JUKI--THE WORD OF THE DAY

Tonight I was sending a text message to someone when this lovely piece of string was ever so gently lowered right in front of my phone screen. Yes, I screamed. And I threw my phone against the wall. (Luckily the phone still works.) This is what I typed as the screaming and throwing of the phone commenced: juki

This is the meaning of juki: What goes around, comes around and you will get yours later.

And this is what happened later:

The maker of the awesome string spider, Elizabeth, was standing in the hall when she noticed a real spider coming directly at her.

"Get it! Get it!" she said, "A spider, Dad, get it!"

"You get it," Phil said.

"No you get it," she said. She was getting a little hysterical by now.

Phil smacked the spider with a book. When he removed the book the dazed spider put on a burst of speed, closing the distance to Elizabeth.

"GET IT! GET IT!" She screamed. She has a fine pair of lungs. I was in the bedroom and my ears are still ringing.

Phil smacked the spider again. Now the spider had a drunken gait but his legs worked remarkably well.

"Getitgetitgetit. DAD, GET IT!"

He smacked it with the book again and this time it's wounds were critical. It either died or was in a leg-sticking-out-at-odd-angles coma.

Phil took the book and gently edged it under the oddly-leg-sticking-out maybe dead spider and tried to flick it at Elizabeth.

She went ballistic. Not that she wasn't before, but this time it was a real agitated, wildly, arm flinging fit.

He tried to flick it at her again and her eyes crossed, she called for me, just like when she was four and her siblings were teasing, "MO-O-O-O-O-O-O-M!

And then she ran in the bathroom and slammed the door, and that is why "juki" is my new favorite word.

REALLY?

1. Phil and I were in Costco late this afternoon. "Shouldn't we get a chicken?" he asked.

Getting a roasted chicken is the highlight of Phil's life. Well, almost. Getting a Costco chicken means I won't have to cook dinner so it's a win-win. So we got a chicken, and then we went into the fruit and veggies room. We had been in there maybe five seconds when he said, "Hurry!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, he said, with a worried look on his face, "my chicken is cooling off."

Really, Phil.


2. I was in the living room, talking on the phone with Hillary, tonight.

"Maddy (age 11) was going swimming with Bailey today," Hillary said. "A huge thunderstorm came up and Maddy came in the living room and threw herself on the couch in despair. Face down."

"Face down, Mom," she said. "What am I going to do with her?"

"You better watch her," I said. "You know what happened to Elizabeth when puberty hit?"

All during this conversation Elizabeth was downstairs, with the TV on. Obviously she has excellent eavesdropping capabilities.

"What?" she yelled. "What did I do?"

Then she got on the phone and said, "In my defense, I am sweet and lovely." Hillary and I were speechless. "Sweet and lovely," Elizabeth continued, "With bouts of naughtiness."

Really, Elizabeth, bouts of naughtiness?


3. One day when Liza (age 11) was here, she was sitting on the couch and had her feet up. The bottoms of her socks were so worn out you could see her feet through the weave.

"Liza," Hillary said, "nice socks."

"Thanks," Liza said, "They're breezy!"

Which sounds like a good thing to me. Somebody ought to market socks that way. Breezy socks. Really. Liza should get royalties. Really, she should.


4. Hillary told me that last night Maddy had a glass of water and a glass of milk at dinner. She took a drink of her milk, pulled a horrible face and said, "Ugh, milk. What a horrible surprise."

"What a horrible surprise," is now a by word in their house. I think that phrase can be used for lots of situations. It's kind of like the word "Interesting." Sometimes it means interesting and sometimes it means interesting! Know what I mean? I'm sure you have had some interesting things happen in your life, and so have I. Really.


5. Hillary and I continued talking. How we got on this subject I don't know.

"I hate the word 'beloved'", she said.

"You do? Even when it refers to Jesus?"

"Yes," she said, "and I hate the word 'gorgeous,' too."

Now that this is published on my blog, if any of her siblings read it--which is unlikely--they will have the perfect ammunition for getting her goat. They will probably tell her they think that one of the reasons Jesus was beloved was because he was gorgeous.

I hope this isn't sacrilegious, talking about Jesus this way. Really, I hope it isn't.


6. Which reminds me, Trent was always good at "getting people's goats." He probably still is, he has seven children to use as victims. When he was still living home, one day he was teasing one of the kids (I can't remember which one) Whoever it was came running to me, tattling.

"He's got your goat," I replied.

Whereupon the child turned around, marched back to Trent and yelled, "Give my goat back."

"He gets your goat all the time." I said. "He has a whole herd of them by now."

"Give them back!" the child yelled.

"Where will you keep them?" Trent asked. "A whole herd of goats is a lot to take care of."

"They can live in the back yard and eat grass," the child said.

Now one begins to wonder, did that child really think Trent had real goats? And then I wonder, no, I'm sure of it, they must take after Phil's side of the family.

Really.

DON'T EAT THE FUDGE

Elizabeth told me not to make any more fudge.

"Why not? I asked.

"Because I eat it."

