Merry Hoppity!

With the holiday only hours away, I'm finding myself waxing nostalgic for days gone by...stories told, adventures experienced, dreams unrealized. I'm wishing that I had been more prepared for the holidays, and able to relax and enjoy them. Document them.

But alas. I'm not even done shopping, and the handmade gifts that I had hoped for may end up being valentines.

For now, I'll settle for sharing a holiday memory with you.

A few years back, my mom, two friends and I decided to go to a grand bazaar in our area. It is Victorian themed, with carolers, folks dressed in Victorian attire, shows, and buildings full of booths, offering wares of every type imaginable. Many were handmade, and not only provided excellent gifts, but inspiration. It was always a day to bask in the glow of the holiday.

We began the day by hitting some major retailers along the way. Two of us had tween aged children, and rarely had time to shop. We would rush into Wal-Mart or Target, list in hand, and fill a cart in no time. We would fill the trunk, then rush off to indulge in a day of perusing the aisles of trinkets at the fairgrounds.

The two ladies were already at the car as Mom and I left Target. I could barely push my laden cart. I had filled my childrens' wish lists and found a few goodies for myself, too. I was quite pleased and jubilant to be so organized.

And then I spied the bell ringer.

"Oh, no," I lamented. "My purse is buried under all of my stuff. How will I dig out change to add to the bucket?"

"It won't matter. I have given all month to every bucket that I've passed. I've given to local food banks, and bought gifts for the angel tree. I don't need to give this time."

"But HE doesn't know that. He's going to see my cart loaded with Christmas and think that I'm a selfish snob!"

"No, I can't dig out my purse. I'll just push past him in a hurry and he won't notice."

"But he's a man 'of color'. He'll think that I'm discriminating against him! He'll think that I'm being racist!"

"It's okay. I'll flash him my warmest smile and wish him a hearty Merry Christmas, and he'll know that I'm a good person and that I've given elsewhere, that I respect him as a person and am not just ignoring him."

I put on my best smile and gazed into his deep brown eyes.

"Oh, no! What if he is offended by Merry Christmas! Maybe I should say Happy Holidays like they tell us to at work! Be politically correct!"

By this time, I'm staring at him and need to speak soon before he thinks that I'm a stalker or something.

"But he's wearing a Santa hat. He MUST be Christian, and I can say Merry Christmas. SPEAK, Jaycie, speak! Just say something!"

What came out was: "Merry Hoppity!", a rather awkward and mangled version of Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays thrown together.

But I said it with conviction, and it was too late to try to recover at this point. I held my head high and pushed my cart swiftly past him as if this was my standard greeting. I was barely holding it together when Mom caught up with me about 15 feet later.

"What did you just say to him???" She asked incredulously.

I began giggling so hard that I could hardly push my cart. Tears streamed out of my eyes as I tried to explain without attracting more undue attention. I was afraid to look back.

By the time that we reached the car, neither of us could speak, and we barely caught our breath between attempts to explain our condition to our friends.

It's a story that we love to tell for many reasons, the first being that the mind is a scary place to venture into alone. One should not overanalyze the Salvation Army buckets out front. One should not contemplate the thoughts that occur as we bicker with ourselves in our own minds. And we should never speak until we are sure that we are going to do so in our native tongue. Or at least a reasonable facsimile of. It is also a festive memory of friends, laughter, and the spirit of the season, and nearly always ends with a good belly laugh. No matter how many times I tell it.

Merry Hoppity to all!

Don't get your panties in a wad...

When I was a teenager, one of my cousins wrote back to me about not having written sooner…”Don’t get your panties in a wad, I’m working on it!” It cracked me up.

Tonight, I heard one better. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot; It solves nothing and makes you walk funny.”

Of course, as a teenager, I was just tickled that a Mormon relative of mine was talking about panties, to begin with, and that was enough to make me giggle all day. I could picture it, quite literally, and the idea of my panties in a wad made me right uncomfortable, I must say.

