Once upon a time I was in "the know" about great music. Basically, it was the time I was sponging off the Hackworth Family and absorbing all of their recommendations. If any Hackworth's are out there reading this post, please forgive me, I have only purchased 3 cd's in the last ten years. Back in Idaho, around the Hackworths and potatoes, I was still spazzing off in the high school scene but I caught glimpses of what a cool college girl could be at the local pizza joint, Craigo's Sourdough Pizza.

It was the college hangout, and we pre-empted our grooviness by nibbling pizza amongst the college boys, even though we were still lil' High Schoolers. On night, they had an open mic night, and this beautiful girl with long straight hair with golden highlights, blunt straight bangs, wearing a groovey scarf and perfectly worn jeans took the mic and sang "You Fill Up My Senses" by John Denver. She closed her eyes and yearned above the mic. After that, I spent about 5 years fostering a secret desire to once, just once, be awesome and sing with a small acoustic band on an intimate low-lit stage in the back corner of a coffee shop or pizza parlor.

The closest I ever got was singin' Bodeans, Indigo Girls, and Sun-60 with one of the Hackworths (usually Kristi) around the campfire. I would rock it until my voice cracked. Back to reality of a one-octave range and plus-size jeans....oh well.

So now...with babies, car payments, and kids, the groovey music scene has taken a back seat. But there's two things you see, and they all got stirred up when The Mister of the House brought home the TV-version of the movie Once a couple of weeks ago.

• Thing One: This movie absolutely took me back to when I was a little more sunkissed, and a little more music-wise. I loooved the music of this flick and my secret desire to be the groovey girl at the coffee shop was stirred up all over again.
• Thing Two: It is inevitable that my little lover of music, Rainbow Girl, will soon be sucked into the adolescent vortex of make-up, boys, and music, music, music. Aaaahhh!

Me and The Mister of the House put the kids to bed, and then sit down to watch Once. Here's the gem of the flick and winner of 2008 Oscar for Best Song. I chose this youtube version on purpose because you're not distracted by the video, just appreciate the melody and lyrics of this beautiful tune.

Ten minutes after this song debuts, we hear Rainbow Girl (not asleep) humming this song in her bedroom. Her music radar zoned in right away. Good stuff!

A few days later, we ingest all of the music from the movie and Rainbow Girl sighs Oooh. I just love his love songs, don't you mom?

Why yes, yes I do. [pause] How old are you?

And the music keeps running and running through her head. A few more days later, after plucking out the tune on the piano, Rainbow Girl exclaims I was made for music.

Now I'm not off to push my kid onto the Disney Channel, teaching her disturbing sexy dances, or forming a band...but I will admit, it's a pure delight for anybody, let alone your own kid, to have a sense of purpose in life, a sense of a special little spice given by a loving Heavenly Father. A genuine love of music.

Aside from Christmas songs, the music from Once was our primary muscial diet over the holidays. And little by little, Rainbow Girl, in all her seven years of innocence, interpreted these songs about love: mostly about love lost, life gets sad, hoping for love again...this way:

Rainbow Girl bounds into my bedroom early in the morning and says Mom, I want you to read this!

My life has changed. Oooooo. Yeah.

What can I bo [do] with out you.

Soooo, thers soon gona be

thing's un ushuwall, and that's

is why my world is goin wrong.

and my ooooon, suff [stuff], is goin some

where. So Life is hard

Mrs. Olsen, [disturbed and worried]: Why did you write this? Is this written for someone?

Rainbow Girl [huge innocent smile]: I wrote a love song. I want you to hang it on your wall!

So there you have it folks (is anyone still reading this freaking long post?). After a promise of a dark and private showing, I talked Rainbow Girl into singing it for me. Please enjoy!

Ten minutes later...

Mom, can I start hanging posters on my wall?

I think I'm in for it, what do you think?