THE LAST DAY OF THE THANKFUL MONTH

First of all, I know this is too long to read. I hope my kids will read it and if they do that will make me happy.

This is the day my very first baby was born--seven days late, I might add. I was so happy, so content, so new-motherish. Phil couldn't stop beaming. Trent was a wonderful baby, but not a cuddler--I think that's changed--he has seven kids, after all. He was always leaning back, looking at everything. He has never gotten over this habit. Everything fascinates him. When he was a teenager I had to tell him, "Go to bed and stop being interesting!" I blame him for my night owlish habits that got etched deep when he was a teen--but, don't tell--it sure was fun to be up late with him. He has the best heart--would do anything for anyone, and does volunteer work for the Sheriff's Department. When he leaves here, with a car full of kids, he always makes two circles in the cul-de-sac and the kids--and me too--love it. He is quirky as well as hard working. Everyone should be a little quirky and he does it well. He would go anywhere to help and has, even in the middle of the night. There seems to be a middle-of-the-night theme to his life.

Next--four years later--came Taylor, the cuddler. A fast delivery--forty-five minutes (Phil reminded me it was 20 minutes--it seemed like forty-five, times five) once we came through the hospital door, but seven days late. A chubby, happy baby. Then, at about year one he got sick, lost the chub and never put it back on. Well, until he worked in the bakery at a restaurant, when he was a teenager, and ate half a dozen rolls, hot out of the oven, slathered in butter, every morning. When he realized what was happening to his fit form he gave up the rolls for slimness. He is now a great cook and the things that boy cooks/bakes are divine. He asks us to Sunday dinner often, and we can hardly get there fast enough. Whenever his department (at BYU) has a cooking contest he takes first prize--every time. The last one was called, "I don't know what's in it but it sure tastes good." He reassures me when I am doubting and when I am worried. And the things that boy says! Totally off the wall. We're always laughing. His sister-in-law says he has "an excess of personality," and he does. He is quirky but tender too. Reads to his girls every night and then says and does things that keep his wife laughing--and shaking her head in disbelief.

Hillary, my first girl came 2 1/2 years later, two bloomin' weeks late. Her name means "happy" and it fits. Everyone loves her. She woke up happy, was happy all day and went to bed happy. I often tell her I think she is really Aunt Pat's child that got misdirected. (Aunt Pat was a total joy and I have moments of stoic grumpiness.) She has more friends than you could count and they all think they are her favorite--and they probably are. When she calls she often says, "It's me!" in the kind of a voice you would use to say, "You won the lottery!" And with her as a daughter we think we did. She is easy going 99% of the time but when she says she doesn't get mad, she gets even, she means it. She is the bestest friend a mother could have and we "play" often but not often enough. It was the saddest day of my life the day she left home. She is funny, compassionate, strict with the kiddies but says such off the wall things to them that they now say off the wall stuff too and we hoot with laughter.

A full five years later came our last boy, Bentley. He was three days early. Way to go, Bentley. Blond and blue eyed. A self assured little boy. "Counting" never worked for him. He just looked at you as if to say, "What kind of silly manipulation is this?" He was slow to read--wanted to be outside, in any kind of weather. When he was ten months old we couldn't keep him from crawling into Bear Lake--c-o-l-d Bear Lake. The first book he read was "Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nim," in second grade, and from then on he was an excellent student. Nothing stopped him from good grades. We never had to say a word. He's put himself through college with scholarships and hard work. He makes me laugh and his laugh makes me laugh more. Then he laughs more and on it goes. I'm almost laughing just thinking about it. My favorite time is having him in the kitchen when I'm cooking, him hovering over me, holding a spoon or a fork, saying, "Maybe I should just taste that." He does love good food. He calls me for cooking advice, which I love.

Our last baby, Elizabeth, was a surprise. Nine years after Bentley was born--our oldest was 21 and on a mission. She was five days late and the doctor hurried her delivery--she's been mad about it ever since. When I wrote an April Fool letter to Trent with a bunch of silly stuff and wrote "The Rabbit died," (we had a powder blue VW Rabbit) he knew I was pregnant. Mom had died the year before and I have always been sad she didn't get to hold this beautiful baby. But, I'll tell you a secret. I think Mom is with her a lot. She looks a lot like Mom too. She is sassy, funny, and smart. I love staying up late with her--there's a staying-up-late pattern here--and I love when she leans over the back of Phil's recliner and talk to me as I'm on the computer. She is independent and determined. She should go into counseling as she can "read" people and sees things no one else does. She doesn't take any guff, well, at least not from her parents and I wonder where that strong will will take her. Good places, I think. Her grandma Snyder was hard headed and we think she watched from Heaven and took note. She is just two inches taller than her tiny grandma and sometimes, when I catch site of her, she takes my breath away as she is so pretty.

These are the things I am most thankful for.

