My kids took all my money

Marc and I have new callings that take us to the Beehive Homes in American Fork several times a week. (He's the 1st counselor in the Branch presidency and that makes me the 1st counselor in the Relief Society.)
So we were in one of the sister's rooms the other night trying to help her reconcile her new situation.
She'd only been admitted a couple of weeks earlier and she was starting to panic.
Now, the Beehive Homes are clean and well-run and the people there seem to be well cared for.
We don't have major concerns about their well-being.
But there are a number of residents unhappy, a couple who are quite angry, about being there.
They want to be in their own homes.
They want their former lives back.
The lady we were working with on this particular night was agitated.
"I'm not sick," she cried. "Why am I here?"
As we tried to soothe her, she despaired.
"My kids took all my money and my car," she said with slumping shoulders. "I can't go anywhere."
I couldn't help but think that my father is probably saying the same things to people who visit him in the Legacy Retirement Center.
I know he believes if we just put a key back in his hand, he could be out cruising the freeway. He could be king once more.
He even says, once in a while, "I would go to (...this or that event...) but I don't have a car."
It's sad and I sympathize.
I listen to the residents we're working with and I feel their frustration.
They really don't understand what's happened, where everybody went and when they're coming back.
The same lady we were talking with wanted to know on Sunday what would happen next?
"Is that it? Do we all just sit here now and watch TV?" she demanded to know.
"Yeah, pretty much," I told her as we gathered our hymn books and purses to leave after our sacrament meeting.
I felt for her. She seems fully aware and physically capable of living on her own.
I was thinking I'd break her out if I could if I could think where to take her...
This was just before she asked me, "Are you LDS?"

A wake-up call

Yesterday was a difficult travel and shopping day.
I had run to South Jordan to visit my dad and play a fast game of Scrabble.
I did errands beforehand so I counted the sample at Great Harvest Breads as my lunch.
So by the time I was headed home on I-15 and saw the sign warning "Crash ahead. Major delays," I was hungry.
I know, I should have veered off and taken the Suncrest road home but foolishly I thought UDOT might have got it wrong. Maybe the crash was cleared up by now. Maybe it never happened.
The traffic seemed to be flowing and I couldn't see any flashing lights.
It turned out that after an hour and a half in bumper-to-bumper traffic that inched along that I NEVER saw the accident or anything to explain my situation.
I was in the middle lane which was not moving.
Then I moved to the side lane which stopped completely.
After I finally reached the exit I needed I was angry, starved and discouraged.
That was before I started down Timpanogos Highway where I found stoplights not working and people not going.
Every intersection was another exercise in faith and frustration. No one seems to remember what they learned about four-way stops in Driver's Ed.
I got to Smith's planning to grab the frozen-food items I needed for dinner and the next couple of days. But it looked all odd.
Everything was draped in plastic and the lights were turned down low. Several aisles had shopping cart-and-orange-tape gates set up.
The voice over the loudspeaker said the power outage had prompted corporate to insist that the frozen foods be sealed off. No one could buy milk or Cool Whip or juice or meat or cheese even if they wanted to take their chances.
It was kind of scary, a vision of the future that we've talked about in church disaster preparedness meetings.
I called my husband and announced that we would be having pizza for dinner.
I drove to Little Caesar's, thinking I was so smart.
Surprise. That was everyone else's idea as well. The lines were long and the overworked, young, crew members were stressed.
It took a while to get dinner.
Note to self: pizza is NOT a good disaster plan.

Causing climate change

So Marc and I held off buying and planting our tomatoes, peppers and zucchini (yes, we're going to try again!) until this past Saturday.
We, like many of you out there, thought that we'd be good planting these vegetables on Mother's Day weekend.
We, like many of you, believed the Utah winter season was really over and it would be safe.
That was before we put them in the ground when we were delusional.
So, we were alarmed when the television weatherman warned us to cover our tender plants and bring other such investments indoors.
It was Sunday night and it was getting cold and it was windy.
I had already taken down our pricey new planters and tucked them into bed next to the house.
We were warm and comfortable and in our jammies.
Now we had to scurry about and find covers for the 10 new plants that might die of exposure if left outside unattended.
We don't buy milk in the gallon containers anymore since we are empty-nesters so we didn't have any of those hanging around.
We didn't have a bunch of paper hats on hand. Blankets would be too much.
We had to scramble.
I grabbed some vases, some baskets, a couple of old trash cans, a couple of plastic cups and a box.
Here's what it looked like:

So far (it's now been two nights of worry) we haven't frozen anything black. Our strange collection of covers seems to be working. The plants look happy when we uncover them in the morning.
But we do feel like we've helped change the weather.
What are the odds that once we purchased and planted some fragile seedling that it would turn cold again, cold enough to freeze the second week in May?
But, then again, we do live in Utah.
Perhaps we should have waited another couple of weeks to plant before we kicked off a climate change.