Have you ever really looked at a radio and marveled how it can just pluck tunes out of mid-air? How come a song doesn't smack me across the head on it's way? Yet through wavelengths and antennaes it worms its way into your box and comes softly singing you to sleep at night. Just take a second and think about it. It's weird. And wonderful.

My little Rainbow Girl is like a radio. Her spirit, her happy little self, is tuned to music. Before she could even talk she would hum this little baby song that had a distinguishable tune and she would repeat it over and over.

Here she is at ripe young age of 3 and 1/2. We bought the movie Annie and she would watch it and sing the sad little orphan songs. Here she is singing the happy orphan song "Tomorrow!" at the top of her lungs. I swear I didn't pose this pic, I snuck it while she was just going to town. So stinkin' cute!

1. Water is constantly seeping out of the cliff face, supporting a beautiful array of flora and fauna. When is the last time you said flora and fauna out loud? Please do it now.
2. They have actually carbon-dated the water coming out of the cliffs, and it's really old. Man it's been a long time, so exact numbers are fleeing my old lady brain. But it's up there, I'm talking hundreds and maybe even thousands of years old. I wish I had tasted it! Maybe next time.

So me and The Mister of the House kept talking about osmosis, and seepage, and Weeping-This and Weeping-That until finally Rainbow Girl stopped and looked up and asked "What does weeping mean?"

Well sweetie, it's just means it's crying. The rock is sad and it's just cries and cries. Waaa Waa Waa we laughed and joked on our way to the top. She thought that was funny and for a short moment forgot that she had walked 10 miles that day.

When we got to the formation, we joked again about this sad rock that couldn't stop crying. We paused to look at the flowers, the rocks, and the ferns growing out of the rock face. Then we looked over to see little Rainbow Girl standing a ways off and looking up at the rock and saying something really soft, we couldn't really hear it over the drip.

Me and the Mister did the eyebrow curl at each other: What is she doing?

Then we figured it out. She was singing! That oldie but goodie song "I Am a Child of God". So we had our proud parent moment, snapped a picture, and gave her audience. She didn't budge or explain until she was done with the full verse.

" I sang it a song so it willn't be sad anymore" she explained completely serious. What could a mother do but give her a big fat hug and tell her I love you kiddo?

Willn't is trademarked by Rainbow Girl by the way. Email me if you want permission to use it.

In case you forgot, or you're feeling a little sad, here's a reminder:

I am a Child of God, and He has sent me here

has given me an earthly home, with parents kind and dear.

Lead me, guide me, walk beside me

help me find the way!

Teach me all that I must do,

to live with Him someday.

Just in case you forget your divine potential...

Going to college in your hometown is almost like a glorified high school, especially when you live at home. So it wasn't until I was done with that little 2-year associates degree, just one summer shy of turning twenty, that I officially cut the cord. My dad said I could take the truck, and I gave them a nonchalant wave hoping it wouldn't betray my beating heart. I glided away from the potato and wheat fields, down past the college campus lined with big trees, peeking in the rearview mirror every 5 seconds and thinking I'll never be the little punk running around Apache Avenue again...I have to grow up now.

My destination? Utah. Time for a school break, get a job, and work on residency so I could eventually go to Utah State University nestled in between peaks, forests, and waterways.

But before I made it to USU, I made a pit stop in Pleasant Grove, Utah. Left mommy and moved in with my dear friend Sophia, and her mother (my new second mom, what a wimp I was!). I flooded Happy Valley with my resume showcasing my newly earned degree:

Craft store? Never called.
Secretary at a respectable office? Oh, yes my resume has an impressive sidebar thank you. Um, well my mother designed it, that's how. When can I expect a second interview?
Salesclerk for unfinished furniture? Not hiring.

I finally settled in at exit 276, an all-night truck stop just off the interstate and right across the street from the steel mill pooping into Utah Lake and cranking their factory run-off after the sun went down.

