the legend of the legend...

I don't think I told you that we finally gave up on the Rec Center and moved to the real gym. It will come as no surprise that I was a bit torn about the whole thing, given the fact that we had worked so hard on those non-relationships with all those people we had nicknamed. I find it quite a tragedy that I'll never know what happens to all my Rec-Center-Sorta-Friends... Will Sweaty-John-Jones ever know the impact he had upon my daily punishment at the Rec? (As in, Note to self, and all within a 10-foot radius of the man and his elliptical: Stay back. He lives up to his nickname -- drippingly so.) Will Evan, the 60-year-old twin of Dave's 5-year-old nephew, ever know how I puzzled over his utilitarian choice of working out in his swim trunks? And the Jazz Man: Is he still wearing those shiny, purple shorts?

But I wonder most about The Legend. Have I told you about The Legend? The Legend was a tall, thickset guy who usually arrived at the gym just after Dave and I showed up; but he never went "in" the "Out" to get a treadmill. No, The Legend lived only for the weight room. Every day he showed up in sweats that fit a bit too snugly, accompanied by a weight-lifting novice. The Legend and his protege would commandeer the pads in the corner and occupy that spot for at least 45 minutes, doing what?

Stretching. That's right, stretching. In fact, I think that's all I ever saw him do. I remember him giving his apprentice weight lifting tips, but I'm almost certain that I never saw The Legend himself do more than stretch.

The Legend would regale his adoring audience (i.e. his loyal, beginning weight-lifter friend) with tales of the old football glory days, and how he never missed his ritual stretches before their practices. "I never had an injury," he'd say, "because I always made sure I was really stretched and loose before I played. Those other guys," he'd expound, "they just flew through stretching, but they were always benched with new injuries. No, never had one injury." I suspect that The Legend may have avoided injuries simply because he got too wrapped up in the stretching bit; thus he never actually engaged in the Football Game Proper. Just a guess, though.

The Legend was the ultimate expert on stretching. It was rumored (by himself, of course) that he could still do the splits, although he never showed us. ...Probably not enough room or something. Either that or he needed to stretch for another 2 hours before he was ready to pull off the splits, but none of us had that kind of time.

When he wasn't talking about stretching, he was talking about his promising plans to make millions. "Why, I could write myself a $200,000-a-year job," he said one day. Actually, I could too, I'm just not sure that anyone would actually give me that job...or The Legend, for that matter. "It's all about the business model," he'd often repeat, whatever that meant. He certainly seemed to have a lot of untapped potential. At least he talked like he did.

What was great about The Legend was that even if he didn't really know what he was talking about, he sure made it sound like he did. That's actually how he got his nickname.

We began to call him The Legend when one of the other weight room patrons asked him if he was a personal trainer -- an understandable mistake, what with all the weight-lifting advice he was giving his faithful follower. The fact that he didn't lift the weights himself added to the personal trainer impression, since you rarely see a personal trainer doing more than standing around shouting encouragement. And with his bulky build, he almost could have been a body builder gone soft. ...Extremely soft.

So when asked if he was a personal trainer, he smiled and said, "No," and he paused wistfully. "No," he repeated with a sigh, "I'm just a legend in my own mind, right Gary?" I couldn't believe my luck. A Legend. That day, The Legend bestowed upon himself his own nickname.

So having left the Rec Center, I can't help but wonder about The Legend. Has he made his millions? Did he get his $200,000 self-written job? How's his stretching coming along? And most importantly, can he really do the splits?

Some things we'll never know.

Tragic, isn't it?

a good beginning

I love a good beginning. It's almost as delicious as a good ending. Take books, for example. You can tell how fantastic a book's going to be by the first paragraph, sometimes even the first sentence. "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." Classic. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...." Okay, so I never read that one, but what a beginning. "In the beginning God created the Heaven and Earth..." Now that's promising.

Contrast those happy examples with a book that was recommended to me several years ago. "You've got to read this book, Marianne, you're going to LOVE it," I was told by my over-enthusiastic and painfully unimaginative friend. I took it hesitantly because it was in a genre I don't particularly care for anyway. But try it, I did.

