My Political Platform

This is what I printed in the paper last week. I think Rexburg is about to undergo some exciting changes!

If I Were Mayor

I am no politician. And you probably have noticed that I never talk about politics in these articles. That's because I am scared that Chuck Norris might see what I write and hunt me down like a socialist dog. But, with all this talk about mayors and campaigns and what not, I have been doing a lot of thinking about what I would do to improve our town if I were in charge. I hope that when you read this you won't be so impressed that you write my name in when you vote. Please, make your vote count! I choose not to run! But, here is my highly sophisticated and innovative platform, just FYI:

First and foremost, I think Rexburg needs a free pie day. This day could be held annually in February or March, when everyone is depressed because Christmas is over and the weather is bleak. What better way to cheer up the town than with some free pie? And I am not talking about cheap pie, here. None of this pre-cooked crust with some vanilla pudding slopped in. I want quality. The people of Rexburg deserve nothing less. If not a free pie day, then at least a free pie festival.

Second, Rexburg needs someone to pick up, sort, and drop off our recycling. I am a strong advocate for recycling, but what a pain to drop it off! Case in point: I have been driving around town for one month with a case of pop cans, cardboard, and newspaper in the trunk of my car. I just can't bear to sort them and throw them in those ominous blue bins lurking in the parking lot of Broulims. What we need to do is hire some students (who desperately need jobs right now) to pick up, sort, and drop off our recycling.

Third, Rexburg needs better radio stations. Is it me, or did the eighties end twenty years ago? It's hard to believe that I am the only person who does not enjoy country music or Christian rock. Or hip hop, for that matter. When I first moved to Idaho, I wondered if the entire state was still in love with Billy Idol, or if I was taking crazy pills. Come on. Let's cater to that silent majority out there who would like to hear some alternatives to "White Wedding" and "Freeze Frame," songs which are heard on the radio with an alarming frequency.

Fourth, Rexburg needs to recruit the following businesses: Target, Five Guys, Chick-Fila, Barnes and Noble (or some other big box, secular, all-purpose bookstore). I'm just saying, alternatives are nice . . .

Fifth, Rexburg needs a drugstore that is open 24 hours. Case in point: my husband woke up with stomach pain one -20 degree winter morning. Being the devoted and loving wife that I am, I bundled up and went out to get him some tums. It was 7:00 am and Walgreens was closed. What if it had been a more severe emergency? Longer hours for stores=more jobs=more access to tums for my grumpy husband=me happy.

Sixth: Rexburg loved the Farmers Market, and it should be continued every year. Maybe we should even keep going with it through October. Maybe the Farmers Market could somehow segue into a free pie day. . .

Seventh, Rexburg needs a giant fir tree to be our town Christmas tree and mascot, a symbol of our strength, hardiness, and contunal growth and progress, a sacred Rexburg fir tree, never to be cut down or harmed.

Eighth, two words: snow plow.

Ninth, Rexburg needs more cultural events, like bringing in awesome bands such as U2 and the White Stripes. I mean, how hard can it be to get those guys here?

Tenth, Rexburg needs improved customer service, like people who aknowledge my existence, smile at me, laugh at my jokes, and understand sarcasm (like when I say "just picking up a few essentials" when really I am buying a liter of diet coke, a candybar, a bag of donuts, some chocolate covered pretzels, and a large bag of cheetos).

So, future Rexburg mayor and city council, I implore you to see reason. I implore you to take these suggestions into consideration, and to get our citizens some free pie, some better restaurants, some effective snow removal, some customer service, and some U2 concerts. Afterall, our citizens deserve nothing less.

Latest Articles

Here are a few of my latest newspaper articles:

Mommy Wars: The Battle of the Blog

Mothers have been at war with each other for as long as I can remember. In the eighties, it was the working mother who was under attack by the non-working mother. I know, because my mom worked (she had to) and we got a lot of guff about it. That battle continues between those who work and those who stay home. Not only is there the working/stay at home mom battle, but there is also the battle over breastfeeding and bottle-feeding. Then there’s the lovely epidural vs. non-epidural debate, which I have been a victim of several times (I just want to avoid unnecessary pain so I can have some energy for when the baby is born and needing constant attention—is that so wrong??) These issues are designed to divide us, and make us feel alternately superior and inferior.
And now that kids have so many options, from piano lessons, to Kindermusic, to sports, to play groups, and so on, there’s another battle going on: the battle of the scheduled vs. the unscheduled. I know some moms who have their kids’ entire days packed with various lessons, practices, and classes. This can cause some anxiety in those of us who choose not to force our children into piano prodigy-hood at age 3. And yet those of us who choose not to schedule our children’s lives can be a little judgmental of those who do. It’s a vicious battle.
This is bad enough, but as technology has made us even more connected to each other, the mommy wars are getting much worse, and now the battle has reached us on that most hallowed ground, the blogosphere.
If playgroups in the park have made us compare ourselves to other mothers, then blogs have made us obsessively compare ourselves to other mothers.
Let me preface this by saying that I have a blog, and have been blogging for five years. And I blog for selfish reasons: for validation, for connection, for an outlet. My blog is called My Misadventures, so named because it is about ME. It’s not one of those family blogs with 20-photo entries entitled “ Baby Caden Tries Peas.” Occasionally I post photos of my kids for the benefit of family who live far away, but my blog is primarily about me. So I realize that those moms who blog only about their family and children probably think I am the ultimate self-absorbed loser. But at least I am open about it.
Don’t get me wrong, my blog may be all about me, but it’s not a braggy blog: most of what I talk about are the embarrassing moments, you know like when the gift-wrapper at the BYU Provo bookstore makes me cry, or like when I humiliate myself at church, those kind of things. Self-effacement is the way I roll. But this way of blogging is dying quickly.
See, nowadays, many blog moms choose to blog about how perfect their lives are, rather than the missteps, gaffs, and awful things that can happen on the road of life. For example, I recently read all about a 6-year-old’s “Yoga Birthday Party.” The mother’s Ashram allowed her to use her yoga space, which was decked out with hand-made felt decorations. Each girl was also given a handmade yoga mat, and a special symbol was designed and silk-screened onto organic cotton t-shirts for each of the party guests to wear. I can only imagine what a riot it was for the girls to practice their downward dog and then snack on organic fruit and veggies, followed by soy cupcakes. What the . . . ? And this is not just a freak blog. There are dozens of them, possibly hundreds! I saw another one about a two-year-old’s “Mr. Man Birthday Party” that included chocolate mustaches, organic cotton t-shirts with hand-embroidered ties down the front, and custom-made sugar cookies from a fancy bakery. For a two-year-old? Contrast this with the hideous teddy bear birthday cake I tried to make for my daughter’s birthday, with its ugly brown frosting, haphazard sugar sprinkles, and almond buttons, and you can see why blogging has become a painful experience for me.
And these blogs aren’t all just about birthdays. Some moms blog about all the excruciatingly adorable things they sew, or how cleverly they organize and decorate their homes, or how good they are at putting an outfit together, or how wonderful they are at cooking, etc. etc. etc. And what gets me is that they do it under the guise of “helping others.” I guess the rest of us slouches can’t figure things out on our own, so these supermoms have condescended to share their best tips, like how to line the inside of your drawers with wrapping paper that costs $20 per foot. Really, my life wasn’t complete until I had that choice tidbit. How did I live without adorable liners for the inside of my drawers? HOW?
Two things really annoy me about these “Look How Great And Perfect I Am” blogs: 1. They seem to indicate that blogging is no longer a practice to enhance quality of life, but rather that people may actually be enhancing their quality of life in order to impress other people on their blog. It seems like these moms go to great lengths to document every moment of their enchanting day and then put it all on the internet for the rest of us to see. Whatever happened to just enjoying a moment and not capturing it on camera?
2. They really do make the rest of us look and feel bad. I was reading through the comments on one of the birthday party blogs, and among all the “wows!” and “amazings!” was a very disturbing comment: “I am such a loser mom. All my kid got was a Costco pie with a candle on top.” Since when was that not a perfectly acceptable birthday for a small child? These supermom bloggers may have the best intentions, but they are perpetuating this battle between mothers. In fact, they are making all the problems and issues between mothers much bigger and more complex, not to mention available 24 hours a day.
I suppose I could just stop reading these blogs, and I have--sort of. Sometimes I have to just check in to see what new thing is being done with organic cotton t-shirts. It’s a bit of a sado-masochistic relationship. I look at these blogs, and first I feel horrible about myself. Then I start to get mad and think that this can’t even be real, or that these people must be hiding some deep dark secret. Then I get this nice, satisfied feeling of superiority, cause at least I am not hiding anything. Slouchy moms: 1; supermoms: 0. And the battle rages on.