Except for my main thankful, the man I fell in love with so hard so many years ago. He is my strength, my lifeline, brings sanity to my insane moments. He is positive when I doubt. He is steady when I waver. He holds me up when I fall down in a quivering mass of of self doubt. He is the Priesthood holder that I look up to. He goes forward in faith when I whine and look over my shoulder. (I'd probably be the pillar of salt. Well, not really, but I might be a pillar of tears.) He likes facts and numbers while I like Science Fiction. Numbers are Greek to me--I don't even know my own cell phone number. He has every church book ever printed. (Well, he wishes he did.) If you ask him what he wants for a birthday or Christmas he will whip out a 3x5 card that has a list of ten books on it. (He always has 3x5 cards in his pocket.) He is faithful in his church duties and goes the extra mile. He loves his children. He would walk through fire for them but can't express it. I'm the expressive one but he is the one who never steps off the mark. I'm all over the place, dancing along through life, laughing over my shoulder, until I bump up against an obstacle and then Phil rescues me and makes the bump on the head all better. He is a no nonsense kind of guy, so when he says things that are odd, I take him seriously instead of seeing the "funny" in it. Once I learned how funny he really is and quit taking him so literally, life has been a lot more fun. I hope to live through eternity with him by my side.

These are my biggest thankfuls. And my parents and siblings--there is no way to adequately give them the honor they deserve.

Also I adore the people my kids married, and are dating. How did my kids pick so well? I love their partners as if they were my own children. They each have wonderful qualities that complete my children and I honor the parents that helped make them who they are. I am lucky. And blessed.

And up too late, as usual.

KRAMER GETS A BATH

This is how it all began. Kramer loving the back yard. Phil and Elizabeth cleaning up. It was too tempting.

Get me outta here!

Right after that he tumbled head over paws; Elizabeth caught him before he hit the halfway mark.

But, all that outdoor fun meant Kramer eventually needed a bath.

What's that water on for? Is it just for entertainment? Huh, huh? Just for show? That's it isn't it? Just for fun. I'm not goin' under that waterfall, am I?

This is not entertaining.

Every part is attended to. It's a bum deal for sure.

Feel better now? I don't know if he does or not, but he smells better.

I'M GLAD HALLOWEEN COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR

Where are the days when little girls wanted to be a princess and little boys wanted to be a ninja?

This little boy was once a clown. This little girl was once a princess and wore a pink prom dress. She wore that dress so often that she wore it out. She even wore it to wade in rain puddles with yellow rain boots. And look at them now.It's enough to give a person nightmares. I hope Phil doesn't mind me sleeping with the light on.

LYNNE'S EULOGY ADD ONS

I hope whoever reads my eulogy will say this:

Phil: I can still see him, with a grin on his face, looking up at me from the window of his white Thunderbird. Who wouldn't fall in love with that face? We have gone through some tough times, he has given me more fun times, is the father of the children that I love, is patient, kind and hardly ever says, "I told you so." He worries about his kids, prays about them and loves them as only a father can. He is my rock and I lean on him for all things in my life. He loves the Gospel and wants to serve the very best that he can. I believe he does. I love him with all my heart.

Trent: "Mom, don't take that milk away. It's not even solid yet." Age four. And this one: "I still remember when I figured out math. I was sitting in the hall by my bedroom, looking at the white wall." He was four or five years old. And the day his barefooted friend ran all the way to my house to tell me Trent was stuck on the sidewalk, afraid to move because it was hot and burned his feet. His friend ran on the grass. My Trent. So brilliant and so spacey. He asks me, occasionally, "Does your dog bite?" (From one of the Pink Panther Movies) He has lots of quotes memorized and yes, he really should vacuum the other half of the piano. He drove the Subaru off the road and it rolled a couple of times and only got his pride hurt. Thank goodness. He would do anything for his parents and his siblings. He loves us all, in our undoing and unwinding, it doesn't matter. He loves us.

Taylor: I have a mental picture of him running across the lawn with his hair bouncing every which way--he was about four or five. That kid loved to run. And I will never forget the look on his face when I squirted him with the hose through the screen door. It was worth the mess. And on the way home from Thanksgiving with Cole's borrowed guitar--he fiddled with it the entire time and within a month he could play the guitar. He cleaned my kitchen every day for car privileges and at the time I was fixing four dozen gourmet meals which I sold to businesses. The kitchen was a mess. He walked home from Orem (at 2:00 and 3:00 a.m.) where he worked as a janitor because I slept through the phone when he called for a ride. He was never mad. He always forgives. Always.

Hillary: "I a big goil and can do it myself." And she pulled away from my hand and marched across the street all by herself. She watched as I tried to teach Taylor to tie his shoe. I tried and tried and he just didn't get it. "It's like this," she said and showed him how. She was 2 1/2 years younger. We always ended up in her bedroom, the kids and I. She said because it was the only clean room in the house but that wasn't why and she knows it. She doesn't get mad, she gets even. She fits her name which means happy. She is my get-out-of-the-dumps girl. Just call Hillary and I'll be all right. She cuts our hair and stays and visits instead of going to Target. She lallygags on the lawn swings with me and the girls. She won't speak at my funeral which is okay because I'm not going to die. She loves me. I can't go.

