They often sing well although they are more humble about it. They rarely choose silly songs or crowd pleasers.

Idols: Sarah McLaughlin, Joan Baez, and Norah Jones

Preferred venue: Coffee house on poetry night

Can’t perform without: a stool

The Party Animal: This person doesn’t care what they sound like. They are usually mediocre-to-awful singers with either a healthy sense of irony or few social skills. This person chooses crowd pleasers with the intent of bringing down the house. Rarely does the Party Animal perform by him/herself; it is usually with other party animals or with reluctant wall flowers ripped from the comfort of their own chairs.

Idols: The Village People, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, or Meatloaf

Preferred venue: a smoky bar with lots of neon beer signs

Can’t perform without: pretending to play the instrumental section of the song be it guitar or keyboard

The Auditionee: This person loves country music and is convinced that if they could just get to Nashville they would be the next big thing. They only sing country karaoke simply as a step to getting closer to performing at the Grand Ole Opry.

Idols: Patsy Cline, the Dixie Chicks, and Shania Twain

Preferred venue: mentioned above

Can’t perform without: a twang

The Shocker: You would never expect this person to get up in front of others and have the guts to sing a song, but they do; and when they do they are GOOD! This person actually sings so well that the rowdy crowd settles down and people stop talking to listen.

Idols: Dido, Alison Krauss, and Juice Newton

Preferred venue: their own shower

Can’t perform without: a spotlight

Then we have the other familiar characters: The Producer…the person who incites other people to sing songs but who never sings him/herself. This person can be quite convincing. They prey upon people who are dying to sing, and who are just waiting for someone to ask them to. This person usually has the knack for choosing just the right song for just the right person…like, say…”Back In The U.S.S.R” for the two Russian ladies in the ward…

The Validator: This person sits dutifully in the audience and claps and shouts out encouragements during the instrumentals like: “You go girl!” “Sing it like you mean it!” and “Wooooo!” This person is vital to karaoke. Too often, people are so concerned with picking their song or waiting for their turn that they forget to give the support they themselves are hoping for. The Validator beefs up the crowd and incites audience participation without ever taking a turn…heavens no.

But in the end, who you are at karaoke night says a lot about you. Though what it screams the loudest is either “you need to get out more” or “you need a good therapist.”

Happy birthday, Emma Jo.

Brownies Gone Wild

This week on VSoM we have been discussing Personal Progress vs. Eagle Scouts, and it wasn’t until today, that JLS brought up the Girl Scout program. While I am an ardent fan of the cookies…mmmm… Thin Mints and Samoas…. I am not really that excited about my girls being scouts. This is why…



You can teach a girl and mentor her…and give her everything she could possibly need in the world to be a contributing member of society, and this can still happen…

I could go on, but I can’t…I just can’t…

The Reluctant TV Maven

When I fantasize about the questions I will someday be asked by Vogue journalists, I always rehearse my answers so that they will sound a) intelligent and witty and b) spontaneous and off the cuff.

If I were to be asked today by Hamish Bowels or Plum Sykes about what hot new shows I am watching this summer…here would be my answers…get your TiVo remotes poised and ready…

1. The Cut : While Tommy Hilfiger is somewhat of an enigma (he looks gay and designs as good as gay…yet he is most definitely not…), I am gaining more and more respect for him not only as a clothing designer (have you SEEN the new “H” line?...holy hot…Palm Beach here I come!...when I’m 45…), but as a rather decent person. Oh the show…? It’s about various designers and non-designers who are competing for a spot in his company. Why he is even bothering with non-designers is beyond me…but I am loving this show! Not every task is that great, nor is the show that slick…but it does have a sort of “je ne sais quois”…that satisfies the impeccably-opinionated designer in me…

2. Stella: Holy CRAP this is the funniest show around. While I laugh self-consciously at the crass but helplessly funny “Chappelle Show”, Stella is comedic art. Stella consists of Michael Ian Black, Michael Showalter, and David Swain, three ever-suited “men of leisure” who fall haplessly into hilarious and improbable situations (read: no plot of which to speak). They have amazing A(minus) list cameos, who patiently participate in skits that are scout jamboree worthy. Get your season pass NOW. Don’t let this become another “Arrested Development” story!

3. What Not to Wear: a TLC standard. People of the world…if you need help…and I know you do…for heaven’s sake…watch this show! While I do not pretend to have Stacy and Clinton’s clothing savvy, I’m sure that if we were to meet (as we have in my dreams) that we would become the bosom-est of friends (how would they not appreciate my opinion?). While the show is terribly formulaic, through the wonders of TiVo, I can take in a week-end’s worth in one lunch. I would do ANYTHING to get on the show and have $5000 and Stacy and Clinton at my fashion disposal…but alas…you have to dress REALLY bad to get on…and I REFUSE to wear pants that are too short with huge white tennis shoes!

And there you have it. I am not a TV advocate. I am a “TV Art Enthusiast”…a patroness, so to speak. Seriously…I wouldn’t ask you to watch crap.