Cruise + In-Laws = Surprisingly Good Time

Last week I had the rare opportunity to go on a cruise to Alaska with not one, not two, but all of my husband’s brothers and sisters, not to mention his mom and dad. I think congress is still debating whether seven days on a boat with your in-laws is, in fact, torture. Yet despite congress’s uncertainty, I had a great time. Maybe it was the fact that my children were not with me. Maybe it was the copious amount of food available at all hours. Maybe it was the beautiful Alaskan scenery. Whatever it was, I highly recommend going on a cruise, especially if you can go with your in-laws. Here are some reasons why you should go on a cruise with your in-laws:

10. If you go with Holland America, your ship will likely be named something like “Zaandam” or “Rotterdam.” Anything ending in “dam” makes for some Zaandam good jokes, don’t you think?

9. It’s interesting to find out just how intelligent your various in-laws are during the daily trivia quiz. They seem to have known all the right answers even if they wrote down the wrong ones!

8. There’s nothing quite like watching your spouse’s family try to dance to “Billy Jean” in rough seas.

7. Afternoon laziness + kids two thousand miles away = napping for as long as you want.

6. Learn everything you ever needed to know about the following: engines, various types of boats, ventilation, welding, snow loads, glaciers, and “how things work” by sitting next to your husband, his two brothers, and their father at dinner every night.

5. Two words: Lobster Tail.

4. Two more words: Dessert Extravaganza.

3. There’s nothing quite like watching your brother-in-law perform Simon and Garfunkel’s “Kodachrome” on stage for a huge audience of people in an American Idolesque superstar competition.

2. Relive/redeem a very bad prom on formal night.

1. Get a glimpse of what your spouse will be like in ten, twenty, and forty years by observing his brothers and father. If you don’t like what you see, escaping is as easy as jumping off the starboard side.

So, reserve your cruise, and call your in-laws today. You won’t be sorry.


The Best Laid Plans . . .