I can't remember the name of the book, but I'm certain it had a cheesy-looking cover, with a strikingly lovely pioneery-looking woman, gazing out over a wind-swept field. Her bonnet was hanging loosely on her shoulders, leaving her hair, of course, flowing in the wind behind her. Cliche and cheesey. It was paperback, and obviously well-loved by its owner, who, truthfully, I didn't really know very well. This was particularly distressing because I couldn't open it confidently with consoling thoughts of "she's never let me down before..."

Alas.

The first line: "It was a good night for dying."

And that's as far as I got. Without a doubt, it was cheesy, cliche, and over-dramatic. Please. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Now that I think of it, I should have flipped to the last page to see if the ending topped the beginning.

Not knowing the ending, I've kindly come up with a few of my own:

"As she lay the posies upon the freshly turned soil, she allowed herself one last tear for the life lived, and the love lost... 'I will never forget. Never,' she vowed. And the wind blew softly across her brow... The End." I hate endings like that.

What about this one: "'And that, Mary Martha, is why I'll never let you outta my sight agin.' And he never did..." No, that's silly, surely this lovely wind-blown beauty would not be named Mary Martha.

In all likelihood, the ending matched the beginning: "Yes, it was a good night... for living" (sniff).

Blast. I'll never know.

Oh well. It's late, and I can't remember the point of this post. G'nite.

I owe you one.

i do believe in fairies...sorta

Warning: The following contains information that may well disappoint, if not completely crush Tooth Fairy Believers. Proceed with caution.

I was looking through pictures the other day and came across a pic of one of my older girls, grinning toothlessly at the camera. Actually, she wasn't completely toothless, just the-two-front-teethless. It was taken in the later days of Tooth Fairydom, back when we sort-of still remembered to take the teeth and leave some cash behind.

Who started this whole Tooth Fairy hubbub anyway? Probably some conniving kid, trying to find a way to make some quick cash for having normally developing bicuspids. Maybe it was his dad who secretly wanted to give his kid all his loose change; but alas, his strict upbringing of "you can't get something for nothing" wouldn't allow him to just give it away. So he was thrilled when his little boy lost his first tooth, and dad made up the tooth fairy right there. Well thanks a lot.

My oldest child lost her first tooth right before she went into kindergarten. She was adorably believing as she tucked her tooth in that night, anticipating untold riches under her pillow in the morning. About 30 minutes after she fell asleep, we crept back in, stole her tooth, and stuffed five bucks under her pillow. There. I said it. The truth's out: I am the Tooth Fairy. Well, okay, Dave and I are.

At least at my house.

Tooth number two was as slick as the first had been; got in, got out, one of us ended up a little richer, the other a little poorer, mission accomplished. But the night she lost her third tooth, we forgot Tooth Fairy duty.

She woke up the next morning completely disappointed; I would have been, too, I mean who doesn't like free money? I cleverly covered our blunder by explaining that the Tooth Fairy has a lot of teeth to pick up every night, and she was probably just overbooked. No doubt if we left it under the pillow, she'd be back.

I know, smooth.

I decided a little repentance was in order that night. I wrote a little note to her in sparkly golden ink -- not gold, golden. Tooth Fairies don't write in gold ink. I told her that I got stuck in Boston or something like that, told her she had the best teeth of any kid, ever, and signed it The Tooth Fairy. Then I took a bit of glitter and folded it inside the note -- what's more magical than glitter, after all? And for good measure (or guilt), I gave her a couple extra bucks. There. All better.

Too bad she didn't quit at the third tooth. From then on, every tooth was forgotten, either by a day or two, or once, as long as a week. Late pick-ups no longer included a handwritten, golden-inked, glitter-smattered note. They became unceremonious wads of dollar bills stuffed under the pillow, minutes before she woke up for breakfast. I think I even forgot to take the tooth one night, although Kam was denied trying to get another night's cash out of it. One tooth, one deposit.

By the time Mak lost her first tooth, I was all funned out; and I still had 3 kids to go, not including wrapping up all of Mak's and the rest of Kam's teeth. So the Tooth Fairy made one final pick-up the night Mak's first tooth came out.

