Stupid still????

I did it again. Enough said.

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These are the Warriors

These are the Warriors

These are the ones carefully chosen from the masses

These are the ones meticulously prepared for the battle they are willing to fight

These are the ones who the Captain lovingly instructed in His great universities

These are the Warriors who will lead us on the field.

The ones who will be the first to draw their swords, charge the field, attack the fight.

These are the ones who will not back down

The ones who will not fear the enemy, the ones who will fight him with strong brows

These are the ones who will rescue their friends

These are the ones that will carry their wounded on their backs

The ones that will deliver so many back to the captain

These are the ones that know the cause of the fight

They will not be deterred
They will know who they are

They will know who and why they fight

They will fight for their Captain because they know

These are the warriors that crowds will praise

These are the ones that will cause many to sing

These are the ones that will bring the final victory home

These are the Warriors!

My neighborly duty

Yesterday morning found me in my usual routine. Clean the house in the morning, Mason down for a nap at 10:30, running on the treadmill. As I was headed up the stairs to finally put my face on, Tylie stopped me. She begged me to let her in the backyard for a while to play in her sandbox. "Ok- sure Ty. I am going to jump in the shower. I will come check on you when I get out." Jake built a great sandbox for her last summer but he put a lid on it so it would not turn into a giant kitty litter box. I hesitated going outside looking like I did, but what harm could it really be? 10 seconds. Lift the lid and go back inside. Hopefully no stray pets were in my yard or I would be charged with animal abuse by just looking at them.
As I helped Tylie, I heard a very familiar sound. Rushing water. For most people, the sound of rushing water can be very calming and relaxing. It reminds them of a stream trickling through a canyon or watching a sunset on a beach while the waves lap at the shore. For me, this is not the case. When I hear rushing water, fear courses through my veins and I have horrible flashbacks from when I was a kid. My parents had water rights on their property so we would often spend our summers irrigating. If the water was not watched, it can really get away from you. I remember many nights of waking to that sound and stepping out of my bed only to find my carpet was floating.
So, since I knew I did not have beach front property, I jumped into action and started checking every window well hoping to find the waterfall before too much damage was caused. When I couldn't find it anywhere around my house, I quickly realized it was coming from my neighbors. And since he is a single guy that works during the day, I figured that he was not aware of the shattered sprinkler line that was filling his basement for him. I started running around like an idiot not really knowing what to do. I immediately call Jake while I am pounding on my neighbors door. I knew he wasn't home but I didn't know what else to do. Jake didn't answer so I go to my next go-to man. My dad. He begins to instruct me on how to get the water off. Get a crescent wrench. Check. Pull the water meter cover off. Check. Find the turn off valve. Check. Crank the valve off. Ummmm...... No check, NO CHECK!! I can't get the stupid thing to turn. I only have the strength to turn the valves on my oven! I can hear the water continue to poor in his window well and I am completely helpless. I hang up with my dad and start running to my friend's house while I am trying to call another friend on the phone. "Please, oh please! Let there be some testosterone somewhere in this neighborhood!" I finally got Jake on the phone and he gave me the same instructions on how to turn the water off. I frantically tried to explain to him that unless he had some advice on how to become a body builder in 90 seconds or less, his advice was going to be no help. As I am running around the neighborhood looking like I just drank 10 red bulls, one of my neighbors came running around the corner. He was like an angel sent right from manly heaven. He cranked off the water like he was screwing the top back on a milk jug. In the midst of all of this, it as started to hail, I am standing in thick mud, in a tank top, with my already greasy hair now matted to my forehead. I have the city water guys helping pump the water out, a police man who helped escort the water guys in, and Tylie in tears thinking the police man is going to take me to jail.( That will teach me not to threaten Tylie with ridiculous things when she won't put her seatbelt on.) And then I was just thrilled to see that it was time for all of my friends to pick their kids up from the bus stop which is located right in front of my house. Awesome! This little trip out to the sandbox had turned into a outing that I wasn't exactly happy about. I am glad that I was able to help my neighbor. The damage was not too bad. Some new carpet and it is as good as new. I hope not to have another experience like that for a while but I am glad I could do it. After all, that's what neighbors are for.

18 months!