Well, it’s that time of year again: back to school time. There is very little I love more than back to school time. I love school supplies: pencils, folders, notebooks, systems of organization for various school projects and papers. I love going school clothes shopping, although my son would rather die than try on clothes. I love that different, crisp feeling in the air as school approaches, and the way things smell on the morning of the first day of school. It’s a smell of excitement, new asphalt, new clothes with the tags just cut off, and the impending autumn leaves. There’s also a palpable sense of relief in the air, as mothers congratulate themselves for surviving another summer and get together to compare their battle scars. Back to school time is the one time of year when I really do a lot of planning and hoping. I plan and hope for a school year that is organized, healthy, rewarding, and fun.
I picture making creative and nutritious lunches in a tidy little lunch box with a blue ice pack to keep organic veggies and dip cool throughout the morning. I imagine volunteering in the classroom, and discovering that I really am a great artist. I envision a perfect little mudroom, complete with well-appointed cubbies for each child’s hand-knit mittens, scarves, and hats. I plan out the ways in which I will display my children’s artwork: laminated placemats, rotating museum-quality exhibitions, a wall painted with magnetic paint to stick them on. I even imagine the nutritious snacks and strict homework-first rule for after school time. Ahhh, it’s a wonderful vision.
And then of course reality sets in about a month into the school year. Remember those nutritious and creative lunches? Half of their contents get thrown into the garbage before they are even consumed. That classroom “art mom” gig I volunteered for? Much more involved than I thought, and the only thing I discovered is that I am not good at art and I know nothing about the color wheel. Those organized cubbies and fancy artwork displays? The sheer volume of papers, jackets, backpacks, and shoes coming into my home in a steady stream has buried me, along with all of my intentions for making a place for them in my already brimming-with-clutter home. The after school snack and routine falls by the wayside as I simply try to keep my head above water.
By the end of the school year, a lunch consists of a granola bar and a box of juice thrown into a Ziploc bag. Papers that come home are glanced at, then immediately thrown into the garbage. I’ve alienated the entire PTO by crashing a special teachers and staff dinner that I would have known wasn’t for me if I had carefully read the letter that came home with my son before tossing it into the garbage (sorry, PTO. I owe you a piece of Fried Chicken and some potato chips!) The portfolio of artwork brought home at the end of the year, though it should be considered a great piece of history, a great artistic accomplishment, is viewed merely as a huge piece of junk that I must somehow find a place for, which happens to be behind the couch.
Why does this happen every year? I can’t decide if the problem is with my high expectations and lofty goals, or if the problem is just that I am too lazy to maintain this level of efficiency. Since my natural instinct is to avoid hard work, I am going to go with the first option: my expectations are too high. So this year I am going to do the opposite of all my urges for organization and efficiency. First, I am going to buy ten giant boxes of granola bars and juice boxes from Sam’s Club and have them at the ready, right next to the Ziploc bags. Then, I am going to resist the temptation to volunteer. Let someone who is qualified be the art mom this year! My absence in the classroom can only help those kids. Next, I’ll place a shredder and a recycling bin next to the door so incoming papers (homework excepted) can immediately be disposed of in a guilt-free manner, and hopefully by my kids themselves. I think it’s about time my son learned the use a shredder responsibly.
Here’s the after school drill I have planned for my son: come home, shred non-essential papers, throw backpack and shoes anywhere, grab a bag of chips and a sugar-filled can of soda, retire to couch, watch cartoons while wiping greasy hands right on the cushions, maybe get some homework done sometime before dinner (which consists of frozen tater tots and chicken nuggets), throw clothes on floor while putting on pajamas, crawl into unmade bed (taking care not to step on toys littering the bedroom floor), go to sleep.
And the wake-up routine is similar: wake up, crawl into rumpled, dirty clothes from the day before, eat a breakfast of pop tarts, frozen waffles, or donuts, brush teeth, assemble lunch in bag, walk to school.
Maybe if I plan on this routine, I will be pleasantly surprised when something goes better than expected. It’s a new way to live! And I’m hoping for the least organized, least nutritious, least rewarding, and least fun school year ever.

Newspaper Article Catch Up

I have been lazy about posting my articles on my blog. But here are the latest two (one of them came from a blog I wrote a while ago, so if it seems familiar, that's why. Sometimes life imitates blog.)

Summer Magic

This is my son’s first REAL summer. He just finished first grade, and so he can now officially appreciate having his days blissfully empty of any sort of plan or schedule. I’m so excited for him, although on day one at 10:25 a.m. he’s already said “what should we do now?” three times. All this summer-talk has made me very nostalgic for the summers of my youth.
I grew up in Provo, Utah, in the eighties, in an old turn-of-the-century house surrounded by cherry orchards, ditches (from which we would flood-irrigate our yard), and the most exotic and interesting junkyard imaginable. Combine those conditions with the advent of MTV, cable, the VCR, twin pops, and Kool Aid, and you’ve got a recipe for the best summers ever. This was the era when penny candy still cost a penny, when a sun burn was a beginning-of-summer rite of passage that slowly turned into a dark brown tan till September, and mosquito bites were battle scars we wore with pride.
We slept outside most nights, but not in fancy rainproof single-walled Gortex tents. Instead, we spread towels over a picnic table and climbed underneath. Often we just put our sleeping bags and thick foam pads right on the ground. We’d awake to dew on our faces, the sound of birds chirping, and a morning so bright and crisp that I would declare it a “nature morning” and sit outside in my pajamas basking in it until the sun got too hot and I needed to go inside for a blue popsicle.
I remember our secret clubs in my parents’ basement, and the ramshackle hut we built ourselves at the base of a huge tree. I remember playing “Indians” out on the mysterious cement pads near the junkyard and making my own special trail mix (cheerios, chocolate chips, and raisins) to take outside and enjoy all afternoon.
We roamed free in the summer, walking down to the nearest gas station (called “Minute Man”) for a treat and a soda (called “pop”), climbing trees and eating cherries till we were sick, playing night games in other people’s backyards, and trying to follow the ditch all the way to its beginning. We never worried, nor did our parents, about where we were going.
To balance our tree climbing, fort building, and ditch playing, we watched an inordinate amount of television, MTV and Days of Our Lives being our favorites. I was the youngest, so I felt lucky just to be invited to watch whatever my older sisters were watching. We’d pore over the music video offerings on MTV, choosing our favorite members of Van Halen (my sisters loved the quiet and cuddly Eddie Van Halen, but I, like my mother, have always been partial to the theatrics of David Lee Roth). Shortsighted as I was, I thought U2 was sort of boring and I preferred Duran Duran to The Police (I have repented for that severe misjudgment many times since then).
We followed the romances of Bo and Hope, Roman and Marlena, and Patch and Kayla faithfully, and then I usually re-enacted each love scene with my Barbies later. Summer was always full of hope for our own romances (which never happened) and a belief that we were as beautiful as the actresses on daytime television (which was also a bit of a stretch).
Summers were also the time when my half-sister would come to stay with us all the way from Arizona. She arrived extremely tan and full of stories so different from my own life that I always assumed she was not just from a different state, but from a different country and race, altogether.
Summers were a time for drive-in movies, trips to Lagoon, and the local swimming pool. I never remember adults being present, but they must have been there.
In the summer, I held and attended a million sleepovers, at which I always stayed up too late and from which I always returned extremely grumpy and miserable. But I was always anxious for the next one.
In the summer, we’d buy a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken (before it was taboo to use the word “fried” and Kentucky Fried Chicken became KFC). We’d take our fried goodness up to my grandmother’s cabin in Lamb’s Canyon and make ice cream and celebrate Independence Day.
Summer was hot back then, like it is now, but the heat didn’t seem as perilous. Nobody was afraid of global warming. No one was concerned about water and food shortages. Instead, we let the sprinkler run for hours while we ran through it. We “layed out” to get tan, our 32 oz. sodas always at our sides.
Our parents weren’t concerned with our laziness or looming obesity. They only put their foot down when I wore the same flip-flops (called “fongs”) every day and my feet, and their immediate surroundings, took on a hideous, other-worldly smell that probably could have taken paint off our house. The “fongs” had to go, but the good times rolled on. You see, my parents did not think we needed all sorts of camps and sports and classes in the summer. Our time was our own, and we were responsible for what we did with it. If that meant lying on the couch with a bag of potato chips until the wee hours of the morning, then so be it.
Those days are now gone. Our ditches have been buried to avoid too much evaporation, because there is always a shortage of water. Our junkyard is now the site of Grandview Farms condominiums, where retired men and women nit-pick at each other and their neighbors for such things as “unruly hedges” and “a car parked on the street over night.” Our orchards have also disappeared, making way for obscenely large McMansions that are too close together, that have no yards to speak of, and that are grouped together under the name “The Estates at Burr Orchards.” (What a touching tribute.) Provo is still a wonderful place, but it isn’t the same.
Still, I won’t forget the magic of those summer days in the eighties. And I hope my son has the same wonderful summer memories. Of course in this age of skin cancer, West Nile virus, Amber alerts, and global warming, I’m not sure that’s possible. He did sleep outside last night, but in a tent, and I spent the entire night wondering if I was a reckless parent for letting him be alone outside all night. Luckily Rexburg still holds a little bit of that same old-school summer magic, which I am hoping to tap into this season. Here’s to a carefree summer for all of us, stinky flip-flops and “nature mornings” included.


