Back In Time

So you know where I went during my summer vacation?

I'll give you a hint: it didn't involve a plutonium powered DeLorean with a flux capacitor.

But it could have.

Because, seriously folks, I went back in time (cue Huey Lewis and the News background music).

It started when I went back to my hometown of Burley, Idaho to watch a little race called the Spudman my husband and brother were in. Not only did I see some people I used to know, but I also took a little tour of the place. And you know what? It hasn't changed that much in the past twenty years since I left. I could still get a Mexican pizza at the Taco Bandido and a strawberry shake at the Burgers Etc.

Except now there's a Walmart at one end of town and a lot of empty stores downtown that used to sell nice stuff.

And where once this was the inspiration for folks' hairdo's:

Now it is this:

And all I have to say about that is that I think the state of Idaho should ban the import of any more hairstyles from New Jersey.

But back to my vacation.

I spent a number of weeks in the fine state of Utah at my parents' house where all I did was write and do laundry. Which was a little like going back to high school-- except back then I had a job and had to make my bed regularly. My hair was also a lot bigger. Remember?

And you know who else lives there in Utah? Really a lot of people I used to know. So I decided to visit some of them.

Like the two girls who used to babysit for me when my ten year old was just a baby. They, by their own admission, were kind of bratty teen-agers and I won't disagree with that. But I, also, was once a bratty teen-ager, so I didn't mind it so much when they were too. I figured they'd turn out all right eventually. And, you know what? They did. Better than all right, actually.

From there I went and got my hair did by the girl who lived next door to me growing up. We took different paths when we got to high school, but we've ended up in the same place in many ways. I walked away from our visit with a renewed friendship and a great hairdo--one not imported from the Garden State.

I also ran into an old friend online. I knew him when I was in college and he...well, he was not. But he did have some serious hackey sack and syrup making skills. And though I never actually saw him do it, apparently he could bowl. Like he could have gone pro. Except, in his words, it made his arm too tired to practice that much. So he didn't.

Guess what he does now...

I'll just go ahead and tell you because I couldn't have ever guessed it, so how could you?

He decided to take on the small task of eradicating world poverty. Which, I guess, is somehow less tiring than bowling. So now he has his own consulting business about how to do this and gives lectures -- at places like Harvard and Stanford--about the microfranchising model he has created.

I'm not really doing justice to what it is he does, but I think it's pretty cool, so check it out here, if you like.

But I digress. Let's get back to my trip down memory lane.

I ended my vacation back through time by attending my 20 year high school reunion. (This is where the background music changes to Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days, followed by John Lennon's In My Life, and  that country song What Might Have Been-- except all I can remember from it is the tune and those words, but still, it works. Also throw in a few Monster Ballads).

And, boy howdy, did that bring back some forgotten memories. Some of which probably should have stayed forgotten because they were of things I hope my children never, EVER do. But, still, it was good to reconnect with old friends who I didn't know I missed until I saw them again. We've promised to not let another ten to twenty years pass before we see each other again, and--much to my husband's dismay-- I have offered up our home as a free place to stay during any Disneyland vacations.

I hope we'll keep our promises, but I know life has a tendency to get in the way of good intentions. So I guess I'll just look forward to the 30 year reunion and think good thoughts about old friends until then.

For now I am back to real life --or what constitutes it in this part of the world-- with a serious case of nostalgia.

And also a really long to do list.

Because the present just keeps moving toward the future.

Even if you get stuck in the past for a bit.

It Takes A Village. Plus Some Cows, Horses, and Great Neighbors

You know what I wanted to be when I grew up?

A cowgirl.

Yup. A cowgirl.

I pictured myself something like this:

Lassoing me some cowboys... and maybe the occasional cow.

But not so much like this:

Cuz that's just too darn glittery. And patriotic. (I mean, I love America and all, but I don't think I need to look like a flag to prove it.)

And definitely not like this:

Instead I grew up to be an English teacher married to a comic book loving attorney and living in Orange County.

So instead of herding cows, I herd children. Which is harder-- in some ways-- because you can't just put them out to pasture for weeks at a time. Especially in the summertime. Believe me, I've tried. They keep finding their way home and complaining, "it's too hot to play outside" followed by "can I play Wii?"

But summer is about freedom, you say.

