Coming to Grips with My Sugar Mama

So, it's Christmas break and my parents are kind enough to host us for the holidays.  Thank goodness because you can't make stuff like this up . . .

At 6:32AM yesterday, my tiny mother strolled in, smothered in her robe.  She poured a bowl of rice crispies.  Then . . . marshmallows?  Butter?

She put the concoction in the microwave.  And afterward began to consume what turned out to be an individual-sized batch of rice crispy treats.

I said, "Are you seriously eating rice crispy treats for breakfast?  Seriously?"

"It's just grain and sugar.  Oatmeal is grain and sugar," she said.

I plopped the computer on the dining room table and started typing.

Then she said, "Like a granola bar. Sugar and grain."

She kept going.

"With fat free milk, you get protein. Like a continental breakfast of Danish rolls.  That's sugar and grain."

She began her morning devotional, and read happily aloud from her scriptures.

"Nehemiah 8:10 ' . . . go your way, eat the fat, and drink the sweet . . . neither be ye sorry . . .'"

I can only guess what her next comment might be.  Probably, "That's all oranges are: orange flavoring and sugar."

This explains everything.

Coming to Grips with Quicken

This time of year, one is confronted with A Christmas Carol and the desire to speak as if one liveth in twentieth-century England.  And one begins to question if one’s obsession with Quicken doth put her in the same category as Scrooge.

So, a question I beg of you, doth one’s enjoyment of reconciling one’s accounts make one worthy of a Dickens novel?

Doth one’s desire to forgo stuff condemn? Or must one be so jolly that reconciling the accounts is no longer interesting compared to Figgie Pudding.

Bring on the friends, the family, the Figgies . . . but not-eth guilt.  If one chooses to spend money on trinkets or trappings, shineth on.  Knocketh oneself out.  Something else to account for shouldeth make one excited when accounting is one’s hobby.

Coming to Grips with The Perfect Vacation

Beth and I have been very best friends forever and ever (vbffae) for about six years.  She is six feet tall and resembles a German spy/runway model.

One March, Beth and I decided to take a trip to Southern Utah to do all our favorite activities.  I had just wrecked my car, so I rented a truck.  We packed the back of the truck with our climbing gear, mountain bikes, skis and snowboards, and headed down South.

Friday morning, we climbed.  The following is actual dialogue from our travel video.  In every video, I am chewing on sunflower seeds.

Beth: K, Polly’s about to climb. [Pan camera.]

Polly: This is the scene of our first climb.  I have no idea what it’s called.  I think it’s a 5.9.

Beth: It’s only five bolts.  So we’re not too worried.

Polly: Um . . . 

After only making it to three bolts, I came down and Beth finished the rest.  We call this dual-leading.  We ended up dual-leading just about every single climb we’ve ever attempted.

Friday afternoon, we mountain biked.

Beth: We’re just getting ready to go biking, and this is called Stucki Springs (if I’m not mistaken).  [Pan camera.]

Polly: [Giggles nervously.]

Saturday morning, we skied at Brian Head.

Beth: Okay, now we’re driving to Brian Head.  It’s the perfect vacation and the snow looks good. [Pan camera.]  Turn here.

Polly: Right here?

Beth: No here.

Polly: Here?

Beth: No there?

Polly: Where?

We skied in the morning, snowboarded in the afternoon, and snow biked the last hour.  The snow biking left my cheeks sore for weeks.  Too much laughing.

Then, we drove four hours back to Salt Lake City.  I think I ate four bags of Gummy Bears. 

My husband and I have inherited the tradition, and now we have, what we call, epic Saturdays.  I’ll have to write about that later.  I'm exhausted just thinking about all that exercise. I need a nap.

Coming to Grips with Granny Sweaters

You can sum up my entire winter wardrobe with three words: bag lady sweaters.  Until this week, I never questioned my loyalty to the fashion concept because of a dream my friend had nigh unto 10 years ago. 

I volunteered at the Mesa Temple Visitor’s Center for 18 months as a missionary.  In Arizona, one quickly becomes accustomed to the 120° heat, and in comparison, the balmy 68° conditioned air inside feels nigh unto the part of the North Pole where even Santa must wear a full-body down suit. 

