The Mother Load

I've never been good at knowing my limits. I do things I don't really know how to do, and it turns out well often enough that I keep plunging into new territory without the know-how and hoping for the best. This worked for me when I decided to refinish a hardwood floor using only YouTube and blog posts as a guide.

When things don't turn out so well, my brain conveniently forgets the failures and focuses on the successes, enabling me to keep barreling on ahead regardless of whether or not I should. It's called confirmation bias, and I'm really good at it. (How would I know if I'm not?)

Unfortunately, last night, my attempt at ignorant, beginner's luck glory fell flatter than a tone deaf soprano, and this time it left a victim. My failure caused my newly 14 year old Cate to look at me with such sad disgust, I was sure I'd ruined her birthday. In fact, I think I may have retroactively ruined every birthday before it, including the day 14 years ago I spent 13 and a half excruciating hours getting her here. (I feel like I need to apologize to HER for her painful induced labor.)

To prevent more tragedies like this one, I'm documenting the sad story here so my brain won't repress it in favor of happier memories. I'm here to confess and make amends. My crime? I ruined Cate's birthday cake. I ruined it, but good, and I'm pretty sure my daughter is never, ever going to forgive me for it.

Don't blame Cate or label her an ungrateful teen. The cake in question was hideous. My other kids looked at it and immediately suggested I submit it to online fail collections, cake and otherwise.

When I decided to blog my sad cake exploits, I hooked my iPhone to my computer to transfer the picture I took of it (the sad, sad picture that never got better, no matter what I did to edit it). Clicking "yes" to an unfamiliar question promptly deleted all the pics I'd taken today. Obviously, I don't know how to use my iPhone any more than I know how to decorate cakes, so this didn't really surprise me.

Any dismay I felt was quickly overshadowed by relief. I think my actual words were "Oh, sweet holy cannelloni of dumb luck awesomeness! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

I didn't actually want anyone to see the cake. I joked with a coworker that I could describe the monstrosity in 100% accurate terms, and you'd all think I was exaggerating and imagine a cake that looks way better.

A few hours later, my lost photos miraculously reappeared on my phone again. Like a zombie reanimating and beginning its quest for human flesh, the cake picture returned from the dead. Maybe it's like that video in the movie "The Ring". It wants to be shared and will send a creepy dead girl to kill me if I don't pass it along. So...here it is.

(FYI: I still don't want you to see the cake, and I'm adding this other birthday picture here so this post will at least have a different thumbnail when it's shared on Facebook. And to give you a few more seconds to change your mind.)

I'm...I mean, it's possessed.

Do I have your attention now?

As I told you earlier, I went to Denver last weekend.  Let me rephrase.  I flew to Denver last weekend.  Those who have been my fans for awhile know how much I hate flying. 

So why in the world, if I hate flying as much as I do, would I willingly get on a giant tin can and hurtle through the air at ridiculous speeds?  Well, I went to Denver for something I used to hate almost as much as I hate flying!  I went to Denver for a seminar.

Seminar is italicized because that is how I used to feel about the word.  The italics denote an eyeroll, a sigh, and a firm set of the mouth.  Seminars were events that sucked away my money and time and left me with nothing more than a few trite phrases I could write on post-it notes and attach to my fridge.  Seminars  involved listening to someone with much more money than I had tell me I could make much more money than I was making, if only I believed.  No work required.  No skill required.  "If you can dream it, you can do it! Thanks for the cash!"

When I was invited to attend this seminar, I went quickly into defense mode, because I remembered well the last time I was invited to attend something similar back in 2007. I was a poor single mom with five kids and no sitter and about 900 other things to do that night. I sent a text to that effect to the person who had invited me and received the following response: “If you’re serious about change, you’ll find a way to be there.”

I wasn’t going to let anyone tell ME I wasn’t serious about change! You want to see serious about change? I’LL show YOU serious about change.

I spent the next 30 minutes on the phone with every friend I could think of, frantically copying down lists of their favorite sitters and calling every single one. I found one and deposited her and the kids at my home with minutes to spare before I needed to leave the house. I stepped out onto the front porch feeling accomplished and ready to take on whatever change my seriousness had earned me.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Never mind coming. This session is full. Catch you next week.”

You want to serious about anger? I’LL show YOU serious about anger.  I decided that evening that I would never, ever, but never even consider attending another seminar again.

So, the question remains.  Why would I, Sarah Clark, lover of all things earthbound, hater of all things airborne (except birds...we can keep the birds), get on a plane to fly to a seminar?

You know, I don't really even know.  It wasn't an easy decision.  I was like the kid who fell off a horse, got stomped on a few times, and then covered in a steaming pile of horsey goodness and was then being asked to not only get back on the horse, but give it a gracious kiss.  I don't know what possessed me to say to my husband, "Yeah.  Let's do that."

And you know?  It doesn't matter.  I jumped up onto the seminar saddle and found I wasn't at a seminar at all.  I had my moments of panic, thinking this would be the same as all the rest.  When you walk into a conference center full of nicely dressed people and see them start screaming and jumping up and down after an earsplitting dose of, "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLLLLLLLLLLE!" If you're a seminar hater, it will take everything you've got to not run from the room.

Fortunately for me, I stayed put.  I stayed put and learned and wrote and learned and wrote and learned and wrote for two days of the most amazing education I have ever receieved.  The Seminar: First Steps to Success.  The teacher: Dani Johnson. 

People, I have been to events in which so-called millionaires taught me that success=excess.  I have been to events in which poor dreamers taught me if I believed hard enough, wealth would appear out of thin air.  Dani Johnson taught me that if I followed a proven plan of action, with FAITH, WORK, SKILLS, and WISDOM about money, I could succeed.