Bentley: The doorknob was broken on his and Hillary's bedroom door. Trent and Taylor and I were playing board games in the kitchen. Bentley couldn't get out of his room. He knocked and knocked. No one came. He went to Hillary for help. She was asleep. By the time we finally went to rescue him he was sound asleep, standing up, with his head on her bed. He jelled his own hair and stuck it straight up in the air at age four. You've never seen a more proud kid. He put himself through college with scholarships. We never once said to him, "Do your homework." He just did it. He drove the Suburban into the creek at Sundance and only got his pride hurt. Thank goodness. He makes me laugh and laugh. His first batch of chocolate chip cookies took 2 1/2 hours but he is quick to tell you they were the perfect cookies. He saves all his receipts and could start the Chicago fire with them, which he wouldn't do because he is in love with Chicago. That's how he lives his life, doing things to perfection. And if anything, that kid has the perfect laugh.

Elizabeth: She made herself a bed in Hillary's room on a shelve in the closet. She wanted to sleep in her big sister's room. She was all bedded down when Hillary came in to get dressed from a shower. The scream can still be heard. She told Hillary's friend, "Your mother doesn't love you," for no reason at all. She told me a string of insults when I made her eat her soup including, "This is swamp soup." And the ultimate insult, "Jesus doesn't love you." She wants to be named for Mom, who died a year before she was born. One day I may legally change her name. She sometimes looks just like Mom and I think there is a special bond between the two of them. I have asked Heavenly Father to "send Mom." to watch over Elizabeth and I think she does. She now says, "I love you too," when we hang up the phone. It makes me happy. She is tender and strong, all at the same time. She always forgives. Always.

When all is said and done...and is it ever EVER all said and done...I've had a great life because of the great people in it.

THE SPAGHETTI WAR

Elizabeth and Jason were here for lasagna tonight. She and Phil reminisced about the pasta dinners of years gone by.

"Remember the spaghetti war?" one of them said. Then they went on to revel in the glories of a bunch of family members disobeying--the father of the group the biggest disobeyer of them all.

I think I remember how it started. Dinner was over. We were sitting at the table talking and one of the kids was playing in the leftover spaghetti with a fork. I never could figure out how much spaghetti to cook--still can't--and so there was half a serving bowl left. One of the kids asked how you tell if spaghetti noodles were cooked long enough.

"Well, supposedly, if you throw a strand of spaghetti on the ceiling, and it sticks, it's done."

Oh, oh, I thought. I hope no one picks up on that.

It was too late. Strands of spaghetti whanged toward the ceiling like lava steams, escaping from violently erupting volcanoes.

"All right, all right," I said. "Enough of that. Calm down."

Phil looked at me and I could see all his intelligence leaking out his ears. A primeval man hunkered down, his gnarly hand posed over the bowl holding the pasta. Two hoary fingers reached in, plucked a strand of spaghetti and before my very eyes the beast flung a noodle in my direction. I ducked and tried once again.

"All right, now...."

That's as far as I got. Spaghetti flew in my direction from the hunkered beast's offspring. Whap. Whap. Whap-whap-whap.

I fled. A lone woman with common sense and dignity. I looked around the corner to see total anarchy reigning. A Dad with spaghetti hanging from his ears. Children with spaghetti in their hair. Spaghetti hanging from the light fixture. Spaghetti on the paintings, on the wall, on the clock. Spaghetti everywhere. Laughter, insane laughter filled the air.

"There she is," someone said. Spaghetti whinged in my direction from all directions. Whap, whap, whap. I fled to the bathroom to pick spaghetti off my face. I sat on the step, out of sight and out of range. Occasionally I'd offer advice:

"Okay, play time is over."

I was answered with nothing but maniacal laughter.

"You are going to have to clean all that up!"

"We will," they all chorused, including Phil.

The war went on for a long, long time. When the bowl was empty they plucked used pasta off each other and threw it again. When the used pasta started to disintegrate they rolled it into pasta balls and threw those. They only quit because everyone was too tired to throw another strand. I poked my head around the door again. They somehow revived and magically found more spaghetti and it all came whining my way. I ducked back out of sight.

Finally the Neanderthal haze cleared from Phil's eyes and he became a dad.

"Okay, kids. Let's clean up."

"Aaw, Dad."

"No, I mean it. Let's clean up. Put all the pasta in the bowl."

When about half of the mess was cleaned up the beast clutched the bowl to his chest. "Suckers," he said. He grabbed a handful of ragged pasta and threw it in every direction.

Screams of delight sounded in the kitchen, drowning out the groans of the sensible person sitting on the steps.

"They are insane," I said to myself. "It comes from Phil's side. It will take generations to breed the insanity out."

When they finally called it quits the kitchen looked like a mad elf had decorated for Christmas. And to give everyone credit, they did clean up. Kind of. We plucked petrified spaghetti off various parts of the kitchen for what seemed like years.

Which, one day was the catalyst for the, "Let's see what else will stick to the ceiling" science project that my GROWN UP BOYS participated in, but that's a story for another day.

