Confessions of a Quad Princess

I don’t know if I’m technically young enough to be called a princess. (Anyone know the cutoff age for princess?) Queen is probably more appropriate for me, but I don’t like the awkward way “Quad Queen” is pronounced.




My husband has very few obsessions. (I’m not at liberty to discuss them here, even if they are interesting and would make for excellent blog fodder. I have my morals and a hubby I love.) One of his obsessions is riding quads. He LOVES his quad and happily rides it just about anywhere when the weather is nice. (Not LV in the summertime.)



Here’s my confession:
I have a few obsessions myself: anything chocolate, reading, Twilight, writing, cooking, running. Notice that quad riding is not on my list. It’s not that I don’t like riding. I really, really like riding, but I don’t love it most of the time. My hair gets mashed, my face gets dusty, and I smell like I’ve been hanging out in a garage fixing old beaters.



Then why, you may ask, do you ride? I’ll tell you why.



I ride because my husband and I bought quads for all four of us to have adventures together. We wanted to give our boys fun memories of their growing up years. Some of our best family experiences have been because we rode. (Logandale Trails---even when you have to bring in your own water---is one of my favorite places to ride. See my old blog posting: The Legacy http://cocoamomo.blogspot.com/2010/01/legacy.html )



I ride because I enjoy seeing what’s over the next hill or around the next curve. I love the adventure of it.



I ride because we’re teaching our boys rules and respect. (Staying on the trail, no littering, wearing the appropriate gear.) They need to learn rules. Plus it’s good for them to pick up trash inconsiderate people throw down.



I ride because we are constantly learning----about the geology of the place we’re at, the trees, the plants, the animals, and the people who live/have lived there. I love learning new things.



I ride because on a quad you have access to areas people don’t have access to in cars. You can ride through amazing meadows, over red sand dunes, and through ancient forests. A majority of folks out there will never see these places because they're stuck in a car on a road or highway.


Lastly, I ride because once in a while when the trail is smooth and I can go really, really fast---it feels like I’m flying.

Hot Vegas Days or My Afternoon at the Rec Center Pool

So I’ve mentioned in a previous blog that I grew up in Vegas. I have also lived (briefly) in Hawaii and 13 years or so in Mecca, I mean Utah. (If you aren’t Mormon you may not understand that Utah to us Mormons is like Mecca to Muslims. We make the pilgrimage to Salt Lake City once or twice a year for General Conference and most of us dream of living there, but can’t find a job to sustain us there.)




I consider myself a Vegas Girl. I survived the heat of the summers in Vegas for 18 years before moving away. I moved back almost 10 years ago and am still waiting to adjust to the desert summers.



You need to understand I’m not a winter person either. I loved, loved, loved my college plus years spent at BYU and then working for Covey Leadership Center in Provo, and the 2 brief years living in historic Salt Lake City, but I did not like the winters in Utah. I cried every winter. My body would go into shock. I went to tanning booths, drove home every chance I got, and had some serious winter blues. The last winter I lived in Utah I finally adjusted to the winters. Go figure! (Probably because my body knew I was moving away.)



I’m a desert lizard at heart. In high school I was a runner for a law firm and drove my 1982 Toyota Corolla, without A/C, all over town delivering documents, even during the summer! I was hot and sweaty, but the summers were bearable then. We used to swim and run around outside all day long in summers growing up. Was it my optimistic, youthful attitude or was my body able to handle the heat easier?



A friend of mine has a theory that the older we get the less comfortable our bodies are with extremes like heat or cold. I tend to agree.



The really miserable desert heat of Vegas usually lasts from the beginning of July through the end of September. I don’t count September because I’m back in school all day in air-conditioned classrooms, but July and August are sheer misery. I equate it to my cousins who live in Wyoming and have to stay indoors for the winter or risk hypothermia. (You couldn’t pay me enough money to live there during the winter. I’d seriously die.) Even with good A/C everywhere you go in Vegas, the heat permeates.



We go out of town a lot. That helps, but then I have to adjust back to the heat again.



Water also helps. We don’t have a pool, so during the summer we mooch off of my parents and swim in their pool almost daily. Otherwise we hit the local rec center pool. There is little risk associated with my parents’ pool. Helping my dad keep it free of leaves, dodging my nephews’ water guns, and picking up after ourselves is usually the extent.

The rec center pool on the other hand is scary. You have to understand, it’s my boys’ favorite place to swim. There, amid the germ, diaper, and urine-infested waters, they enjoy the slides, the fountains, and an acre or two of various pools. I am not as enamored with it as they are. I tend to see the bad there. (I know, I know---I need to look for the good in things. I’m not much of a public pool or public park person though. Stems from several frightening childhood incidents I’ll deal with in later blogs.)



The rec center is scary because first of all, I have to go out in public half naked. I feel better about that now that I’m at a nice post baby weight (Finally---I had my son almost 11 years ago!) but age is starting to creep up on me. Despite my best intentions I’ve got spider veins on my legs and Relief Society arms. That crap is hard to hide, unless I want to wear a full-length wet suit. Then I’d look like a polygamist wife.



Secondly are the weirdos. Yes, Vegas has its share. (See my blog: Funny Things Part Deux.)

There are the good mommies. They are nice and clean, even if their kiddos are kicking water in your face and bullying smaller kids. There are the grannies. They tend to group together and float. There are the young high schooly (yes, high schooly with a “y”) love couples. They are a tad too touchy to be tasteful, but being out in a public place in America keeps them from too much PDA. The weirdos I’m talking about are the loner older guys. They scare me. These guys are usually 40+, single, hairy, flabby, and scouting for chicks like sharks for bait. There is at least one loner guy every time we go.



Thirdly are the bathrooms. I wish it were legal to take a picture in there. You’d die. A dark, wet cave in Tijuana, Mexico is cleaner than these bathrooms. I try not to go to the bathroom while I’m there, holding it as long as I can, but then I have to make a desperate run for it or risk the dark blue water in the pool. (A childhood urban legend of peeing in a pool where no one has informed you that peeing in said pool will cause a chemical combination turning the area around you blue or red. If anyone has ever seen this happen with their own eyes, and not in a movie, please comment below. I want details.)



