out of sight, out of mind? the zion curtain...

If you live in Utah, you get used to some pretty weird shit. Especially when it comes to drinking laws. That probably comes from the fact that the liquor commission and our state legislature is comprised of a bunch of uber-conservative Mormon guys who don't actually drink and most likely think that everyone who does drink is one of Satan's minions.

So after years of one ridiculous law after another (remember the mini-bottles? where they thought they were controlling our alcohol intake but actually they were giving us double the shots. That was a good one. Plus I loved the little bitty Barbie bottles. So cute. And you've all heard about the Club memberships, right?), they've come up with a doozie.

We call it "the Zion curtain." Apparently if people, especially little underage people, see a bartender opening a beer or see bottles of alcohol sitting behind a bar, they will instantly transform into shot-swigging, beer-bonging alcoholics. Yep, that's all it takes. Never you mind about the good family values instilled by their parochial, upstanding, non-drinking parents and the church community and all the don't-drink PSAs and gory drunk driving videos in school. One glance at those fancy bottles and, poof! you're done for. Man, if it was that easy, marketing people would have been dancing in the streets.

So rather than have that devilish bartender whipping up margaritas or popping a beer right there in the middle of a nice upstanding family restaurant, our brilliant legislators and their cronies over at the DABC have devised this plan: Put up an opaque "wall" between the public and the evil booze man. No. I'm not shitting you. A partition to "hide" the alcohol from those innocent little children and, I'm assuming, those Sunday church-goers who must be DYING for a drink.

Leatherheads, a new sports bar which has been "Zion-curtained."
Decent bar, but when your bartender is running laps to the
back room, sweating, something just ain't right. See how clever they are
though? Blow up booze bottles so you know you're at a bar.

The other option for our beleaguered restaurant and bar-owners: you can keep your icky liquor hidden in the back room. To the customers, it will magically appear on a tray nicely delivered by your slightly sweaty, out-of-breath server who is now having to run triple-time to deliver adult beverages with adult meals.

Cuckoo? Right? One of the legislators, Senator Valentine, was on X96 the other day and he actually said that this was the only way people would be able to tell if they were at a bar or at a restaurant. Really? Really. So people are so stupid they can't tell the difference between a bar and a restaurant. For most Utahans, if it doesn't have a drive up window it doesn't count as a restaurant anyway, so that's one obvious tell. And when you try to walk into a bar with your five kids and their fake IDs don't pass the eagle-eyed bouncer, you might just might realize you're not at the family diner-slash-chain restaurant.

I love restaurants. The ambiance. The vibe. The buzz (not the alcohol one). I love that people who do this for a living spend hours agonizing over the details to make sure that the overall visual experience and flow and energy are just perfect as the menu and the service. Why a bunch of judgmental yodleheads make stupid decisions like this that screw up the experience for the 98% of people who are competent enough to manage their children's understanding of and experience with potential dangers in the world is completely beyond me. Not to mention the fact that every single person we entertain from outside the state walls thinks we are INSANE (we are a tourism state, people!). Come on! Factor in the irony that these are the same guys who passionately want government OUT of our personal business. My advice? Be careful what you wish for, boys. The Zion curtain may not stop with a nice glass of wine with dinner.

the guessing game

Tagg: That word is "the." It has my nickles in it.
Me: Your nickles? (thinking he want some monetary reward for reading)
Tagg: Yeah...my nickles. T and H.
Me: [processing]
Me: Your initials?
Tagg: Yep.

Mommy Interpretation Game. I win. This time. Teaching kids to read is harder than I thought it would be. Much like most parenting!

star wars birthday

Star Wars. Light sabers. Jedis and Jedi princesses and aliens and starships. An awesome 4th birthday party for my Star Wars-obsessed son is a vision in my head. Now how do I make that work, without a mylar balloon and plastic tablecloths and a grocery store cake? Pinterest, of course!

  

I wanted to throw Tagg a 4th birthday party he would LOVE. Star Wars. Water. All his friends hopped up on sugar, sugar, sugar. Maybe a battle of sorts. General insanity.

Mission accomplished! Thanks to Pinterest, and the big giant blow-up waterslide we bought (WAY more cost-effective than renting, FYI).

Step 1. The Vision.

Search for "Star Wars Birthday" on Pinterest. AMAZING what you can find. People are so creative. And I can copy! 

Step 2. The Cake.

First on the list...cake. I do not bake. My amazing sister found this local, just-starting-out cake lady (let me know if you want her name) and she was inspired to create the PERFECT R2D2 cake - legs made of Rice Krispie treats. Genius! It was a super cool, shockingly tasty chocolate cake, and...heavy! That was some serious fondant and gooey chocolate cake!