When her second tooth fell out a few days later, we sat her down and made a deal. "Mak," I said. "The Tooth Fairy wants to make a bargain." Figuring we'd deposited at least 20 bucks into Kam's hot little hands over the past few years, I said, "The Tooth Fairy" (let's call her "Mom") "wants to give you 20 bucks for this tooth, and call it good for the rest of your teeth." "Twenty bucks now, and nothing for the rest of my teeth?" she asked. "That's the deal," I said. It took her about half a second. 20 bucks to a 3rd grader is the equivalent of a thousand bucks to an adult. "Deal," she said.

And from that day forward, the Tooth Fairy has never been seen or heard from again at our house. When the 3 youngest lost their first teeth, the same deal was made. Twenty bucks for the first tooth, you don't even have to leave it under your pillow, and we're done.

I'm thinking they should have held out for a little more. I just Googled the going rate of teeth these days; most kids are raking in 5 bucks a pop. 100 bucks, just for growing up; my kids should have at least gone for $50.

What can I say? That Tooth Fairy drives a hard bargain.

now that's motherhood...

So lately when something funny happens at my house, TheBoy will immediately turn to me and say, "You can't put this on your blog." Dang. PS, that gag rule is partly responsible for my lack of posts lately. Actually, some quite amusing things have happened with my girls recently that no one has forbidden me to blog about; but alas, there are some levels of privacy I have to respect, at least until some time has passed and readers wouldn't know immediately who I'm referring to.

Respecting their privacy, that's a good mommy thing, right? I can't help but ask, since we just celebrated another Mother's Day. This year, the little kids at church sang two "Mother" songs, only one of which centered around flowers. That's a good thing. For years primary kids have been honoring their mothers with sappy songs about love and flowers.

Now I love my kids. I adore my kids. I love them with that ache that makes you want to hold them right as they are and never let them grow up. I love them so much that if I think about it, it makes it hard to breathe. I never had a clue what it felt like to really, really, truly, love until I became a mother. So I suppose I get the sappy love bit. But how come Dads get the fun songs? "I'm so glad when daddy comes home," "My dad's the greatest dad," you know, "dads are awesome" kind of songs.

Mothers get cheesy poetry set to music. Seriously. Here are the words to one of the Mother's Day favorites:

"I often go walking in meadows of clover; and I gather armfuls of blossoms of blue. I gather the flowers the whole meadow over. Dear mother, all flowers remind me of you."

Now first of all, how many kids do you know who have ever even seen a meadow of clover, let alone gathered armfuls of blue blossoms there? Then on top of that, why, pray tell, would flowers remind my kids of me? I would rather I get a song that falls more along these lines:

"I often go walking, because you won't drive me; and I make my breakfast, 'cause you're at the gym. I know that you love me because you make me clean my room up. Dear Mother, you're awesome, hey, this song's for you."

or maybe "I often come down to your bedroom on Saturdays. And I squish with my siblings, between you and dad. We all laugh and talk there, and you usually cackle. That loud laugh is the one thing that always reminds me of you..."

Now that's a Mother's Day song.

In addition to songs about flowers, the leadership of our ward likes to give out a small mother's day gift to each woman, age 18 and over. It's a time-honored tradition, passed down from Brigham Young I'd wager, in every ward in the Church. For years, the moms all got a geranium, which is a bit of a bummer if your talent with plants is as inadequate as mine. A few years ago they started branching out from the traditional geranium: a couple years ago I got a pansy.

My mother-in-law laughingly told me of one Mother's Day, when she witnessed the perfect picture of motherhood walking out of church. In the crook of one arm of a frazzled-looking young mother was a car seat, occupied not with a baby, but a large bag; no doubt the bag was her "church bag," filled with various games and activities, and likely a few dry Cheerios, each engineered to get two small children through sacrament meeting quietly. On the end of that arm was an energetic 2-year-old, dragging his mother by the hand, impatient to free himself of his tie and shiny shoes after 3 hours of discomfort. Over the other shoulder of this mom hung a diaper bag, and in that arm squirmed the baby. As she juggled her various burdens, in her free hand she held the trophy of Mothers Day: There was the geranium from the Bishopric, missing about half the dirt, and bent over at an odd angle that signalled the premature demise of the plant. Now that is knock-down, drag-out, motherhood at it's finest.