The results?  I have ten pages of furiously scribbled notes from the First Steps to Success seminar.  I flew home Sunday night and started implementing what is on those pages.  On Monday and Tuesday, I doubled my blog traffic.  By Wednesday, I had quadrupled it.  This didn't come from false belief in unsound, New Age concepts.  This came from a step by step training in how to get the job done.

Dani Johnson has given me nothing for these words but the training she agreed to give me when I registered for her seminar.  I will not benefit in any way if you decide to go to her next event.  If you're a blogger, you'll likely become my competition.  I don't care about that.  What I care about is getting the word out that this seminar is fantastic.  If you are a Realtor, a blogger, a business owner, an entrepreneur, an employee, a community activist, a parent, or just a person who wants to improve his/her life, you can benefit from the training you'll get at a Dani Johnson event.

I haven't even scratched the surface of what Dani Johnson has to offer.  I haven't mentioned the stage full of people who have paid off tens of thousands of dollars in debt in the last 12-18 months using Dani's War on Debt Program, something we brought home with us and will begin using this week.  I haven't mentioned the Building a Dynasty program for which we are now registered. If you want to know more, and you do, go to http://www.danijohnson.com/ and take the first steps I did.

You can even sit next to me on the plane...if you don't mind histrionics and incontinence.

Published September 13, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

“Butterfly in the sky…I can go twice as high…” If you’re my age or younger or you have a child who is my age or younger, you’re probably quietly singing, “Take a look! It’s in a book! A Reading Rainbow!” and remembering quality time spent with this beloved PBS show. Can you believe that show’s been on the air since I was six? Of course you can because it’s amazing.

Well, it was.

If you hadn’t already heard, I’m very sorry to let you know that Reading Rainbow is no more. A victim of budget cuts, Reading Rainbow aired it’s final show just over a week ago, ending its 26 year run on public television. I heard the news from the man himself, host LeVar Burton, in an interview he gave on public radio. The news had me sobbing all the way to work.

There are many things in this world that can bring me to tears. By many, I mean most. I cry whenever I pass a tough test. I cry every time one of my children performs on stage. I weep regularly over the vast number of Americans who don’t know the difference between “you’re” and “your.” I was not prepared to grieve this passionately over a TV show I haven’t watched in years.

As I listened to callers express heartfelt expressions of appreciation for Mr. Burton’s work and share their favorite episodes of the show, my own favorite came quickly to mind. I see LeVar Burton decked out in specialized gear, standing outside the entrance to a cave with the episode’s designated expert. He smilingly informs my younger self that exploring caves is called, “Spelunking,” then turns eagerly to enter. I am rapt. Spelunking. What an amazing word.

Any true collector of favorite words can tell you the word that started it all, and there was mine. Of all the ways to express the act of exploring a cave, someone had chosen this exquisite word. I took it as a gift and have treasured it since. I’ve been spelunking a time or too, and I still can’t tell you if I receive more enjoyment from the act of spelunking or the fact that I can say I’ve been spelunking. Either way, every time I think of the word, I think of the episode of Reading Rainbow and know the show helped to plot the course of my life. I became a reader, an avid one, and a lover of amazing words.

I originally intended to write a comical “Save Reading Rainbow” column, but my reverence for the show forestalls most attempts at levity. Reading Rainbow had a profound impact on my life as I’m sure it did on yours. The people behind it understood the great importance of reading and created a generation of youngsters who still value books today.

To all the people at the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the producers, directors, cast and crew of Reading Rainbow, I offer my thanks for a job well done. To LeVar Burton, you have my gratitude for years of dedicated service to the cause of literacy and for a favorite word that changed my life. Your show will be sorely missed.

But you don’t have to take my word for it.

Published August 16, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

A few years ago, I wrote a column about a harrowing, three day standoff between my daughters and me over a messy bedroom. In said column, I stated there was no reward my daughters wanted more than not cleaning their room, and there was no consequence they feared more than cleaning their room. I thought this because I had tried everything I could think of.

Today? Allow me a moment of evil laughter: Muahahahahahahahahaha! (The better to muffle the sound of my hand repeatedly slapping my forehead.) Ladies and gentlemen, I have found it. I have discovered the secret. Incentive, thy name is Taco.

Well, it happened to be Taco a few months ago. Growing weary of the fight over the orderliness of the girls’ bedroom and annoyed with a seven year old who was conscientiously objecting to anything other than coloring, I told her she could pull her weight or find somewhere else to live. She shrugged her shoulders and went outside, followed by her nine year old sister who defected in sisterly solidarity with a very passionate shout of, “She’s just a kid! She can’t take care of herself!” They sat on the front steps of the house for about 15 minutes, discussing orphanages.

And then they smelled the tacos.

I’ve been a mother for nearly 13 years, and I’ve been a good cook for even longer. There’s nothing I love more than to hear my children scurrying to each other with excited cries of, “Mom’s making ________!” Whether I’m frying up tortilla chips or rolling out donuts or baking a batch of my hearty wheat bread, my family is putty in my hands when they smell my cooking.

I think I’ve avoided capitalizing on this love relationship out of some sense of honor, not wanting to sully my culinary creations with the sour taste of exploitation. I…was a moron.

With nary a scruple, I put this newfound knowledge to the test the other day, when a bedroom cleanup that should have taken an hour stretched into six, my girls alternately whining and moving messes around the room. I smiled an evil smile as I piled fruit and ice into my blender and heard my girls erupt into desperate shouting. “Smoothies! HURRY!” The smell of taco meat spurred them into even faster action. That room was finished in ten minutes.

