A Bunkerville Easter

Easter Saturday was spent on the sandy beaches of...Bunkerville, Nevada. Cool waters, warm sun, sand in the toes, drinks in hand, and bikinis worn.

OK, so maybe only some of those are true.  

Uncle Bill's Funeral

Uncle Bill, Sam's uncle and my father's-in-law twin brother passed away April 26. Sam described Uncle Bill as being "like a second dad." He taught Sam a lot about truck mechanics and Sam has worked and talked to his uncle quite a bit. And some of Sam's best memories are Saturday lunches at the Chalet, a hometown restaurant in Mesquite, Nev., with Uncle Bill, his son, Tom, Sam's cousin, and Sam. It was a ritual in Sam's early and teenage years. Sam was especially close to Tom, who passed away in an auto accident in 1996 at the age of 17.

I've posted quite a few pictures, for my in-laws, mostly, who weren't able to attend the funeral. They're serving an LDS mission to the West Indies. They couldn't leave the country having only been there less than a month.

I've posted this video at the beginning, as I felt like it was a special tribute to Uncle Bill and my father-in-law. The funeral procession began with the hearst, followed by the limo with Aunt Clo and some children, followed truck #1176 (Bill's truck) driven by a son, then Jim's truck (that Sam and I drove), and finally Tom's old Chevy.

Random lessons from my Mom

Random lessons my mother taught me (even if she doesn't know it):

My mom was the Young Women's president, for a time, while I was a Beehive. At one Mutual activity she made cookies. One of the older girls approached her. "Nan, what type of cookie is this?" To which my mother replied, "Chocolate chip." Laurel girl: "Are you sure?" There wasn't a single chocolate chip to be found in that whole little cookie. You see, mom believes in only using 3/4 bag of the chips. Mom told said Laurel to "shut up." Mom is not right on this one. I hate imposter cookies.

I had a hard time adjusting to college life my first month of school. I came home for a short break. My mom and I went to Taco Bell. They gave me a hard taco instead of the soft taco I had ordered. I was so mad. I threw that taco out the window right there on North Avenue. I blame it on my emotional issues of the time. Mom got so mad at me. It was an awkward ride home.

One time my brother took a handful of buttons from the button bin at the craft store. He showed them to me in the back seat of the car. I told on him. My mom and dad drove us back to the scene of the crime and made Jason confess. I love getting my brother in trouble.

In Kindergarten I didn't have anything to show or tell for Show and Tell. I told them my mom was having a baby. They all totally bought it. Suckers. She wasn't and didn't for another nine years. My teacher learned the truth at parent/teacher conferences. Mrs. Hanson never did like me. She took me for a liar, I guess.

I cried when I misspelled "pancake" on a second grade spelling test. I knew it was really "panacake." My mom had to tell me our family had been mispronouncing it my entire life. I was devastated.

I was about four months pregnant with my first child when I started my student teaching. Mom took me maternity clothes shopping and encouraged the looser fitting tops as opposed to the hug-every-bulge-and-roll shirt style of the time. As a result, my mentor teacher told me a lot of students weren't sure if I was pregnant or just fat (he didn't say that, but I know that's what he meant). He told me I should probably inform them I was just so they'd be quiet about it. I did. They were relieved the "cat was out of the bag." I was too. Well, not really. But it did help to explain the shortness of breath while reading later in the semester.

Thanks Mom. Love you and hope you start to feel better.

Nine Years and a Poop Dollar

Sam and I's ninth anniversary was March 16. And we did what any young, hot, hip couple does: we headed to Vegas!

Unfortnately, Vegas doesn't hold quite the same escape to us as it does to others. When it's only a 90 minute drive away, it's just Vegas, not "Vegas, baby!" And besides, after plans were whittled down from five days in the Flordia Keys to three days in San Diego to an overnight Vegas trip I was just happy we weren't staying in for Little Ceasar's pizza pizza.

We took off around noon-thirty from St. George, stopped for a romantic lunch at Popeye's Chicken a la Mesquite Gas-n-Go. And yes, it was my decision: I still had some lingering memories of crisp chicken tenders from a late night stop somewhere near a Kingman, Arizona truck stop years ago. It was a disappointment this time.

We made it to our Vegas hotel. Checked in. I wanted to go do something. Not sure what, but something. Sam wanted to watch TV. He won. We watched TV until it was time to leave for our dinner reservation.

Made it to our reservation at "The Melting Pot" about ten minutes late. I was in a rush. However, I did feel a bit sheepish telling the host we had a reservation at 5 as I looked around the empty restaurant.

"Sure glad you made the reservation," the husband tells me.

Crazier things have happened in Vegas than finding an empty restaurant at 5 pm on a Wednesday afternoon. You never know about that city.

Dinner was divine. I even converted Sam to fun fondue. If we could just dip the world's problems in cheese or chocolate they would all just be better. I bet you could even dunk Kathy Griffin or Bill Maher in some Emmanthaler swiss and sharp-cheddar and they would be palatable....but, even that would be a stretch.

I'm sure we startled our waiter with how quickly we consumed the dessert tray. He tried to hide his surprise, but the man should've known we meant business after he'd refilled Sam's sixth Coke.

Later, we strolled Fremont Street. That got old after perusing one gift shop and walking past the first few booby bars. The freaks were kind of entertaining.

Headed down the Strip. Stopped at Carl's Jr. to get a shake because it had been at least 80 minutes since dinner. Carl's had enough ice cream for one shake. Sam and I fought about it and I won me a chocolate one. Not really - he let me have it because he thought he was going to get lucky that night.

And indeed he did. We finished the obligatory anniversary deed soon after we got to our room so we could enjoy us some TV. Whoop, whoop!