What's weird about that is the fact that I remember those days, and I remember more experienced moms (usually grandmas), walking by with a smile and saying, "Oh, hold onto it; it all goes by so fast." And I'd be thinking, "Have you completely lost your mind? This so-called 24-hour-day has already lasted 58-hours, and we're only half over. This day will surely never end, and when it does, I'll just have to start over to do it again in the morning."

But it did. It went by too fast. On mother's day, we pulled out the home videos and watched our favorites; being the sap that I am, I cried every time I watched my kids crying in the videos. I'd cry and think, "Someone put down the video camera and get the twins out of their high chair! Then hold them. Just hold them, and stay up too late holding them; let them fall asleep in your arms, and maybe then, you can think about putting them down." Because heaven knows, 9-year-olds don't respond to being held in the same snugly way as 1-year-olds.

Oh, that's the delicious stuff of aches. Deep, painful, beautiful, I am so in love with you, heartaches. That's motherhood. I love it. It's all I've ever wanted to do, and I absolutely love it.

For the record, if our home videos were confiscated and used as evidence, we'd be convicted of

1) Never, ever changing a soggy diaper
2) Rarely clothing our children
3) Never wiping running noses or dirty faces
or
4) Pulling out the video camera only when at least one, but usually two or more of the above applies.

Oh well. Happy Mother's Day anyway.

once upon a casket...

I just got back from the funeral of my husband's great aunt. At least I think she was his great aunt; she could have been his 2nd cousin, once removed, or something like that. I've always been a little vague on the exact relationship. I didn't ever get to know her, but her husband is a gem, so it was a no brainer that we'd be going to this funeral. Turns out she was a gem, too, so I'm glad we went.

I have a love/hate relationship with funerals. Well wait, I don't think I could ever say that I love funerals, so saying I have a necessary-part-of-the-process/hate relationship with funerals would be more accurate. Actually, I really don't mind funerals themselves, they're just incredibly emotionally draining, what with all the fantastic memories and funny stories, combined with that ache of knowing it's going to be a long ride till you get to see that person again. What I'm really opposed to is the viewing.

Now, I know, psychologists and funeral directors alike would tell me the viewing is a necessary part of the grieving process. People need closure. They need to see the deceased, to help in coming to terms with the death. Blah. All I know is that I really don't want everyone's last memory of me to be lying in a coffin, all waxy looking, with everyone who files by saying things like, "She looks so peaceful," (Hello, dead, how else would you look?) or "Oh, she looks beautiful." Baloney. You and I both know I've already looked WAY better than I'll look in my coffin, so let's remember me that way. Shut the lid and fill the room with pictures of me where I looked fantastic. Then people can say, "Oh, she looks so happy," and you could totally agree with them: "Are you kidding? She was beyond happy, that picture was taken right after Thanksgiving Dinner, 2009. ...Good food..."

Come to think of it, I've just found a flaw in my great picture plan. I'm usually the one taking pictures. I'm in about 2% of the pictures taken at our house, and half of those are the family pictures we take where no one looks good, so we send out a goofy one of all of us. (We didn't even bother last Christmas, despite the fact that I went to the bother of ordering them and everything. I just couldn't bring myself to send out a picture that included our dogs in it. ...Maybe I'll work up the guts by July, and send them out then. I think they even say, "Merry Christmas, 2009." I like it. Watch your mailbox.) Anyhoo, the other 1% of pictures of me are "self-portraits," where I've held out the camera at arm's length and taken a blurred, over-exposed, or goofy-expressioned picture of myself. Looks like everyone's last memory of me will be horrible either way.

Funerals always get me thinking about my own funeral (and viewing, but I won't get into that again), and what kinds of things will be said of me ("Man, that girl could talk." "I'd never heard anyone actually use 'blah blah blah' in a sentence until I met her." "Sad, really. She never really learned to appreciate Johnny Cash..." -- that'll be Dave).