Thus, every day regardless of the clothing worn underneath, I donned, what was dubbed, “the granny sweater,” a once-white, wool sweater that my mom handed down – which, judging by the style, was given to her by a homeless person.   My brother once said that I was 23 going on 50.  A statement applicable to my attire, but now that I think about it, he was probably referring to my 8:00PM bedtime. 

Alas, another sister missionary dreamed vividly that a man nigh unto Brad Pit came into our humble Visitor’s Center.  In the dream, I, Sister Oveson, was the lucky missionary who guided him on the tour and when completed, he announced our engagement.  When the other missionaries asked, “How did you know Sister Oveson was the one?”

He said, “It was the granny sweater.”

Hey, if granny sweaters are good enough for men nigh unto Brad Pit, then they’re good enough for me.

Last week, my entire winter fashion paradigm unraveled.

Thinking that my son and I both had strep throat, I thought I’d kill two bacterei with one doc by visiting a Family Practice.  But when no one could fit me in, I decided on a Walk-in Clinic.  I threw on a large, brown, lint-ball adorned atrocity – one that when worn in the presence of my immediate and honest family members would undoubtedly result in someone saying, “that sweater makes you look terrible” – and headed to the doctor, sans make-up or anything that would have indicated my status of trophy wife.

The Walk-in Clinic seemed off.  The too-kind doctor strolled out, said hello to us, and then told us it would be a minute.  An obese man waited with us.  He kept mumbling about vanity.  He wore sweat pants.  He had "walked-in" from the nearest bus stop.  Another woman weighed 85.03 pounds, and looked like she had consumed altogether too much meth for that time of the morning.  I don’t remember seeing her teeth. The office décor circa Leave it to Beaver.

It dawned on me.  This particular Walk-in Clinic was a favorite of homeless people.

Trying to confirm my suspicions, I asked the woman at the front desk if I was in the right place.  She eyed my bag lady sweater and said, “Yes.”

“No, I mean, do people who come here have insurance?” I said.

“Some do and some don’t,” she said. 

I said, “No, I mean, what type of people come here?”

“People who need our assistance.” She looked at my sweater again. “I assure you, you are in the right place.”  Then she added, “We will help you.  Just sit down.  Everything will be all right.”

The office did not have the capability to do a quick strep test. The doctor said, “We need to get your son to a pediatrician.”

“He has a pediatrician.  But I thought we could just kill two birds with one stone,” I said.

“I can refer you to a pediatrician.  Is that what you need, a referral?”

“He has a pediatrician,” I said.

“Yes, we can help you get a pediatrician,” he said.

On the way home (don’t freak out, I use a blue-tooth), I called my husband.  He said, “It serves you right for wearing that sweater.  Of course they thought you were homeless . . . and crazy.”

Although my husband is nigh unto Brad Pit, even he couldn't form the words, “How could anyone mistake you for a crazy bag lady in that beautiful granny sweater?”

Why is it that some of us have a penchant for things that are so bad for us?  Chocolate, eight hours straight of BBC dramas, bag lady sweaters?  I’m not sure.  But I’ll share with you the uncommon insight I gained from the experience: if you’re going to wear a granny sweater, you have to come to grips with the fact that you’re going to look nigh unto a bag lady.

Coming to Grips with Christmas Miracles Pt II

. . . continued from Coming to Grips with Christmas Miracles Part I

“You mean my keyboard?” I grinned manically, and grabbed for the present with what I can only describe now as crazed frenzy. I lifted the end of the cloth bag and slid the box onto the floor. I cut the tape from the sides.  I threw the top open.

A few moments of shocked silence ensued, followed by an outraged shriek. “A . . . a . . . pogo stick?” I could hardly speak.

But the box? How could it be anything else? The box?

I kept affirming the perfection of my logic. How could such grand and dignified reasoning go awry? Besides, I had never once thought about a pogo stick, not once in my brief 11 years. The universe wouldn’t dump something on you that you’d never even mentally conceptualized? Would it?

“A pogo stick?” I cried in horror. I set my jaw at my mother in defiance and stared.

In that instant, my mother became the un-universe, the sort of person that spit in the face of the laws of nature and laughed.  To illustrate the seriousness of the situation, this would be tantamount to expecting an iPod, opening an iPod box, only to find a shrunken, misshapen cactus.