I have a broader perspective now, as time, experience and AGE seem to do to us. I know that not only is it uncomfortable to have bunchy panties, but that no one seems to know your suffering except for you. I mean, truly, think of the last time that you wore bad underwear. Drove you crazy all day long, and no one noticed, right? Except for the little dances that you did to try to get it to lay correctly, and the sidesteps into private places so that you could pull it where it needed to be?

The term “panties in a wad” or “knickers in a knot” refers to being upset or mad about something…and it’s the same scenario. Often, we feel the discomfort of being upset, but everyone else is oblivious. So who are we hurting, besides ourselves? NO ONE.

Too many times, we let ourselves get worked up over things that really don’t matter in the big picture, or are so far out of our control that we need to just accept it and move on. Today’s example is the video of President Obama swatting a fly. I cannot believe all of the airtime that it has gotten, with folks who are amazed at his cat-like reflexes, or the ones who are all up in arms because he killed a fly. It was a FLY, folks, and people swat them all of the time. Nothing amazing happened here, nothing tragic happened here. Let’s save our outrage for something really important.

I once had a friend that was upset with her father for remarrying. She didn’t like the new stepmother, and even if she had, she simply did not want to accept the situation. I kept telling her that she needed to let it go, and just learn to get along. Not for the stepmother’s sake, who really couldn’t care less about what my friend thought. But because in the long run, the only one that it hurt was my friend. She was alienated from her father, and disappointed all of the time with their relationship.

I know this first hand, as well. I apparently don’t practice what I preach! I was walking around, carrying anger and resentment as if it belonged to me. The folks that deserved it didn’t even KNOW…and wouldn’t care even if they did…so it was only making me miserable. The day that I decided that I just didn’t care anymore was like buying brand new undergarments. They were no longer constrictive or ill fitting, and I was able to walk upright for the first time in months. I feel so much better, having thrown out those nasty panties.

Which leads to another great saying, “Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.” Also some great advice.

BTW, Toddler decided that he was a comedian tonight, so he tells me, “Mom, do you want me to tell you a joke?”

When I said yes, he says, “Okay, I’ll say ‘broarkejbasdfahjkhpatriotadjjhblkjtrz’ and then you laugh.” He gets into a stand up comedian kind of pose, and then says, “broarkejbasdfahjkhpatriotadjjhblkjtrz” and stares at me.

Kid needs a laugh track.

Giggle like a School Girl

Last night, we were watching a TV show while the baby (who is now three, so has become a TODDler!) was playing games on PBS kids. I have no idea what he found so funny, but he was belly laughing…I love that uninhibited belly laugh that little children are so free with! It’s such a beautiful melodic sound, something that I could listen to all day!

The first time that Tux giggled like that was when he was about four months old. We were at my parents’ house, and Mom was playing with him while I rolled around the floor in agony from a migraine. All of a sudden, there is this beautiful laugh! It went a long ways towards healing that headache.

There is nothing better than a good giggle. Every day, I find things that are terribly funny – apparently only to me – that make me giggle to myself. The other day, I was commenting on Tux’s brand new diploma, and how beautiful it is. At the same time, I realized that 26 years after graduation (yes, it’s been THAT long), I don’t even remember where my diploma is! Or what it looks like. It sent me into a fit of giggles that left the rest of the family staring at me with fear in their eyes, as if whatever ailment I had contracted might possibly be contagious.

Then there’s the dreaming. I dream constantly, all night, every night. The merciful nights are ones where the dreams are so vague that I don’t even try to recall them, but most times, I am constantly trying to piece together bits and pieces that float around in my head. I am afraid to really analyze them, as they seem to come out of left field sometimes and may indicate a deeper mental illness than previously thought! The night before last, I dreamed about a baby named Boing. That was good for giggles throughout the day, every time I thought of it.

And while I shouldn’t admit it, I had a dream a few years ago that still makes me laugh. It was just after I read the book “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix”, and it left me feeling a great sorrow for Harry, who endured such torment at the hands of Delores Umbridge and the rest of the wizarding world. So in my dream, I showed him my … well… my bare chest.

Admit it, you are laughing!

