I grew up in Rexburg, Idaho. Ninety-plus percent of the population are Mormons, and all my peers adhered to the same ethics code of spazzing off in lieu of drugs, and keeping the few beer-drinkers at the edge of town in the tavern aptly named "The Hideaway".

Joseph Smith, boy prophet and faithful martyr, once sat down with a bunch of friends and taught them a series of lectures on faith. One of the lectures began with this premise:

"Let us here observe, that three things are necessary, in order that any rational and intelligent being may exercise faith in God unto life and salvation."

When I was a mutt growing up on Apache Avenue, I was just one kid in a litter of 5. It was easy to get lost in the crowd.

I was a bit shy around new people. I was the only light-haired daughter, was pigeon-toed, and could run faster than all the boys. Those were just surface though. If anyone spent a few days with me, my guard came down and they soon learned that I could belch like a bartender, cried if anyone got mad at me, and preferred to flex and twist for hours on the trampoline over just about anything else.

Little Wendy is our guest writer today.  Like me, she grew up on Apache Avenue.  And as a bonus to joining the blogging world, I've been able to keep tabs on her once again.  Wendy was the only girl in her family amidst an army of boys.  And somehow, she was neither a tomboy or a princess.  She's cool like that.

Like me, Wendy grew up in a disturbingly normal family.  What we lacked in sibling rivalry and family dysfunction, we made up in neighborly trauma.

My mom is far far away
this Mother's Day....

I miss her so,
and if she were nearby, or down the street
I'd rub lotion into her cracking, hard as a saddle, catch-like-velcro
super dry feet.

When I was in 7th grade I went to a school that looked like a prison and had a hairstyle fitting for a criminal. If you were to stand outside the school, you would see mullets and ratty hair floating body-less from the state penitentiary windows which were set no lower than 60 inches from the floor. Did I mention the school was concrete blocks? Unpainted? With no windows from which you could get a decent view? And had to be closed down a few years back while they detoxed the asbestos from the premises? (NOTE TO HOMETOWN: Get a new school!)

And yet while I did my term there, what with my permed hair and white-washed jeans, I didn't think of architecture as enhancement to my education. I was only aware of E S P R I T bags casually loaded with hairspray, combs, gum, and magazines draped on lockers purposely cracked in order to display our latest in Idaho fashion accessories. I saw Guess Jeans and Converse shoes, and grocery store delis across the street so I wouldn't be caught in the school cafeteria during lunch hour. And like every American-made kid in 1987, I beleaguered my parents with the fact (like all my siblings) that I needed a Nintendo so I could save The Princess.

It worked! All five kids on Apache Avenue got a Nintendo that Christmas and it came with Super Mario Brothers. I plunked my butt down on the couch the entire Christmas break, and cleared a huge stash of Christmas ribbon candy while I learned about crabs of death, mushrooms for growth, and dragons of fear. All the while I chomped on some of the crummiest candy invented.

I gained fifteen pounds that Christmas break, and I didn't even save the princess. But I kept working throughout my 7th grade year, and eventually I made it all the way to the 8th world, on the 4th level, where I met my fate with my final and last dragon to save the bloomered and bonneted Princess.

And then I was cured. I went through high school and college watching boys (and men) live and die for video games, and thought they needed to get a life.

The point is that after years of prodding, The Mister of the House finally convinced me to get a Wii (what with the family games and live-action-off-your-rear aspect of the whole enterprise). And soon after that, we went to the Wii store online and purchased the classic 1980's Nintendo Game Super Mario Brothers.

And it has been on my Wii for about a year. Once in a while I would sit and try my skills, die a quick death, and go fix dinner.

But this March, the bug bit me and I decided I needed to save The Princess. And this week I discovered how to warp to world 8 and it threw another log onto the fire. And today? My kids have been eating Cap'n Crunch while I practiced and practiced until my left thumb was aching (cringe) and guess what?

I saved her. And I squealed just like a princess, and my kids (bless their little hearts) cheered for me.


Okay, so I got caught up with Mario and became a bad mom and now that I can breathe again I can step away, cross the street, and study the architecture of this situation.