I’ll admit it helps to have a 12 year old who cleans his room in 5 minutes flat in order to avoid missing an undue amount of Playstation time. He prances to their bedroom door and singsongs, “Dinner’s ready. If you don’t get out here soon, I get to eat yours.” At some point in the near future, he’ll probably sustain a concussion from the various objects that are thrown at his head. At this point, it’s a job he likes to do, and it gets them moving, so I’m willing to take the chance.

I’m happy to say the tacos and smoothies tasted as delicious as always, maybe even more so. I’ve now stopped slapping my head long enough to make a list of my most beloved recipes and pair those with my kids’ most dreaded chores.

On the menu today? Vacuuming, laundry, and yard work with a side of cinnamon rolls.

Published August 2, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

The idea for today’s column comes from my dear sister-in-law, Mary, who suggested it over a month ago and has been waiting patiently to see her idea in print ever since. Thanks, Mary. I think chocolate is in order. You’re getting me some, right?

The topic Mary would like me to discuss today involves a fashion trend she finds annoying and, at times, disturbing. I’m talking about the practice of printing words across the rear ends of sweat pants and shorts.

You’ve seen them. Sometimes, they’re sparkly. Sometimes, they’re provocative. But they’re always eye catching, and “in your face,” drawing the eye to the derriere as if to say, “Hey, everyone! I speak from my butt! You should listen!” Never mind that when that area of the body usually speaks, it’s something nobody wants to hear.

There are more than a few problems with this cheeky (heh) fashion trend. Even if we ignore the blatant, “Look at my butt!” energy of it, I think most can conclude it’s just not a good idea.

Take, for instance, the provocative words that crop up on pants and shorts. I’ve seen more than a few bottoms emblazoned with a sparkly “SEXY” or a glittery “HOTTIE.” I do the same thing every time I see it. I take my eyes off the word and check out the woman to see how she compares. It’s not always favorable, and even when it is, I’m struck by how unsexy it is to declare your sexiness to the world in such a silly way. Wouldn’t a shimmering “JUDGE ME” or a loud “MY SELF ESTEEM IS BASED ON WHAT YOU THINK OF ME” have worked as well?

And what’s with the pants that say “JUICY?” Juicy? Really? Did I need to know that? What exactly do you want me to do with that information? I’m sure you meant it for the hot menfolk, but we frumpy moms of five can see it too, and we weren’t really looking for an invitation, you know?

Slightly less affronting, but annoying just the same, are the brand names that find their way onto backsides. I get that designers want to sell their apparel and need their labels visible in order to do so. I don’t understand why a girl would pay outrageous prices just to make her bottom into a billboard.

Okay, that’s not really true. I was a teenager once and remember the label mania. Somehow, it just seemed more sophisticated when the labels were small and unassuming, positioned politely next to belt loops or embroidered on a pocket. Sure, the label meant, “I have the right jeans, please accept me,” but at least it wasn’t, “I PAID $85 SO ABERCROMBIE COULD TAKE OWNERSHIP OF MY BUTT! LET ME BE IN YOUR GROUP! I HAVE NOTHING LEFT!”

If these sweat pants shoppers were really thinking, they’d make their keisters work for them. I bet the makers of Immodium and Preparation H would pay big bucks to put their brand names on people’s butts. I don’t think I need to point out the appropriateness of the placement either. Come on ladies, you could have your freelance fannies putting money in the bank. Come to think of it, I could use a little extra cash.

I’m just waiting for the Fiber One people to call me back.

Published June 28, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Published May 24, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

My hair straightener died the other day. I walked into my bathroom, hurrying to ready myself for work, and grabbed it off the counter where it had been lying in the pretense of heating. I ran the straightener through a lock of curls, eager to tame them into flat and silky obedience. My curls bounced back defiantly, and my heart sank. “Oh no,” I moaned, “oh no, no, no, no, no.”

Any other year of my life, this situation would have been an annoyance, a minor setback. Sure, I would have endured one bad hair day, but then I would have made my way to a store to replace the broken styling tool and life would have continued on, silky hair and all. This year, however, things are different. This year, we’ve committed to an experiment we call the Buy Nothing Year.

Buy Nothing Year is something of a misnomer. I don’t know anyone who could manage to go a full year without buying anything. Buy Nothing We Don’t Absolutely Need Year would be more accurate, but that’s quite the mouthful, don’t you think?

To explain: Such purchases as groceries, medicine, light bulbs, and other necessities do not fall under the Buy Nothing Year Umbrella. Birthday, Anniversary, and Christmas presents are also exempt. Clothing is mixed. When the kids outgrew their shoes, a true need was indicated, so the shoes were replaced. When the kids asked about Easter clothes, we all knew the Sunday clothes we had were sufficient, so no new outfits were bought.

My deceased straightener left me in a pickle. Was it a necessity or a luxury? Was it under the umbrella or would it bounce easily off the top of it? I would still have hair without a straightener. I could still style my hair without a straightener. However, the only style I’ve been able to manage without a straightener is something I like to call, “Lunch Lady Hair,” and that’s just not good for anyone. (My apologies to lunch ladies everywhere.)

The Buy Nothing Year has brought us closer to the old adage of “use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without,” but it’s the “do without” part that’s hard. I’m perfectly willing to wear my shoes until they’re dead. I will rig up a bungee to keep the condiments in a broken refrigerator door. I will decorate my house simply by rearranging the furniture. When it comes to my hair, however, I don’t think any amount of Buy Nothing commitment will cause me to want to look like I had a bad perm in 1986 and decided I’d never update the look.