And:

The British Reality Invasion

I've noticed lately that we Americans don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to raising our children, running salons, owning successful restaurants, coming up with sophisticated advertisements, and choosing our own pop stars. That's why we rely on mean, outspoken, potty-mouthed, sharply dressed British people to come and whip us into shape. You know who I'm talking about: Gordon Ramsey, Super Nanny, Tabitha, of “Tabitha’s Salon Takeover” fame, those British-accented people who do all the voice-overs on ads for everything from mattresses to collections of encyclopedias, and of course the ubiquitous Simon Cowell, from American Idol.

Honestly, what has happened to us? After all our founding fathers sacrificed to get us some freedom from these people, we are just welcoming them with open arms to come into our homes and places of business and boss us around. There’s nothing more irritating than an ad on the radio with a fancy British person telling me that I should buy a product that I neither want, nor need, but that will presumably cure my subconscious desire to be British, because we Americans are all just a bunch of wanna-be’s, right? Come on!

And who are THEY? Just because they have accents does NOT make them any smarter than us. Oh they sound smart and sophisticated, but I challenge anyone to watch an episode of “Absolutely Fabulous” and come away with the same perception of the British people. They are regular just like us, despite the fact that they have a soft “r.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am a huge fan of England and the English, but didn't we establish some clear boundaries back in 1776? Wasn’t there some sort of document, declaring that we are not the same as them? That we choose to be different? But of course they can’t leave well enough alone, so they continue to insinuate their way onto our television shows to mock our love of a good mullet hair cut, an over-indulged child, and a bad eatery. I mean, really, so what if we Americans want to spank our children, refuse to listen to our clients' hair requests, serve leftovers at our restaurants, and sing in ugly falsetto voices? That's our right. We claimed it when we declared independence.

I suggest that we declare a new independence from the British. We could call it a Declaration of Blissful Incompetence. If I want to let my three-year-old hang onto her pacifier for the sake of my own sanity, I call that the right to pursue happiness. If the people at Super Cuts give their clients mullet hair cuts with religious zeal, I call that freedom of religion. Let's dump that English shampoo into the Boston harbor! Let's take those chore charts from Super Nanny and burn them! Let's tell Gordon Ramsey to take his fancy mushroom truffles and shove 'em someplace where the sun don't shine! Let’s boycott all ads for products bought in America but sold with nothing more than a British accent. And someone really needs to take kick Simon Cowell out of our country. Those snarky remarks just aren’t what they used to be. Let's tell them that they can't tread on the sacred right of Americans to ruin their kids' lives, cut ugly hair, sing poorly, and serve mediocre food. Because we're Americans, and that's what we like to do.

Pig Flu Article

Swine flu is RIPE for parody, and we all know it! Here's what I wrote for the local newspaper about it:

Revenge of the Pigs

I’ve been dreading this day, the day that the pigs would exact their revenge. It’s been coming for a long time now, so it really should be no surprise. Did we think we could continue to eat the amount of ham we eat without any repercussions? Did we think we could mess with the pig genome, engineering the perfect pork chop, without the pigs getting angry? And what of our excessive consumption of bacon? I currently have three pounds stored in my freezer, and to be honest, I wish that number were higher. And have you seen the filth that pigs are living in? Or worse, the factory-type farms where genetically improved pigs are being kept? Their entire existence is confined to a small crate. It’s like something from “The Matrix,” these pigs living in little cells, being fattened up, only to take the longest walk of their life onto a truck bound for the slaughter house. Let’s face it: when it comes to eating pork and mistreating animals, we humans are a bunch of pigs.

Now it’s payback time. With the swine flu in 30 U.S. states and 19 countries (probably more, by the time this is published), these pigs are taking their revenge in a cold, calculating manner that betrays their seemingly simple-minded existence. Perhaps one or two of them got their hands on a copy of Animal Farm and felt that they should strike while the socialist iron is hot in our country. This begs the question, could liberals somehow be behind the swine flu? A serious investigation may be required. In the meantime, I only hope that our strict adherence to the rules of washing our hands and covering our mouths when we sneeze will be enough of a weapon against this attack of the pigs.

Perhaps a more aggressive approach would be better. Maybe we should be eating MORE pigs to wipe out the disease. If that is the case, then I personally pledge to increase my pork intake by at least thirty percent. It will be a sacrifice, but if the nation needs more committed bacon-eaters, then a committed bacon-eater I shall become.

Then again, perhaps we should try a more diplomatic approach. I’m thinking we could drop pro-human pamphlets onto some pig farms, just to remind those pigs exactly where their slop comes from. Actually, some good diplomatic efforts have already been made in the most unlikely of places: my daughter’s preschool. All this week they are discussing pigs—pig characteristics, pig sounds, pig food, pig behaviors, etc. I’m glad that my daughter is being prepared for the worst. It’s a comfort to know that, should the need arise, she will not only know how to recognize a pig by sight and sound, but also how to oink right back at it. We need more of this specialized education if we are to beat this battle against the boars.