FACT:

• A 50-inch Plasma TV, when turned on for five hours in one day, uses the same amount of energy as a refridgerator (the most common energy hog in your household).
• I'm quite sure that when including the nature documentary the family is watching this Friday night, my 52-inch Plasma TV has been on on for five hours today (cringe. again.)
• Tomorrow I will try to make up for it by honoring EARTH HOUR (and you should too). Even the temple is doing it.
• From 8:30 to 9:30, it's LIGHTS OUT.
• Got that! Saturday March 28th, pull out your candles and have a romantic dinner, tell ghost stories, or suck your thumb in the dark while the LIGHTS ARE OUT between 8:30 and 9:30 pm.

Until the Olsen wedding next month, I'm clean out of kissing pictures to showcase. Well, clean out after this next one of Wade and Marilyn, Idaho natives and former dwellers of Apache Avenue. Also known as the big people who taught me how to ride a bike, how to laugh, and how to set the table. Check out how cute they are:



Here they are just appeasing my requests for a kissing picture. My dad, lover of Louis L'Amour novels who thinks shovels and hard work speak louder than words, has never been one for much public displays of affection. He also will perform a disappearing act anytime somebody starts talking about bras, maxi pads, or pregnancies.

I don't think that picture is making it onto my kissing wall. I have a better one in mind.


That's more like it, don't you think? I edited the picture to have full glow, because they are taking a bath in love and light. That kiss looks more real, and my mom is smiling in her eyes.

So what makes their love unique? Um, where do I start? They married while in college, my dad was a wiry b-ball player and my mom was a pageant queen with a 25-inch waist. Their first date was at the A&W, and my dad ordered french fries. My mom ordered a salad. She ate half his fries (or so he said) and we all heard about it every time we ate a Happy Meal. She would giggle and remind us that she didn't kiss him until the 13th date (or so she said) while he smirked. It took the family approximately 40 years to get the story straight, and I still don't remember the true story because I've heard the legends for so long.

Amazingly, they have been married 47 years this summer. That is really weird for me. And in that 47 years they left the farm, started a new life as teachers, wanted kids but couldn't have any...and then starting in 1969 {an anxious seven years after their marital vows} their prayers were answered and they had my brother Derek. Over the next eight years they cranked out 4 more kids and bought a spud farm on the side. And when I was two, they lost their shirts, pants, and underwear on that spud farm, which produced a lifetime crop of cautious, conservative, hard-working teachers instead of farmers.

She never pumps her own gas, and he lives off Cheetos and fruit spritzers if she's ever out of town. He was an athlete who grew up in the era when only flambuoyant men worked in Department stores, and yet he happily (and privately) delved into the (effeminate?) role of doting, singing, lullabying, floor wrestling, and making-up-songs Dad and Grandpa. She adored that about him, and provided 5 kids to practice on. Oh and he also chucked shoes at us if we got out of bed (there's that athlete part coming through). As long as his shoe hit the wall instead of our head (which it always did for some reason) she swooned at his superior athletic skills.

Mom and Dad...I love you!

I was 13 years old during eighth grade, just two years into my bra stage, never been kissed and bright-eyed for the future. That's when me and Paula became buds. I had long chemically treated hair, and I would wake up early every school day to do something different. Crimp! Hot Roller Curl. Straighten. Braid. As the years went by, I eventually cut out the annoying primping routine in honor of the Grunge Movement, Plaid Lumberjack Shirts, and good old-fashioned sleeping in. And Paula saw me through my big hair days to my grungy plaid and boots phase as well. She had her own hair phases similar to mine. This is us somewhere in the middle:

So it's been a good 10 + years (and 30 + pounds) since I've seen Paula. I was excited and nervous, evident by the fact that I reenacted my 8th grade habits by actually spending forty minutes doing my hair and make-up before she came.


I was finally able to meet Paula's husband and son. Since they drove all the way to my house, we fixed them our favorite food which you must fix this week for somebody you love if you truly love them with more than just words.





One thing I never knew back in "the day" was that Paula had her own chickens when she was a little girl. So we sent her off with Rainbow Girl to collect the eggs...for old time's sake.


In conclusion, women need women. It gives them focus for the future when someone knows (and can laugh about) their past. Thanks for coming to play Paula.