I also wander in my mind to other funerals I've been to, remembering the funniest parts of each. My grandma's funeral (my dad's mom) is probably my favorite up to this point, for two reasons: I had been asked to accompany all of the grandkids in a musical number. This, of course, required a quick run-through before the funeral. My sister contributed a lovely obbligato on the violin, and the rehearsal went swimmingly. Everyone knew how it sounded, knew where to come in, it was perfect.

...Until you threw in the Marianne factor. In my defense, let me just remind you that funerals are truly emotionally draining. I've also been known to sort of go on automatic pilot at times in my life, particularly in emotionally draining times, alright? So I sat down at the piano, all of the grandkids were gathered up on the stand, we checked the violin for tune, and I began the introduction. Alas, I forgot I was doing an introduction, and proceeded to play the song in it's entirety. This wouldn't have mattered, except that half of the grandkids came in where they should have, but no, watch it, Marianne's decided to do a solo or something, so stop singing! And of course, my sister's watching exactly what I'm doing, so we both start giggling, which is not very conducive to the somber mood of a funeral, or to playing the piano and violin, for that matter. Leave it to me to mess up the lovely musical tribute to my grandmother.

But better than that was the viewing. I know, that's a bit of a shock, considering how I feel about viewings. The twins were about 2 and 1/2 when my grandma died. This was their first funeral, and unsure of how a viewing would go over for 2-year-olds, we decided we should arrive just before the viewing ended. When we first got there, I took a seat, and asked my kids if they'd like to go look at grandma before they closed the casket. Bravely, Morgs and Slade ran right over there and peeked their heads up over the edge to see her. After a few seconds, they came running back, all adorable and happy. That went surprisingly well, I thought. Then the funeral director announced that they would be closing the casket, so if anyone wanted one last moment with her, now was the time. "Slade," I said. "If you'd like to go see her once more, you can." Off he ran, stood on tip-toes and stared for a minute, then came running back, and broke the silent somberness with "YUP! She's DEAD alright!"

Well said, my boy. Now that's a kid you want to have around at a viewing. When people are weeping and begging my family to just open the casket, so they can at least say goodbye to me, I hope my family will just shake the casket enough so you can tell I'm in there, and then have Slade announce, "Yup! She's DEAD alright!"

a thanksgiving miracle..

Hello? Is this thing on? Testing, testing. That reminds me. Last summer at the family reunion (the annual 3-day camping trip with Dave's entire family), my brother-in-law was setting up for our morning flag raising -- yes, we do that, every morning; and we take it down every night. It's a little like Scout Camp, I suppose, but cuter, with little boys running around in footy pajamas, and half the kids' (and sadly, adults') attention drawn away by someone's new puppy. Really. I think someone has a new puppy every year.

Anyway, so my brother-in-law is setting up the sound system (aka the "You Can Be A Star" Karaoke machine), and plugs in the mic and says, "Testing, testing... Testing, 1...2...3.." For reals. Now, I know that this doesn't come across as very funny. But even as I type, I'm smiling, because he said, "Testing, 1, 2, 3." Why do people say that? It's a lovely cliche, testing the sound by saying, "Testing, 1, 2, 3." You know you did it as a kid. When you got your hands on a microphone, you'd hold it up right by your mouth and say, "Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3." It seems like real sound guys say things like, "Check, Check," nowadays, but there was my brother-in-law, testing "1, 2, 3." If I get my hands on a mic, I usually go for silly-game-show-host voice, never "Testing, 1, 2, 3." But I suppose that's just a personality difference. All I know is it was awesome.

Ahhh, so this is working. Nothing like a pointless memory to start a post after what, 3 months? My friend told me that my blog is collecting cobwebs, so I had to see for myself. Sure enough, I barely found it underneath all the dust collected over months of no usage.