Whatever we do, it better be fast, because the pigs will just keep coming at us, snorting and coughing and sneezing their way across the globe.

Chicken Article

Chicken: Man's Other, Other Best Friend

For the past six months I've been running a futile pro-puppy campaign against my husband. At thirty years old, I still haven't lost that childlike zeal for house pets, and even though the rational adult in me knows that the best dog we could have right now is NO dog, I still try to wear down my husband every chance I get. Hey, I wore him down enough to get a Wii (still working on Rock Band, though). Yet my husband remains steady and stalwart in his assertion that the family just can't handle one more unpredictable, incontinent, wood-floor-scratching, fun-time-ruining, paw-print-leaving, barking, slobbering, animal (our three small children are enough). It would take nothing short of a pre-trained dog sledding team of Alaskan Huskies, a tricked out dog sled, and a five acre farm in the country to convince this man that a dog is a good idea.

So, what's an animal lover like me to do? Cats are NOT an option. Reptiles and fish just don't love you back. Small rodents are an abomination that belong in science labs and/or sewers, not in clear plastic bubbles in people's houses. Naturally, we turned to chickens. I know chickens seem unlikely pets, but they make a lot of sense, especially to the practical-minded, like my husband: they produce eggs, they only require food, water, and lodging. They need absolutely no training, they provide excellent fertilizer for your garden, and they can be quite companionable, though not as companionable as a Golden Retriever. We figured that chickens would require much less money and effort, and would actually contribute to the support of our family. They seemed to be the perfect pets.

With visions of Martha Stewart-like domestic bliss in our minds, we set out to get our first batch of chicks. We found them on Craigslist, sent a rushed email, made an excited phone call, and made the pilgrimage to a small farm in Shelley. The chicks we bought were Buff and Blue Orpingtons, two dollars apiece, and had not been "sexed," therefore we ran the risk that some of them might turn out to be roosters. Knowing that we could only have five hens in town, my husband insisted that we buy ten chicks. After handing over the twenty dollars, we headed to the farm store, where we shelled out about fifty more dollars on a huge bag of "start and grow" feed, a heat lamp, a feeder, and a waterer. At this point I began to realize that the purpose of raising chickens is certainly NOT to save money on eggs.

We brought our chicks home, and took a little while determining the best place to keep them. "I just can't bare to have them in the garage," I said, so we put all ten of them in a shallow tupperware container right in our kitchen. The heat lamp was suspended by a shoelace and some dental floss, and we lovingly spread out four layers of newspaper for our new pets. They really did brighten up the kitchen, the constant chirping and flapping making us feel positively springy, even though it was still the middle of February.

The next two weeks were spent agonizing over what to name the chicks (Susie, Zen, Zoey, Babs, Edwina, Matilda, Happy Feet, Ginger, and then there were two that looked so much alike that we never really named them), and agonizing over the copious amounts of excrement that seemed to come forth with little or no warning, ceremony, or afterthought, and that caused us to change the layers of newspaper in the brooder multiple times a day. (Ten chicks: $20, food, water, and housing: $50, chicken poop sprayed across the walls of your kitchen: priceless.) We wised up about the newspaper, and purchased fancy cedar wood shavings and a chicken wire floor for the chicks to walk on. This greatly improved my quality of life. We also wised up and moved the chicks out of the kitchen, first down to the basement, and finally out to the garage, although we had to buy a sheet of blue foam insulation board to put around their brooder, just to be sure they were warm enough.

In addition to agonizing over names, waste management, warmth, and location, we also read every chicken-related website we could find on the internet, and believe me, there are a lot more of these websites than you might think. www.backyardchickens.com is a favorite, with people posting minute-by-minute chicken updates, chicken photos, and chicken questions. Apparently there is a large underground chicken movement in the United States and the UK, and we're proud to be a part of it.We've also noticed that raising chicks is quite popular here in Rexburg. Two of our close neighbors have chickens in their backyards, our good friends are starting their own chicken adventure, and the Valleywide Farm Cooperative can't seem to keep enough baby chicks in stock. Apparently, raising chickens is the new cool thing to do. We may even join the Orpington club and there has been some talk of turning our little brood into a group of award-winning show chickens. But we'll see, one three-toed step at a time.

After two months, about four of our chicks have turned out to be roosters. There was a brief period of panic when it was suggested that we could kill and eat these roosters. "But that would be a betrayal!" I cried. Luckily, because of this underground chicken movement, we were able to give the roosters a "good home" with kids, where we know they will be treated right and loved. We turned to craigslist, and within twenty minutes had found a suitable home for Babs, Matilda, Edwina, and No-name, now referred to as Barry, Rooster Cogburn, Foghorn Leghorn, and Little Jerry Seinfeld. After giving away these roosters, we decided to buy three more chicks, which are back in our kitchen again, and the circle of life continues.

Two nights ago we were at dinner with some friends, and found ourselves gushing over our chicks. I had sworn I would never be that kind of pet owner--you know, the kind that carries a photo of her dogs in Santa hats with her everywhere she goes? But I guess that's who we are now: chicken people. There are dog people, cat people, no-pet people (don't get me started on them!), and then there are chicken people. We have become insane chicken people, interviewing candidates for a decent chicken sitter when we go out of town, discussing the various benefits of different breeds, rushing to the farm store to see the new batch of chicks. We figure that by the time we build our chicken coop, the total amount of money that first egg will cost will be close to one thousand dollars. The way some dog-owners splurge on sweaters, collars, and vet bills, we splurge on electricity (to run the heat lamp), building supplies (to build a cute coop), poultry vitamins, and organic cracked corn. Is it worth it? I'll have to let you know when we taste our first egg. For now, the little puppy-sized hole in my heart has been filled with a small group of pecking, feathery hens.

Mother's Day Article

A “Tribute” to my Mother

Mother’s Day is fast approaching, everyone, so you’d better start thinking about an appropriate gift. I was reminded of Mother’s Day when I was standing in line at Porters and saw someone gluing the letters that spell out “MOTHER” onto some painted blocks. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure that blocks are the most appropriate gift for a mother, even if they do announce to the world what her role in life is. If we are going to be honest about the role of a mother, then perhaps a more fitting message on the blocks could be something like “Urine Cleaning Specialist.” I’d like to get that in vinyl cursive letters and put it on the wall over my bed, just in case I ever forget why I am around. But I digress.