Holding my breath I sprint into the women’s restroom, head for the nearest stall, avoiding both the nude lady showering with the curtain open (WTH?) and the water/urine puddle at the base of the toilet. I can only imagine what that puddle consists of. Straddling the puddle while trying to shimmy my swim shorts down is insane. And don’t even talk to me about sitting anywhere near that toilet. I pray, squat, and aim. Also---the toilet paper is wet from somebody’s damp fingers and there is no soap in the dispenser at the sink. I could die! Literally.



So today as I lounged in shallow fecal-matter, I mean shallow rec pool water, all the while keeping one eye on the shark, one eye on my boys, and gossiping with my gal pals, I endured it all because it’s 117 degrees outside and I need to cool off. Towel anyone?

The Fire Extinguisher

Her 4th floor apartment was small, but she enjoyed filling it with original art and inexpensive antiques. The old fire extinguisher was no exception. She loved how the metal had oxidized, while the red paint had remained. Who had used it? Where had it spent its life?




Later that night she fell in an exhausted sleep. It had been a particularly long day at the middle school where she taught art. Some days she wondered if it was worth it.



That night she dreamed of fires and her fire extinguisher. She felt a persistent need to wake up, but fought it. When she finally did wake up she was groggy and confused. What the heck? The smoke was real!



She leaped out of bed, her heart in her throat as she tried to see through the gray smoke. The window closest to her bed had a fire escape, but as she pulled on the window sash, it wouldn’t give. It was painted shut. She cursed herself for not opening the windows sooner and for not being more prepared in situations like this one.



The smoke thickened. She tried another window and another. All had been painted shut. She turned to try the front door and remembered the fire training she’d had with the kids at school. She needed to touch the door first to see if the fire was on the other side. She laid her palm against the door and quickly removed it. The fire was most likely in the stairwell. The door was burning hot.



Her heart in her throat she got down on her hands and knees. She needed to find something to break a window with. She wasn’t going to die like this. Through the smoke something gleamed. It was her fire extinguisher! Crawling over to it, she took a breath of the cleaner air near the floor and holding it, prayed this would work.



The fire extinguisher was heavier than she remembered, but she found the strength to lift it. She threw it with all she had at the window with the fire escape. The sound of glass splintering was music to her ears.

Mag 23: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ Photo credit: Willow

My Back Window

I am opinionated. You can tell from the back window of my car (or by asking my husband, my friends, my sons, my students, etc.) See pic below for proof.

I have 3 important stickers.



The first one is my “Y” sticker. For those of you who hate BYU, don’t cut me off on the freeway please. You have to understand that BYU saved me from UNLV. (Don’t tell my hubby this. The hubby HATES BYU with a passion. He attended BYU-Idaho, I mean Ricks, then went UNLV. Now him buying me this shows how much he loves me because he bought me that “Y” sticker for my car and we were already married, plus he drives my car sometimes!!!)

I loved attending BYU, even if the rich kids there were snotty and the super smart kids there were snotty and some of the Utah kids there treated all of us Vegas Girls like we were trashy and nothing good could ever come out of Vegas. (Las Vegas has a temple you know!) The jocks were pretty cool though and the average folks like me, well, we all knew we were average when it came to BYU, so we had a great time. I loved BYU because my dad went there and because it became MY school too. It felt like home.



The second sticker is the “DUMP REID” sticker. I want Reid and his son out of any office in Nevada. They do not represent Nevada and should go back to Washington D.C./Virginia where they’ve been living for the past 30 years. Need I say more?

(Note to the creep in the Isuzu piece-of-crap car with the Obama/Change/2008 sticker: Honking at me repeatedly for 5 miles along the 95 freeway while waving your angry Obama-loving fist at me did not hurt my feelings or change my mind about my sticker. I’ve passed out 40 more “Dump Reid” stickers since then! Ha!)



The third sticker is my favorite. “I drive like a Cullen.” This sticker was also purchased by my sweet hubby. (Note: He has NOT read any of the books, but has been “forced” to watch Twilight and New Moon with me. He didn’t care for them, but survived just fine. In fact, there were times during New Moon I couldn’t get his attention and I think he might have actually enjoyed it.)

The Cullen sticker gets lots of smiles from the ladies who’ve read the series. I still haven’t seen another one anywhere, so I feel special. Many people who haven’t read the series or seen the movies ask me who or what a Cullen is, which gives me a chance to spread the word about Stephanie Meyer’s fantastic books. (Go team Edward!!!!)



Well, that’s it for now. Not much room left for any other stickers, although my sis, Nikki, has filled her window with 3 times the amount of stickers I have and claims she can still see out of it. The hubby says no more, but if there’s a good one out there, I might add it! ;o)

Pine Valley in July

We’re spending a couple of days in lovely Pine Valley, Utah, with my in-laws this week. The trip from Vegas to St. George was quick, but after stopping at 6 places in (hot, sweltering) St. George, we were thrilled to finally get to the Terry Cabin. Did I mention we have our two boys AND two dogs with us? (See picture above.)




[By the way . . . I’m not exaggerating about stopping 6 places in St. George. They were:
1) Yamaha store for a quad battery
2) paintball/violins/food storage store for paintball equipment
3) Smith’s to buy whip cream for my sweet mother-in-law
4) Marv’s (my uncle’s awesome burger joint)
5) In-laws house in St. George to pick up some stuff
6) gas station for gas. Let’s face it---we could’ve found about 4 more things to do if I’d had the money.

And the paintball/violins/food storage store is for REAL. I would say only in Utah, but there’s bound to be another one out there somewhere.]



Anyway, it’s a lovely 85 degrees here. I took 2 pictures from their porch. One faces north and one faces south. For those who haven’t seen this beautiful valley, here’s a glimpse for you.

Self-Respect, an Undervalued Quality

I might be poor when it comes to my bank account (thanks in part to selfishness and flagrant spending in my 30’s, not to mention a divorce and then remarriage to a great guy, but who also happened to be divorced and in debt.) I have my pride. Not the pride they warn you about in Sunday school, calm down. What I’m talking about is self-respect. Look around. Do you see a lot of people with pride? Self respect? It’s not one of those things you brag about when you run into someone from high school.