Fortunately for me, my husband agreed. He placed the hair straightener firmly within the light bulbs and razors category and encouraged me to go out and find a good deal on a new one. I walked into Big Lots as the Lunchiest Lunch Lady who ever Lunched. I emerged from my bathroom an hour later as Sarah, the Silkily Sensible Queen of Frugality.

Someday, I might look back on this and think we rationalized our way out of the rules we chose to live by for the year. In the end, though, the Buy Nothing Year is more about training ourselves to use self discipline and avoid impulsive purchases than becoming misers. The hope is that in years to come, we’ll do exactly what we did in the Great Straightener Disaster of 2009. We’ll carefully consider the necessity of a purchase and come to a conclusion together, then look for the best bargain we can find.

When the lunch ladies come after me, I’ll carefully consider the necessity of a bribe.

Published May 3, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Published April 26, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

As I sit in my home office, pondering the subject for this week’s column, I can hear the heartbroken sobs of my youngest child in the dining room above me. I can just see his sad, little body, hunched over his bowl of chocolate cream of wheat, convulsing in the torment of a four year old who did not get the “cool spoon.”

Being a blended family means having blended dishes. Our flatware is an amalgamation of several different sets of forks, spoons, and knives, the coolest of which we inherited from my husband, Richard. While our silverware is the plain, replacement variety one buys from Wal Mart by the bundle, Richard’s flatware is endowed with magical black handles! And as anyone knows, black handles make food taste so much better.

Unfortunately, Richard’s dishes came in the service for four variety and I have five kids. Actually, I think it’s pretty safe to say that at least three of the black handled spoons have been lost since we married almost a year ago, so there’s only one black handled spoon at any given time. If you thought FOUR black handled spoons were magical, you can only imagine what the rare and precious ONE spoon can do for a meal. Every child in my home plots how he or she can lay hands on that spoon before anyone else, hence my littlest son’s current anguish.

We didn’t have a cool spoon when I was growing up. We had a cool bowl. It was a light blue-green Tupperware number with the usual nubby rim and melted pockmarks consistent with the early days when plastic didn’t do so well in a microwave or dishwasher. It was the holy grail of bowls…the prize for any child lucky enough to receive it. It was the catalyst for dismayed cries of “No fair!” and obnoxious taunts of “Nanny nanny boo boo!”

There are those people in the world who are extremely good with kids. They understand what the little tykes are going through in all situations and show amazing amounts of empathy. People say of this kind of person, “She remembers what it was like to be a child.” I don’t think that’s an accurate enough description.

I remember the cool bowl. I remember the hope, the triumph, and the agony. I remember the dread I felt each time my mom threatened to just get rid of the bowl altogether as a solution to the unnecessary drama. I remember all of that, but when my kids start fighting and crying over the cool spoon, my empathy level hits zero in a flash and I find myself making the same, “I’m just going to throw that thing away,” threat. It’s obvious, remembering is not enough.

Maybe it has to do with motherhood. It seems as much as I remember what it was like being a kid, I “remember” what it was like for my mom. I’ve never noticed, but maybe those people who are so good with kids are the ones who don’t have them themselves. Or maybe they do, but all their dinnerware matches. Maybe a few hundred doses of, “No fair! Why does she get to have the cool spoon?” would tame that empathy, and that person would be dangling the cool spoon over the garbage can until the whining stopped.

If I do decide to dispatch the cool spoon, I won’t be dangling it over the garbage can in front of the kids. That would be torture, and I have at least enough empathy not to put my children through that. No, if I decide I can’t take it any more, I’ll dispose of it under cover of darkness and feign ignorance the next morning.

Of course, knowing my kids someone will decide he or she has the “cool cup” and they’ll all be at it again.

Published March 22, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

So, Utah has a professional basketball team. I don’t know if you realized. They’re called the Jazz. They wear blue and play their games in the Energy Solutions Arena (sponsor Energy Solutions: Send Your Nuclear Waste to Utah! We Have Room!). I know all of this because this past Tuesday I sat in this very arena and watched the Jazz beat the Washington Wizards, 103 to 88.

I know what you’re thinking. Utah has a basketball team and it’s not called The Apostles? I kid. You’re wondering what a confirmed geek like Sarah Clark was going at a Jazz game. (I KNOW!) The answer is simpler than the apocalyptic scenarios you’re imagining. The tickets were given to my husband by his boss, and I am very cheap. Our usual Tuesday night date costs us a whopping $2, and free is smaller than 2, so there you go.

I entered the event with more than a little bit of trepidation. I, Sarah Clark, who cares less about professional sports than anyone I know, including dead people, was going to sit amongst thousands of screaming fans and pretend I belonged there. I might as well have been a backwoods hillbilly at a country club cotillion. I decided to chalk it up to a learning experience, and learn I did!

For instance, I learned professional sports games are all about mob mentality. The Jazz score? Everyone screams, “Yeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” Other guys score? Everyone says, “Awwwwwwwwwwwww.” Ref calls a foul in our favor? “Yeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” Other team’s favor? “Booooooooooooooo!” This was very helpful for me at the beginning of the game when I realized, to my great consternation, both teams were wearing similar colors and I had no idea which were the Jazz. I know there’s some rule about jerseys and home vs. away games, but I can’t be expected to know that. (See above: Things I care about even less than dead people do.)

It makes some amount of sense for fans to shout at the teams and refs en masse. It made for an exciting game and might have encouraged the players to work harder (and the refs to leave in armored vehicles). What I couldn’t understand were the people in the nosebleed section shouting instructions to individual players 35,000 feet below them. I do understand that people shout at players from their living rooms with absolutely no chance the player will hear, so I give the woman with the banshee yell in section 128 credit for actually purchasing a ticket for her shouts to go unheard.