Thinking about Mother’s Day gifts got me thinking about my own mother, who, for as long as I can remember, has loathed Mother’s Day. It’s not that she’s being humble, or shy about all the attention she gets on the day. My mother actually hates it because it makes her feel guilty. She goes to church and must sit patiently as people (who usually are not mothers themselves) go on and on about how fantastically amazing mothers are, and she feels like a big failure. I never understood how she could feel this way, until of course I became a mother myself.

I think the problem is that we honor a fictitious, Donna Reed-type mom on Mother’s Day (the kind who cleans her house in a skirt and high heels, who makes cookies for her children every day after school, and who has dinner—made from scratch--on the table by 5:00 p.m. every day no matter what). The Donna Reed mother never yells, never gets confused about how to raise her children, and never complains about the drudgery of her domesticity. This mother has an endless capacity for love and patience and is never caught in an act of self-indulgence. She sews and cooks perfectly. She irons. She scrubs the baseboards on a regular basis. She does windows! Worst of all, she would rather listen to soft classical music than rock and roll. Does such a mother exist?

We need to start looking at Mothers as the individuals that they are, rather than lumping them all into the same category of angelic perfectness. Who can live up to that? Is there really a mother out there who never raises her voice, never burns dinner, and never makes a terrible mistake? Mother’s Day rhetoric leads us to believe that these perfect mothers exist--indeed, they are everywhere!—and that we are the inadequate mothers who are missing something. We hear the talks in church on Mother’s Day and wonder if there is some secret we are missing out on, or if we are just more depraved than every other mother in the world. It’s a shame, a guilt-inducing shame.

I can’t say I would give up the Mother’s Day presents, but I sure wouldn’t mind giving up the Mother’s Day guilt (there I go, being selfish again!). So this year, instead of giving my mother some tacky reminder that she isn’t as awesome as the Mother’s Day rhetoric says she should be, I am going to write her an Anti-Mother’s Day Tribute right here in the Standard Journal. Thus, without further ado I give you
Ten Reasons Why I Love My Mother

10. She has a raging crush on Van Halen-era David Lee Roth (ripped spandex pants, long, shaggy hair, etc.).

9. She keeps a running list of all the Baldwin Brothers on the white board in her kitchen (“Eric, Alec, Billy,??”).

8. She watches reality TV only to be shocked by how disgusting it is (“I can’t believe that Flavor Flave!! He’s so barfy!”).

7. She can fall asleep at any time, in any place, and in any position.

6. Her idea of a good sled substitute is two layers of garbage bags.

5. She fostered our senses of humor by allowing us to stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live.

4. She concocts the most elaborate, bone-chilling, and exciting Halloween scavenger hunts on earth (just ask the hundreds of 12-18-year-olds who have been accosted by Freddy Kruger on Elm Street in Provo).

3. On an ordinary day, she may burst into the house singing “If you want my body, and you think I’m sexy, come on, baby, let me know!” (She went through a Rod Stewart phase, too).

2. She is never in too big of a hurry to stop for Milano double chocolate cookies.

1. She taught me the value of hard work, humility, kindness, peanut M&M’s, always doing the right thing, mashed potatoes and gravy, humor, and Elvis Presley.

This Mother’s Day I hope we all take a moment to think about our moms as real people, not just the angels we proclaim them to be. Do that, and then buy your mom a glorious five pound bag of peanut M&M’s. I think she will appreciate that.

Elmo Article

As someone who has taught writing to college freshmen for the past nine years, I can safely say that today’s 18-25-year-olds are less respectful than they were a few years ago. It’s unfortunate, but true. And I’m not the only one to assert this. Ask any professor who has taught for longer than two years, and he or she will tell you that today’s college students, while bright and wonderful, are also full of a sense of entitlement. When I was a college student, many years ago, I never dreamed of questioning a grade or a teacher. Now it is such a common occurrence that I have to put special instructions in my syllabus for the proper way to dispute a grade—otherwise I’ll get nasty emails full of disrespect and disbelief. I’ve even had a student tell me that he’s emailed his paper to every other English teacher in the department because their assessment of his paper surely would be better than mine. I think he’s still waiting to hear back from them.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love our young college students. They really are bright and wonderful, and if I didn’t like them I would not have been a teacher for as long as I have. Yet, it really seems to be a growing problem in our society, this sense of entitlement, this disrespect for authority. What is to be done? What is causing this in the first place, you ask. Some might think it is due to the reckless distribution of candy by well-meaning businesses and parents. Come on, let’s please not drag the good name of candy through the mud, especially not while Hershey’s candy coated milk chocolate eggs are available, which is basically what I live for during the month of March.

Others may blame the lax rules of social interaction through email, texting, facebook, and so forth. This is certainly something that needs to be addressed—perhaps through a required email etiquette class. But I think the problem is deeper than this.

Does the problem arise from laissez-fair parenting, or too much television, video games, or lying on the couch? Maybe, but if you really want to blame someone for our disrespectful youth, there is only one absolute monster to which we must point the finger: Elmo.

That’s right: Elmo. Not even a true Muppet heir, Elmo came on the “Sesame Street” scene in 1984, when some puppeteer (who was not Jim Henson) was messing around on the set. Since then Elmo’s insidious baby-talking personality has taken over the beloved show. Did you know that half of “Sesame Street” is now devoted to a segment called “Elmo’s World”? Characters with a true sense of ironic humor, like Oscar, Grover, and Cookie Monster are relegated to the status of second class puppets to make way for a monster that colors on the walls, lives in his own world, and refers to himself in the third person. No wonder our kids think the world revolves around them! No wonder that by the time they reach college, they think that anything goes! Jim Henson is probably rolling over in his grave.

Elmo represents the dumbing-down of children’s television programming across the board. In my mind, he’s the precursor to such down-talking characters as Barney the dinosaur, and Caillou, the inexplicably bald four-year-old who models throwing tantrums and whining to get one’s way on a regular basis.

But how can sweet little innocent Elmo be blamed for anything? Let me elaborate: Elmo has his own world, and seemingly answers to no one. There is no parent to obey and listen to, no teacher to learn from. In fact, he does all the teaching, especially when he watches a Charlie Chaplin-esque character named Mr. Noodle try to do something like put his shoes on the right feet. “The other foot, Mr. Noodle,” Elmo shouts in a shrill voice. So the only adult in Elmo’s World is a fool who can’t even dress himself. This is supposed to be funny?