Later, Sam told me not to pick up the dollar out of the bathroom trash. It seems it had fallen out of his back pocket, after he flushed the toilet, or so he says, into the potty waters. He fished it out and laid it to rest in the garbage.

The next day, after it was dry and crispy, I fished it out and then chased him around the room with it. That was fun for about two minutes. Then we were winded and headed to breakfast at IHOP.

I told him I had the tip.  He gave me a good talkin' to about that. Apparently, a server touches food all day and Sam thought it improper to leave her with a dollar that had, not 12 hours earlier, been swimming with the fishes.

I agreed, and tucked it back into my wallet. Then we had a good laugh about his former roommate, who years earlier, had actually pooped on a $5 bill, left it outside Smith's grocery store, and had a good time watching from afar as unsuspecting Smith's customers handled the free money, were surprised, and promptly threw it to the ground. It was all fun and games until someone put it into their pocket and walked into buy milk or something. Then Mr. Roommate was out $5 and his fun for the afternoon...until his next bowel movement, anyway.

We headed out to I-15 via the Strip again, counted all the wedding chapels, and marveled at the fanny pack resurgence. I told him my earliest recollections of Vegas included a random memory of staying in my grandparents' motorhome while my parents went to eat inside Circus Circus (G&G Whiting were there with my bro and me, no child abandonment here) and the 'rents came back with a Kleenex box full of quarters.

Sam just said "Huh" to my childhood memory. He often does that with my stories. Also, he doesn't find me very funny.

But, you can't deny it...a poop dollar is funny no matter how you tell it.

And P.S. I won't tell Sam how our second born found "the dollar" and asked if he could have it. And you know what? I let him. After he made his bed, of course.

Of a Serving Nature

I woke up this morning so exhausted. And it was my own fault.

 Reasons being: 1. I'm still fighting against this whole time change idea. What the h-e-l-l? (It's not really swearing if it's separated by exclamative and deliberate hyphens.) Every year I refuse to conform to this whole switching the clock ahead one hour. It's not normal to still be light at 8 pm. I never really noticed it until I was a mother and to kids if it's still light forget about wind down time. The problem was confounded even more as it's been spring break this week, and with no real motivation to get out of bed, I haven't officially lumbared out of my bed until 9:45 (but, it's really only 8:45, right?)

And Reason #2 (still with me?): I went to sleep last night thinking about my Relief Society lesson I was to teach in the morning. Big mistake. "Service" was the lesson and I dreamed literally all night that I was aimlessly pushing some ward member's washing machine around the neighborhood....all in the name of "service" or something fruity like that.

I was so tired from working so hard all night.

I'm not sure if my dream neighbor appreciated it or not. I sure would have. I recently went 10 days without a washing machine. But now, after a no down/no interest six month loan from Boulevard Home Furnishings (during which I'm pretty sure was one of their 13 anniversary sales they have during the year), I have this little beaut:

And I had a fair, not good, but fair example to share with my fellow Sisters.

You see, service doesn't have to be of a laborious (sp?) nature. A smile, kind word, or a sit and talk can be just as appreciated.

And with that little gem being said, I refuse to think about my RS lessons anymore. May heaven help us.

Ready for the Lake

I'm already ready for a Lake Powell trip.

Alvin, Simon, and Theodore

"Cars." I've heard that movie about 206 times. I could repeat it word for word. You know..."Mack? I ain't no Mack, I'm a Peterbilt for dang's sake. Turn on your lights, you moron!"

Or how's about, "Look at all those sleepin' trucks. I don't know if I can make it!" (I repeated this particular phrase about seven times on Sam and my's last midnight roadtrip between Atlanta, GA and Orlando, FL. He didn't think it was so funny about halfway through the first sentence.)

And there's the old fallback: "Tractor's is so dumb!" combined with "Winter is a grand old time, of this there is no 'ifs or buts.' But, all that salt and grime can rust your bolts and freeze your....Lightning!"

Good times. Yes, Lightning McQueen and crew provide such enlightning background noise for me day in and out as I go about mopping, laundry, dishes, etc. I can't wait for "Cars 2" to make it's debut this summer. Seriously. I can't. Forget memorizing Shakespearean sonnets or Chaucer's tales, me needs me some more good one-liners to repeat to myself.

So, my kids have their repertoire of go-to movies. Among others I've given a lot of thought to lately is "Chipmunks 2: The Squeakquel."

I grew up with Alvin, Simon, Theodore (just typing their names makes me want to "do-do-dada-do" sing the themesong). But, the Saturday morning show was always in cartoon format. This new technology combines the squirrels with actual humans. They interact. Weird.

So, as I'm using my Swiffer Wet Mop (the only way to clean) the other day, I am, as usual, listening to Alvin and his bros in the background. I get to thinking: Are the Chipmunks a metaphor for boy bands?

• They're a popular music act consisting of three to six members, as "boy band" is defined by my literary encyclopedia, Wikipedia.


• The Chipmunks don't play musical instruments, although I think Alvin has been known to strum a riff.


• They're trendy; come on, where's Alvin's ankle-length tunic sweater with the emblazoned "A"? It's been replaced with the 2000ish version hoodie.


• They don't compose or perform their own material.


• And simply put: the girls love them.

However, my theory won't be proven correct until we see "True Hollywood Story: Alvin and the Chipmunks."

They have to be a metaphor. I mean no one could really interact with talking chipmunks and think it's normal, right? And so my musings go. And then I replace the Swiffer mop pad, walk into my bedroom, and fold some laundry. And to think I once argued the post-colonial persecution of "Jane Eyre's" Bertha as looking through a neo-feminist lens.

This is so much more fun!