I still snicker about it, although I’m not sure if it’s embarrassment or humor. Upon awakening, I felt the need to share this information with others…for what reason, I am still unclear. I even posted it on our family website for everyone else to enjoy. I guess my thought was that if I shared it, it was not a shameful thing?! But who, in their right mind, shows such a thing to an underage wizard, for heaven’s sake??! (I did find out later that this probably was a manifestation of my concern for the boy, as that body part is also indicative of mothering, nurturing. Goodness, was I relieved to hear THAT!)

One of the best giggles that I have ever had was at the hand of Lori’s butt, so to speak, as discussed in my “Happy Trees” post. I laughed so hard that I couldn’t speak for quite some time, and in fact, had trouble walking. I literally laughed so hard that I could spare no extra energy for my legs, and I’d fall down laughing every time someone asked me what had happened. It took a good 20 minutes before I was able to tell the story with any degree of intelligibility.

I am particularly giggly when I am around my brother, with whom I share a great love of laughing. We see each other so seldom that when we do, it’s a mandatory all night giggle fest. We stay up into the wee hours (yes, leaving our children to our spouses, as we cannot possibly break in the conversation long enough to put them to bed properly), talking over old stories and sharing new ones. All for the sake of that belly laugh, tears in your eyes experience.

One of the funniest things that I have ever seen was Bro imitating his daughter, who was a bit of a drama queen at the time. Watching him squeal and spasm on the floor, throwing a fit about a popcicle, was the highlight of the trip. And it’s even funnier when you realize that in this, she takes after her father. What a fit thrower he was in his day! And now it drives him crazy…isn’t that hilarious!?

We laughed for days at his wife, who could not get the hang of the local vernacular in regards to the term “town”. When we go to the center of our little down, we call it “UPTOWN”. When we go to the nearest larger city, we call it “IN TOWN”. She kept trying to convince us that we had it all wrong, and it should be the opposite, but we could only giggle.

Then there was the time that we were playing Christmas Trivia, and Bro was staging the question, “What little tramp died on Christmas Eve in blah blah blah…” I knew this one! I used to love/hate the story of the Little Matchbook Girl, who died outside the window of a lovely home on Christmas Eve. I screamed out the answer, and was surprised to see the look of incredulity on my brother’s face.

His face turned four shades of purple, and he burst out laughing. “Are you saying that the little matchbook girl was a prostitute??” he countered.

Who knew that Charlie Chaplin was called the Little Tramp and died on Christmas Eve?! Or that a tramp is not just someone who lives in boxes outside, but rather, one who shares oneself freely with others?

There is nothing in this world that can cure what ails you like a good laugh. Not only do we love a good laugh, but humor is a defense mechanism, a stress reliever, a tension breaker, and a cure all. I couldn’t live without laughing…although there have been times in my life when I’ve found it hard to find humor in life. Thank heavens that those days have passed. Let’s hear it for a good old fashioned hysterical laughing fit!

The following pictures were taken during the photo shoot to scrapbook my SIL’s lack of discernment regarding UP and IN town, and are the best cure for a doldrum day that I’ve found. I dare ya…stare into his ‘giggling like a school girl’ eyes and tell me that you don’t laugh!

“Let’s hear about those happy little trees now!”

We LOVE the show Wipeout on ABC…there is something about watching people crash and burn that just never gets old! It is the one show that I “bwa ha!” at, you know, the laugh that comes out sounding more like a bark than a laugh. I squeal, I scream, I simply cannot contain myself. The baby hates it. He is always telling me to stop laughing because I’m so loud.

I love the commentary that runs throughout the show, making fun of folks by calling them Deadbeat Daughter, Bored Brittany, or the Desperate Housewife. The hosts are brilliant, adding little quips, screen drawings, and sound effects that completely crack me up. Tonight, they had a great segment where a background singer that they called the songbird was diving into a big air filled pillow. They added the sound of a hawk, it was hilarious.