If we did it would go something like this:



Me: Hey! Gracie! Gracie Brown! Is that you? How are you? Wow, it’s been like 20-something years. You look great! How have you been?






Gracie: Yeah, it’s me. But who are . . . Corrina? Is that YOU? Wow. What happened to YOU? You look amazing! Have you had some work done girl?!?! Are you still married to that one guy?






Me: Oh, I got divorced four years ago. But don’t worry, I’m remarried now to a great guy. We don’t have 2 nickels to rub together due to our divorces, but we have a lot of love and self-respect.






Gracie: Gee whiz! You are SO lucky! You’ve got love AND self-respect? I wish I had self-respect. I’d give anything for that.

--- --- --- ---

NOT going to happen in real life. I wish.



So while we should have self-respect and pride in who we are and what we do with our lives, most people discount it. They either underestimate it or take it for granted until it’s too late.

Take Lindsay Lohan for example, that poor, dumb girl. Talk about having little to no self-respect and making bad life choices. Her saga is better than a rerun of Dallas! You can’t make up the stuff she’s done. (Just check out TMZ any night of the week and they’ll tell you ALL about it.) She had it all and snorted it, I mean threw it, away. Thanks to her lack of self-respect and the choices she’s made she’s looking at prison time. PRISON TIME!

Can you imagine yourself in prison? Not me. I’d make the world’s worst inmate. There’s no way I could share a cell with some husband beater (who would turn me into her personal punching bag) and no WAY I would survive meal times. I’d get shanked at breakfast on day one. I don’t know how Lindsay’s going to make it through. Maybe enduring those crucial childhood and teen years in Hollywood will help.

Makes my not having a lot of money look a little better right now, huh? Sure, I’d love to have a ton of money and be famous and get to dress up in designer clothes and attend premiers instead of teach teenage kids the difference between a hyperbole and an idiom, but what would I lose? What would my children learn if I handed them everything on a golden platter? What would I take for granted? Throw away? Turn into?

Not someone I would like to be. So I’ll keep my problems and Lindsay Lohan can keep hers, thank you very much. I’ve got self-respect.

Photo Credits

Photo @ top: www.thesunblog.com/frosting/lindsay-lohan.jpg

Photo @ bottom: www.static.technorati.com/.../Lindsay-Lohan-16.jpg

Funny Things Part Deux

Okay, so I looked for additional funny things to write about and by the time my head hit the pillow only 1 other slightly funny thing happened yesterday. You may have already guessed Josh was involved.

We were at my parents' house and the boys were swimming. It was 180 degrees outside in the shade and after sweating it out in the sun (working on my cancer/tan) I stepped into the pool. Rafts, rings, and other swimming debris were floating in the pool and the boys were swimming (or drowning) underneath various rafts.

Up pops a raft in front of me with Josh underneath. He says, "Alert! Alert! Unidentified large woman entering the water! Alert!"

I lunged for the kid and took him down! (He has a LOT to learn before dating.)
___________________________________________________________________________
One more funny thing. This one happened today. . .

Some People

I'm at the (ghetto) library with my boys. (We live in an older section of Vegas. Don't judge. It was all the house I could afford at the time I bought it.)

I usually sit with a book in the kid's section (hoping I don't catch lice or some disease) and wait for the guys to pick out their books. (After scoping out the area to make sure it is pedophile-free.) Today was no exception. I sat waiting patiently on the small, squishy couch next to the kiddie checkout area. I notice some dingbat mother has left her large stroller in the middle of the walkway.

People were tripping around it and over it trying to check out books. In addition there was a metal scooter leaning against a couch that was also in the way. Some people have nerve! (I thought this to myself as I looked around and saw no one standing by/claiming these items. I have a teeny bit of my grandparents in me. Think depression-era folks who stop on freeways if they see something they could use or sell. I'm Christian though and know that stealing this stroller would be wrong. Even if my sister, Nikki, with 5 kids under the age of 8 could use it. I resolved to wait and see who claims it. If nobody did I was running out the door with it!)

Tearing around the library was a curly-haired boy about 2. He pulled books off of shelves and threw them on the floor. A tornado had nothing on this kid. I had no idea where his mother was. Neither did he.

He stopped in front of me and stared. I smiled. (I love kids, even rotten ones.) I then noticed his shirt. It said, "My mom is hot!" (Some people! That kid can't read! What kind of woman puts a shirt like that on a 2 year old? Who needs THAT much validation? Sick.)

I swear to you, it was like a movie. Up strutted (yes, like a runway model, but not anorexic) a woman chasing after the wild child. She was not hot to me, however I am a woman, so what do I know? (If my hubby were there I would've asked him for his opinion. He's honest that way.) Her strutting and yelling after the wild child had people staring.

You have to understand where I live. It's Vegas. I grew up here, my mom grew up here, my grandpa grew up here. We are Vegas natives. I am used to ALL kinds of crazy stuff (Mafia kids, druggie parents, rich kids, alchy parents, neighbors who work as dealers, cocktail waitresses or in Cirque Du Soleil shows, seeing Donny Osmond in my sacrament meeting, friends growing up who dream to be hit men), but after spending about 14 years of my brief life living in Utah, I forget the things that really make Vegas unique. I get shocked once in a while.

Can you see where this is heading?

The woman was about 6 feet tall. (It could've been her 5 inch tie-up sandals. I don't know how she can walk on those things, much less run after a child.) She has long, dyed blond hair down to her backside, a small (think uber-tiny) tank sundress on (totally inappropriate for the children's section) and large sunglasses. Her accent was Russian or Romanian or something. I thought to myself, "Is she a . . .?"

Yep. She had to be a stripper or something worse. I don't want to know which.

Can you guess who the stroller and scooter belonged to? Yep, you guessed it. She pulled another kid out of nowhere, (seriously---I never saw this other kid the whole time I was sitting there half laughing and half in shock), plopped little wild child into the stroller and the three of them took off.

Let's just say the children's section was a whole lot quieter after they left.