Not when it means kids inside my house all day, it don't.

And so my summer is spent herding them between different bodies of water--the pool, the lake, the beach, an occasional water fountain. When they tire of one I take them to another. As long as they are good and worn out by bedtime, the day can be counted as a success. 

Sometimes we even throw Disneyland into the mix. But not often, because it is the Hottest Place On Earth-- not the happiest--during the summer.

All in all, it's not a bad life. Quite good in fact. So I haven't really missed my dream of being a cowgirl.

That is until I planned a little Jane Austen- length sojourn in the country. (You know how her characters always go to some poor shlep's country manor and stay for an inordinate amount of time? Ya, that kind of sojourn).

You see, my parents bought this place waaay out in the sticks in a little village called Avon (how appropriate is that for an Austenesque visit?) -- just past Paradise. For real--that's not some cliche "they live in paradise" comment--it's really named that. Those pioneers, they knew how to name a place.

 From my windows at home I can see my neighbor's yard--which is lovely--and the street. And if people drive by at the right time of day they may get a view of me streaking across my hallway in my underwear. Not quite as lovely.

This is the view from my parents' house:

Nice, huh? Plus, if someone happens to have their binoculars out and sees me streak across the hallway in my underwear, they likely have the same kind. So, you know, it's not as embarrrassing to be caught sans pants here.

And,another bonus, while my neighbors are quite nice, my parents' neighbors are saints. And I don't mean that in a Latter-Day kind of way. They're actual, honest to goodness, on-the-path-straight-to-heaven, kind of saints who took it upon themselves to teach my kids how to work. And not the empty the dishwasher, fold the clothes, kind of work I've tried to teach them. 

Nope. They're teaching them the herd the cows, move some pipe, shovel some sh...tuff, kind of cowboy/girl work that never ends. So Girl 1 and Girl 2 have been watering horses, herding cows, and showing calves at the Cache County Fair. And here are the pictures to prove it:



on the cattle drive





At the fair



At the fair

That's right. My California surfer girls have gone country.  From their pigtails and belt buckles right on down to their jeans and boots. There's no flip-flop wearin' when you're troddin' through cow poop up to your ankles. (I've even hopped on board by takin' up my Idaho/Utah accent again. This way I can be country, but keep my open-toed footwear)

They also got themselves a little education in biology and genetics when they asked where their calves' daddies were and the 15 year old neighbor told them "Iowa" and then his daddy sang them the song he sings to his heifers called When I A.I. You. (for the uninitiated in cow breeding,  A.I. is short for artificially inseminate).

Then those saintly neighbors came and sang us some songs while they played their fiddle, guitar and bass. And it was some mighty fine entertainment. Even better than the Disneyland Band.

And I'm sorely tempted to stay here. But, as I did not marry Mr. Darcy, I had to leave poor hubby behind in the salt mines of his California law firm to earn the money to fund my kids' dude-ranch-on-the-cheap experience.

Thus, we will soon trade in the boots and manure for flip-flops and sand. But hopefully my kids will take back an appreciation for hard work.

If not, I've got them scheduled for another cowgirl experience next year. Who knew workin' so hard would be the most fun they've had all summer?

When Planning A Reunion, Don't Forget The Vomit

Family reunions-- at least in the case of my family-- will always involve vomit.

And yelling.

But let's just talk about the vomiting, because it's actually less unpleasant than the yelling.

It doesn't really matter where we go. Idaho, Utah, California, North Carolina, Montana, Wyoming, in airplanes over these states--we've puked in all these places.

This time it started with my  two year old niece at my house in California. And then continued with her mother as we drove from Barstow, California to Las Vegas, Nevada (at least we got 1/3 of the drive in before it started).  From there it spread to my Girl 3 as I filled up my gas tank one mile from my in-law's house. Luckily, we had the foresight to empty the giant bag of Swedish fish into a smaller one, thus leaving the bigger bag available for the contents of anyone's stomach who may have wanted to see them again. Girl 3 turned out to be that person.

But wait, there's more.

I joined Girl 3, so she and I spent the night cuddled up to my mother-in-law's toilet. Which was pretty awesome, because if there's one thing you want from your driver it's a combination of exhaustion and queasiness.