TIME FOR A CONFESSION--ELIZABETH DID IT

It was late at night. Elizabeth had the computer held hostage. I was bored. We were throwing things at each other, wads of paper, that kind of thing. It was her fault, it really was. She should have been more careful with her glass of water.

She should drink more water anyway, water is what keeps your brain synapses firing. Hers were sluggish, I'm sure of it. There's nothing more pitiful than sluggish brain synapses. Water makes your skin dewy, not old and wrinkly--I don't know what on earth has happened my skin because I drink a lot of water--in the kitchen, and not around the computer like some people with sluggish brains synapses that I could mention. Water removes toxins from the body--she should have drunk her water and removed her toxins. Water relieves headaches and dizziness--she probably was dizzy and didn't intercept my weapon. It is definitely her fault.

She recovered her glass of water after it emptied on the keyboard.

There was a great silence in the land.

"It's your fault," we both whispered, in case Phil was not totally asleep twenty-seven walking step and two sets of seven stairs away, through a closed door and could hear us.

"Nuh huh, it's your fault," we both whispered again.

She sat at the computer, like a dizzy person with sluggish brain synapses.

I stood up and frantically turned in a circle. That's what crop circles really are, aliens who don't know what to do next, so they just stand there and twitter. Twitterpated aliens make some amazing patterns in fields all over the world. I know these things. There was an interesting, twitterpated pattern in the carpet in the family room that night. We should have taken photos and sent them to the local newspaper.

Then our brain synapses started firing and we both turned the keyboard upside down and banged it on the desk. Water fell like rain.

"It's your fault," I said.

"Huh huh, it's yours. You were the one throwing things."

I stared in disbelief, pointing a rigid finger to wads of paper all over the room.

"I was only throwing them back," she said, "in self defense!"

I made a noise in the back of my throat, not a snort, not a growl but one of those unidentifiable noises all mothers learn to make when the their two-year-old says, "I have to go potty," and you rush them to the bathroom to find out they already did. In their big-girl-pants. The noise just gets more defined as the child grows and does more interesting things. Mine was well defined.

"Well," she said, "I was. It's a clear case of self defense." She says things like, "clear case" sometimes. She should be an attorney but with those sluggish brain synapses, maybe she will go into politics.

In hindsight I realize that the blow dryer might have been helpful. Much more helpful than the wads of tissue we squished in between the keys. Everything seemed to be fine. The keyboard was still working so we shut things off and went to bed. That's when the keyboard gremlins came out and switched wires, disconnected some altogether and fiddled with a bunch of microchips, using them as Lego's.

The next day some letters didn't work at all and others had an identity crisis. They thought they were someone else. The much used "e" thought it was an "x." We would have had to invent a new code if we wanted to communicate with anyone so we did what everyone who has committed a crime does, we decided to cover it up.

I called Michelle and explained what had happened. After she recovered from her unnecessary laughter she agreed that her husband, my son, Trent, the computer geek, had more keyboards than he needed and he would--without his knowledge--be glad to donate one to his mother. Trent's like that sometimes, being generous and doing good deeds without his knowledge.

Michelle had an appointment in Orem. We made arrangements to meet. Phil was working in the garden so I yelled over the fence, "I'm going to run an errand," and then I ran to the car, in case he asked where my errand was. I ran as fast as a person with old wrinkly skin can run when she is trying to cover up a crime. Dizzy Elizabeth, with the slow brain synapses, stayed home to guard the computer in case he washed off garden dirt and decided to check email.

Michelle and I met, we exchanged keyboards. Luckily they were identical except that the new one had a missing leg. We tried to pry a leg off the old defunct keyboard but, being weak and feeble, we failed so I grabbed the legless keyboard, hugged her and took off in a cloud of exhaust. I threw a kiss at her over my shoulder but she was laughing and wiping her eyes, and didn't see.

Once home we installed the new keyboard and put a child's orange block where the missing leg should have been. It worked beautifully. When Phil asked what happened to the keyboard leg I said, "It broke off," which is perfectly true. At some point in it's history, it broke off. I just don't know when.

"Oh," he said in a "it's no big deal" sort of way, which made me wonder if I should have just told him the story of the foolishness right then but I didn't, and now, one of these days he will read this blog and...well, he'll have a talk with Elizabeth about how she needs to drink more water in the kitchen and then we'll all have a good laugh.

Won't we?

PS Posted January 5th. I talked to Elizabeth tonight and she said, "It was your fault. You threw a pillow at me." Too bad she's not the one writing this, isn't it?

AN ODD SATURDAY

We dashed to the mall this morning for a last minute item because I didn't want to get caught in what we got caught in yesterday--twenty minutes to drive two miles OR LESS. It may have been six blocks but I don't want to say six blocks in case you'd say to yourself, "That exaggerator!" But, really, I think it was six blocks. It may have been four.

Phil waited in the car, I dashed into Bath and Body and bought what I needed and then had buyer's remorse. "They can exchange it if they don't like it," the sales girl said.