White Hair & Other Funny Things

In an effort to write funnier things (I tend to be too serious on my blog), I am going to share with you, my (one faithful) reader, funny things I hear today. I will be updating this blog posting until this evening, so if there's only 1 funny thing on my list below, check back later. Wish me luck! (I'm gonna need it.)

1. My oldest son holds a flashlight up to my head. (Picture this--I am seated at the kitchen table reading the funniest blog in the world, http://theblogocheese.blogspot.com/ on my laptop. It is 9am and I have been up since 6am and haven't yet showered or fluffed my hair. Instead I have been doing laundry, putting dishes away, and reading The Blog o Cheese and laughing until I cry.)

My son Joshua has a great talent of knowing exactly what bugs me and commenting on it. (He's a snarky 10 going on 19.) When it comes to my hair I have dark, silky, shorter hair. However . . . when I was 26 I started getting white strands of hair growing around my crown. I plucked them. Now at age 40 I need to dye my hair because there is sooooooooo much white hair (thanks Grandma Hall) that it makes me look 80.

It's summertime. I don't dye my hair in the summertime. I swim everyday and it would wash that $60 "coloring" Tiffany, the best hairdresser in the world, uses to cover my white hair. I don't have enough $$$ to pay Tiffany $60 a month to color my locks, so I suffer.

Back to me sitting at the table laughing over the Cheeseboy's blog.

My son, Joshua, holds a small flashlight up to the back of my head. He picks through my hair like a lemur picking lice. I hear him mutter something. I ask him what he's doing.

He answers, "Yep mom. I found out where all of your white hairs are coming in. They are everywhere!"

Stay tuned for funny thing #2.

Photo credit: http://www.manicpanic.com/ They are 2 crazy chics from NYC who have been extreme hair colorists since 1977.

Early Memory

Hot, the summer sun pours onto my neck and head.

Moisture rains from the hose I hold.

The smell of my tomatoes growing sends me

  to the early memory of my parents’ first backyard,

    a short brick fence and a planter box, sturdy, and

      full of dirt and tomatoes.

I am small, dark-haired, and smiling.

Mom holds my fingertips and dad grins at my progress

  as I walk and touch the rough cement blocks.

The smell of tomatoes fills the air.


Magpie Tales #22 - Photo credit Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

Speech

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to language lately. Often what people say grates on my nerves. My students at school use a curse word in nearly every sentence. It’s not a biggie to them, but to me it’s the sound of nails on a chalkboard. By the end of the first week of school, they know I do not allow cussing in class and remind one another to use a different word. This usually leads to a discussion on which words are allowable and appropriate and why I don’t curse.




I’ll admit, I tend to drop the s-bomb once every day or so at home or to myself, usually at my clumsiness and due to the trauma my toes, fingers, funny bones, head or shins endure. Cursing is not part of my regular speech though. I usually judge (wrongly, I know) people who do curse in every sentence or speak crudely as uneducated or from a lower social class than I am.



That being said, I am a college graduate without a huge vocabulary. My writing and speaking are fairly simple. I enjoy writing and speaking this way. I don’t put a lot of effort in using big words or flowery speech, probably because I think it’s a waste, much like that extra frosting on a store-bought cake that I scrape off to get to the good stuff underneath, the cake.



Today I read the editorial by Dean John R. Rosenberg in my Humanities at BYU Alumni Magazine, Spring 2010. He impressed me with his essay on speech and how using certain language labels us in the eyes of others, not to mention changes how we think. Interesting. He used a great quote by Renaissance humanist Erasmus of Rotterdam:



Just as dress and outward appearance can enhance or disfigure the beauty and dignity of the body, so words can enhance or disfigure thought. Accordingly a great mistake is made by those who consider that it makes no difference how anything is expressed, provided it can be understood. . . . Our first concern should be to see that the garment is clean, that it fits, and that it is not wrongly made up. It would be a pity to have people put off by a spotty, dirty garment, when the underlying form itself is good. (De copia)



I read those words written by a man several hundred years ago and realized he had the same issue I do. Words create a part of who we are. How we use those words to express ourselves, whether through cursing like a sailor or quoting Shakespeare, we open ourselves up to the judgment of others. We also think differently about ourselves and the world around us when we speak below that which we are capable of.



This article reminded me why I don’t allow cursing in my classroom, why I teach my students and children to speak better English, and why I shouldn’t curse or talk coarsely, even if no one else hears it. My speech is a dress I wear, for all to hear, including my own ears. My goal is to present a clean, white cotton dress of speech to the world. I hope it is clear, simple, elegant, yet educated.



Picture credit www.sensibility.com “1914 Afternoon Dress,” by Jennie Chancey on April 20th, 2010. Check out their website for other beautiful vintage dresses.

Timing

Picture credit: Magpie Tales

Short story below is also posted on Magpie Tales, Mag 20: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ . She takes fun pics for writing prompts if you are interested in adding your writing to her blog!
______________________________________________________________________________
He set the toothbrush down on the bathroom sink and turned to her. Anni took his breath away. She was the mother of his children, his best friend, his wife, and his love. Wiping his mouth with a towel, he smiled. Morning gave her sleepy eyes and mussed up hair. That didn’t matter. She was still beautiful.



Anni looked at him in surprise. “What?” she said, smiling, her eyes narrowing at him suspiciously.



“I love you.” He tossed the towel on the counter and stepped over to her. She opened her arms to him. He held her tightly. They gazed at one another, happy in the moment. Anni leaned up for a kiss.



From the closed bedroom door a knock could be heard. “Mom? Dad? We’re hungry!! We’re hungry!!” small children chanted.



He sighed. Anni sighed. They chuckled at themselves and the timing of their children. Their moment would have to wait.

To Run

This is inspired by Willow's Magpie Tales #19 @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

Photo credit: Willow
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Sara didn’t know which way to turn. Her scarf fluttered in the mid-day, summer breeze that swept through the forest. Her feet and ankles ached from the distance she had already run in her tie-up sandals. Why had she worn them this morning instead of sturdy running shoes? Cursing herself, she listened for sounds and scanned the area around her, looking for red, shaking with shock. Where was he? Had she really seen what she thought she’d seen? How far was she from her car?