I’ve had some spectacular crashes myself, over the years. Certainly when we were skiing! One of the last times that we went, the guys had chided me for leaving them behind in my dust. They complained that if they had a problem, I wouldn’t be around to help them. So I carefully stayed just between my husband and my brother on a cat trail, a mostly flat, wide trail that lead to the bottom of the mountain. Hubby got too far ahead, and I looked back to see if my bro was still with me. The next thing that I knew, I was wreckage in the middle of the path. I was a tangled mass of limbs and skis and poles, and my brother was belly laughing.

To add insult to injury, my ski had fallen off and flipped into the woods just off of the trail. As I prepared to climb down, another skier came by, shouting, “Don’t go down there! The snow is deeper than it looks!” Good advice…but a bit too late, as I slid down the embankment and was soon waist deep in the snow, looking up at my now hysterical brother gazing off of the edge of the trail.

Besides the obvious embarrassment, I was hurting from my TWO falls, and I started to cry a little bit. Bro kept laughing, then suggested, “Well, while you are down there, why don’t you look for your SKI??!” Smart alec. I found the ski, btw, and we used it to pull me back up and join my husband at the bottom of the hill, who by now was about to send out the ski patrol to find us because he was TOO FAR AHEAD TO SEE MY CRASH!

One of the first few days that I was away at college, I broke a tiny little bone in my foot. Not much, not enough for a cast, but it hurt and I was supposed to be on crutches for two weeks. Always trying to be the overachiever, I decided to spend this time laid up to write letters back home, read a little, study…so I loaded down both arms with books, paper, pens, and what have you, and headed down the stairs on my crutches to watch tv in the common room. You can see it coming, can’t you? Yup. I tripped as I tried to navigate the stairs with armloads of books, fell headfirst down the stairs, and landed unceremoniously at the base of the stairs, crutches askew and books falling like rain around me. The entire common room was full of “General Hospital” fans (can you guess what years I was in college?), who ALL turned to stare at me…and WATCH me get up and try to gather my things. Do you think that one person could have helped me in my moment of need? Oh, no, that would have been too easy. Instead, they all watched while I gathered up books and tried to adjust my pride. Then they turned back to the TV, and I decided that I didn’t want to watch TV anyway. I headed back up the stairs, carrying my armloads of books.

I can’t say that I blame them for laughing at me. I would do the same, before I helped them up. When I was a Senior in high school, we went on a job shadow for a day. My best friend and I rode the transit bus into the nearest large town, and we were going to go shopping before riding the bus home. We left our job shadow a little late, and were hurrying down the street to catch the bus to the mall. In Gunne Sacks dresses…remember? Full skirts, lacy trim, and tight bodices. We had stylish sling shoes with no straps. How they stayed on our feet, I’ll never know. (and in fact, if your foot fell asleep, they did NOT stay on, but that’s another story) Anyway, we saw the bus pull up to the curb, and we put it into high gear to make the stop.

Next thing I know, she’s gone. I’m still running, and she is no longer at my side. I turned around to see her sprawled across the sidewalk. She pulled herself up to show a bleeding knee and nylons that had run both up and down. I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t even tell her that the bus that we were running to catch was not the one that we were trying to get on.

She and her shoes had their revenge when I was in college. My FHE group decided to go caroling in Salt Lake and go see the Temple Grounds. We were walking around a neighborhood in Midvale, dressed in our Sunday best, and I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. I fell forward, and lucky for me, my FHE sister's butt was right there. Even luckier was the fact that Lori's butt was...shall we say...significant? And it formed a little shelf upon which my head rested comfortably.

Now comes the dilemma. Wearing stupid those stupid 1980's sling shoes, I was unable to get the leverage to lift my head up without moving closer to Lori and adjusting my center of balance. Lori, of course, was not necessarily in the mood to carry my head on her butt, so she began walking faster to remove said butt from the path of my fat head. I was running to keep up, or more importantly, to catch up so that I could lift my head and right myself without falling flat on my face. Needless to say, it was a very strange few seconds!!! A FHE brother reached in and pulled me up, and the day was saved. But after that, Lori looked at me strangely and I couldn't think about it without collapsing in a fit of giggles. (Lori, if you are out there, I am SO SORRY!)

