The Mother Load

Published February 20, 2005
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Today is a day that will go down in history as a day of mighty triumph for me. I am no longer Sarah Wilson, mild mannered wife and mother. I am Sarah, conqueror of the waterbed! If you're feeling adventurous and are willing to sign a waiver absolving The Spectrum of any liability, I'll tell you the harrowing tale.


The waterbed in my master bedroom knew its days were numbered. Years of maintenance and thankless drudgery were at an end as I approached with an arrogant swagger and an uncommon temerity.

"Do you feel lucky, punk?" I asked. The bed just stared back in cool defiance. Just try, it seemed to reply. Something in that bed knew my husband wasn't home to help. But that bed didn't know me well enough. When there's a job to be done, I'm 40% impatient urgency, 60% stubborn spunk, heavy on the stubborn.

Throwing back my head in a laugh of evil delight, I wrestled a hose into the spout of the mattress and threw open the faucet in my laundry room sink. Nothing... I readjusted the hose, checked the connections, and again turned on the water. Again, nothing.

Somewhere in the murky depths inside that mattress, I heard a snicker. Surveying my hose, with it's brand name of "Cheap" prominently displayed, I saw a long row of tight kinks. Blast those infernal kinks!

I descended upon the home of my unsuspecting neighbor.

"My kingdom for a hose!" I cried. They quickly produced one, eager to rid their home of this crazy woman. With the new hose in my arsenal, I knew victory would be mine, and the cocky mattress was dispensed with quickly and methodically.

I fought a few more minor battles before the deed was done. I had to enlist my young children in the task of moving the new, king sized mattress into my room ("One...two...three...PUSH!") only to learn it didn't fit within the waterbed frame. Dismantling the frame took longer than planned because of an insurgency of stubborn screws, but with the Power Drill of Destiny, I claimed victory.

It probably would have been easier to wait until this weekend to tackle the bed with the aid of my husband's strength and know how. However, had I done that, I would not have the story to tell, and I would have lived out the rest of my life without ever knowing my full, bed conquering potential. Aaron, on the other hand, gets this opportunity all the time.

For instance, tomorrow morning will be quite character building for him when he discovers the deflated mattress in the shower.

Published January 22, 2005
St. George Spectrum & Daily News
My oldest child turned eight just before Christmas. Aside from feeling much more elderly than I should, I think I'm handling having an eight year old really well...or I was, up until the moment a woman at church handed me a rectangular package, disingenuously wrapped in bright Christmas paper.

What could it be? Chocolate? A small jewelry box? A million dollars? Alas, the trickster in the pretty dress had something else in mind. Under the deceptive wrapping was revealed a kit containing a block of pine, four wheels, axels, and numbered stickers. What kind of Christmas present was this??

And then it hit me like a model car flying off a homemade racetrack...my son is a Cub Scout.

A Cub Scout? Ray? How can this be? He was in preschool, like, yesterday. He can't possibly be ready to be a scout! Scouts sleep in the woods and light fires and eat bugs. I'm not ready to have a woods-sleeping, fire-lighting, bug-eating scout in the house!

Obviously, I'm coming into this from a difficult space, ie., womanhood. Having never been a scout, I'm just a little bit scared. I was one of four girls. I don't know nothing 'bout raisin' no scout!

I did have a brother, but a four year age difference and a healthy dose of sibling rivalry kept me from paying too much attention to his scouting activities. I do remember him being turned upside down in front of a large group of people once, but I just assumed that was the universe finally giving him the humiliation he so rightfully deserved.

Of course, I should remember that I'm not alone in the scout raising. My husband, through diligence and hard work (and parents who wouldn't let him get his driver's license until he did it) achieved the Eagle Scout level in the Boy Scouts. That's right, he's a bug eater too...a Boy Scout through and through.

This fact became apparent tonight as he, ahem, "helped" Ray carve and put together the pinewood derby car from the box. I've never seen man so obsessed with a piece of wood and four wheels before. After the official Derby's Eve weigh in, it was obvious my husband was not alone. I'm not sure I want to know how competitive they'll all be when the actual race begins
 
Thinking about this development more rationally, I know I'll probably make it through the next eight years of merit badges and campouts (and the eight years after that, while Michael is a scout). After all, I've got a husband to help with the really tough stuff. I've got it pretty easy! Just a little bit of sewing...yeah...sewing...


Aw, dang.

Published October 9, 2004
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

This winter, I will have lived in Utah for the past nine years. As many know, I count myself a Texan, through and through. The truth? I only lived in Texas for five years.