Driving through the Utah mountains on small highways, Sara was taking the long route to Park City, Utah, where her best friend was waiting. She had pulled off from the highway to break up her trip, stretch her legs, have a quick bite to eat, and read a book for a few minutes. The sun shone warm through the trees, the sandwich she’d picked up earlier was delicious, the book a well-earned treat. Then she looked up from reading and saw something red moving in the trees. She watched it, trying to identify what it was.



Sara stood and walked through the forest, towards the red, her vision focusing on the distant object---a man wearing a red shirt. He moved his arms purposefully, gesturing towards another, smaller man standing in front of him. Sara could tell that they were arguing about something. She couldn’t hear all of their words, but picked out “stop,” “money,” and “don’t” from their distant shouting.



She watched the man in red carefully remove a large switchblade from the pocket of his shorts. He held it down against his leg and opened it slowly with one hand. When the other man turned to walk away, the man in red grabbed him by his shoulder and hugged him, plunging the knife into his gut, pulling upwards. The man yelled out, his mouth open, his face a mask of shock. Sara screamed. The man in red turned and saw her. Without thinking, Sara began to run.

It's Hard to be 40

This post is dedicated to the dreaded 40th birthday and all of the women in the world who must endure it!

It’s Hard to be 40

My mouth is a dry desert

yearning for water constantly.



My mind is a colander

losing thoughts and important things.



My body is a faded image

changing from curvy to straight.



My face is a wrinkle farm

hugging my eyes and mouth.



My elbows are sharp sticks

poking my husband in his sleep.



My teeth are cracked porcelain

keeping my dentist in business.



I wonder what 50 will be like?


(Based on the children’s book “It’s Hard to be Five,” by Jamie Lee Curtis.)


Photo credit: Corrina L. Terry and her Sharpie
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While I've been whining the last week or so about my upcoming 40th birthday it's to hide my true feelings. I've been panicking. I want to hide in bed. I want run away. Crying doesn't seem to help. A birthday is not something one can hide or run from though. It comes no matter what. Lying seems like the only option, but I hate lying. Besides, I stink at it, just ask Steven J. 

So I take a deep breath and shoulder the year. I can do it. Yes, I can. I can suck it up and admit to myself that I'm getting oldish. Older. For-ty. FORTY! Yikes! Where did the time go? Somebody pass me the chocolate.

My Peace

In one week J and I will be camping in Duck Creek, Utah, for our annual Durfee-Van Leuven Reunion. This is a reunion and a time I look forward to all year. When I’m having a crappy day, students are restless and unwilling to listen, husband is in a bad mood, sons are bratty, house is a mess, or I’m just overwhelmed with too much going on, I think about the mountain.




My mom’s family has been meeting at Cedar Mountain for generations. So while a reunion may not sound like much fun to some of you (hint: Steven J), it’s a tradition for us. For one weekend a year we meet and catch up, take walks, tell stories, sing, eat, and play games. It's a chance to camp out, trailer it or cabin it, depending on your finances, and enjoy family we never see.



But it's not just the reunion that pulls me to Duck Creek. This mountain flows through my blood and my memories. Growing up, my brothers and sisters and I spent a major part of every summer on the mountain. As our parents and grandparents built our family cabin, we built forts, hiked roads and trails, played, walked, and ran like wild children through the hills and streams. It's a sacred place where we've brought our friends, as well as future husbands and wives, and was a significant part of the healing process after my divorce.



So in a week, (just one week!) when I’m reading in my camping lounge chair, or roasting smores over an open fire, or visiting with family, and all the while smelling fresh, cool mountain air, viewing green trees, and clear streams, know I will have found my peace this year, at last.




Photo credits: Corrina Terry, 2009.

Someday . . .


I will earn 32 credit hours above my master’s degree.

Today I am finishing a 2-credit class.



I will own an updated home.

Meanwhile I am helping Steve remodel our bathroom.



I will plant a big vegetable garden.

Until then I am watering my potted plants.



I will write a fun-filled mystery novel.

Right now I am writing a poem.



I will take exotic vacations.

I the meantime I am enjoying camping in Utah.



I will pay off all of my debts.

As for today I am making my payments each month.



I will see my son, Joshua, all grown up.

Tonight I will tuck him in bed, tell him he is amazing, and kiss him

goodnight.
(Based on the children’s book, “Someday,” by Eileen Spinelli.)

The Statue

I'm really liking the writing prompt blog http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ .  Willow's photos are interesting and I love the challenge of coming up with a short story for each one. So plan on seeing these "short shorts" every week or so, at least through the summer months (while I have a break from teaching.) ;o) Enjoy the one below!
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She couldn’t believe she’d found it. The chipped marble statue sat in the dusty corner of an old shop in Rome, selling odds and ends. Natalie had found the store by accident. She’d made a wrong turn and then another while following her map to Trevi Fountain, only to look up into the windows of a second-hand shop. Curious, she entered and meandered around the narrow store, picking up old books, peering around kitchen items and antiques.


Then she saw the statue, a boy with his mouth open in song, in a corner under the windows; a statue that once stood in a fountain. Now it stood alone, leaning against a wall. In shock Natalie walked closer and knelt down in front of it, touching the cheeks. She ran her hands over the forehead and hair, marveling, wondering how it came to be here.


From her small backpack she pulled out a black and white photo of her grandfather taken during World War II. He’d served as an Army Engineer and had spent most of the war in Italy and France. One of the pictures he’d sent home to her grandmother was a picture of himself in a small piazza somewhere in Italy. In it he was standing next to a marble fountain, the center statue of a boy with his mouth open in song.


Photo credit: Willow @ http://magpietales.blogspot.com/

The House

FYI: The following is a short, short story I wrote based on the photo below. The blog http://magpietales.blogspot.com/ is dedicated to the craft of writing.