I got to the car and Phil got out to open my door. "Smell this, I said. I gave him my left sleeve. "Now smell this." My right sleeve. "And this." My right wrist. "Which one do you like best?"

"The left sleeve."

"Aaugh, I knew it. I have to go back!"

"Could we conduct this conversation somewhere other than in a blizzard?" he asked in a somewhat patient voice. "And if they don't like it they can exchange it."

I got in the car. "And you know what else?" I said. "A man paid full price for ONE lotion--that's $10.50. For $15 more he could have four more items just like it because they are on sale five for $25. The sales girl told him but he said, 'no, I just need this one item for my wife' and then HE BOUGHT A GIFT CERTIFICATE FOR HER AND SHE WILL PAY FULL PRICE. Men are obviously not bargain hunters."

Phil's eyes glazed over. I could almost hear his internal talk, "She talks too much, just like those TV talk shows."

We drove home and I said, "I just need to dash into Day's Thriftway to pick up two items. You can stay in the car if you want, I'll be right back." He knew better. He came in. I bought 23 items. It took 22 minutes.

"We need to go to Costco," I said. "I forgot something."

"WHAT?"

His eyes had lost all glaze. Costco is right next to the mall. His eyes would have glazed over again but he needed them to drive. We dashed into Costco to buy a See's Candy certificate and then back to the mall to pick up the candy. No wonder the roads are congested. They are full of woman who forget to buy See's Candy certificates.

"If this keeps up we're going to have to buy more gas," Phil said. I remembered the price of gas. I didn't tell him I forgot something at Day's Thriftway. I'll pick it up Monday when he's in the shower.

At a stop light the back window of a car in front of us rolled down. A dog stuck his head out the window and barked twice. He pulled his head back in the car and then back out. One more bark. Back in the car. The window rolled up. The light turned green and the car drove off, perhaps to roll it's window down to let the dog bark again, at stop lights down the road.

Phil delivered our neighborhood gifts this afternoon while I drove the car. He got inside when he got too cold to function. "It's nice in here," he said. "It's warm. There is Christmas music on the radio." He sighed and held his hands up to the heater. I rolled my eyes. I sympathized, I really did but sometimes a good eye-roll is satisfying .

At Janna's house she came out to thank me. "How is your hand," she asked. (This is an injury I have from wrapping caramels. I know you are scoffing but really, it is. My last marathon wrapping session was 500 caramels and when I was finished my thumb joint was throbbing.)

"It hurts, not all the time but right now it does."

She asked me to show her where, and then she took my hand and kissed it, right on the hurt. Her unexpected kindness made my eyes fill with tears.

"No one has kissed a boo-boo since my mom died," I said.

"How long has she been gone?"

"Twenty years, Elizabeth wasn't even born yet. Mom didn't know she was coming. Neither did I."

She got a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Aha," she said. "You thought Phil got you pregnant but it was really your Mom's doing."

We laughed and talked some more and then Phil was at the end of the street, turning blue so I went to pick him up.

When we got home I started to make Catalina Dressing. I got exactly two ingredients mixed and then the house gremlins took the recipe and, four hours later, I still haven't found it. Phil was on the computer, getting his lesson for his Sunday School class and I knew not to ask to use the computer to go to my cookbook file and make a copy--when he's in his getting-a-lesson-mode he is V-E-R-Y focused. I improvised and it was good but as I look at the recipe it needed more vinegar and more spices.

Then I fixed dinner with canned spaghetti sauce, not half as good as my homemade sauce--which I see I haven't posted yet on my cookbook blog--or half as good as Cindy's sauce either. We were starving and in the confusion I put a spoonful of Catalina dressing on my spaghetti along with two scoops of sauce. And you know what? It improved the sauce. So, Phil followed suit and we ate spaghetti with salad dressing.

As I am sitting here I am thinking about my conversation with Janna. Maybe Mom did bring Elizabeth here to me, after all.

And that was a nice thought to end the day with. That and warm pumpkin bread--just delivered by Tammie--and a cup of hot chocolate, in the new Christmas mug brought to me by Maisel.

The day was odd but I have friends who love me and a very patient husband and what more could a girl ask for?

THE NAME GAME

Tonight, while I was pondering about today's blog I came across this photo: Bond . . . James Bond. Here's the text that went with the photo:


"Have you ever thought about how your personality would be different if you had a different name? Does Bond . . James Bond ever feel so much stress that he just wants to go back to bed? If that was your name would you suddenly feel bolder? More daring?

"Or maybe you are having a little trouble threading a needle and you were suddenly called Harry Potter would it make a difference?

"Or is Shakespeare correct?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other word would smell as sweet.

"Would you still want to crawl into bed if you were Bond . . . James Bond?"


Today, two of my granddaughters were here. Kate--age four, and Ruby--age two. I was talking to my daughter-in-law about Kate's name. I told her it was a good strong name. Not wimpy, like Lynne. I told her that I wondered if I had a different name, a stronger name if I would be stronger.