The fervor of fans is helped along by the people in charge of the game. There are all sorts of shouts, songs, and clap cadences every fan is supposed to know. For a newbie like me, this was intimidating! Throughout the game, at seemingly random intervals, an organ played a two note sequence over and over and fans shouted some two syllable word along with it. We were at a loss. Were they saying, “Reflex?” “Deflect?” “Defense?” We finally settled on Aflac and shouted it merrily for the rest of the game.

Shouting the name of a commercial company makes sense, because in professional sports, everything is sponsored. Throughout the game, an LED display kept us informed of the many companies wishing to have their names on this piece of history. It was nice to see that Workers Compensation Fund of Utah was a game sponsor. They sponsored my knee surgery, which I hear was a very lively event.

A few other points of interest: During every time out, while people all across America are watching instant replays and listening to boring commentators, Jazz fans are dancing in the aisles like crazy people for a chance at free fast food. While players are concentrated on one end of the court, an amazingly energetic little man is running a Swiffer across the other end. No matter how confirmed a person is in her geekdom, she will be swept away in the excitement of the crowd and begin screaming like a lunatic just like everyone else.

In my defense, I was screaming for the Swiffer guy, but still…

Published February 1, 2009
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

A few years ago, I wrote a column about my inner struggle over letting my kids take over the task of doing their own laundry. Hearing from an instructor in the parenting class I was attending that kids can be responsible for their own laundry at the tender age of 7, I entered in to an epic battle between Rationality, the part of me that wants my kids to learn and grow, and Emotion, the much larger part of me that wants them to stay young forever.

As battles go, it was pretty exciting. My rational brain, swords at the ready, charged with a cry of, “They have to learn sometime!” My emotional brain responded with a deadly volley of flaming arrows and a barely intelligible shriek of, “But they’re just BABIES! And I’m the MOM! It’s my job because I’m the MOM!” Suffering heavy casualties, Rationality retreated to some remote portion of my left brain and the laundry continued as it had in years previous.

Last week, my kids started doing the laundry on their own.

You’re hoping that over the course of three years Rationality regrouped, recruited Sense and Pragmatism, and made an alliance with True Parental Love to defeat Emotion in the rematch of the century, aren’t you? I’m sorry to say it wasn’t like that at all. Apparently, Emotion was no match for post knee surgery Desperation. Flaming arrows are to Emotion as nuclear warheads are to Desperation. It wasn’t a very long fight.

It’s interesting to me to realize that it took a complete inability for me to walk to finally let go and allow (force) my kids to have the opportunity (drudgery) of doing their own laundry. When you think about it, it’s not really that hard a job. You put the laundry into a machine and push some buttons. You move it into another and push more buttons. You fold it and you put it away. (Or you fold it and it sits in baskets until the next laundry day…What? That’s not what you do?)

Of course, after some initial resistance, the kids did a great job and their second round of laundry this week was even better. Watching my eight year old skip out of the laundry room after pulling her load from the dryer, a smile of triumph and confidence on her face, has done wonders for Rationality, which gets stronger every day. It seems that even when the need for Desperation has passed, the laundry will continue as a full family effort.

This is not to say Emotion is completely gone. It’s nursing its wounds in some right brain dive, muttering things like, “But I just want to feel needed,” while its new buddy, Control Freak, cut down by surprise in the crossfire, mutters, “I just wanted to make sure it was done right.” Every now and then, they’re joined by Inner Child, crying a timid little, “I had to do my laundry as a kid and it still hurts.”

They’re all much more bitter than their counterpart, Hero Complex, which is happily washing the dishes.

Published September 21, 2008
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Today, I’d like to address the girls of America. Parents and grandparents, if you have a girl in your home between the ages of 8 and 18, please bring her to the newspaper. You can (and should) read this column too, but it is absolutely imperative that your daughters and granddaughters take the time to learn what I have to teach them. Why are you still reading? Go! Go! Get those girls!

Hi girls. How’s it going? Thanks for setting down your cell phones and iPods for a few minutes to hear what I have to say. I think it’s really important, and despite my status as old and out of touch, I think you’ll agree by the end of this column that my advice is “tight” and “sick.” Frankly, it’s thebomb.com/yourmom, if you know what I mean.

Girls, there are probably many people in your life who are encouraging you to continue with your education when you graduate from high school. These are smart people. They know you and love you and have your best interests at heart. Listen to these people. Go to college! Stay in college! Don’t quit! Get your degree!

You’re probably wondering why I’ve roused you from your myspace bulletins and music downloads just to reiterate what you’ve already heard many times. Well, girls, I am a statistic. I jumped into college right out of high school, full of dreams of my future as a music therapist. One semester later, I moved to Utah, started a family, and my education took a 12-year back seat to the demands of raising children.

Now, all those years later, I’ve been back in school for over a year and I’m again pursuing a degree. What’s the big deal with that, you ask? It’s the difference between a brain fresh from the demands of high school and a brain slowly eaten away by years of unfortunate exposure to the “Goofy Goober” song on Spongebob. It’s the difference between having all the time in the world and having to pencil in time to have a mini-breakdown between parenting, homework, housework, work work, and your daily “good cry.”

Let me put it this way: It’s the difference between having a cute study partner who helps you understand altruistic behavior in primates and having a three year old study partner who greatly resembles a primate with the screeching and the jumping and the hopping in your lap (all while you’re trying to take your first online test in Geography).