The author of the blog, Willow, posts a picture and then asks writers to create a poem or story about the picture and link back to her site. It's a fun way to work on writing skills and get feedback. I'm being brave and posting it here so you see what it's about and give me feedback. Thanks for reading!  ---Corrina  :o)
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She kicked off her shoes, grateful to be home from a long day of work. The old blue and white two-story house, with its scuffed wood floors didn’t hurt her bare feet nearly as much as the tile in the last house she’d rented. She was grateful for a place like this. Why no one had rented this four bedroom Victorian was beyond her. The rent was cheap; the house and yard in good shape. It was a solid, well-built house. Snug even, for a two story. She had enjoyed filling the rooms with antique furniture and books and finding new treasures at the second-hand shop downtown.


As it had been a hot day, she poured herself a glass of ice cold lemonade from the fridge and sank down into the sofa, putting her feet up on the soft ottoman her mother had given her. She sighed, wiggling her toes. The ticking of the clock was a constant, soft drumming. Some people avoided quiet. They filled it up with TV and music and talk. Not her. She was happy to rest in it.

The Writing Experiment Part 3

The end of the school year is here. I can’t believe how quickly it went by. We almost finished “The Freedom Writer’s Diary,” but ran out of time, so I picked through the last chapter trying to find stories that my students could relate to and write about.

Here’s what I learned from this experience:

1. Isabel Gomez, my department chair, was brilliant to suggest we read from this book to our kids. The students totally related to it. It made my English classes better than they ever could have been.

2. The boys needed to call it a “journal” to write, but they wrote! Some of them REALLY wrote! (The girls were happy to call it a "diary.")

3. I skipped the dicey entries. There were some entries that crossed the line and I don’t want to lose my job. Do I think doing this took away from the overall learning experience? No. There were still many other entries that were acceptable for me to read in public school.

4. We had some excellent discussions out of many of the readings. We talked about abuse, drugs, alcohol, drive-bys, homelessness, gangs, juvy, immigration, depression, and much, much more. I learned more about my students through these discussions than I ever would have otherwise. I am grateful for that.

5. I learned a lot from my students. They are smart. They are tough. Many of them have endured things I never could have. They are surviving; some of them in places were they shouldn't, but they do. They are growing, not stunted. They have hopes and dreams for better lives than they have now.

6. I learned about myself. I’m naïve. I’ve lived a pretty happy, sheltered life, despite my first marriage and not having a lot of money since I left BYU. I have insight into other things that they don’t though. I told my students many times that my parents were and are good people. They loved and cared for us. (And still do!) They didn’t beat us. They didn’t leave us when things got hard. They didn’t do drugs, nor were they alcoholics. They worked hard to provide for us. They were good examples for us. They took in friends and relatives who needed help. I learned that being happy and coming from a good life is helpful for those who have never had that.

I also told my students that within a few years many of them will be parents. I asked them, “What kind of parent will you be? You have a choice. You can be a good one or a bad one. Just because your family life isn’t what you want doesn’t mean that you will end up like that too.” I could see a look in many an eye that said, “I want what she had. I want to be like her parents.”

7. There are things my students shared that will haunt me. I can’t even begin to touch on those things. (Steve and my mom know some of it, but not all of it. It’s too much to share even with them.) Whenever I could I talked with the counselors at school and referred the students to them. Bless the counselors at my school. They are amazing women who never give up on our kids. They saved so many of them this year.

8. I’d do it all over again. I would. It was a great year and a good group of kids, despite the flasher and the thief. (Stories for another time.) I’m really looking forward to next fall though. As I looked over the little 6th graders this week, I thought about all of the writing exercises I want to try with them. I want to organize each class into a little publishing unit. I’m going to copy Ms. Gruwell, the teacher of the Freedom Writers, and assign each student a number. They will submit one diary entry per month to be reviewed, edited and compiled by students in their class into a class book at the end of the year. I think it’ll be fun. I think it’ll work. I’ll keep you updated.

The Good, the Bad, & the Dusty

Talking with my sister, Terresa, the other day sparked a question in my mind. How many of us write about the underbelly of our lives? the real stuff? the bad stuff? the embarrassing stuff?

Terresa is brave that way. She has written about stretch marks, hemorrhoids, screaming children, losing her temper, and diarrhea. Not me. Nope. I write about the good while avoiding the negative at all costs. I see and hear so many sad things at school I’m usually compelled to put forth good things into the blogging world. Who would want to know about my imperfections anyway? I don’t even want to know about my imperfections. Besides, who really cares? No offense to my sis, but who would it benefit?

Terresa and I both agreed that most people just put positive things on their blogs and Facebook. Most of us only show the happy side. Who likes a grump or a nag? We don’t air our dirty laundry about our spouses or church callings or homes in writing. I never thought myself brave enough to venture into this darker territory, but turning 40 in June is inspiring me to try all kinds of new things, except skydiving. Here it goes.

My kids aren’t perfect. They fight and cry and make mistakes. I think they’re smart little buggers, but sometimes they drive me nuts.

My marriage isn’t perfect. It’s better than any relationship I’ve ever been in, but it’s not perfect. I don’t expect perfect. We’re not perfect people. I’m okay with that and working on being a better person for my husband and marriage.

I’m not perfect. I yell about once a day---at my students or my kids or both. I’m really not much of a yeller, but I expect to be heard. I only raise my voice when I need to. At times I struggle with being one of the shortest and smallest people in my classroom and in my home and wish I were 6 feet tall so that I could use height as an intimidation factor. I also admit that cuss words have escaped out of my mouth once or twice at home. Not the end of the world, (ye without sin cast the first stone) but I’m working on it.

My body is not perfect. I’ve got stretch marks, wrinkles, cellulite, and I still break out in zits! I can hide most of it with clothes thankfully, but the wrinkles and zits on my face are visible. Oh well. I hate makeup. So is life.

My hair is not perfect. Tiffany, who cuts my hair, is so good she makes me look good! My hair is colored with a washout color once every six months so that the 30+ white hairs around the crown of my head, inherited from my Grandma Hall, are hidden. Most people don’t notice my hair is colored, unless I have Tiffany throw in more red or something, she’s that good.