We talked about Katherine Hepburn, who was called Kate by her friends and was such a strong willed person. Then I told her my favorite Katherine Hepburn movie is BRINGING UP BABY. Katherine Hepburn actually pulled a leopard around by a rope around its neck in that movie and I remember reading that the leopard wasn't a trained leopard--or maybe there were two leopards and the one she was jerking around was the one that wasn't trained--in fact it was darn cantankerous--and how she said later that she could have been killed but she just pulled it around, like she had good sense.

She was a strong woman, that Kate and our Kate is strong too.

Ruby, is an individual, just like her name. She didn't like me for the first year of her life. It didn't matter what I did. I could have stood on my head with candy bars for ears and she wouldn't have been impressed. She adored Phil--still does. She is past the hating stage and past the tolerating stage with me now and likes me but not like she likes Phil. I probably will never be able to charm her like he does. Maybe if I changed my name to Shaharazade. Or Rosamunde. Humm, both names of tellers of tales. I want to be a teller of tales so maybe....

No, maybe not. That would be infringing. I can't find a name I couldn't live without. Once I called myself Lyndy-Lou Dorthea Mae and there were a couple of other names tacked on but time has befuddled my memory.

I gave my girls perfect names. Hillary means happy and she is, in every way, and brings happiness to everyone she knows. Elizabeth means gift from God and she is, even though it might be a few years before she realizes it.

So, I should give myself a new name. Perhaps Gabrielle, which means strong woman of God--I like that, in fact it's my goal, to be a strong woman of God. You could call me Gabby for short, which means something altogether different and fits me often, like the other night when I had A Vacant Mind and said I had nothing to say and then proceeded to say nothing for a good long time.

So Gabrielle it is. Gabby, for short.

BIG SNOW--LITTLE SNOW. LITTLE SNOW--BIG SNOW.

Derrel--one of the world's most delightful people--grew up hearing this saying: "Big snow, little snow. Little snow, big snow. " This wisdom came from the Indians. Perhaps the Piutes, who lived in and around Kanab, Utah where Derrel grew up. There were Navajos Indians living there too. Derrel doesn't know exactly which tribe had the saying. Perhaps both. Perhaps all the Indian tribes who live in parts of the country where snow is prevalent have this saying.

I just visited with Derrel on the phone and he says he can hear the Indians say it still. Slowly, with dignity. "Big snow." (Pause) "Little snow." (Pause, pause.) Little snow." (Pause.) "Big snow."

When the snowflakes are big the accumulated snowfall will be small. When the snowflakes are little the accumulated snowfall will be big. Derrel says that through the years he has seen this proven to be true almost 100% of the time. Since Derrel told Phil this about ten years ago I have observed the same.

Today was a little snow, big snow day. The snow sifted down, as if the angels, dusting Christmas cookies with powdered sugar were making a mess in the Heavenly kitchen. I was driving with my daughter, Elizabeth, in the powdered sugar snow. At first it was fine, the windshield wipers took the sifting off with no problems.

We went to Borders. We browsed for a l-o-n-g time. When we came out the car was covered. The side mirrors, which I didn't notice, looked like oblong snowballs. We got back on the road, the v-e-r-y slippery road, and when I needed to change lanes I looked in the side-oblong-snowballs and realized I had a problem. We rolled the windows down, scrapped the snow off but it was frozen in diamonds underneath. With our fingernails we scraped. It didn't make much difference.

I drove to a store--that shall be un-named--to see if they had any good toys I might need to buy for the grandkids. I am not mentioning the name because this store gives my daughter the shivers--she might be somewhat of a store-snob--and she spent most of my in-store-shopping-time in the car, freezing to death and fogging the windows.

The savvy store had printed a $5.00 off coupon and it was like a free five-dollar bill, pulling me in. I did find what I was hoping to, which I won't mention here because there is a slight, very slight chance the parents of those grandkids might read this blog and say to the grandkids, "I know what Grandma and Grandpa are getting you for Christmas." There is nothing more annoying than someone who knows a secret, a secret about you, and taunts you with it. My children take every opportunity to taunt. They have the annoying gene. It comes from my husband's side, I'm pretty sure. Okay, there is a slight chance it comes from mine. Slight.

I stashed my wonderful purchases in the back of the car and got in the driver's seat. I looked at my blue-tinged daughter and said, "Where to now?"

"Barnes and Noble," she said. (She has a hard time getting her fill of bookstores. She writes like a dream, and absolute dream--I am so jealous--and one day her books will be on the shelves. Bookstore air is an elixir to her.)

Backing up was an act of faith, due to Elizabeth's breath coating the windows, and both of us hung out the windows to make sure we weren't running over Rudolph, .

Then I proceeded to slide all over the road. I tried to put 4-wheel drive on but since I have the technological-non-functioning-gene it wouldn't work. Cars, with all their technological innards, enjoy taunting me. There's a lot of taunting going on in this world.

"Are you sure you want to go to Barnes and Noble?" I asked.

No answer. I looked over at her white face and clinched knuckles. "You better just take me home," she said in a weak voice.