To this day, I think of this when folks ask me how I accomplish all that I do. I tell them that it's much like this scenario....if I slow down, I'll fall flat on my face, so I just keep running to keep my head safely on Lori's butt....and maybe, one day, get my bearings.

The most classic crash story comes from my mother. She and my brother had been going back and forth…he was in a crabby mood, and she was trying to cheer him up. I have to note that she can be REALLY annoying when she is trying to cheer someone up, hard as she tries. So she was showing him the “Happy Painter” on TV, and how he was painting happy little trees, and gentle bushes on his artwork. “Doesn’t that just make you happy?” she taunted him. He was not amused.

They left the house, headed to some destination or another, when Mom accidentally stepped off the edge of the sidewalk and crashed headfirst into the brush at the side of the house. Fuming, she disentangled herself from the overgrowth and stomped up the path.

Bro was in tears. “Let’s hear about your happy little trees NOW!”

It’s not so funny when the proverbial shoe is on the other foot, is it?

"We don't ski too well...but we're real fun at dinner!"

If our family had a motto, that would be it. I think that it very nicely sums up what and who we are, and how we approach life!

I didn’t learn to ski until about the time that I got married. (It would have been far too easy to learn to ski when I was in college and living 20 minutes from a great resort. No, I had to wait until any mountain was four hours from home)

My dad was patiently teaching my brother, me, and my husband. The guys caught on all right, but I was really struggling. I’d go about ten feet, then crash and never could get the turns. Dad finally told me to “stop looking for a place to fall down!”

Then going down a hill once, I realized that if I shifted the weight on my foot, that I changed direction. It was an epiphany for me! It was all about weight distribution, just like in ballet. When I mentioned my great flash of wisdom, Dad looked at me like DUH. At which point I snarled that he should have told me that in the first place, as it would have made things much much easier.

I was also wary of the ski lift, which I was sure would be the death of me. I would palpitate waiting for it to sidle up behind me. I would sit stock still all of the way up the mountain, for fear of falling off. And the dismount was always an adventure. One of the first times up the mountain, I was sweating as we approached the end of the lift. I was very careful to keep my tips up, heeding the warnings as you approached the ramp. I slid off of the seat and started down the hill…to find some fat chick crashed in the middle of the ramp! In a panic, I turned to the left, thinking that I could just hop off of the side. Not a good plan. The lift was higher than I expected, and there was a wall with poles rising out of it to stop me. They had to stop the lift to rescue me before I fell over the wall and slid off of a cliff, and I skied off embarrassed, and greeted by my family, which was now rolling on the ground laughing.

By way of vengeance, my brother soon found out why they tell you keep your tips up, and he fell into the net that precedes the ramp. This time, I laughed.

One time as we got on the lift, I saw something drop as my dad got on the chair ahead of me. I looked down and realized that it was the lens of his glasses. Not only does he need those glasses, but I wasn’t even sure that we could get him down the mountain without one eye! I reached out in my thick Gore-tex gloves and managed to snag it as my butt plopped and I was lifted 20 feet into the air. I was so afraid to move the whole trip. I sat there with my fingers clenched so tight that they were cramping by the time we got to the top, but we saved the lens.

We had our fair share of crashes. Dad and I would collide frequently down a hill as I tried to stay with him, but still not very sure on my skis. Once, I struggled to stop and slid right up and into the arms of the cousin of a friend of ours – I didn’t know him well, but he was very nice looking, so it was all good.

We then began to tackle moguls. There was one particular mogul field that we felt that we could handle, so a group of about eight of us began the journey. About halfway down, I stopped to catch my breath. Below me were various stages of “wreckage”, my friends and family strewn about. A trio of skiers glided up behind me, in their stunning high-end ski attire and surveyed the sight. “I think you just better play through,” I advised them. “We might be here awhile!”

One notable crash happened on a thin catwalk trail at the top of the mountain. I was a better skier at this point, but still nervous. I was so paranoid about falling off of the cliff on the one side. The next thing I knew, Dad hit me from behind and there were arms and legs going every which way. We finally came to rest just at the edge of the cliff, with my arms stuck underneath him and my body on top. At which point he says gruffly, “Get off of me!” Need I remind him that it was HE who hit ME??