The first few days, I worked on memorizing four digit codes for the register, determining when the big rigs needed to stop on the scales, and filling the ice machine. It wasn't until later that I realized I had been seeing the same people over and over. The Old Asian man full with a sensai beard burrowing into his clavicle. He honestly looked like the wise man on top of the mountain. He smoked Pall Malls, and I once joked I needed to see his I.D. and he tugged his beard and gave me a wink.

The red-faced steel worker who faithfully purchased a 24-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer every time I saw him. I would see him twice during one 8-hour shift. It wasn't until months later I thought I probably could have called the cops on him, he was forever glazed and always on the go.

Of course we had the not-so-regular and just-passing-through as well. Daddy truck drivers bringing their kids along during summer break. Big rigs filled with a fridge, TV, VCR, and a bed all behind the cab. I determined that most truckers were oversized teenagers with no concept of mortality or health-consciousness...snarfing down hotdogs and twinkies, chuggin' cola and beer, and watching movies until it was time to hit the road again. Every kid I saw that summer skipping in their daddy's shadow was in hog heaven I tell you.

One swaggering driver had brought his kid, probably around 12 years old and mentally handicapped. I figured he must have been a real sweet guy to bring his son that had extra needs. He came into the store and dropped the big bucks for a hot shower for both of them. When he came back with the key and wet towel I ask "How was your shower?". He started laughing at himself before even finishing his punchline: It was better than sex! Up runs his sweet little kid, gazing up with adoration "What dad? What did you say?". Well son, she asked me how the shower was and I said it was better than sex! He was probably the first grown-up I wanted to smack across the head.

Later in the summer, my dad insisted I borrow his Nissan 300ZX. It was a two-seater sports car that was fast and belonged at the fairgrounds. I have to admit it was fun to drive, but I was embarrassed of it. Just wasn't my style. One day an upper-forty southerner was stuck at my stop for a few days. We made small talk and he glanced out the window and beheld the sports car at the curb. His syrupy accent drooled out "Oooh maw! I jest know that's yo car parked there i'n it?". I was horrified to admit that yes, it was my car.

We continued small talk, and eventually he asked me when I got off work. 6 0'clock, I stated. I cringed at what was coming next, but just waited for it, "Can I take you out on a date?". It was the first time someone ever threw the race card at me. Nope, I said, when he immediately hissed "It's cuz I'm a black man i'n it!?".

Oh no! I thought, what have I done! I swallowed hard and blurted out, Hey Mister, you're old enough to be my dad. I was relieved when he gave me a big sweet southern smile, laughing as he said "Aw-right darlin'. That's aw-right". Phew!

I've never forgiven myself the day a quiet middle-aged man came into the stop wearing a Weezer T-shirt. Because I was young and stupid and he was old and no longer cool, I smirked Nice shirt! He then pointed out to the filling deck where a plush oversized bus was filling up, right there at Exit 276, and explained he was their touring manager and they were on their way to the next show. Not wanting to be a gushing fool, I tried to clear my thoughts (my name is jonas...my name is jonas...my name is jonas) while I asked if I could go say hi.

He insisted the band was not there. They had flown to the next show, and he was left hauling all the equipment in the bus. I gave him the eyebrow curl, and he again insisted they were not in the bus. Figuring I had already made myself a fool, and considering I was on the clock, I stayed put. That night I went home and wept bitter tears that I lost my chance to be a groupie for Weezer.

That was the summer of '95, and gas lingered around 90 cents per gallon. I whined over the days I could fill my car for seven bucks, and now it costs twelve!

Waah (that was the 2009 Mrs. Olsen talking, who paid over fifty to fill her tank last summer).

Eventually, my life at the truck stop ended and I finished my residency protocol at my dream job: Snowbird Ski and Summer Resort.

But before I lingered with the ski bums and the valley girls, I skipped out from Apache Avenue and paused for a while listening to truckers, stocking twinkies, and scrubbing stale shower stalls back at the 24-hour stop at Exit 276 across from the Steel Mill.