Elmo is so totally uncreative, from his ideas of what’s funny to his incessant singing of the same mind-numbing tune. Maybe he does mirror what normal three-year-olds do, but shouldn’t we be showing our three-year-olds examples of what they may become? Shouldn’t we be encouraging them to aim high, rather than just showing them that obnoxiousness is great? At least we should try to develop a sense of irony in our children by showing them extreme examples of what not to do, like Cookie Monster and Oscar. Kids see Cookie Monster O.D. on cookies, and they think it’s hilarious. They don’t think “hmm, maybe I should eat too many cookies too.” Give them some credit, for heaven’s sake! Elmo doesn’t send overtly bad messages, but he sends a message of self-centeredness and mediocrity. He doesn’t allow kids to come to their own conclusions and think for themselves. Instead Elmo just baby-talks to his goldfish named Dorothy and talks down to the poor, hapless Mr. Noodle.

What started out as a cute non-essential character on “Sesame Street” has exploded into a dangerous phenomenon of rewarding mediocrity, and that is what has me worried.
Because he is “cute,” Elmo has been rewarded with guest appearances on shows like “Martha Stewart Living,” “Emeril Live,” and “The West Wing.” He’s even testified before congress. Why? Because . . . well . . . he’s just so cute. Gag. This is why our kids think they are entitled to an A even if they do no work. And while our students are cute, and wonderful, and good, and smart, they still have to do a little work. They still have to take a little instruction. I am tired of being the Mr. Noodle to a class full of twenty Elmos! Has Elmo ever stopped to think that maybe Mr. Noodle has something to teach him?

This problem is only going to get worse, but maybe after it gets worse, it will get better. I look forward to the day when we will have enormous “Tickle Me Elmo” bonfires in our town squares. The banning of all Elmo paraphernalia may be a long way off, but a girl can dream. Until then, parents, I implore you to think twice before you let your children enter “Elmo’s World.” They may never be the same again.

St. Patrick's Day Article (Sorry so late)

Luck O’ The Irish: Fiction or Fact?

I’m Irish—well, actually my great, great grandfather was Irish. I’m not sure what that makes me. Five-eighths? Nine-sixteenths? Well, either way, we are very proud of our Irishness in my family. You’d think we were half or more, the way we carry on with our Irish pride: giving each other elaborate St. Patrick’s Day presents, eating potatoes for every meal, suggesting that the world’s hunger problems could be solved if we would just start eating our young (see “A Modest Proposal” by Jonathan Swift). We wear four-leaf-clover jewelry, display Irish sayings that no one really understands, and we can quote lines from “Darby O’Gill and the Little People” and “The Quiet Man” like nobody’s business. And let me just say that I feel right at home here in potato country. My favorite food in the world is mashed potatoes and gravy, but I am also a fan of hash browns, French fries, potato chips, baked potatoes, scalloped potatoes, funeral potatoes, boiled potatoes. . . the list goes on. In fact, if you see me on the street, please refrain from shouting “potato famine!” It will scare me.
Yet for all my Irishness, the “luck of the Irish” has never really been a part of my life. Not to complain or anything, but I am actually quite unlucky for an Irish person. To date, and despite years of trying really hard, I have never caught a leprechaun, successfully followed a rainbow to a pot of gold, won a contest, drawing, or sweepstakes, or found a twenty dollar bill in the pocket of my winter coat on the first day of winter. Where is my Irish luck?
Where was my Irish luck when my seven-year-old was diagnosed with mumps, despite a perfect immunization record?
Where was my Irish luck when we moved into a new house, and discovered that our seemingly brand new and very fancy-looking Samsung fridge needed to be completely taken apart and de-iced bi-weekly? (Note to self: buying a Samsung fridge is the equivalent of buying a Whirlpool cell phone and is not advisable.)
Where was my Irish luck the day we moved into our house and found that our basement was flooded from the previous owners forgetting to turn off the sprinkler that was spraying directly into the window well?
Where was my Irish luck in 2008, when the combined sufferings of our family consisted of two broken arms, one cracked head, one stitch, eight cavities, five ear infections, one sprained ankle, one rock up the nose, two visits to the emergency room, two bouts of stomach flu, and one long and unpleasant labor?
And where was my Irish luck when we were living in Taiwan for a few months last year, and our two-year-old daughter got motion-sick all over a pregnant me on a crowded subway full of on-lookers? On New Year’s Eve! On our way to eat a steak at Chilis! Where was my Irish luck then?
Where is my Irish luck at tax return time, at D.I. when I want to find something awesome, and at the end of the month when I take the Walgreen’s survey to win three thousand dollars?
Every now and then I might find a quarter in the couch cushions, or a forgotten chocolate bar in the cupboard, but that’s about it. Sometimes I might be able to avoid getting hit by a speeding car in the cross walk, or I may discover that if I had gone on a road trip I would have been stuck in a blizzard, so it’s a good thing I decided to stay home. These things fall under the category of “dumb luck” not “Irish luck.” “Irish luck” is much more fun to be the recipient of, or so I’m told.
The question is, will my lack of Irish luck force me to hang up my four-leaf-clover earrings for good? Will I turn my back on my heritage, on my people? Will I boycott U2, potatoes, and Jonathan Swift? Will I forget the years of potato famine? Never! Irish luck may be a myth, but Irish pride is undying. Happy Saint Patty’s!

Newspaper Article

This one was directly inspired by one of my past blogs, so if it sounds familiar, you know why. It truly is an issue of serious magnitude. The best part is that when the paper published it they put a huge picture of steak right next to my face. Unfortunately it could have been a more appetizing photo of meat (no char lines or anything), so I am hoping they weren't trying to undermine my message by showing a fatty, greasy slab of low quality beef. Whatever! They published me, so who cares?

Where’s The Beef?

Something happens to a girl when she turns eighteen and reaches the status of “woman.” No, I’m not talking about voting, or being able to finally get a Blockbuster card, or get married without parental consent (although those are real milestones). What I’m talking about involves the expectations suddenly placed on a girl-turned-woman to no longer enjoy food. Since I turned eighteen and began participating in various women’s organizations both secular and religious, I have come to loathe three words: “light refreshments served.”

