Saturday, July 24, 2010

Date Night


Mi Amor and I were going to go to tonight's D-backs game. I was going to get all gussied up in my D-backs gear and woo him all the way to the stadium with my fluttering eyelashes and D-backs foam finger. But as I stood, ironing our church clothes for tomorrow's 8 o'clock session of church (we're always 5 minutes late, no matter how much I prepare), this thought came into my brain: Go to the temple tonight, instead of the game. I went over to my phone and texted the following message:

Let's go to the temple--Pete's Fish and Chips instead of peanuts and Cracker Jacks?

Mi Amor said let's g-o, just like that.

Now I'm going to woo him all the way to the temple with my cactus cowboy shirt and denim coolots. Maybe I'll even rap and beatbox "I Love to See the Temple" on our walk up to the temple doors. Maybe not.

Monday, July 19, 2010

We're Off!

We're off to girls camp, and it's too bad my "Be Strong" T-shirt is covering up my bangin' biceps. They actually make me look manish, so I'm glad you don't have to barf your brains out at the sight of them. I packed my Gas-X and my scriptures, so everything should work out as planned. I will report back to you in a week.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Summer Sabotage

video

So, I was hangin' outside in AZ's 115 degree heat stroke, and when I came back into the house, I walked right into the middle of my homegurl's MTV video production. I went ahead and cast myself as her leading lady. I need to get an agent. Seriously.

P.S. Please notice how I wipe my sweat-juice on the same towel I use to dry the dishes. Nice.

P.P.S. You're asking yourself why I allow my homegurl to listen to such a perverted song. A good mom steers her daughter's listening ears to the Mo Tab and Vivaldi. I will burn for the trash I allow into this home.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Beautiful


I inch my way north on Mesa Dr., repressing the urge to plow through the orange cones blocking an empty lane. If you're an AZ resident you know that the never ending road construction makes you want to jam a tranquilizer into your inner left thigh. But I usually say no to drugs (except for Ambien at girls camp), and treat my road rage with a natural dose of happy place distraction.

I look away from the red F-350 ahead of me, whose bumper sticker reads "God Bless John Wayne," whose driver I want to strangle for driving like a student driver, whose driver has, in the last two minutes, slammed on the brakes more times than the number of stars in the sky. Happy Place. Happy Place. I remind myself as I look to the east side of the street.

On the corner of Glade, a woman is standing small against the broiling sun, her onyx hair neatly coiled into a bun, which rests against the white rag hanging from her neck. I glance at my car's thermostat, 109 degrees. Then I look to the woman and watch her stretching to prune the top of her bougainvillea. One by one, the fuchsia blooms fall to the ground, quivering against the heat rising from the busy street.

The red truck ahead of me moves forward, and I follow it. Now I can see the backside of the woman and the rest of her yard. There's a sky blue Cadillac resting on cinder blocks, and oil smears across her driveway like black mascara after a good cry. The hay-like grass has grown barren from the heat, from years of neglect, from life. The woman and her bougainvillea are the only things thriving in this yard. Everything else rests six feet under.

The two of them look radiant together. She prunes, and the bougainvillea takes on a sleeker silhouette. Then I think: God will never let her bougainvillea die. Everything else may be dead in this woman's life, but not her bougainvillea. Like Moses and his burning bush, God talks to her while she prunes. And every time she looks at the flowers reaching upward, she's reminded that He is there, waiting for her to take in His love.

I look in my rear view mirror and all three of my homies are fast asleep, sweat beading on the tips of their noses, their heads resting on the next one's shoulder. Head shoulder. Head shoulder. The pattern repeats, forming a perfect row. We are still heading north on Mesa Dr. and a black Subaru has replaced the red truck. We're almost to 1st Ave when I'm startled by a loud "ding-dong." My heart is pounding as I remember, for the bazillionth time, that years ago my sister-in-law programmed the Mesa temple's location into the car's navigation system. Every time we pass the temple, we hear a resounding "ding-dong," and I always forget it's coming.

One of my homies awakens, and like a Pavlovian reaction he blurts, "The temple, Mom!" and I watch as his head slumps back against the headrest, his cherubic face relaxing as sleep escorts him back to his afternoon nap. "Yes," I say. "There's the temple," quietly thanking God for this beautiful life.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Facebook Anxiety

Facebook annihilates my self-esteem. It's taken years of daily affirmations to recover from my bad choices: claw bangs, orange skin, Boy George, and electric blue mascara. Like moths to a flame, the pictures come back to burn me (and Janet Jackson) for our wardrobe malfunctions. Does that simile even make sense?

In case you're wondering, I'm the one standing in fifth position, head tilted, ready to be crowned Miss USA. At least my orange hair matches my legs.

P.S. Please respect my white Keds.

P.P.S I still love you, Kara, even though you posting this picture forced me to make another appointment with my therapist.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Soakin' up the sun, even though it's 115*


I came home from Sunsplash (our local water park) with some bits of advise.

1. Think long and hard before you tattoo your lover's name on your chest. (Maybe skip the tattoo all together.)

Tattooing "Claire" above a crossed out "Veronica" brings shame to your love game. Declare your devotion for your main squeeze in a less permanent way. Putting her name on a T-shirt, or spelling out your love in red plastic cups, on the chain link fence on Lindsey Blvd., might be a better option?


2. A bikini will betray you like a philandering boyfriend

Sure, your yellow polka-dot bikini behaves while you're lounging poolside, but as soon as you step into the water for a swim, it will misbehave. While my homgurl and I were floating down the lazy river, a girl emerged from underneath the water sans bottoms. Let's just say: Full moon on Friday. Yikes. My advise is to stick with the monogamous, faithful one piece; it promises to stay and cover your ladybits, come water or sun.

3. Put down the book and swim

I'm the kind of mom who watches her kids swim from the comfort of a lounge chair. I don't like getting wet because the chlorine turns my hair into a green toupee. So instead, I enjoy the pool from a distance, periodically dipping my feet to cool off. But since it was a whooping 115* out today, I went swimming almost the entire time. My homies couldn't believe I was even in the water. They hung on my neck, whispered secrets in my ear, and raced me down the water slides. I need to worry less about my toupee and focus more on just livin' it up. Who cares what I look like, anyway?

P.S. I just snarfed an entire box of Goobers while writing this post. Muzzle, maybe?