I know that a baby's first birthday is a big deal. The fact that they made it through their first year is certainly something that should be celebrated. They lived through the birthing process, they have more than doubled their body weight, and they have not died of sheer boredom from being unable to voluntarily move from the spot that they were set. All of these things deserve to be celebrated but, in mormon culture, I believe that the parents should be given a party at the child's 18 month mark. The seemingly endless stretch from 12 months to 18 months is hard enough but then throw that child into a place where they are expected to sit still and be quiet for 3 hours is ridiculous. I think I would rather try to control a rabid dog at dog show. It is a time that I believe bishops give us a permanent hall pass. My bishop never bothered me when he saw me out wondering the halls during Sunday School. He would just look at me with that empathetic look and smile. People would stop me and tell me how cute Mason was. They would always ask how old he was, to which my reply was always "Not 18 months." I would calmly sit on the foyer couch while Mason was pounding on the glass doors and ripping apart the lost and found. I would daydream of that special day in April that I would finally be able to open that nursery door, throw him into some unsuspecting teachers arms, and bolt out before she could hand him back. That day finally came yesterday. Mason went in without a hitch. He did not care if Jake and I were in the room or not. He just wandered around happy that he was finally off his leash and able to roam. Jake and I left and did not hear a peep out of him. We were grinning ear to ear. You could find us hand in hand, frolicking through the hallway, giving our own empathetic looks to those parents who had not reached that blissful day yet. I am so excited that I will be able to participate in the lessons once again, I am excited to just be present for the lessons. I was a tiny bit sad when Mason did not car at all that we were gone, but all that melted away when I realized I wasn't lugging around a 25 pound chunk. Bless you nursery leaders! Bless you every one! You hold a special place in heaven. Good luck with my little man.

I told you. I wasn't kidding about the V8!

Jake and Tylie have long shared a favorite food. It is not unusual for me to walk into my kitchen and catch them sitting at the table together having a snack. Without fail the snack consists of glass of milk, slices of cheese, and a bottle of pepperocini peppers. I am a wuss when it comes to hot food so that is a snack that I am happy to leave them to. I have always wondered why Tylie likes these. I used to think that she would eat them because she liked to have the special time with Jake and she wanted to prove to him that she was tough. After several times of her asking for them herself, without Jake around, made me realize that she really did love them. It just is not something that most kids would love so it is a little peculiar. Then came the real shocker. Jake loves V-8 juice. My kids have always eaten tomatoes like they were some sort of fruit so I thought I would let them try some V8 and see what they think. When they drank it like it was water, I figured I could safely buy a bottle and not worry about it going to waste. They love it and will choose it over any juice that I have. The Easter bunny is pretty smart and in the midst of all the candy in their baskets, lay cans of V8. When Tylie found her basket the, marshmallow bunnys and jelly beans were quickly set aside and she went straight for the V8. Mason immediately brought me a can and was insistent that I open it right away. This morning when Tylie asked for a snack I told her that she could go pick one treat out of her basket. To my shock, she brought me her last can to pop open. I am glad that they like something that is so healthy for them. I am amazed that candy has taken a back seat to a vegetable drink. And I am thankful that the my children are getting one serving of vegetables in every can! Hope you all had a great Easter. We sure did!

Do me a favor...

Jake is hosting a "single mormon 20-something blogger contest." Three times a week (Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday) two new bloggers are pitted agianst eachother for anyone to vote on. The winner of each contest moves on to successive rounds a la March Madness bracket fashion. It is actually quite entertaining to read the bizarre entries because many revolve around dating as a single Mormon. Check it out for me and vote for your favorite one. Go here!

Here is a recent article that Jake wrote about modesty and how we have adapted over the last century. It opened my eyes. I hope you like it as well.

Hemlines up, up and away

I'm shifty.

Always have been, always will be. Ask anyone, young or old. I go up and down depending on the era, the time of day, your mood.

I wasn't always unpredictable. For centuries, I stayed in pretty much the same place: between the floor and a woman's ankle.

But then things changed. Fashion elites called me boring and prudish. Young people snubbed me. They thought I was old-fashioned -- something only their mother would wear. So I started changing.

My given name is Hemline.

I first stepped it up around 1913. I gave them what they wanted: more flesh. I revealed 2 or 3 inches above the ankle. Sure, some rejected me. But I still won over the crowd. And throughout the next decade the crowd would help me win the rest, eventually persuading everyone who first abandoned my progressive shift to lighten up, to get with the times.

My forward thinking only took my popularity so far, though. And if I hadn't made another move by the early 1920s, I would have risked my reputation for being up-to-date. I upped my game and made a woman's midcalf my home, showing the world good, clean, moral girls could still have fun. I call it my almost-era: I was almost to the knee, a place only seen by intimates up to that time.

I'll admit it: I was a tease. I was constantly taunting women's imaginations to accept more vogue possibilities -- and men's imaginations to ... just imagine more. Getting to my next stop, though, wasn't easy -- not on my own anyway. But I got there. I always do.