But I was in trouble even when I was alone. One day, I came to a fork in the trail and was pondering whether to follow one set of friends down the easier slope to the left, or take the harder route to the right with my dad. I hesitated a few seconds too long, and was soon sliding down BOTH sides of the hill. One leg was travelling to the left, and one was travelling to the right. Unfortunately, my ski pole was lodged between the two, and soon ended up underneath my butt as I slid to a stop. My right leg is facing east, my left leg is facing north, and my hand is stuck in the loop on the ski pole, which is now all of the way behind me. I couldn’t get any leverage to pull myself back up the hill, and I couldn’t get my hand out. All I could do was sit there, pathetically, with my hand stuffed in my crotch, as a parade of skiers sailed past me. I have no idea how I finally got out, I only remember being mortified!

As I got to be a better skier, I wanted to prove to the guys that I could keep up with them. (for some reason, we had few women skiers in our group…they stayed in the lodge and read books or something) My favorite trick was to stand at the top of a cliff and look over the edge. If the guys wavered even a little bit, I would drop over the edge and tell them that we wouldn’t know if we could do it until we tried. Then they were committed and had to follow!

We had the opportunity to ski in some beautiful powder one day. It’s rare in our area, so we were really excited. We took the lift as far up the mountain as we could, and began to take some difficult trails down the mountain. We were at our peak as skiers, and we thought that we were pretty darn cool coming down the face of a bowl shaped hillside. Until my brother bit it. He fell end over end and a ski snapped off. It was almost impossible to find in the fine, deep, white powder! He kept reaching into the snow and feeling around, muttering to himself.

We loved to ski in groups, with friends from our area. We would caravan to the ski resort in a variety of cars, then meet up at the lodge. After a long day of skiing, we would begin the long drive home, stopping for dinner at a nice little restaurant that served excellent chicken noodle soup and fresh bread. We would delight the non-skiers at our table with tales of our crashes and adventures on the mountain, exhausted ourselves some more laughing. Then we’d sleep the rest of the way home, and the poor driver had to fight sleep to get us home.

One trip, we were asked to take along a co-worker’s teenage son. We didn’t feel that we could refuse, so we agreed. But we all were concerned about him, as he was a very good skier and somewhat cocky. We knew that he would be disgusted at our mediocre skills and would probably make fun of us, then ditch us on the mountain. Which would be fine, as he was somewhat intolerable at times, and never very happy with anyone.

To our surprise, he stayed with us the entire day. Even when we suggested that he take the harder runs while we made our way down, he trailed along and waited patiently as we picked ourselves up and dusted off, only to crash again five feet further down. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t say anything negative, so we included him in our conversations and decisions.

When we stopped to eat, we were especially careful to make sure that he was a part of the conversation, and explain any inside jokes that arose. And of course, we had some great crash stories to share. We were soon laughing and carrying on, and he along with us. As always, the stories brought gales of laughter and squeals as we recounted our alternating daring acts of bravery and complete lack of skill.

When it came time to leave, the room came to a complete standstill when he proclaimed, “I wanna come skiing with you more often. You guys are FUN!”

We were stunned. He didn’t laugh at us, and he didn’t get crabby. He thought that we were fun!

Dad broke the silence by telling him, “We don’t ski too well…but we’re real fun at dinner!”

It’s okay to be a clutz on a mogul field, as long as we have a good laugh about it later. I used to say, “It wasn’t a good day skiing unless you have some good crash stories to tell.”

Our family has always been like that. We’re not the richest, the smartest, the most well-read, or the most interesting. We’re not highly successful or famous or even perfect at what we do. But we enjoy our time together, and love and accept the limitations that we have. Rejoice in them, at times, even.

I think that I have forgotten that to some degree over the past years. I had forgotten that it’s all about enjoying the ride, not getting to the bottom first, or even making it without tearing out the seat of your pants as you land in a heap in front of a bevy of snobby skiers. At the end of the day, it’s okay if you can laugh about it and share it with your family.

No, we don’t ski too well…but we’re real fun at dinner!