"I was going to buy you lunch at Cafe Rio and you were going to come home and download my pictures and show me how to put pictures on my blog."

"Not today," she said, color starting to come back into her face. "Just take me home." Obviously starvation was preferable to what she perceived my driving might lead to.

I drove the car, slipping and sliding but because I grew up driving in snow I knew what to do to come out of a slide. If I didn't we would have done 360's. Lots of 360's. As the car slipped and slid and as I pulled it out of the slides the color left her face permanently. She may have to use tanning cream until she's ninety.

We drove down University Avenue and I pointed out a stand of trees, frosted with snow and a wire fence, wrapped in whiteness.

"Isn't that beautiful?" I asked, trying to ignore the fear we both felt because of the road conditions.

No comment. She had no interest in beauty. She wanted to go to her apartment, where it was safe. Were things didn't slide into each other.

So I took her home and sure enough, the car slipped into the gutter. Because it could and because of the taunting it so enjoys. I couldn't drive out of this one. I could back up but could not go forward. I didn't want to back home in the sifting, powdered sugar snow so I had her enlist the help of her friends and they pushed me out. I drove in first gear for two blocks and then, miraculously, the 4-wheel drive kicked in. It waited until my bloodless-faced child was gone. It so loved to give her a good scare, my taunting car.

I drove twenty miles an hour--or less--the five miles home. I passed every policeman in the city, helping people out of smashed cars. One three car pileup had the middle car tipped in the air like a stink bug. I wonder how the end car felt as it watched the rear end of the middle car plow into it's windshield.

So, today was a little snow, big snow day. I don't know if the Indians have any wisdom about the slipperiness of the snow but if they do, I'd like to know what it is. The next time those conditions are right I'm staying home. Bookstore or no bookstore--bargains or no bargains. I'm staying home.

TODAY IS MY BABY'S BIRTHDAY

It’s my baby’s birthday today. She’s nineteen. Yes, nineteen and yes, she is my baby but I don’t call her that to her face. She will always be my baby because she was my last-born.

I remember “going to town” with Mom to shop. She wanted to hold hands. I was embarassed. I pulled my hand away, knowing I was hurting her feelings but I simply couldn’t help it. I was grown up. Grown up girls didn’t hold their mother’s hands. (I must have been eleven or twelve.)

We met two of Mom’s friends on the sidewalk in front of the dress shop. “This is my baby,” Mom said. The women clucked over me like I was a newborn chick. I wanted to be anywhere else; I was mortified.

“I’m not your baby,” I said with a sassy attitude.

“You will always be my baby,” she said, ignoring my bad manners. “Always.”

We didn’t say “Whatever,” in those days but if we had I would have said it.

We went in and out of shops, Mom visiting with friends she met between racks of dresses, over bolts of cloth, comparing the price of one type of hand lotion against another. I heard it again and again, “This is my baby.”

Why she kept telling people was beyond a mystery because I was not charming. I was bratty. Today I understand. It was because I really was her baby, her precious child; even though I was doing my best to be obnoxious, she knew who I really was. She had years to know the real me. She perhaps knew that one day I would return, would want to hold her hand. Would be proud to be called her baby.

Mom died seventeen months before today’s birthday girl was born. I grieved over her death and then, nine months later, when I found out I was pregnant I was devastated. I needed my mom. When my baby was born I grieved again. I wanted my mom there, fussing over me and fussing over my newborn.

Now this precious little person is off on her own, not living in our house. She never says, “I love you,” unless I drag it out of her. Does she love me? I have no doubt. Will she give me a hug? Fat chance. When I give her one she stands like a wooden soldier unless I make her put her arms around me and then they are not arms, they are noodles.

If I called her “my baby” what would she do? Cringe, but it’s all right. She is, and one day she might, just might be proud to carry the title. Just like I am.

THERE'S A SPIDER IN THE CAR

About a week or so ago I saw one of those black hairy spiders doing his spider-dance all over the dashboard. I tried to get in the car quick enough to whack him but he went down one of the windshield vents. I don't know what I would have whacked him with. I told Phil about the spider and he said what he always says about things I cannot do anything about, "Don't worry about it."

Now I ask you, how can you not worry about a hairy spider crawling up you leg while you are driving? You can't.

I took the girls to Salt Lake last Saturday. We went to Ikea and Gardener Village. Archibald Gardner is one of my ancestors and so I have a tender spot in my heart for the mill. But the whole time I was driving I was worrying about the spider. Would he climb out of the heat vents and run up Elizabeth's leg? Would he run up mine and then I would run off the road?

Every time we get in the car Phil stomps his feet sometimes during the driving time and I freak out, thinking he saw the spider. He then laughs his maniacal laugh. He has actually seen the spider once since that first day. It was, of course on the passenger side of the car but by the time I came out and got in the car he had disappeared. Who knows where.

I hope to never see him again. No, that's not true. I hope to see him, curled up on his back, dry and dead. Then I will quit worrying, unless it was a momma spider, who laid eggs. I guess I won't know until spring and if it was, and if she did, I will be walking.