Image expert Judith Rasband, executive director of Conselle, said between 1925 and 1928 I rode the wave of loosening sexual mores, faster jazz music and Prohibition contempt all the way up to an inch or two past a woman's bare knee.

Sexy Hollywood women in movies like "Flapper," who were wearing me daringly high, transformed me from a radical craze to an established fashion. That's what they do best: normalize crazy things. After Hollywood accepts me, it matters very little if you or your daughters do, because, let's face it, you'll eventually come to my level. Because that's what you do best: fit in.

I had a slight setback after the sobering stock crash of 1929. I dropped to a couple inches below the knee. Economist George Taylor predicted this in 1926 with his "Hemline Index" theory, which says hemlines generally follow the rise and fall of the stock market.

I hovered around a woman's knee for the next three conservative decades: the '30s, '40s and '50s.By 1960, British feminist and fashion extraordinaire Mary Quant adopted me. She used me to jump-start the sexual revolution by popularizing an ultra-high version of me: the miniskirt. When New York Times Magazine asked the purpose of her barely there fashion, Quant frankly replied, "Sex."

At this time The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints published its first For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, which outlined ways to keep me at appropriate levels.

Quant also told a British daily newspaper at the time one of my dirty little secrets, my desensitizing strategy, how I can jump from modest to shamelessly sexual in just a couple years: "People call things vulgar when they are new to them," she said. Then "they become good taste."
However, Dallin H. Oaks, then president of Brigham Young University, wasn't fooled by the assertion of "good taste" for the new "mini" me. In 1971 he accused me of contributing to the "immorality of this age." And Elder Spencer W. Kimball blamed me for the same thing 20 years earlier. Spoilsports!

Elder Oaks, now a Mormon apostle, said that although my appropriate level on a woman's body is difficult to define, "there is a point" where my wearer is "calling attention to herself," "exposing too much," "sending signals" and "inviting responses." Fun-hater!

I settled down in the '70s, though -- way down. The hippie movement's protest against mainstream pop fashion landed me back at their ankles. My lowly position on those loose, paisley-printed maxi-skirts didn't last long, though. It never does.

I jumped right back up during the shoulder-pad, big-belt '80s era. Although divas and trendy elites returned me to my former miniskirt status at the time, most women wore me knee-length.

Then something happened: the '90s. I became a free-for-all. Girls regularly sported me as high as their derriere. I was consistently higher than the bottom of their pockets; loose change would dangle below my frayed denim self. It was an everything-goes era, a time of "dress-down casualization," according to Rasband.

Today, I'm as hip-high as ever. Last month, Elle, the world's largest fashion magazine, reported that underwear-high hemlines are this season's new trend: "Designers are raising the stakes this spring with hemlines so high you might find yourself mistaken for a call girl."

Sure, that's "vulgar" now. But 'member how Mama Quant trained me: I'll have your daughters believing it's "good taste" in no time.

By Jacob Hancock, Deseret News
E-mail: jhancock@desnews.com

Running

I have started training for a half marathon that I am going to run in August. This is not something that comes naturally for me. When I was growing up, I never understood why people would just run for fun. I loved to play basketball so if you put a ball in my hand I would run up and down a court and not think twice about it. But run for fun? Why? You leave your house to run a big circle and end up right back where you started. Or, worse, you jump on a treadmill to run a belt and make absolutely no progress at all. Around and around, step after step, all in the same exact spot. What is the point? Oh right- being healthy, exercising, taking care of your body. I finally figured this out after many long hours of staring in the mirror and wondering why my strict regime of eating whatever crap I wanted and running after ice cream trucks was not working with my scale. Strange, I know, but no matter how many ice creams trucks I ran after or how far I had to run to catch them, my scale was only headed in one direction. And it was not down. So, point taken. Exercise it is. My sisters and I decided in January that we would go for a half marathon so I started training right away. Tread mill bought. Ipod prepared. Daring trip to purchase running shoes. Talk to all my friends that run. Attempt to become pro at something that has been total stupidity to me before now. I have wanted to write about all of this before now but I think I was too prideful. I was afraid of failing and then everyone in blogland would see me as weak and a quitter. But then it hit me, if I do fail, I am weak and a quitter. So here it is. I am running on a regular basis now and completed my first 5k today. My goal was to run the whole time and not throw up on the side of the road. Success! I ran the whole time, I didn't come in last, and I beat the time that I had expected for myself. I loved crossing the finish line and having my family there to support me. Thank you Brittney for running with me. I had a blast. There will be many more runs in the future. Many more finish lines to cross and many more goals to accomplish. I can't wait.