Considering the facts, I guess I should be calling myself a Utahn now. There are worse things in life. Utahns are renowned for their friendliness, work ethic, and their flair for landscaping. Unfortunately, Utahns are also known for something with which I can never align.

Utahns are terrible, awful, very bad tippers.

To be fair, I'm not saying that all Utahns are the worst tippers in the world. But, it is a fact, according to the U.S. Department of Labor, that servers in restaurants in Utah make an average of $1300 less per year than their counterparts in other states, and much of that discrepancy can be traced directly to tips.

Utah, I ask you, WHY? Why would you want to go down in history as a state full of bad tippers? I know you pride yourselves on being a peculiar people, but really, there are other ways of doing that. We' ve got Osmonds! We've got the birthrate! We've got green jello in the bag! Leave bad tipping to someone else!

 In my quest to learn the reason for this low tip phenomenon, I came across a few, ahem, interesting justifications. Some restaurant patrons feel the onus is on the restaurant owner to pay servers a decent wage, so they don't have to "subsidize" that income. Give me a break!

This is how it works. You eat in a restaurant...you leave a tip. Every time I pass a table vacated by a party of 8 and see a measly couple of bucks left for the server, I can't help but subsidize YOUR lousy tip with a few bucks of my own. I've got a family to feed! Have a heart!

Other bad tippers take a religious exemption. Declaring they won't pay a server more than they pay the Lord, many Utahns pay a "tithing tip" of ten percent. I can almost understand this one, being a tithe payer myself. And then I realize that I pay 20% of my income in rent, close to 40% of my income in various taxes, and 12% of my income on insurance. Not to speak for Him, but I don't think the Lord feels shafted. Render unto God what is God's. Render unto your server what is your server's (in other words, no less than 15-20% of the bill).

Still other tip skippers use a lack of good service as their rationalization for stiffing hardworking servers. I've had bad service in Utah restaurants, so I know it exists. But come on, folks! "The server used the word 'guys' when addressing us," is NOT bad service. It's Southern Utah. If you want to be referred to as "Sir and Madam," go to New York. While you're here, get over it and pony up.

Finally, a word on buffets: Buffet servers are paid $2.15 per hour. That's the exact same wage servers are paid in full service restaurants. If you think buffet servers, who refill your drinks, bus your table, and bring you a never ending supply of clean plates, are not worthy of a full tip, may your food rot in your stomach and cause debilitating gas for the rest of your bad tipping days.

At least then, the server will know you're not going to tip and she'll serve you accordingly.

Published May 22, 2004
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

Every now and then, I use my column as an opportunity for self-improvement by confessing to a personality trait of which I'm not completely proud. This is one of those columns. It won't be easy, but I've got to do what I've got to do. Here goes.....

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a know-it-all.

I say know-it-all, though I know very well that I don't know it ALL. Who could? I'm just secure in the knowledge I do have and am willing to debate it and back it up. I really wish the expression were more like, "know a lot about a few, particular subjects." It would take the edge off, anyway.

The negative connotation behind the figure of speech really has more to do with the attitude of the knowledgeable person than the actual knowledge. No one likes to be contradicted, given unsolicited advice, or made to look intellectually inferior. As a reformed contradictory, superior, advice giver, I've learned this to be all too true. And as the daughter of a know-it-all, I realized I already knew that, anyway (Sorry mom, but we're one of a kind).

The good news is that I've found a place where my knowledge can be given freely and appreciated, for the most part. Southern Utah, the internet is a know-it-all's dream come true.

Just tonight, I held court at my favorite bulletin boards, handing out such tidbits of wisdom as the use of papaya for heartburn relief, a few midwives' tricks for lowering blood pressure, food sources of absorbable iron, and my thoughts on when induction of labor is really necessary. People were blessed with my knowledge, and I got a much needed know-it-all fix.

Lest you think my advice unsolicited, I will say that all my facts were given in response to pleas for exactly that advice. I used phrases like, "in my experience," and, "for me," so as to appear as, uh, unsuperior as possible. I did contradict someone on a thread about ginger use in pregnancy, but blatant ignorance just can't be ignored!

The great thing about the internet is that it's not just a place for me to share my knowledge, but to gain knowledge, as well. So even though I don't actually know it "all," with a few clicks on my mouse, I can "know-it-more and more and more!" And with a wealth of people seeking all sorts of advice, I can type away to my heart's content as if I knew it all along.

After rereading this column, I'm realizing I seem more proud of my know-it-all status than repentant. I don't think I've improved myself at all. Now I feel really bad! Something must be done!

Next week's topic: Living in my sins and loving them too much.