My methods aren’t perfect, but they work for me. Have I mentioned that I’m a bit of a control freak? That makes for a good teacher, but a difficult housekeeper. My dishes are washed every night and put away every morning. (I have a system to my dishwasher, thanks to the Fly Lady. Poor Steve thought I was nuts when he first saw it, but it works.) I hate a dirty kitchen, counter tops or table. Gross! I also don’t like clothes left on the bedroom floor. Yuck! Dirty toilets make me gag, but my shower needs a good scrub right now. I’ll tackle it later.

I’m not a perfect housekeeper. I hate sweeping and dusting. They are the bane of my existence. If I could afford it I would have someone come and just clean my floors and dust. My Mexican tile floors are often sandy and dog hair can often be found along the walls. (With 2 dogs that both shed, it’s bound to happen.) If I can muster up the strength (and interest) to sweep the tile and vacuum the carpets once a week, I feel successful. (I do, however, sweep my kitchen every night.) My bookshelves are lined with dust until I can bribe one of my boys to dust for me. My dresser and nightstand are dusty too and littered with books, papers, and CDs. I take comfort in the clutter, but the dust bunnies make me sneeze.

Well, (sigh), that’s about it. My dirty laundry has been aired. It feels good to share. I feel lighter! Braver! Feel free to unload your dirty laundry here. No judging will occur (at least from me!) After all, no one’s perfect.

Donuts

                                                                             

What’s your favorite donut? Our family is big on Winchell’s donuts. (Not to make a plug for Winchell’s, but if they’ll pay me in donuts, I won’t turn them down.) Mine is an old-fashioned glazed. I’ll take a regular cake donut if an old-fashioned isn’t available. My kids like the jelly filled and chocolate covered twist donuts. Steve likes the cinnamon roll ones.

Eating donuts reminds me of my dad, who used to buy a dozen donuts and those small cartons of chocolate milk for us on our family trips to Utah when I was a kid. He still brings donuts home for my mom and any errant child or grandchild who happens to be over.

Donuts also remind me of my sister, Nikki. Her specialty is showing up at your house on your birthday morning with a dozen donuts and a smile (and her 5 kids.) The kids run around, a donut in each hand, high on sugar, while the adults sit and talk, and eat their favorite ones.

Every once in a while Steve brings home donuts after a long night’s work. This small and simple action warms my heart. It’s one of the many, many reasons I love him. It reminds me of my childhood, of my dad, and my sister; and while my waist and hips regret every bite, I don’t.

Goodbyes

After A While

©1971 Veronica A. Shoffstall

"After a while you learn

the subtle difference between

holding a hand and chaining a soul

and you learn

that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman,
not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.

After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn..."



I love this poem. My sister, Terresa, gave me this poem in college and it hung on my various college walls above my bed for years. I would read it and reread it while I thought about my life and what the future would bring. Over time it came down from the wall and I lost it.

Recently I was reminded of this poem by my courtyard garden. I love flowers. I love receiving flowers. I love giving flowers. I haven’t been willing to spend our hard-earned money on cut flowers for myself (as my husband and sons could care less about flowers in the house), so I plant flowers for myself that last a bit longer.

I found the poem today and wanted to share its message. I love what Veronica Shoffstall tells us girls and women about goodbyes and planting your own garden.

Goodbyes happen in every stage of life. We say goodbye to our parents and go off to college. We say goodbye to the single life and get married. We say goodbye to childlessness and embrace our babies. We say goodbye to friends and family when we move. We say goodbye to marriages and relationships when things don’t work out. We say goodbye to our loved ones when someone passes away.

This January I said goodbye to my grandma, after a lifetime of fun and craziness with her. I learned so much from her and miss her every day.

This summer I’m saying goodbye to my 30’s and embracing 40. Wahoo! They say 40 is the new 30. If Demi Moore can make it look good, so can I!!! Ha ha!

This year I’m saying goodbye to having anymore babies and looking forward to spending the time I’ve got left (8 brief years) with my 2 boys before they say goodbye to us.

I was told once from our wise Heavenly Father that I should always look forward in life. He knows me so well. My tendency is to look back on “the good times” and live there. I need to be prodded on once in a while. He knew I couldn’t and shouldn’t do live in the yesterday. Sometimes I have to say, “Goodbye.”

Baking Bread

It’s conference time again. I usually turn up the volume on the TV and wash all of the windows in my house and dust. This year Steve is sleeping (after working all night) and I’m out of windex and feeling lazy. So I decided to bake bread.

I’ve been a homemade bread fan over the years, but this Christmas I tried something new. I bought myself a bread maker (with a coupon and it was on sale). After watching my sister-in-law, Carolyn, and my mother-in-law, Rhodell, make bread dough the past 3 years they made it look so easy---just throw the ingredients into the mixer and turn it on, right? Well, kind of.

Carolyn gave me great bread machine making advice and recipes to start me out. (She’s a generous recipe sharer.) Rhodell was my cheerleader and helped me overcome my fear of “the wicked bread machine.” I am a girl raised on Bosch mixers, never trusting these new-fangled machines, but I needed something I could literally throw ingredients into and not worry about for an hour and a half while I run errands or fix dinner or a myriad of things moms do.

Something I don’t do is bake in the bread maker. I just don’t like the look of the bread when it’s done. It looks like a brick and doesn’t fit in a Ziploc bag, so I mix the dough in the maker and bake my own loaves.

I use Carolyn’s white bread recipe (provided below), but replace 1 cup of white flour with wheat flour. I tried the whole-wheat recipe, but my guys didn’t like it as much as the mixed version.

I usually make about 6 loaves a week. (When D is with us for 2 weeks, we go through bread like nobody’s business, so sometimes more.) I bake them, allow them to cool for many hours, zip them up in a freezer bag, and toss them in the freezer. Sometimes I take them to friends. Maybe next time it will be you! ;o)

Some things I’ve learned:
1. Add a little bit more water than the recipe calls for. I don’t know why it’s like this, but my bread maker (or the dry air of the Las Vegas) make the dough too dry, so add a bit more if you live in a desert area. If you live in a damp climate, you may need less.

2. Check the dough as it’s forming the dough ball and use a spatula to scrape the edges of flour into the ball. Sometimes it needs a little help to get everything mixed in properly.