“Well,” she said, “we couldn’t afford a keyboard, and you didn’t want anything else. I didn’t know what to get you. I wanted a pogo stick once, so I thought you might like it.”

I remember thinking, did the universe collapse? My anger deepened.  Why didn’t she take the stupid thing out of that blasted box!

However, upon more mature reflection, I can see now that the universe pulled through after all. My mom finally got the pogo stick she wanted – via me. And I learned to pogo stick. Quite well, in fact. I learned that a pogo stick is (not, indeed the devil, but) an enjoyable excuse for a hobby. And after my brother abused the said stick so much that a chunk of his chin went missing while attempting to bounce without hands and the pedals fell off, I asked for a new pogo stick for Christmas years later and got it. 

Eventually, I did receive a keyboard – nine years later when my parents finally coughed up the money to pay for it. Miracles do happen. And I started taking piano lessons, so perhaps the miracle at that point was that I had the capacity to actually play it. The universe in its infinite wisdom taught me that some Christmas miracles take time. And others just take money.

Coming to Grips with Christmas Miracles Pt I

Christmas is supposedly a time of miracles. During my 7th grade year, I needed one; my future happiness depended solely on the acquisition of a keyboard, a Casio with glistening white plastic keys.  For me, it exploded the technological barriers of the early-nineties. Somehow, in my seventh grade mind, a keyboard had become the symbol of popularity and ease – the gateway to freedom. I would finally be beautiful. I would finally be popular. I would have a keyboard. 

When my mom told me that my family couldn’t afford a keyboard that year, I did not accept it. She can’t admit she’s buying me one because then she’d ruin the surprise, I rationalized. I even invented the means by which it would come to pass. I would obtain my keyboard by calling on the powers of the universe. I would witness my first Christmas miracle.

I wanted this keyboard, I thought, more than anyone had ever wanted anything in the history of humanity. According to my adolescent logic, desire made you worthy of the desired object – and the more intense the desire, the more likely it was that the universe would give it to you. A concept personified in books and movies like Charlie and The Chocolate Factory. Charlie’s desire had landed him not only the golden ticket, but the entire factory. Only I didn’t want just chocolate, a silly addictive candy. I wanted something much more noble – an instrument to change my lack of training and talent miraculously into stunning genius. If the universe required desire, desire it would get.

I suppose kids this year are wishing for iPods with the same severe passion – similarly testing the powers of the universe.

In order to satisfy its strange ways, I relentlessly concentrated all my thoughts on the keyboard. If my mind wandered into thinking about the well-being of any of my friends, I would curse myself. If I neglected contemplative focus on the keyboard in order to listen to my teacher, I’d kick my shin with my other heel, and furiously doodle music notes instead of doing my assignment.

My mom kept asking me what I really wanted for Christmas, and her questions only solidified my resolve. To exhibit my faith in the universe, every time she asked, I would say four little words and walk off triumphantly. “I want a keyboard.”

With my thoughts fixated thoroughly on the keyboard in spite of chores, and boys, and homework, I called on interstellar magic to summon the Christmas miracle. A miracle like I had read about in books and heard about in Sunday school lessons.

Days before Christmas, a long, wide, shallow box showed up under the tree. The box was the exact size and shape of a keyboard, and had been placed in a cloth bag my mother had made to reuse over and over every Christmas to avoid the expense and environmental waste of wrapping paper. My eyes, now endowed with supernatural powers, could see right through the fabric. I could see the neon colored buttons that controlled the volume. I could even smell the black plastic vents that covered the speakers. The stars had finally aligned. For once in my life, I would get exactly what I wanted.

My poor mother kept insisting that it wasn’t a keyboard. What else would be shaped exactly like a keyboard box? An oversized version of monopoly? I racked my brain, but couldn’t think of anything reasonable. It had to be a keyboard. My mom must have been hell bent on trying to surprise me.

On the morning of Christmas, I woke up and made everyone else open their gifts first. Remarkably, I had a few other gifts in addition to the long thin box. The universe must have rallied around me. To get the usual socks, orange, lip-gloss and a keyboard was a miracle indeed.

After every other package had been opened, my mom looked at me sadly, and choked, “Polly, aren’t you going to open your gift?”

. . . to be continued