Our niece was born the day after Tagg, 2 years later, so we had cake-lady make her a special cake too. And Princess Leia Cake was born. The buns? Chocolate donuts. Seriously!!! How cute is that?! And she did it with just two days notice.

 

Tagg LOVED the cake(s)! He literally could not keep his hands off them.

 

Step 3. The Star Wars Ice Cream Bar.

What an amazing idea to theme all of the sundae toppings with Star Wars references.

Wookie Cookie Crumbles = crunched up Oreos. 

Cloud City Puffs = little marshmallows.
Gummy Ewoks = gummy bears. 
Han Rolos = rolos.
Asteroid Chunks = chocolate chunks,
in the grocery store near the chocolate chips.

Scooped the ice cream into cups before the party. Put them on a tray in the freezer and then just pulled the cups out when it was time to serve the cake. Super easy and such a time saver. Bonus...these cups were a dollar each at WalMart. Bingo! Nice not to have to chuck more plastic bowls.

The dudes attacking the sundae bar.

Step 4: The Treats.

Creepy Star Wars drinks...unfiltered, organic apple juice with gummy worms. Also known as Degoba Swamp Drinks. Kids loved them...or maybe that was just Sloane. Or the gummy worms.

Step 4: The Uniforms.

For the Leia's: Cut a piece of white diaper fabric (or some white, cheap fabric)into a 2' x 4' piece and cut a hole for the head. Then wrap some gold braid (cheaper is better than than the drapery braid I bought!) around it and you have a little Princess Leia, or 6.  

For the Jedi's: Do not get "authentic" burlap for the Jedi boys. It is itchy. They will NOT wear it. Something soft and brown would have been good, with a cheap cream or light brown twine or cord. It looks awesome with their swimsuits.

Harper modeling her Princess Leia outfit
with her pink light saber. 

The Light Sabers:

Jedi Masters in training.

Take some pool noodles cut in half, some duct tape (shiny silver and regular versions, if you want to be a little fancy. We did.) plus some black electrical tape and...you have waterproof light sabers!

Tagg was a great helper in making the light sabers and every one was a little different. We actually had a ball making them. And, happily, no children were harmed in the ensuing light saber battle. Scott might not be able to say the same...

The Jedis chasing Scott around the yard.
Not sure he's going to win this one.

See...girls like Star Wars too!

Even a Jedi princess needs a kiss from mom every once in awhile.

Little talking Yoda from WalMart made a great centerpiece
with star confetti and a black tablecloth.

something fishy

In an attempt to be healthy, drop some poundage, and get in summer shape, we've been cooking more fish lately. It's just barely getting warm enough to grill outside, so we cook indoors. Well, the reality check here is that Scott is also petrified of grilling fish. It sticks, it burns, it cooks fast, it falls apart. Let's face it. Fish is tricky.

And it smells.

We cooked cod last night, "fresh" from the meat counter. I get it. We live in Utah. No fish, other than trout or catfish, is probably truly "fresh." But you make do. The fish I got was not cheap. Purportedly not frozen. I smelled it, rinsed it, rinsed it again, smelled it again, and then I cooked it. In a pan. In. Side. My. House. Damn fool!

IT SMELLS!!!

It tasted great. But...The stench has lingered all night. After dishes were done. After garbage was out. After Lysol was sprayed and candles burned. After windows were opened and fans were set to high. It has kept me up all night. I will smell like fish tomorrow, I am sure of it. We may smell like fish forever.

So I finally turned to Google to help find some miracle cure for my stinky fish house. Tah-dah! Thanks, Chowhound.

I currently have a saucepan of cloves, oranges, lemon juice and cinnamon on the stove. And there's a bowl of white vinegar on the counter. If that doesn't work, I'm making cookies tomorrow, buying Oust, and getting a clothespin for my nose.

26 acts of kindness

Like everyone, I was devastated by the Newtown shooting in December. So shocking and unimaginable and horrific. As a parent, my layers of catastrophic thinking went into overdrive. I couldn't walk into the mall without suspiciously checking out everyone in a hoodie or with an oversized coat or a big bag in hand. That kept me very busy given that it was Christmas. In the winter. At the mall. 