At 18, I never would have looked down at my notebook to see, “Why do we reconstruct phylogenies? Phylogeny is the Mater for identification and classification of the Lightning McQueen (called ka-chow).” While you may end up with an annoying roommate who watches Disney movies while you’re trying to study, chances are you won’t have to pay anyone to watch that person if you need to get away. And that person probably won’t interrupt your note-taking with, “Moooom! The DVD’s not working. Moooom! I want lunch! Mooooooooom! Let’s go to the park!”

I’m not making any judgments about when you get married or when you have children or whether or not either coincides with your schooling. I’m just saying I want you to go…when you’re young…and finish…while you’re young. Don’t be like me. Don’t put it off until you find yourself frantically reading your Ethics paper while combing your daughter’s hair, stirring dinner, and tracking down a missing turtle. It’s not the way college is supposed to be.

I know I’m taking that age old stance of “Do as I say, not as I did.” Sometimes, you have to learn from the mistakes of others. I’m like the lung cancer sufferer who tells kids not to smoke…or the quadriplegic who warns kids to wear their seatbelts. I’m a cautionary tale, ladies. I AM AN AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL! Do you want to end up an after school special? I didn’t think so.

Thank you for your time. I’m going to get back to studying how the systematics of the Simba differ from the taxonomy of the Ariel.

Published July 13, 2008
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Today, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to tell you a story of daring and heroism, a story that will surely earn me a medal of some kind from the Audubon society. I, Sarah Clark, mild mannered newspaper columnist, saved an innocent, defenseless bird from certain death in the jaws of a terrifyingly cruel monster the likes of which no weak-willed individual could ever contend.

My cat, Isis… She’s cute. She’s fluffy. She’s cuddly. She’s a heartless carnivore.

When I saw the poor bird in the clutches of this furry villain, I leaped into action. Isis had dispatched another bird in our basement a week before, and I had been left to plug my ears and sing, “The Circle of Life” at the top of my lungs while she finished the job. I had no desire to repeat the horror of that experience. I lunged at her each time she dropped the shaken, but otherwise unharmed bird, only to have her snatch it back up and zip out of the room each time.

Getting smart about things, I closed off her exits and waited for my chance. Seeing her let go of the bird for a split second, I flew at the elusive cat, clamping my hands around her body while she fought to be free. I tossed her unceremoniously into my bedroom and slammed the door with a lusty, “NOT ON MY WATCH!” then opened a window and ushered the frightened bird outside to tell the tale to his birdie friends. It was when I went to release the beast from her makeshift dungeon that I realized my bedroom door was locked from the inside.

So, I’m standing outside my bedroom door, completely naked. Wait…did I forget to mention I was naked? I had been preparing to shower when the endangered bird caught my eye. (You’re all going to go back and reread the previous paragraphs in a new way, aren’t you? I’m deeply sorry for the visual.)

So, anyway, I’m standing outside my bedroom door, naked as the bird I just rescued, weighing my options. I have two brothers-in-law living nearby who can help me get this door open. I have no clothes. There are two able bodied men out there who know this house inside and out and have probably unlocked this door at least once. I have no clothes.

My situation became quite clear. I needed to leave for work in two hours and all of my clothes (and one very irritated cat) were on the other side of a locked door. Short of calling my husband away from his desk at work, I had no option but to take a good, hard look at the door and figure it out myself (my naked self…in case you had forgotten).

A girly hairpin to the rescue! After examining the knob, skulking nakedly around the house in a fruitless search for a mini screwdriver set, I found a sparkly hairpin I had worn the day before. Thank you, Bad Habit of Leaving Stuff Lying Around. (What a day to actually put my clothes in the hamper, right?) After a few unsuccessful tries, I managed to open the door with the kind of leap of triumph one should never attempt while bereft of clothing.

A blurry ball of fur rocketed out of the doorway in search of her lost prey. I watched her efforts, wondering if she would harbor bad feelings for awhile, but I was gratified to see her turn away from her search to rub against my legs, purring contentedly. Was she merely kissing up in hopes that I would share some of the bird I had no doubt stashed somewhere in the house? Probably. Will I choose to remember it as a sign of affection and gratitude for saving her from herself? Absolutely.

Hey, a medal would be nice, but delusion lasts forever.

Published March 2, 2008
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Much of what we do in life happens on an annual schedule. Christmas comes once a year. So do Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Easter. Every twelve months we do the spring cleaning and pay the property taxes. For women, there is another event that occurs on a 12 months schedule...that wonderful trip to the kind of doctor I'm actually too skittish to even name in this column. I had my annual appointment this week, after a long, 16 months since my last one.

I guess my year runs a little long. I have no proof of this, but I'm willing to bet that's the way it is for most women. On an unpleasantness scale in which one represents an experience that is entirely pleasant and ten represents something terribly unpleasant, the yearly visit to the "woman doctor" rates about an 87. If I had to make a list of the things I'd rather do than attend this appointment, I'd put dental work, traffic court, and my own funeral at the top of the list.

To be fair, it's not all unpleasantness. The waiting room is decidedly non-embarrassing, with its muted colors and cheery receptionists. They pipe in soft, meditative music to lull you into a fully clothed sense of security. And then there are the pregnant women and babies everywhere. There is nothing more non-threatening than a pregnant woman or a newborn.

And then they call you back. And then they put on a scale. I don't want to talk about it.

When you make it into your exam room, you're told unceremoniously that you must take everything off for your examination. In some strange act of momentary kindness, they tell you that you can keep your socks on if you want to. That's nice. You've just told me you want me to get naked as a jaybird, but I can keep my toes covered in case I'm modest about such things... (Says the columnist, as if she doesn't always consider keeping her socks on "for the principle of the thing.")