A Mother's Day lament

I've been thinking a lot about Mother's Day this year, largely because one of my children is going through a difficult time in her life and so, consequently, am I.
I'm sad. She's sad. It's no fun for anybody.
So I've been trying to decide how to celebrate Mother's Day.
The immature, baby me wants to abandon the cause and run out into the desert to hide.
The more responsible and grown-up me thinks I should stick around and glory in the beautiful children and grandchildren who bless my life every hour and every day.
I know deep down that each child loves me and I love each of them.
But Mother's Day highlights the mothers who don't honestly exist...at least, I've yet to meet one who feels she qualifies.
I, of course, regret that I wasn't a perfect mom, that I sometimes yelled and often cried.
I wish I was that perfect lady who always had a hot meal ready, the house clean, the laundry washed and folded and enough energy to help them finish their homework even when it was 10:30 p.m.
Instead, I was more often the bag lady mom, running the kids to school with my hair all askew and my pajama bottoms dragging in the snow.
I was often late with dinner and short on temper.
I would berate the child coming too slowly out of class to the car.
I would be openly dismayed when we discovered the note in the backpack saying there was a science class project due in the morning.
It would irk me to get the call for another three dozen brownies for a class party.
I complained about going on field trips.
I loved and still love my six children. I love my six stepchildren and all 33 grandchildren.
I would do just about anything for them.
And I treasure their drawings, their handmade cards, the gifts picked out with care and a quarter.
I think being a mother and a grandmother is the very best thing to be.
I just wish we could all skip Mother's Day.

Dealing with Il Divo

It's no secret that the Il Divo guys are good-looking.
And talented.
And successful.
And rather sexy.
But they have the good sense to play it down, for the most part.
Except for Carlos, the bass singer from Spain...he works it.
He flirts shamelessly and reminds the world he's single, wink, wink!
His shirt is open and he kind of swaggers around the stage.
The audience — mostly middle-aged women — on Tuesday night, loved it and him.
My husband just laughed.
He was roped into going with me to review the concert and played the good sport.
Marc chuckled when the foursome stepped onto the stage and the audience gasped.
I don't think he was expecting everyone to instantly fall in love.
But as they sang love song after love song with gusto and fervor, it quickly became apparent that these singers know their stuff.
They move with confidence.
They smile with their eyes.
They create an aura of magic.
I enjoyed all three hours — really, three hours — of their music, even though most of the songs they performed are oldies but goodies.
They sang in all kinds of languages, flawlessly, powerfully.
The only mistake I heard in the whole concert was actually made by the lady singer who joined them for segments of their North American Tour.
She said she just loves the clean air in Salt Lake City and for some reason, that didn't go over as well as a lot of the evening.
Perhaps someone should tell her about our inversions.

A TV Mystery

I've never really understood television, how it works and why it matters.
For me, it's enough to know which button to push to make it go.
I rely on Marc to choose which provider gives us the signal, to create a favorites list and to know which remote to keep handy.
So when our collection of remotes became unwieldy and finally stopped talking to the TV altogether, I was unaware with the gravity of the situation.
I figured we needed new batteries or a new remote.
I listened to Marc's despair without true concern.
For one thing, he can usually fix anything to do with signals and buttons.
For another, I knew he would not go very long without a working television.
It matters to him. (Me, as long as I can get "Bold and Beautiful," I'm good.)
He was alarmed when I told him I couldn't get the television to come on anymore — even after I sort of rebooted by turning the power on and off.
He picked up the four remotes and started pushing places.
Finally, he cried "Uncle!" and we hauled the set over to a repairman in Orem.
Sixty-five dollars later, we had a death sentence.
He said a Blue Tooth chip in it stopped responding. He said Sony no longer makes the kind of TV we had and no longer provided a remote that worked with it either.
Marc was livid. He called Sony up and hollered at several underlings.
We checked on our warranty. (Of course, this TV is just over the 2-year period.)
The repairman gave us back our TV and said we might try buying an infrared remote if we could find one. We found one for $85.
Then we had to find a computer that could upload the program. Mine was not up to the task. We tried my daughter's.
It did it...for a minute...then it stopped.
Totally discouraged, Marc told me to take back the expensive remote but the cashier wanted to know if we had talked to the people who made the remote.
We hadn't. Marc was skeptical but he did it and, ta da, it's currently working.
We're thrilled and relieved not to have to toss a perfectly good TV or spend $600 for a new one.
But I'm not sure we can hold our breath and cross our fingers much longer.

'Noah' on the rocks

Donny Osmond recommended we all skip the movie "Noah."

This entertainer who successfully played the part of Joseph in "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" said the prophet in the movie was unrecognizable.
Here's what he posted:
"I just saw the movie Noah. I really wanted to like it. I really did. However, I still like Russell Crowe despite the movie.
"I would not recommend it.
"It's completely inaccurate and I was thoroughly disappointed in the portrayal of a great prophet from a book I hold dear."
At first we laughed. A guy who played a prophet in a musical spoof calling the prophet Noah a fiction?
We should have listened to his advice.
As it turned out, Marc and I sat through what I call "Noah and the Transformers" mostly open-mouthed and in a state of disbelief.
It's not that we expected a churchy movie.
We expected grit, earthy behavior and some slight deviations from the Bible.
But, come on, a stowaway hiding on the ark where eating meat is the greatest sin?
A creator who can fix a barren woman but can't find a bunch of berries to eat?
Giant rock guys guarding the place, rock guys who talk to God with an edge of bitterness because they were left behind the first time?
All the animals drugged into endless sleep as the ark sails along? (That cuts down on the noise, the needed feed and the waste problem.)
An ark without cubits?
A God who wants Noah to kill baby girls so as to ensure that mankind dies out?
Here is a movie written without faith and hope and, frankly, without a God of truth and love.
It makes one envision all these screenwriters in a room trying to make this story work without the essential elements.
"Let's see, Noah has to be a man, just a man...hmmm, fueled by rage and despair. We can't have him actually communicating with God.
"The world has to be worried about him but not because he's preaching repentance and change but because he has things they want.
"He can't be a wimp."
Noah has to keep his word to a God he doesn't trust or like.
He has to operate alone with only Emma Watson to set him straight. 
It's makes this more of a comedy than an actual drama. It really is strange and disappointing.
We just can't wait for the Mystery Science Theater guys to get a hold of it.