Bitter, Sweet

We just returned from our trip to Southern California, and I'm already homesick. My entire family lives there, with the exception of my littlest brother. So when we visit, we cram as much as possible into our schedule. We got sun-kissed on the beach, twice. We visited friends in Burbank, passed the white Hollywood sign and got ride sick at Castle Park. (Never ride the Spider. It's horrible. Right, Ryan?) We ate Donut Star donuts for 3 days straight and updated one another on the happenings in our lives.

In my update, I mentioned to mi padre that I had been returned to my cash-only diet. I told him I've been counting my pennies, naming them one by one. His heart felt pity on me, so he said I could cash out the change he'd been storing in his pink paper mache piggy bank.

"Take the pig and keep the change," he said.

"I wouldn't dare. Remember when I did that a few years ago without asking? And then I got so busted?" I said.

"Take the pig, Katy."

So we did. We marched down to Stater Bros' Coinstar and cashed in the change: $170.00. I tried giving the money back to him, but he refused, saying, "Just go enjoy yourself." My eyes are going misty, right now, thinking about how generous he is (you too, Madre). What would I do without the two of you?

When we returned home to Arizona, I listened to phone messages, checked my e-mail, and thumbed through the snail mail. I found the notice pictured below, and all of the California sweetness drained from my veins as reality set in: Yours Truly needs to settle down and start focusing on important details like her household's water supply. Thank heavens for mi madre and padre and their little pink pig. They're always there to sweeten life's bitter shots of reality.

Carolyn: Complaint #234

Carolyn lives in the house directly behind my house. She's grouchy and her heart matches her ice blue eyes. I've tried to be nice, giving her freshly baked pumpkin cookies, talking to her for hours about her blooming rose bushes, accommodating her concerns: your dog barks too much, your kids yell too much, your house is too close, your trees are too big, and your yard guy blows too much dust. My niceties have had no avail because her complaints keep coming, clogging my phone line like hair in a shower drain.

While I was away on my staycation, Carolyn left me the following message:

Hi Katy, this is Carolyn (my eyes rolling until they ached). It's time to trim your Sasquatch tree (like she's my mom or something). If you need help seeing how it should be trimmed, my neighbor has done a really good job maintaining her tree, so you might want to take a look, get a few pointers. Just get that tree trimmed as soon a possible. K? Bye.

I was fuming, and I felt like lobbing rocks and weeds into her pool. I wanted to hang a sign over her fence, saying: SIT ON IT, CAROLYN! Instead I exhibited self control and called mi Amor. Being the good Christian man that he is, he called a professional tree trimmer. Since we don't have a chainsaw or a ladder high enough to do the job ourselves, we'll be shoveling out one hundred and fifty dollars (that we don't have) to trim the tree 3 centimeters back from the fence line.

Are you happy now, Carolyn? Taking money from the poor like that?

Tonight I'm praying that I'll get over this situation. After all, tomorrow is the Sabbath. I'm going to sing extra loud during the sacrament hymn in hopes for extra forgiveness. I need it in a bad way.

P.S. Maybe Carolyn should worry less about my tree and more about her grapevines.

Grandpa W.

My grandpa was a Lieutenant Colonial in the U.S.M.C. He was a career Marine and served in three wars, including WWII. When I'd go to visit my grandparents, I'd stay in their guest bedroom. Across the hall from my room was a giant picture of my grandpa, taken while he was serving in the in the South Pacific. I'd lean in the room's doorway and study the black and white picture top to bottom, starting with the picture's wood frame. I'd run my eyes around its perimeter, connecting all four corners of perfectly aligned seams. He had made the frame himself out of reclaimed wood. My eyes would shift to the top of the palm tree, tracing down to the sign nailed just above his head: SNAFU (I learned the meaning of that fancy Marine acronym too). There my grandpa stood, centered, just beneath the sign. I'd take note of his thick, wavy hair, while moving down his angular nose, to stop at his dashing smile. I'd lean in closer to get a better look. I liked his teeth: strong and confident, very square. There was a small gap between his front teeth, which added character to his overall handsomeness. He was casually dressed in military attire, wearing a collared button-up loosely tucked into khaki trousers. He could have been a pin-up model for the Gap. He was that gorgeous.