At any rate, I happened to see this article about 26 Acts of Kindness where people are doing 26 randomly nice things for strangers in honor of those people who died so tragically at Newtown. I love that. Love, love, love. So for the next month or so I did what I hope are kind and generous things for strangers...leaving an extra large tip, paying for someone's dinner at a restaurant, buying a tank of gas for someone, shoveling the neighbor's driveway. It made me feel better. For a change, I was thinking about how to help people, how to make the world a better place. I was so aware of how very, very lucky we are and how little bits of money or love or goodwill are so easy to share. And how those small, easy things might make so much of a difference to other people. 

Tagg and Sloane would help me choose who to be nice to, and think of ways we could be kind to other people. They picked out toys to donate to the shelter, toys they wanted for themselves. Picked out candy and food for the food bank. I like that they thought about it because they have so much and are so used to getting anything and everything they need. I stole some ideas from the 26 Acts Facebook page. There were so many creative ways that people were sharing love within their communities. It was really inspirational and heartwarming.

But then my 26 Acts were complete and the tragedy of Newtown and those 26 innocent faces started to fade under the bright spotlight of new tragedies, raging debates, international drama, and the day to day chaos of life. Until today.

I pulled into Starbucks to grab a coffee and when I went to pay, the barista (cashier) told me that the woman ahead of me had paid for my order. Including my veggie breakfast sandwich. I was shocked. See, it's still paying forward, all that goodwill. I may have ebbed in my efforts but people are still doing little things to prove to ourselves, our children and each other that there is a lot of beauty, love and kindness in the world. That is what we need to foster, so IT festers instead of the ugly, the hate, and the violence. If we're all just a little bit nicer, a little bit more generous, a little bit more aware, a little bit more caring, think what a difference we could make.

To the woman in the minivan, I thank you for the refreshing reminder. You made my day. You made me smile. You made me remember to be kind. I paid for the car behind me. The first act in my next 26 acts.

sisters

Today is my baby sister's 40th birthday. It's hard to believe that we are in our 40s. How did that happen?! But it's also amazing to revisit the wonderful, rich, roller-coaster relationship that we've built over the years.

I'm guessing based on the Christmas tree that this photo was taken just a
few days or weeks before Tiffany was born. My last Xmas as the only child. I think that was probably
the best gift I got that year, even if I didn't know it.

I think I was excited to be a big sister till the day she was born (or came home, in some kind of freaky plastic torture carseat - and PS, nice shorts, mom) and realized I would have to share my parent's love, attention...my toys!

What was this business? I can't say I was that lovey dovey nurturing big sister that I wish I had been. But I seemed to fake it well. Isn't she so cute and tiny. She must have been about Carter's age in this picture.

Spaghetti face! That curl on the top of Tiff's head is trademark. Those natural curls started early!

I wish I had more of our growing up photos digital. Many of them were awkward. Bad hair, bad glasses, bad outfits. Much like our relationship. We fought. A lot. I remember getting punched in the face over a dead hamster. Screaming matches over clothes and Barbies. Blaming our dog Poco's broken leg (the result of a "let's play veterinarian" game I cooked up) on Tiff. And, seriously, punching in the face was pretty normal. We did not get along AT ALL. Until we did. And then we were roomies and training partners and best friends. Sisters. Sure, we still have our knock-down-drag-outs sometimes, but here's what I know. 

Prepping for the triathlon. I was ready to bail on this one
and Tiff kept me going. When I don't have enough strength for myself,
she's always there to fill the void.

Tiff's 5th Ragnar. With a smile on her face. She inspires me every day.

We walk for breast cancer, because there are no ass-cancer walks.
She never had to wear a hat or a color to support me during the tough times.

My sister is amazing. She is brilliant and tough and loving and patient and caring. She is talented and sweet and adventurous. She runs tri's and half's with me. She'll hike, waterski, snowboard, babysit, wine taste...whatever. She loves her musicals and movies. She is my best friend. My sister. And I can't imagine my life without her. Sometimes I wish I could rewind some of the past so that I could have more of the amazing moments we've had as grown-up sisters. But I'm not sure it would be the same. Some of the beauty of us today is all the shit we went through back in the day.

This face is the one I love. Just like all of her nieces
and nephews...they all adore Aunt Biff!

Run. Drink. Medals. This girl is a winner.

Happy Birthday, Tiffany! I love, love, love you! You are one of my greatest gifts. I hope that your birthday and your 40th year will be amazing. Just like you.

12 day of pain-mas

For some reason, this holiday season has been a little more painful than most. It started 10 days ago and it seems like somehow there’s been illness, injury or owies pretty much every day since. So here goes our rendition of the Twelve Days of Christmas...the painful version.

12...Barfers Barfing. Sloane gets the stomach flu at 2 in the morning and pukes for 6 hours. Including twice in our bed. Why does it always look like corn?