3. I add a bread dough enhancer Rhodell gave me. To be honest, I can’t tell the difference when I’ve forgotten it, but if you have some, use it. I’ll experiment more with it this summer when I have time.

4. If you buy/receive a new bread maker, take time to read the instructions. You never know, it could come in handy when you have a question.

5. Check thrift stores for additional machines. If you have a big family, you might want to have 2 mixers and use them at the same time. As long as all of the parts are there and it seems to be clean, you should be fine. (I don’t think most people really use their bread makers. The ones I’ve seen at Savers looked barely used.)

6. Don’t be afraid to experiment with the bread recipes. My family was very patient with me while I tested different recipes out on them.


Carolyn’s White Bread Recipe 2 lb. Loaf:
1 1/3 c water
¼ c oil
¼ c sugar
2 tsp salt
4 c white flour
1 Tablespoon yeast

Place ingredients in the bread maker in the order above, making a small well for the yeast. After the dough is ready I grease 2 pans and split the dough into them, allowing them time to rise. I also spray plastic wrap and cover the top of the bread while it rises so it doesn’t dry out. Once the dough is ready to go in the oven (doubles in size), I remove the plastic and cook them for about 25-30 minutes @ 350. Remove bread from the pan when finished and allow it to sit on a rack to cool.

YOYO

The other day I happened to turn the TV to our local county cable channel, Channel 4. They have documentaries on Las Vegas history, show the Clark County Commission meetings, desert gardening info, etc.

When I turned to Channel 4 that day they had a Clark County emergency preparedness show on. I was interested. As a Mormon, emergency preparedness is something we know a little about and I figure I can always learn more. I was interested in what Clark County’s plans for a disaster would be, especially with all of the natural disasters happening in the world lately. The female host, a Clark County Emergency Preparedness employee, was discussing emergencies and what people in our area should do if a disaster strikes.

Then a word flashed up on the screen in big letters as she was talking. YOYO. The host calmly explained the meaning of this acronym---You are On Your Own. In the case of an emergency situation, she said, you are on your own. We cannot depend on the government or any agency to help us if an earthquake, flood, fire, act of terrorism, or other major disaster strikes Clark County. The show then cut to pictures of Hurricane Katrina’s disaster victims in New Orleans as the host described supplies every household in Clark County should have on hand.

This stunned me. YOYO? Are they for real? How can they say this? Are we really on our own? Yes, I realized, we probably are. How many people in this county realize this though? I had never given this much thought until that moment.

Our house is fairly prepared, but I’m still worried. We have several months of food on hand and six 55 gallon drums to store water in, but what about our neighbors? My students? Family? Friends? People at church? I don’t have enough to help them all. Our family plan was to provide for our immediate family. We have enough for our family and hadn’t even considered helping other people who may need it.

If we are able to stay in our home after a disaster strikes, we’ll probably be okay, but I doubt many people in our county have several weeks of food, water, and first aid supplies on hand. After watching the nightmares that the earthquakes in Haiti, Chile, and Turkey have caused lately, not to mention the mess Hurricane Katrina caused years ago, I shudder to think of something of that magnitude happening here in the Las Vegas valley. (In addition to the 2 million or so people in Clark County, think of the tens of thousands of tourists just visiting here each day.)

I challenge everyone reading this to get yourselves and your homes prepared. Have at least 3 months supplies of food and water on hand. Gather first aid supplies. Buying a little extra food and first aid items every time you go to the store will help you stock up on needed supplies. If you’d rather buy a bunch at once, stores like Costco sell emergency supply kits and food storage items.

Prepare a backpack with clothes and food for each member of your family. (Think New Orleans and all of those people walking out of town on the freeways with no food, water, or clothing.) Make copies of all of your important documents and keep them in a central place that is easy to get to and quick to grab and go.

Have a family emergency plan. Where will you meet if you are apart during a disaster? Where is an alternative place to travel to if your home is destroyed?

Those people who seemed extreme with their food storage to me as a kid aren’t that extreme to me anymore. In this day and age they seem prepared. I’m not a wacko or an alarmist when it comes to emergency preparedness, just a worrier. We have had warnings from our prophets, civic leaders, and scientists about impending earthquakes and natural disasters, not to mention acts of terrorism. It’s time to listen and become prepared.

Hope

Loved 2 quotes my mom sent me. (See below.)

I've been thinking a lot about hope lately. Hope is something I've always had plenty of---until lately. The economic issues myself, family and friends are dealing with is sometimes overwhelming. I feel frozen and helpless. (Not good for an action minded person.) I also see and hear a lot of very upsetting stories about young people in my line of work. Thinking about these things I take them on and have spent many hours crying over the pain and suffering of myself, my family, friends, and these children of God I teach.

As a child my mom would "pick" my worries off of my shoulders. It worked to ease my stress and make my worries seem smaller. I've taught this to Josh and it helps him. (Another worrier in the family.)

As I've grown older, picking the worries off of my shoulders still helps, but I need something more. That is when writing, prayer, scripture study, and great quotes like the ones below come to my rescue.

So have hope. Things will get better. Our economic times will improve. My students will grow up and make good choices. My boys will become happy, well-adjusted young men. I have hope.

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"[God] loves us because He is filled with an infinite measure of holy, pure, and indescribable love. We are important to God not because of our résumé but because we are His children. He loves every one of us, even those who are flawed, rejected, awkward, sorrowful, or broken. God's love is so great that He loves even the proud, the selfish, the arrogant, and the wicked. "What this means is that, regardless of our current state, there is hope for us. No matter our distress, no matter our sorrow, no matter our mistakes, our infinitely compassionate Heavenly Father desires that we draw near to Him so that He can draw near to us." ----Dieter F. Uchtdorf, "The Love of God," Ensign, Nov. 2009, 22–23.
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~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Since 'God is love' (1 John 4:8), the closer we approach Him, the more profoundly we experience love. But because a veil separates this mortality from our heavenly home, we must seek in the Spirit that which is imperceptible to mortal eyes. "Heaven may seem distant at times, but the scriptures offer hope: 'Ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart' (Jeremiah 29:13)." ----Dieter F. Uchtdorf, "The Love of God," Ensign, Nov. 2009, 23.