Two nights ago mi Amor watched Saving Private Ryan. Throughout the rest of the evening we discussed and tried to understand the price paid for our current freedom. He's visited Normandy and can't talk about it without getting emotional. "The white crosses go on forever, Katy. It's unfathomable. The water there turned to blood. A blood bath."

It's estimated that seventy million lives were lost during WWII (about six million were Jews). That number boggles my mind, so to put its immensity in perspective, I started adding up current populations in my favorite states. Getting rid of the entire population in Utah, New York, California, and Arizona only adds up to about fifty-eight million. I stopped counting after reaching that number because I was truly horrified.

I'll never understand the tremendous sacrifices that were/are made for my freedom, but I'm grateful for my grandpa's courage and for the man he was. I thank him and the others who served and continue to serve this country. Thank you.

Jean Kate Glamor

Could you give this baby a bazillion kisses? She is, of course, modeling a bit of Jean Kate glamor. What would Miss V. say? Her baby radar would go berserk, off the charts, I'm sure.

Thanks Katherine for letting me post her picture. She's perfect.

The first picture is of clips I made for a famous lady in New York. She lives in Manhattan, and her apartment overlooks Central Park. I'm totally jeal. (in a non-envying sort of way).

MJ

Never cut your dog's hair when you're mourning the loss of your girlhood idol, Michael Jackson. Just look at all those jiggy-jaggy cuts. Poor thing.

Now, MJ is a man whom I've adored for many years. I had a picture of him on my 3rd grade reading folder, wearing that baby yellow vest, with his perfectly styled Jheri curl. "Human Nature" was written across the top. I kissed that picture more than I care to share.

My devotion runs deep. I used to sing "Ben" to my very own rat. (Sick, I know. FYI: I no longer enjoy rodents.) I moon walked. I asked mi madre to buy me a sparkly, white glove (I skipped the red "Beat It" jacket). I was glued to the news when I heard M.J.'s Jheri curl caught fire, while he was shooting the Pepsi commercial.

The only way I can comfort myself in these dark and dire times (besides sipping a diet Dr. Pepper, which I've been sober from for three days straight) is DANCE! Here's a video of me and my homegurl shakin' it like a Polaroid picture to "Beat It." Press play if you dare.

MJ

+
ME=TLA

P.S. I totally messed up. That's why my homegurl is shooting me with looks of disgust throughout the entire video (I'll never be cool enough for her. Never.)

The Church is still true.

Word to mi Padre

This is so late! But I just have to say: I'm crazy about you, Padre! I've been thinking about you all day. While I was mopping my floors (on the Sabbath, so shoot me), I remembered that you were the one who taught me how to dry the floors, using a towel. You never just let the floors air dry. You always towel dry, right, Padre? Thanks to your mopping skills, I now have, for the moment, the cleanest floors on the block.

I think about you every time I listen to Barbara Streisand, Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, and Glenn Miller. I think about you every time I call my littlest son's name: Edward. When I read my Patriarchal blessing, I'm reminded of how lucky I am to have you as a father. When I call you, blubbering my brains out about how much I think I stink (not in a b.o. sort of way), you always say, "You're a real winner, Katy." Remember how you had to tell me that a few months ago? What would I do without you?

Happy Father's Day.

Project Bear Hugs

I went to the LDS Humanitarin Center to find a project for our Young Women. A sweet sister, named Verna, suggested that we make the above pictured bears. "What will you do with the completed bears." I asked. "We'll send them to orphanages in Romania," she said, while squeezing my arm for good measure. She handed me the bear pattern and patted my back, "Good luck!"

Each girl hand-stitched a face on her bear. A few girls embroidered hearts on the bears' rehinds. "Love" is stitched on the leg of another bear. They're adorable and unique, but someone said, "They look like orphaned bears. That will only make the orphans feel more like orphans."

The girls attached hope for a better life with each stitch. The orphans will feel that love, and they will love the bears, imperfections and all.