11...Pukers Puking. Sloane gives her stomach flu to me. I spend 7 hours curled up on the bathroom floor barfing, to the point where I may never eat mashed potatoes and gravy again and my back hurt for two days afterwards. I counted it as exercise and part of my holiday diet program.

10...Husbands Heaving. And then Scott got it, so he started throwing up just as I was vacating my residence in the bathroom. Good timing. But having just finished 36 hours of gross-ness, the last thing you want disturbing your much-needed sleep is the sound of violent yakking through the bathroom door. Especially when you don’t even have the energy to be comforting or help at all. Good luck, hubby. Welcome to hell.

9...Ladies Falling. Yep, tripped in my high-heeled boots and fell down the stairs. Boot heel broken, ankle just sprained.

8...Kids-a-Coughing. Tagg, who miraculously avoided the family puke fest, starts coughing and then spikes a 104 degree fever. Thanks to Tylenol and a day home from pre-school he’s back on the mend a few days later. But lots and lots of "honey medicine" for his throat, education about the value of coughing into his elbow as opposed to my face, and soothing for the sad, sick child.

7...Fish-a-Floating. The kids decided to “feed” our Beta fish. Granted we don’t like this fish but filling its bowl with an entire jar of fish food and the copious amounts of change in our family swear jar seems borderline cruel. And the kids did it three times in just a few days. Feeling bad for Dory the fish, I bought it a little plastic plant for its bowl while I was buying round two of fish food. At WalMart. I would like to believe that the over-feeding, coin toxins took Dory out but I have been informed that these sweet plastic fish plants meant to spruce up Dory’s bowl may leech toxic China-WalMart chemicals into the water. Either way, the damn fish is dead. Tagg thinks he/she’s on vacation at Vanessa’s house.

6...Goose-Eggs-a-Laying. I’m doing a little cleaning up in the basement and start moving a wine rack that’s perched on a high shelf which has just a couple of vintage bottles that I save for memory’s sake, including an empty $500 bottle of 1982 Chateau Margaux that some Vegas sugar daddies treated us to years and years ago which still holds the record for the most expensive wine I’ve ever had. Sure enough, the rack tips and that particular bottle cracks me right on the forehead. Almost knocked me out. Bleeding and Cars bandaids follow. And then I get to rock a ping-pong ball size, goose-egg lump on my forehead for the next three days. Apparently, just in case I had any illusions, my Vegas sugar-daddy party days are OVER. And that's the worst headache I have ever had from a bottle of wine.

5...Sharp Knives. Never try to cut the strings off a roast when the knife is aimed right at your wrist and there are a gazillion people in your house. This will not end well. Especially when your helpful husband distracts you at a critical moment by admonishing you with a “hey, be careful.” A) Don’t distract me when I’m doing something dangerous and stupid. B) Don’t tell me what to do. I WILL stab myself in the wrist, dangerously close to major veins and tendons just to prove you wrong. At least I didn’t bleed on the roast. I didn’t want to get Chopped. Apparently I should have gone to the Instacare to get stitches but I didn’t so….

4...Tetanus Shots. Well, just one really but still, a shot. In the ass. Hence another bandaid. And the nurse said that my butt was my biggest "muscle." I wish I could have tipped her.

3...Banged Heads. A kid at school threw a train at Tagg’s head, so now he and I have matching head wounds. He also favors Cars bandaids.

2...Tequilas Down. Okay, it wasn’t tequila. It was really expensive High West Silver Whiskey which I was making into an adorable gift basket for a friend who likes their “Lemonade.” I had the recipe printed out, farm-fresh honey, a couple of organic lemons, fresh herbs, this over-priced whiskey which is made in Utah, all packed into a cute tin bucket with crinkled paper shreds. All I had to do was pull the cellophane around it and tie a festive ribbon into a lovely bow. I touch the bottle to move it into primo-wrapping position…and the entire fucking neck of the bottle breaks off in my hand. Breaks. OFF. And cuts my finger. I am bleeding, again. Gift, ruined. Surely there’s glass shards and/or my blood in the over-priced whiskey, and perhaps in my finger. Seriously? How did I get the one bottle of whiskey that was pre-destined to shatter on contact? 

1...Hangover on My Couch. I'm not going to lie. There's a pretty good chance this holiday season of disaster, the 12 days of Pain-mas, may drive me to drink entirely too much one day here soon, so I will likely be laying on my sofa watching football or bad 80s movies while feeling like shit. I think I deserve it. And, let's face it, there's a fairly good chance that I won't do anything that requires stitches while I'm couch-bound so that's a good start to the new year.