The Mother Load

Published January 29, 2006
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

The other night, I decided to make one of my favorite meals from my childhood. It's nothing fancy, would never be referred to as gourmet, but it's comfort food for me. Just ground beef, brown gravy, and a bed of egg noodles, and I'm in home cooked heaven.

My children, unfortunately, weren't as sure. As I served my lovely, steaming creation, they eyed their plates suspiciously. Ray poked his noodles with his fork, as if afraid to wake the sleeping monster within. Miriam wrinkled her nose in her best little girl fashion. Evelyn asked what else there was to eat.
Doing my best to keep my voice light and happy, I told them all about my >childhood memories of this meal. I explained how their grandmother used to make this for me, how much I loved it, how good it tastes, and how I knew they would come to love it too. Like a cheerleader at a high school pep ally, I waved my metaphorical pom poms and practically sang, "I love noodles, yes I do! I love noodles, how 'bout YOU?"

And that's where I lost them. What I'm learning about kids, at least my kids, is that the more I build something up, the more likely they are to decide it's not worth their time at all. If my introduction goes over 15 seconds, they're bound to get smug, "The lady doth protest too much," looks on their faces and snap their mouths shut in protest.

I can certainly understand their logic, but I'm really not trying to pull a fast one at the dinner table. I genuinely like beef and noodles, and I'm sure they'd like it too, if they'd just give it a try. And my kids aren't picky eaters by any stretch of the imagination. They devour salad and beg or spinach juice and think broccoli's the best thing since cauliflower. That's why it's always such a shock when they refuse to try something >completely normal like beef and noodles.

What I'm trying to remember is that I was that kid too. I'm sure my mother >genuinely likes shrimp creole, eggplant parmesan, and granola (blech!). I'm sure she could do everything short of a three ring circus and skywriting to try and convince me I'd love them too. But if she put a plate of any of those in front of me, I'd wrinkle my nose and snap my mouth shut in protest.

I won't stop trying to get my kids to try new cuisine, but I do think I'll change the method of delivery. Instead of touting all the wonderful >qualities of a new dinner I make, I think I'll try telling them it's the most disgusting thing they'll ever taste, and I don't think any of them is brave enough to try it.

And if they fall for that, I've got a few fences they can paint too.

Published July 23, 2005
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

I'm sure you're all sick of my whining about the summer temperatures. Let me offer my apologies and an explanation. I have just been diagnosed by a mental health expert on a reputable website called askaquack.com with Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder.


If you're familiar with Seasonal Affective Disorder (or SAD, its eerily appropriate acronym), you'll know that it is a form of depression that presents itself in the winter months and is thought to be caused by the lack of sunlight and its effect on the hypothalamus. Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder, which occurs in 1/10th of all cases of SAD, is depression which finds its onset in the summer months.

Not to impugn the reputation of askaquack.com, but I'm not sure I agree with their diagnosis. Summer makes me feel sad, cranky, annoyed, and hopeless, but it wasn't always this way. When I lived in Kingsville, TX, where the humidity made every day a wet t-shirt contest and hot winds blew strong enough to give Hurricane a run for its money, I managed to keep on a happy face. In Del Rio, TX, desert temperatures often reached as high as 115, and still I noticed no measurable change in my cheerful mood.

The problem seems to have begun when I moved to the great state of Utah, and the city of St. George in particular. It seems I have a version of SAD that is, as yet, undiagnosed. I'm on the cutting edge of mental health exploration, and I didn't even know it!

I thought about calling my ailment Utah Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder (URSAD), but the acronym seemed a bit accusatory. So, I changed it to InterMountain Seasonal Affective Disorder (IMSAD) as it summed up my own feelings rather well. Then I realized that seemed exclusionary, and since many others are feeling the same way, I changed it again to Utah State Reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder (USRSAD), but of course, the atrocious use of grammar kept me from using that.
 
When I really got down to thinking about it, I realized the state itself is not to blame as much as the practices of its people. Summer never caused a problem before because I lived in areas that understood the value of central air conditioning. When temps climbed, all I had to do was run from my air conditioned car to my air conditioned house, and life was good.


Here in Southern Utah, I'm subjected instead to the "energy efficient", "environmentally friendly," ultimately depressing invention called the Swamp Cooler, a machine that is purported to lower the temperature in my house as much as 20 degrees below the outside temperature. Yesterday, it was 115 degrees outside. You do the math!

This brings up a whole new list of possibilities for the name of my disease. How about No Air Conditioning Affective Disorder (NACAD)? Sounds too much like naked, which is what I'd like to be right now.

Swamp Cooler's INeffective Disorder (SCID) makes a lot of sense, as my cooler is thoroughly ineffective at cooling my house in the face of any humidity or triple digit temperatures. It might also be fun to tell people I live in the SCIDS.

I'm thinking I'll end up calling my disorder People Are Big Fat Liars And The Next Person Who Says A Swamp Cooler Works As Well As An Air Conditioner Will Get A Kick In The Head Disorder (PABFLATNPWSASCWAWAAACWGAKITHD). It's hard to pronounce, isn't clever at all, but I think it truly captures my suffering.

That, and I like the thought of my insurance company having to cover my kickboxing classes.

Published May 21, 2005
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

It's 2005.


I just thought I'd let you know.

Ten years ago, Braveheart swept the Oscars. Ten years ago, the blue M&M candy made its glorious, chocolaty debut. And ten years ago, I met, courted, and married the man I still consider the best thing the world has seen since, well, the blue M&M.

Being in my tenth year of marriage is my newest "goofy happy thing," I think. In fact, ever since our ninth anniversary, last October, I've been so excited to be in my tenth year of marriage that I have yet to actually utter the words, "We've been married nine years." I skipped year nine and went straight to, "We've been married nearly ten years," and called it good.

Even though I know marriage is a journey and not a destination, the whole ten year thing creates the distinct feeling of having "arrived." (Upon learning that the symbol for the tenth anniversary is tin, I'm feeling like we've arrived in Funkytown, but that's neither here nor there.

Looking over the past decade of matrimony, I'm happy to say we've done much of what I had planned for us. From blind, newlywed bless to young parenthood to the settled comfort of double digits, we've had almost all of the experiences and honored almost all of the traditions I could have hoped for.


Almost...

Sadly, one very important detail has been overlooked in our happy time together. In all these years, through all our experiences, Aaron and I still have not acquired "our song."

It's shocking and shameful, I know! Week in and week out, I hold our marriage up as an example of true happiness and bonded bliss, and now you know. We're frauds!

It's not for lack of trying either. We've been on the lookout (or would it be "hearout?") for the perfect song since the moment we met, but none has ever caused the visceral, bells-ringing/angels-singing/heavens-parting kind of clarity we always assumed would accompany the discovery of "our song."

Maybe I'm making this harder than it has to be. Maybe other couples just hear something over the radio and say, "Yeah...that one'll work." Maybe I've heard "our song" every other week for ten years and never recognized it because I was waiting for a burning bush or a couple of stone tablets to spell it out for me.


Either way, I am resolved that by midnight on our 10th anniversary Aaron and I will have found a song that is the perfect musical expression of the love we share for each other. We will gaze deeply into each other's eyes every time we hear it play, and we will dance to it at our 50th anniversary party and bring tears to the eyes of our posterity.

So far, I've narrowed it down to Destiny's Child's "Bootylicious" and "The Hokey Pokey" but I'm open for suggestions.