And drive on, we must because Cedar City was our next destination. More specifically, the Utah Shakespearean Festival. For which we had non-refundable tickets-- purchased months before the barfing commenced-- to see Mid-Summer Night's Dream and Richard III. No little stomach bug was going to keep us from getting cultured.

Luckily my sister-in-law (the mother of patient zero) had nothing left to up-chuck and so was ready to travel on.

I simply willed myself to not throw up whilst driving.

If only my other niece had done the same. Instead she spent most of the three hour drive filling the gallon-sized Zip-loc bags we "borrowed" from my in-laws. Thank goodness for that color-coded zip system is all I've got to say about that.

Also, if you ever stay at the Comfort Inn & Suites -- which I highly recommend, by the way--you may want to request to NOT have room 214. That's all I'm going to say about that. I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

The plays were very well done and I was able to keep down my day's intake of Coke (it not only settles your stomach, but keeps you awake for driving), popsicles, saltines, and chicken soup. Which was good, because we were not in the Groundlings section where it isn't considered uncouth to barf during Shakespeare. We left feeling very cultured indeed.

From Cedar City to Salt Lake --  a mere four hours-- things improved somewhat with only the occassional dry heaving from my niece. We dropped off the babysitter we'd brought along, wishing her an early birthday and hoping we'd only given her the gift of Shakespeare for her 14th.

The next stop was my parents' house in Logan, where, within twenty-four hours, they too were enjoying the excitement of traveling while puking as the bug hit both of them while they drove to Idaho to watch my brother and husband (two different people, those--no Idaho jokes here, please, about how if I get divorced will my ex-husband still be my brother) compete in the Spudman triathlon. They did get to see hubby for ten seconds as he ran by before they decided to return home in order to be sick there and not in some dirty rest stop.

They almost made it.

Fortunately, the bug seems to have stopped with them. Though I haven't heard from my other brother and sister-in-law who left for Seattle right after our brief family gathering.

So maybe we get to add Washington to our list of States In Which We've Puked.

Of Surfing, Afros, and Raising Daughters, Part II: Where I Go Scuba Diving

A few years ago my husband and I decided to take a vacation to Belize with some friends. A little over a month before our departure I saw my uncle (same uncle, sans afro) and told him of our plans, since he had been to Belize himself. Here is how our conversation went:

Uncle Afro: "Are you going to dive while you're there?"
Me:  "Heck no! There might be fish in that ocean, and, contrary to everything you've learned from Finding Nemo, fish are food, not friends. And don't even get me started on the sharks! Have you seen Jaws?"
Uncle Afro: Well, you've gotta go diving. That's the only thing there is to do there."
Me: (somewhat shocked my fears had been dismissed so easily) uh, okay.

After that kind of pep talk, how could I not learn to scuba dive? I mean, all it would take is overcoming the biggest fear in my life-- because, seriously, I used to wake up in the middle of the night and have anxiety attacks at the thought of jumping out of a boat into the middle of the ocean.

It would also take a lot of babysitting since learning to scuba dive kind of  takes a long time. Who knew? It takes even bigger chunks of time when you have to cram it all into three weeks. And also if you keep popping out of the water when practicing basic skills. (And by "popping out" I mean standing up because the water was only four feet deep at that point and even I am taller than four feet.)

Luckily I had a very patient, though nervous, first time dive instructor (who we liked so much we decided to take him along to Belize with us, but that is another post) and an even more patient friend who somehow doesn't hate me, even though I made our first class in the pool go hours longer than necessary after she had worked all night, was very, VERY tired and really just wanted to go to bed instead of praying I would stay under water for more than ten seconds at a time so we could move on to the next skill.

But, after many hours, a near drowning, some "helpful" moments of being held under water, much carrying of heavy equipment up and down steep hills, and a little puking by my friend, I did it.

And here I am diving in Belize:

That's me 85 feet under water. Taking pictures with a camera that only worked up to 25 feet under water. This picture did not come from that camera. Obviously.

And, you know what else? Fish can be food and friends.

But not sharks. They are just for staying very far away from.

Unless you are my friend Dan who paid to let them gnaw on his arm. But, again, that is another blog post.

Because this post is really about not being afraid of things. Or, rather, not letting fear keep you from doing great things. Like scuba diving. Which still scares me to death, but I know I can do it. And if I can do that scary thing, I can do other scary things.