Disrobing in a doctor's office is an interesting experience. You want to see a quick change artist? Well, don't try to do it in a doctor's office, because we women change too quickly for any normal human to catch it. Every second of the 30 seconds it takes me to go from groomed to gowned, finds my eye fixed firmly on the door, as if by the power of my gaze alone I can keep it from opening at an inopportune moment. I hold onto as much clothing as I will need in the event of a duck and cover and then for one terrifying moment, I drop the clothes and dive into a paper gown (open in the front for maximum humiliation) and take my place on the exam table under a paper blanket.

This is probably the most comical moment of the whole process. Flies on walls (if doctor's offices have such things) must have a good chuckle as women try in vain to keep their bottom halves covered with the blanket and their top halves covered with the gown when doing either cancels out the other. Somehow, every woman finds a modest solution...just as the doctor walks through the door. At that point, it hits you that the desire for some semblance of decency is naive, to say the least.

The only thing I can really say about the exam itself is that it's amazing how interesting ceilings can be when you're trying not to focus on what's going on underneath them. These ceilings could have been painted by Michelangelo himself, so rapt are women by their every detail. I enjoy discovering new constellations among the holes in the ceiling tiles. This time, I found one I'm calling "Mammogramas."

By the time you're on a first name basis with the ceiling insulation, the kindly doctor pronounces you done and you're given a one year reprieve from any more embarrassing moments like these. If you're like me, you get the "Now, make sure you schedule your next appointment for 12 months instead of 16" lecture. It's the fact that I know she's 100% right to scold me that makes me nod my head in agreement. It's the fact that scheduling that appointment makes me remember...ahem...that appointment that keeps me putting it off.

Truth be told, I actually spent much of this experience with surreptitious smile on my face, as I thought of the silly column I could write and the money I could make. In a situation like that, you thank the heavens for any reason to smile. Of course, that doesn't mean I want to spend the rest of my life thinking about it, so I'll thank my readers not to mention it. Actually, I plan on completely forgetting the existence of this column and the appointment that inspired it by the time I finish this sentence.

Now, if I could just figure out why I'm only wearing socks...

Published January 27, 2008
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Sometimes a column idea comes to me out of nowhere. Sometimes, I have a little help from the world around me. I see a word on a billboard or hear a conversation in a store. Sometimes, however, when no ideas are forthcoming, I find my subjects on the national stage.

Being without a TV to keep up to me up to date on pop culture and current events, I've had to turn to the internet for such things. A quick search of today's headlines yielded a plethora of results. "Study: Bypass better than stents." "The next banking crisis on the way." "Finances made easy." "Cow pronounced dead survives fire." "Stocks storm back."

I looked over those possibilities and thought, boring, bland, not funny, whaaaaa? Cow pronounced dead survives fire? Miracle on the farm? Divine intervention leads to bovine resurrection?

Here's what I'd like to know. Who is it that actually pronounces a cow dead? Is there some emergency vet solemnly stopping his stoic attempts at CPR, turning to an equally solemn veterinary assistant, saying, "Time of death: 5:32 pm. Time of barbecue: 6:00 pm."

So many questions arise from a headline like that. How long did they think the cow was dead? Was there a vigil involved. How did they realize she was alive? Did she just open her eyes and say, "You know...I feel better! I think I'll go for a walk!" Did they leave in search of seasoning and come back to find her gone? Is the cow now considered the "undead," and should we all be guarding our necks.

Apparently, there's video footage of the the cow in question that would shed more light on what happened and why. In fact, the only way to learn more about this incident is to watch the video. Unfortunately for me, I have dialup internet (I know!), so online videos are not really available to me. I'm assuming it's just a news report...perhaps an interview with the supercow.

"So, how does it feel to be the first cow in recorded history to come back from the dead?"

"Moo."

"Wow...just...wow."

Of course, if it's not a news report, the PETA people are going to be all over it. Can you imagine? "No animals were harmed during the shooting of this video...except the cow, but it's all right. She's back, so killing her doesn't count."

Whatever the actual story, somewhere in the world there is a cow enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame and a few humans feeling mighty stupid for doubting her ability to survive. At some point, I may log on to someone else's computer and watch the video to see just how such a thing happened. If it's interesting enough, I may organize a pilgrimage to visit the hereford chosen one.

I'll bring the steak sauce. You bring the grill.

Published December 23, 2007
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

My oldest child turned 11 on Friday, and I participated in that age old tradition of motherhood by facing the day with a very loud, "WHAT?" It seems cliche because it's true, but I really do not know where the time has gone.

Except that I do.

Every mother in the world could tell every young person in the world to live life to the fullest because time moves fast, and before you know it, your oldest child is turning 11. The problem with this advice is that for young people, time doesn't move fast at all, so warnings fall on understandably deaf ears.

Long before my only became my older became my oldest, I have pondered on this disparity of age and time. Why does time move slowly for children and quickly for adults? What occurs that produces this change? Where, in fact, does the time go?

Santa took it.

That's right, folks. I am making the accusation of my own free will and in full awareness that this may create mass panic in the community. That jolly old soul with the rosy cheeks and the flying sleigh is the culprit behind this time/age phenomenon. He comes to our houses, wiggles down chimneys, leaves presents, and takes our time.

Think about it. The man manages to produce toys for every child in the world with a production schedule of just 364 days. He delivers said toys to all the children in the world in ONE NIGHT. Clearly, Santa has some kind of power over the space/time continuum. No one without that power (who isn't a mother...*badum ching*) could get all of that done. And really, he's old, but have you ever known Santa to age? I think not.

The twist is that while Santa's taking our time, he is clearly NOT taking the time of our children, and therein lies the answer to the problem. When you're a child, you believe in Santa and time moves on its leisurely course, cutting a lazy path through life like a river made of caramel. Once you stop believing, time whips past you like a bullet train (Polar Express, anyone?)