So even though I have lots of things I plan to write about, including such hits as "The Great Shoe Disaster of December 2008," or "Local Idiots Shut Down Alpine Loop with Jack-knifed Trailer," or of course, my personal fave, "Did I Tell You They're Publishing One of My Children's Songs in the Friend Magazine in September?", I thought I'd pick back up right about where I left off. Somewhere in November.

One dark Sunday evening (it was darker than usual that night, since we'd just "fallen back" with the time; so really, it was like 4:30 but it seemed later. Okay, it was later than 4:30, maybe 5:30 or 6:00... Vital details...), we all gathered into the dining room. Dave had just finished preparations on another spectacular Sunday dinner -- he's kind of taken over Sunday dinners now, and he's brilliant, of course.

Anyway, we had just sat down, and everyone was oohing and ahhing over the spread -- he's really good -- when I caught a glimpse of a large something moving across the street. It was quite a large something or other, clearly an animal, and I thought, "Hey, it's one of those horse-dogs!" (which is actually a Great Dane, but I can never remember Great Dane when I'm trying to talk about them. Really, I had to Google it just now so I could tell you what I mean). Luckily I didn't actually announce that I'd spotted a horse-dog, although, what came out was only marginally better: "Um there's a really big do--" (and then I saw more clearly) "a DEER!"

That's right. A deer -- a 4-point buck, strolling down the middle of our street. Well you can imagine how quickly the entire family had their noses squashed up against the window to get a better look. I mean, it's not like we live in the foothills; we don't have a mountain in our backyard or anything, so really, I can count the number of times I've seen a deer strolling down our street on no fingers. Sure, it's just a deer, but it's a deer walking down our street, out for an evening stroll, enjoying the sound of his hooves on the asphalt. Now that's something. ...Do deer have hooves?

We watched him until he rounded the corner, and then we jumped into action; we couldn't just stand there and watch it walk out of our lives without at least trying to see where in the world he was headed, or more importantly, if he was meeting friends. So we ran out the door, all seven of us shoeless, and half of us sockless as well, and jogged after the deer. I only mention the shoeless bit because I admit, I displayed a small slide in parental wisdom. I mean, it was November, just a few weeks before the first snow, and it was cold. What kind of mother allows her kids to run outside after a wandering deer, in the dark, in 40-ish degree weather, in bare feet? The one who does it with them, I suppose.

Anyway, we were as stealthy as 7 people chasing a random deer down the road could possibly be. We didn't want to spook him, so we kept him about 15 feet in front of us, and paced him. If he slowed up, we did too. When he paused and turned to look at us, we all froze in place. Those years of Freeze-Tag had finally paid off -- he hardly realized we were following him. Either that or he didn't care. I admit, we started getting a bit giggly after about 20 feet. I think it was the absurdity of the moment hitting us; that, and the cold feet.

And just as I thought we'd tire of running after a deer at dinner time, our hearts stopped: Dead ahead was a car. You know the scenario -- ever heard the term "Deer in the headlights?" We had to do something, we couldn't let him just become hypnotized by the dreaded lights and be plowed down right in front of us. So we did what any normal, deer-in-your-neighborhood-loving people would do: We ran out in front of the car to stop it.

Again, a lapse in motherly instincts. Usually you try to get your kids out of the line of oncoming traffic.

Dave held up his arms as the rest of us waved ridiculously. The car slowed down and rolled down the window. "You okay?" the driver asked.

Hmmm. A family of seven, out in the dark, with no shoes on, flagging down a random car. I'm going with probably not.

"There's a deer!" we all said. Not together. I'm sure he heard something more like, "Look over- DEER!- there's a- can you believe- DEER!- What a- DEER!" Right about now, a car came from the other direction, and our little friend Bambi turned the corner and ran down the street.

Gone.

Forever.

At least from our neighborhood.

And that was our Thanksgiving Miracle. The night the random deer took a walk down our street. What makes it a miracle? Hello, deer in Suburbia. What's Thanksgiving-ish about a deer? Hello, November.

I'm sure it all makes sense now.

All I know is that ridiculous 15 minutes is among my top 5 favorite 15 minutes ever spent with my fam.

SO love that.

Happy Thanksgiving. Or St. Patrick's Day. Whatever.