Like let people read my writing and critique it. That's almost as scary as swimming with sharks.

Okay, maybe scarier.

But I did it. And it turned out to be well worth the risk.

Because the most important thing that comes from me facing my fears is that my daughters, hopefully, won't be afraid to face theirs.

I don't want them to miss out on all the great things life has to offer just because they're afraid of some silly sharks.

P.S. Here's what my afro looked like in Belize:

Better, huh? Still not great though. Also pictured Travis and his awesome wife Paula who can work all night, dive all day and only occasionally barf while she's at it.

Also, here's how brave I got. I went on a night dive with this guy (and a dozen other people, including my husband-- don't get any ideas):

who I'm pretty sure was stoned out of his mind.

Of Surfing, Afros, and Raising Daughters

Here is the problem--okay, one of many-- with raising three girls: there is a lack of good role models for them in the media. So when the movie Soul Surfer came out and my friends with daughters were all like, "you've gotta take your daughters to see this!  It's such a great movie for girls!," I decided I'd better jump on that bandwagon.

I'll be honest, it's kind of a cheesy movie. There were points where my husband and I were pretty sure, even if Bethany didn't surf again, she would probably walk on water. But there were a couple of great messages I wanted my girls to take away from it:

1. Sharks will sometimes bite off your arms, but don't let that stop you from doing what you love.

2. God works through people of all different faiths to perform miracles, as long as they will allow Him to.

3. Serving others is the best way to overcome your trials because you can always find someone else whose life sucks worse than your own.

Here is the message they actually got:

Never, ever go in the ocean, or even to the beach, because a shark WILL eat one of your limbs for lunch. (The shark scene, by the way, is, literally, about two seconds long).

Now, this would not be a problem if we lived in, say, Nebraska. However, about 15 miles from our house is a large body of water--perhaps you've heard of it--called the Pacific Ocean. And I would be very sad if we couldn't go there anymore, because I love it. (To look at, because I'm from a spot on the Snake River in Idaho where we learn to waterski, boat, and ride wave runners ON TOP of the water in order to avoid actually going IN TO it).

So, imagine my relief when Girl 1 decided she wanted to learn to surf. I knew I had to take action fast because she doesn't always want to try new things, especially when it doesn't involve books. Luckily, I have a most awesome uncle who lives in Newport Beach AND surfs AND who I was able to cajole in to passing along his mad surfer skills to my daughter.
Here is the best picture of him ever:

 Taken in 1976. Seriously, how could he not be awesome to pull off that white man's fro?

And here I am in 1990-- because it's only fair I post an embarassing picture of myself now:

Clearly, (a) he was much better able to pull off an afro than I was, and (b) big hair in Idaho never goes out of style.

But here are the most important pictures of all:



That is my daughter saying, "it's okay if there are sharks out there, I'm going to try surfing anyway because I watched a movie about a cool girl who had no fear." And sure, she probably won't ever be a pro surfer ala Bethany Hamilton, but that's not the point. She tried something new--and scary-- so I'm pretty darn proud of her anyway.

And this is Girl 2 who decided she'd better get in on the action too, even without a wetsuit:

Talk about fearless!

Do I have awesome kids or what? They must take after their great-uncle (and his even awesomer wife, who may not surf, but man can she cook. And shop. And decorate. There's a pretty long list, so I'll end there.) 

Hang Ten!



How A Trip To London in 1994 Kept Me From Blogging On Saturday

My plans to blog keep getting thwarted. This past Saturday, I should have been writing something pithy and original-- perhaps even life changing. Something groundbreaking. Like how kids (namely mine) fight in the summer.

Instead I cleaned my kitchen. Partly because one of my kids was stuck to the floor in there for quite some time. But mostly because I invited a friend I hadn't seen in fifteen years to come to my home and thus I had to create the facade that 1) I am a super housekeeper or 2) I am wealthy enough to have a cleaning lady. 

I'm hoping she thinks #2, but not #2 + "she should find a better cleaning lady." But in reality she probably didn't even notice because I forgot to make her go on a tour of my house to show off its cleanliness.

Some of you may know my friend Kelly because she has a very funny blog here. But I knew her first because I met her seventeen years ago when we went to London during the summer of 1994 on a BYU study abroad program. And that was before blogs. Or even the internet (I am purposely not making the requisite Al Gore joke here because I happen to like the man).