You might consider this an act of revenge on Santa's part. After all, I'd be pretty miffed if I brought you presents every year and then you doubted my very existence. Of course, we all know Santa's not the type to look to revenge. The time loss is more of a natural consequence to a very unfortunate choice. People who don't have time for fantasy and fairy tales and a little bit of whimsy simply don't have time at all.

While wasted years of unbelief can never be reclaimed, you can make a change now that will see you through the rest of your life. It's time to slow down the train and take a ride on the lazy river. In other words, it's time to start believing again. In years past, Santa gave me a music box, a pogo ball, and a pair of roller skates. This year, I give Santa my belief. The cool thing is that it's all I have to give him to get my time back.

Of course, I'll be adding a cheesecake to the cookies this year...just in case.

Published October 7, 2006
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

I often like to say I don't believe in soulmates, but I do believe in kindred spirits, and I met one such spirit in the grocery store the other day. As this teenaged boy scanned my purchases, I asked him the meaning of a small medallion he was wearing around his neck. He said it represented the three faces of the Goddess: the maiden, the mother, and the crone. I sighed a wistful sigh, smiled at him, and said, "I think if we were the same age, you would have been one of my friends in high school."

I have no idea if he took that as a compliment. He chuckled and smiled, but I think they train them to do that there. If you're wondering how I came to the conclusion I did, I'll tell you exactly what kind of person would have been my friend in high school.

-If you would be tempted to name your cat after an ancient Greek mathematician or any character from Star Wars, Star Trek, or Lord of the Rings, you would have been my friend in high school.

-If your idea of a good time is sitting around discussing your favorite words or doing online research to find out just how many digits are in the largest known prime number (in the vicinity of 15.9 MILLION, by the way), you would have been my friend in high school.

-If you ever had trouble distinguishing your Dungeons and Dragons identity from your actual identity, you would have been my friend in high school.

Now, I hear you all screaming in unison: NERD! I must disagree. I am not, nor have I ever been a nerd. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being a nerd. It's just that if you shout, "Hey NERD!" in a crowd, I will not look up from my scientific calculator/book of Transcendentalist poetry (whichever the occasion demands) and answer you, because I am not, nor will I ever be a nerd.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a GEEK!

In case you're unaware of the subtle differences, or you ate your lunch with the cheerleaders and the jocks, a geek is not a nerd. A geek is cut from the same intellectual cloth, certainly, but a geek is a few more steps along in the evolution of high school popularity. In other words, nerd is to Australopithecus as geek is to Cro-Magnon Man. (Of course, being a Christian geek, I'm still not sure I believe all of that).

To put it in layman's terms, a geek is a nerd with contact lenses. A geek is a nerd with some understanding of fashion and style (not much, but some). A geek is a nerd with a sense of humor and a desire to enter the outside world every now and then. A geek is a nerd who is always on the verge of "crossing over" and becoming a popular kid (albeit smart), but who would rather bask in his unabashed geekiness than sell out.

These days, I am choosing to spend as much time as possible embracing my inner geek. My name is Sarah Wilson. I am a geek, and I'm proud. So please, don't ever call me a nerd. For that matter, I'd also rather not be called a dweeb, a dork, or an egghead. Freak, however, is fine.

After all, a freak is just a geek who's found a way to entertain the masses with her geekiness and get paid for it.

Published September 30, 2006
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Being a single mom on a tight budget, I've found that after paying for essentials there isn't much money left for fun. In the event of a surprise, like car repairs or doctor visits, the monthly entertainment budget is the first to be sacrificed on the altar of fiscal responsibility.

So what's a mom of five kids in need of fun to do? Well, she's got to get creative, that's what! For my own mother, the answer was found in a game called, "Let's see where THIS road goes!!!" which basically amounted to her packing my siblings and me into the minivan and getting lost on country roads...with lots of scary hills...in the dark. My sister, Gina, to this day, is not amused.

It seems I've found my answer a little closer to home. On any given evening, you will find the six of us in the front room, CD player blasting showtunes while we dance around in unbridled enthusiasm. If you've never had the opportunity to dance with kids, I suggest you try it, post haste. There's just nothing like letting go of your inhibitions and cutting a rug with a bunch of giggling, rugrats.

And when I say "unbridled enthusiasm," I mean complete, unabashed twirling, jumping, and flailing. Yes, I said flailing. You haven't danced until you've flailed around in total disregard of the rules of propriety and the laws of physics. We Wilsons are nothing if not exuberant...and in our exuberance, we'll all arms and ninja kicks.

Since instituting these nightly fits of frolic, I've noticed a remarkable thing. I have lost 8 pounds. It seems dancing around like a maniac worthy of a mental institution is an excellent aerobic activity! I guess it helps that when I dance with my kids, I break out all the tricky moves no fat woman should ever do. It's not pretty, but it's working!

This is good news for me, as my usual mode of exercise, my trusty treadmill, was rendered inoperable when a certain child who will remain nameless (Catherine Mae Wilson) decided to take the treadmill key on a field trip from which it has never returned. I was on the verge of charging her the $40 it will cost to replace it and taking it out of her birthday earnings for the next few years, but I'm so excited by the number on the scale that all I really want to say is, "Darling Cate...may I have the next dance?"

At some point, I'm going to realize that the Dance Like No One's Watching Workout is an idea ready to be pitched, marketed, and mass produced to moms everywhere. There'd be the book, workout video, and a special CD box set of all my favorite "move your flab" songs... If I play my cards right, I might never have to sacrifice my entertainment budget again!

Of course, if it means I stop dancing...I'd rather be poor.