Pioneer Day or an Excuse to Get the Kids Out of the House

We celebrate the 24th of July as Pioneer Day because it is the anniversary of the day that the first Mormon pioneer company, led by Brigham Young, caught glimpse of the surprisingly arid Salt Lake valley, and dear Brigham uttered the famous words: “This is the right place.” They entered the desert and made it bloom.

Here’s what Pioneer Day means to me:

Growing up everywhere BUT Utah, Pioneer Day meant getting dressed up in pioneer garb (yes, we had some because I think that as Mormons you are required to keep pioneer outfits in your food storage supply…in case we have to trek back to Missouri or something…), go to some park with as little shade as possible, eat bad picnic food, sweat a lot, be coerced into playing “pull the stick” which requires an uncomfortable amount of physical contact with a practical stranger, asking to go home a lot, and getting cranky.

As a young child, we (the sibs and I) sang songs of the pioneers, heard stories, visited Church history sites, participated in outdoor stage productions depicting said pioneers, and were generally immersed in the idea that pioneers were nothing less than superheroes, which I still do not dispute.

In Utah, the 24th of July is set aside as a state holiday. Most people get the day off work! (Although, if the holiday, ANY holiday for that matter, falls on Sunday, it gets bumped to Monday, like this year).

But it wasn’t until I visited my grandparents in Bountiful for the whole month of July in 1984 that I realized the extent to which Pioneer reverence was carried out. There are parades, fireworks, picnics, and barbeques(and if you DON’T live in Utah, lots of primary and ward activities held in said shade-less parks). Grandma and Grandpa took me and a bushel of cousins to Sugar House Park to watch sky divers, eat candied apples, and see the best fireworks EVA! This is the right way to celebrate a pioneer!

It was a magical day…although looking back, I might not have known it wasn’t the 4th of July. But never mind, I live in Utah now (purely by accident) and I love the extra holiday. I love that people set off fireworks and that I can smell barbeques cooking all day. I love that people still dress up as pioneers and re-enact the trek down the canyon into the valley.

Where ever we end up, will I make my future posterity dress in frilly calico and endure the shade-less July heat? Probably, because I think you cannot be called a true Mormon unless you have experienced this rite of passage or have been refined in the refiner’s fire…and I think this pretty much counts.

This Isn't My Blog to Write: Ribs and Ice Cream

Although this story doesn’t belong to me…I will write it since no one else has…

The other night, Todd and I sat around Kacy and Christian’s kitchen counter, as we often do. We live just around the block, you see. When their kids go to bed, they give us the signal (one ring) and we join them at our usual spot.

Occasionally, we watch a movie or something, but mostly, we just sit and talk. Often, our getting together involves some sort of treat or goody. The other night, it involved New York Creams and cold pork ribs.

Imagine if you will, four adults, a few gallons of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, malted milk, club soda, and pork ribs… It was decadence. It was over the top, heavenly, indulgent eating at 11:00pm at night. You know you have hit a certain level of friendship when there is no embarrassment at how many ribs you can down (for the second time that day) or by the chocolate to ice cream ratio in your shake.

Christian and Kacy are a dream come true…there is no judgment, and always good leftovers.

But, as young children are wont to do…their kids’ heads appeared over the banister…lured by the melodies on iTunes, the peals of party-like laughter, and the unmistakable scent of ice cream. Yes…if you are a child…you can detect the aroma of frozen confections…you lose this ability at puberty…

Now a disclaimer: Kacy and Christian are really good parents. For reals…they do stuff together…quality stuff…they have good techniques…etc. But what comes next is not so much a comment on their parenting, but an epiphany on why we remember what we do from childhood.

So the kids came down on the pretense that they were “hungry.” Oh, foolish children…we know your bellies are not empty… And they enter the kitchen to find grown-ups making shakes and eating ribs. But as everyone knows, shakes and ribs, while fine between the hours of 12pm and 8pm, turn into child-poison soon after 8:15pm. Their only option, the only SAFE option, was to be offered a glass of milk and a roll.

Their first-born son’s eyes were large as he eyed the ice cream and the chocolate while his drink was poured, and in the meekest voice Charles Dickens could have imagined, he asked, pointing to a spill of cream and chocolate, “Can I lick that off the counter?” To which the magnanimous answer was, “Of course, you may…” How could such delights NOT be shared, poison or no poison? And then he was whisked off to bed…

To be sure, their son will not remember all the vacations…all the father/son camp outs, he will sit in his therapist’s dimly lit office and say, “…they had ribs…they had ice cream…and they gave me a roll…THEY GAVE ME A ROLL! And made me lick the counter…”

You know, we do the best we can. Some injustices cannot be avoided. Childhood is not fair. You have to put in your time…pay your dues…puberty sucks…and then college is a disappointment. But then, you get to be an adult…you arrive at the point when you can do whatever you want… We were just giving that kid something to look forward to…something to aspire to. Because if nothing else, being able to eat ribs and ice cream at 11pm at night is really something to live for.