I love how this blog makes me look cooler than I am. Or maybe it's helping to get me off the chair and have something to show for myself. It's weird when good friends or sisters make comments with exclamation points (myself included). A show of conversation, but a real reconnection to people you've lost in the shuffle. I like it, I mean, keep 'em comin'. I'm not making fun okay? It's cute. And interesting.

So anyway, maybe since I wrote a sizable resolution list last year on paper, then tucked it away somewhere so I could hang on to it, then promptly lost it, and became forgotten in the blur of 2008...well, maybe having the blog will be good for that. Make me more accountable. Perhaps send some cheerleaders on the way. For what it's worth, here's the positive changes I hope to forge into the aught-nine. My Resolutions:

• Read the "Standard Works"


• For one month, perhaps the summer, experiment with a low-carbon diet. Not Atkins you cotton-headed ninnymuggins.


• Keep up my weekly tango with Ulysses (aka $50-spot every week for groceries, gas, and entertainment) until the Olsen Household has a 3-month reserve in savings.


• Start a video spot for the blah-g. Involving Rainbow Girl. It'll be fun!


• Grow two square watermelons....or square pumpkins.


• I hate to say it....it's so cliche. I really do need to get in shape. But I'll work that out on my own. I'm not airing that dirty laundry on this blog.
• Submit some words somewhere. just for fun.


• Lastly, to accomplish at least two things on this list (I am NOT giving up already, I just don't want undue discouragement getting in the way so early).

Cheers!

Just curious why we feel obligated to use up all our old holiday treats plus keep an infant and a toddler up until midnight in order to welcome the new year? Nothing like starting the New Year with a sugar hangover and grumpy kids. I honestly felt dizzy most of January One, in a weird way.

I do declare my better ideas. Here's the scene:

December 31st, 20-whenever
To: Friends and Family with offspring
Where: Sledding Hill and then my house
Time: 9am big fat brunch with healthy carbs, scrambled protein, and fruit smoothies
12NOON: Bring out the spray paint for the snow, the confetti poppers, and the hallelujahs for the coming year. Run and shout, twirl little girls around and officially celebrate at 12 o'clock. who cares if it's a dozen hours early?

8pm: Put those kids to bed so they can start the new year out right. Have a quiet, thoughtful, reminiscing, resolutin' evening with your lover.

Then try, just try, to think about how your going to make positive changes for the year. Still working on that one, maybe by Thanksgiving I'll have some. In the meantime, I'm taking suggestions.

What are you resolving to do...besides buy a Stairmaster and regaining your backside?

Not much of a crafter. But once in a while I get a bug to create something or take something and give it a little flair. This holiday season I got the bug and flourished a gift for Celeste, my tiny cute sister-in-law.

A) Purchase simple black knit jacket at the store. This was the canvas.

We're grateful this season for our Savior so true
and His gift of friendship he offers through you.

The aftermath of owning a mom and pop edited video store for five years is, well, being a movie buff first. Owning waaay too many DVDs, second. Thirdly, appreciating those gems that rise above the formulaic Hollywood recipe. For The Mister of the House and me, we currently ride high on documentaries. Outside of docs, my preferred genre of film are (is?) dramedies. If you can reconcile yourself with at least three items above, you need to watch these flicks now.

I'm always up for recommendations, so leave a comment on your faves this year. By the way, some of these flicks are a year or two old, but hopefully new to you. The list, in no particular order:

• Uno. HBO mini-series on 3 discs John Adams. Based on the book with the same title by David McCulloch. Paul Giamatti, you are a stud. John Adams, I might love you most for your passionate respect for your wife, but I think it pales against your respectful sacrifice for our country.
  
  

• Dos. After growing 3 rows of corn in my garden this year, I couldn't help but be fascinated by a couple of college grads out of Boston who stopped to scratch the surface on this scientific fact: more than half of their DNA was imprinted by corn! Errr? Irony one: the 2 blokes had distant relatives in the cornbelt in Iowa (a heart-warming sidestory to this documentary). Irony two: their corn-infused diet didn't necessarily come from the garden. King Corn is the name, and when I went to my local Hastings Book and Video, they informed me it was no longer being distributed. For now, you can still find it on Amazon (to buy) or Netflix (to rent).
  