And maybe you remember her post that referenced a smokey nine hour bus ride to Scotland -- if not it is here. You should read it.  Then come back here.

All done? Well, I was on that carcinogen loaded bus and, not only do I have the scarred lungs to prove it, but also this picture of us waiting to board the bus:

See that girl with the totally high-tech walkman? That's me. And that other girl rockin' out on her headphones? Not Kelly. It's her sister. But Kelly is the one standing on her left in that cute dress that would sometimes come unbottuned as we were running to plays, or church, or other things you should be on time for.
Also,see that guy standing behind me? I totally made out, held hands, talked about his mission and the best way to get to the Celestial Kingdom on our entire red-eye trip to the land of Scots. Also, I married him about six months later--because how could I resist those sideburns?

So we had a mini-London reunion of sorts, the three of us, plus Kelly's husband-- who we like, despite his not being an original member of the London '94 club-- and 1/5 of her children. We had lots of fun and I liked it when she said we had not changed at all.

But I think she was maybe being nice. Or she is forgetful. Because here we are then:

And this is us now:

And this is the picture I (or maybe somebody else) took of Kelly and Jake (or possibly other people found on Google images under "attractive couple" because I actually forgot to take pictures, but you get the point.):

We would be jealous of their stunning good-looks except that they have added "visit Larsens" to their list of things to do on their yearly vacation to California. Right under "go to San Diego swap meet." Which, they say, is a good thing, so we will trust them and look forward to seeing them again next year.

P.S. Here, Kelly, is the promised picture of the Doc Martens I bought on Carnaby Street. Yours are much cooler. I don't think I would wear these to a U2 concert. But that old lady in the picture might.

The Beatings Will Continue Until Reverence Improves

So I was going to blog more than once last week. But then the first counselor to the bishop (in Mormonese this translates to the main pastor's right hand man) called me on Wednesday night and begged me to "save his bacon" by speaking in church on Sunday. And, even though that only gave me three days-- minus the two spent procrastinating thinking about the topic (which, btw, was speaker's choice)-- I said yes. Mostly because Br. Counselor Man distracted me with the word bacon.

Mmmm, bacon.

Also, did I mention, I just spoke three months ago? So really, I should have been exempt from the task for at least another year.

Luckily, I already had a topic I'd been itching to call people to repentance for, so it wasn't too hard to throw something together last minute.

The topic you ask: Reverence.

And our ward's lack of it.

Which I hadn't really noticed until I went to some other wards and realized that the people at the podium were saying words I could hear, not just moving their mouths.

And my talk went pretty well, considering I didn't get my last run-through in due to the super glue fiasco wherein my fingers were temporarily stuck to the shoe that had to be fixed in order for me to deliver my sermon.

FYI:  Cute shoes are essential when you are about to reign down fire and brimstone.

It probably helped that my talk sounded a lot less judgmental than this post. And maybe it helped that I shared war stories from my own hard fought battles involving reverence and offspring. Like the battle that changed from something akin to that funny quip seen on T-shirts worn by the fashion-challenged that says "the beatings will continue until morale improves" to something closer to "be thou an example."

After I finished speaking there were some standing ovations, requests for autographs, and suggestions that I speak every three months at least (no, thank you). Okay, so maybe it was just the last one, but I did feel a little like the ward rock star. And the egomaniac in me suspects that next week our sacrament meeting will look more like this:


and even the babies will have their arms folded:
*

But the realist in me knows it will probably look like this:

Or worse.

But I could't find a picture depicting that - believe me, I tried- so you'll just have to imagine about 4,000 people--3,900 of whom are screaming/crying/spitting/fighting children -- crammed into one chapel + overflow + cultural hall (which is a silly name for a basketball court) + hallway and you'll have a pretty good idea of what my ward looks like on a typical Sunday.*

But I will be sitting like this:


Because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a hypocrite.


* This is not my baby. I don't currently have one of those, niether have I ever had, nor do I intend to have, a baby of the male persuasion. His arms aren't even that folded. Just used the pic because, who doesn't like a cute baby?

** For my friends who have never been to an LDS sacrament meeting, we are not a mega church so our buildings do not hold 4,000 people at one time. Thus, I may be exaggerating the size of my congregation.

But not by much.