  
  

• Tres. This summer I had a girls night out with the Olsen Aunties. I looved the look on the face of The Mister of the House when I came home and he asked me...Soooo, what dumb chick flick did you go to? The answer: Son of Rambow. It's got a compelling coming-of-age story without being perverse, along with some sweet awesome eighties reminiscing going on. Remember parachute pants? The Cure? Teased wavy bangs that were gloriously highlighted with blonde ambition? on boys? That was just a bonus to this film, which must be...must have been, based on someone's true story.
  
  
  


• Quatro. This documentary surprised me by its blatant ordinariness. A documentary filmmaker by profession, who makes wedding videos on "the side" to supplement his income (which by the way, had horrible picture quality and sound...go figure), decides to point the camera on his parents around their 50 year mark of togetherness. And then the ordinary of this film flowers into mystery, tragedy, and sweet memory. It's his home address, and it's called 51 Birch Street.

• Cinco. True Story: Mrs. Olsen has had a looong day with the kids, and by the time six rolls around she has a splitting headache. The Mister of the House comes home and rescues fair maiden by letting her take off, by herself....out on the town. She finds herself alone, at the big screen, watching Ghost Town. Laughs out loud (it happens), by herself (not common), several times (rare). Is amazed at the end of the movie, that her headache is gone. And for that simple reason, this flick is going on the list. Laugher really is the best medicine. :( since this isn't on DVD till Dec. 28.

• Seis. Having birthed 3 babies all with midwives, one at home, two at the hospital...let's just say I couldn't get enough of the documentary The Business of Being Born. Excellent history on the evolution of childbirth, as well as the empowerment, miseducation, and enlightenment of women. While I didn't agree with 100% of the film, I appreciated the inquisition and open-mindedness regarding this most significant rite of passage for women everywhere. Also, please note there is real-live childbirth going on in the film, so be prepared. Oh yes, and Ricki Lake is giving birth in this film, so be prepared. And to the doctors in my family (Derek and Jared) you know I love ya!

• Siete. Please get past the stigma of Japanese animation (thanks to Pokemon and square-mouthed flying warriors everywhere) and love this film from Studio Ghibli. Kids will adore the daring dive the main character makes into cat-world, and adults will get an imagination fix that they have been lacking since Middle School. The Cat Returns is a happy, family film that Mrs. Olsen is willing to watch while folding laundry, while kids are at school. It's that good.
  

[An embedded video from another website was here; it is no longer available.]

• Ocho. When Steve Wiebe loses his job, he spends his down-time regaining his sense of accomplishment by mastering the classic 80's video game Donkey Kong. Through his wife's patient eyerolling through his career transition, Steve accomplishes the unexpected challenge of being the world-record high scorer for Donkey Kong....if only he can unseat the decades long record holder, spicy chicken connoisseur, and soft-brushed mullet stud Ricky Mitchell. View the ultimate challenge in the documentary King of Kong.

[An embedded video from another website was here; it is no longer available.]

• Nueve. Amazing fact I learned from this next documentary: One gallon of gas is equal to 500 hours of human work output. Anyone who has driven to Grandma's cabin in the woods, and then gotten stuck, gets a cold hard testament to the wonders of oil and it's energy output. It's no wonder the absolute industry, affluence, and progress that have been gained in the last century. A Crude Awakening examines these wonders along with theories of peak oil, the intricacies of world economy, and the alarming what-if's that could be just a few years away. If your Republican sensibilities are cringing right now, please know this is not a "treehugger" film. It's comprehension comes from advisors to the Bush Administration, world economists (outside of US politics), along with doomsday forecasters estimating apocalyptic proportions.