Why do people assume that all women want to eat a skiff of salad, a quarter cup of soup, a lonely, butter-less roll? How is a “light meal” motivating enough to convince us to leave our homes (where our stash of bacon beckons us from its place of honor in the fridge), possibly taking pains to get a babysitter for children, or leave our husbands with the kids? Who wants to go to all that trouble just so she can sit around with other women and eat salad (which I consider obligatory food), secretly wishing she could sneak out and head to Ruby River for an artery-clogging good time?

I realize that there are other motivators for these gatherings—good messages heard, programs painstakingly prepared, lasting friendships forged. These are all important, too. We attend such meetings to hear the message that we women should go a little easier on ourselves, cut ourselves some slack, love ourselves for who we are. This is a good message. It would be even better if it were served up with a big steak and baked potato instead of rabbit food. Just once I would love to bring home a flyer for a women’s gathering that reads "a rack of ribs and half a chicken will be provided for each woman.” I would even be willing to bring my own meat, if I knew there would be a grill to cook it on. Is that so much to ask? I can do without the pretty centerpieces, and other superfluous, frilly decorations. When it comes to budgeting for these things, I say put your money where your mouth is. Spend on the food.

Even when I am not gathering with other women, I still feel the pressure to eat like a bird. My rule for eating out is to get the largest slab of meat I can afford. My husband’s rule is to eat something exotic, like seafood. So he usually gets some sort of fish (which is considered exotic for us) and I get a big t-bone. When the server brings our meals to us, he or she inevitably tries to give me the salmon and my husband the steak. Why is this the case? Why can’t a woman unabashedly love meat without being judged by society? Why assume that the woman ordered from the “light” section of the menu? Is it inconceivable that I might actually be able to eat my husband under the table?

The feminist movement has made great strides in the history of our country: we’ve achieved the right to vote, the right to wear pants, to go to college, to be treated equally in the workplace. Women occupy positions of power and authority in government. Susan B. Anthony would be proud. Why, then, does the right to consume copious amounts of meat continue to elude us? Why is Freedom of Meat our glass ceiling?

I have a dream that some day women who love meat can come together, free from judgment, and fire up our grills and smokers. We will form “meat of the month” clubs, and discuss the virtues of various rubs and brines, cuts of meat, and cooking methods. We’ll gather around the table, enjoying each other’s company--even sharing an inspirational message, just like in the old “salad days,”—and return to the ribs from whence we came, picking the bones clean, and licking our satiated lips.

Second Article

Valentine’s Day is for Suckers
I am thirty years old and just now realizing that Valentine’s Day is going to be a disappointment every year no matter what. This realization has been at least twenty-five years in the making. You see, like most women my age, my notion of romantic love was heavily influenced by soap operas and MTV. So I grew up believing that either a) a handsome super hero would fall in love with me, step right out of my comic book, save me from an evil villain, then spend twenty minutes beating himself against the wall so he could become a real human and live with me forever; or, b) a burly, rebellious, dark-haired man named either Beau or Roman would rescue me from a loveless marriage and we would ride into the sunset on his Harley (me in my enormous wedding dress, him in his leather jacket). So you can see that Valentine’s Day for me was doomed from the beginning.
Even in grade school, when everyone gives a Valentine to everyone, I found disappointment. You see I always thought there might be a secret message on a Valentine, just for me. Or I imagined that the message “I choo-choo-choose you” on the card from my secret crush was really TRUE. He never did choo-choo-choose me. And my heart was always broken.
But it got worse as I entered junior high and high school, where bouncy, popular, and woefully clueless members of the student council always thought it was a good idea to sell carnations and deliver them to students during class. Guess who never got a carnation? Guess who didn’t get matched with her high school love when the student council conducted a love-match test? And guess whose best friend got matched with her true love instead? That’s right: me. And all because I said that I’d rather be a TV than a refrigerator on the “which appliance would you rather be” question. I wasn’t thinking straight! Don’t worry: I will never let my love for TV get in the way of my love for food again.
Even in college, when I had actual boyfriends, Valentine’s Day was a bust. Boyfriends make Valentine’s Day worse, because they actually give you a glimmer of hope. They set up expectations, then break up with you two weeks before the big day. Then all day long on February 14th you expect a grand romantic gesture from him in the form of a dozen roses and to the tune of “I can’t live without you! I made a huge mistake!” Well, that never happens, my friends. Trust me.
So after going through all this Valentine’s Day expectation and disappointment, I was positive that I’d get married and never be sad on Valentine’s Day again. That was a wrong assumption, too. If boyfriends make Valentine’s Day worse, then husbands make it intolerable. I’m sure there are exceptions to this rule—maybe your husband grew up watching “Days of Our Lives” too—but I don’t know any, personally. My husband’s idea of romance is His and Hers Carhartt overalls, bless his heart! He’s nothing if not practical, which is why I cho-cho-chose him. And I am glad I set aside my soap-opera notion of love to make a proper choice in a husband. Still, flowers and candy on Valentine’s Day from the man you married would be nice, since, according to television and movies, everyone else is getting them. And since when have television and movies steered us wrong?
Finally, last year I threw up my hands, crying “no more Valentine’s Day presents! We’re not celebrating it ever again!” I think my husband was relieved. And I thought I was, too. And yet it’s almost Valentine’s Day, and this little piece of me is still looking for some flowers and candy. It’s truly an insidious holiday, created to make ninety percent of women feel bad about themselves. It’s worse than unrealistic, airbrushed pictures of celebrities and models in Cosmo.
So I have taken matters into my own hands, and declared February to be “Chocolate Month.” I may not get flowers and candy, or jewelry, or any other cliché Valentines Day present from my husband, but I can work hard to keep my candy bowl stocked with fancy chocolate all month long. At least I know I can count on me to give myself chocolate. I hope all you ladies out there will join me. Happy Valentine’s Day!

My First Article

Here is the text from my first opinion piece, published on February 4th (keep in mind that I have chosen NOT to be political or serious):

Why I Love Rexburg

 

Recently I came across an entire website devoted to hating our town. It was a sad state of affairs, indeed.  Frankly, though, I realize that Rexburg is a bit of an easy target for the uncreative “big city” types—those people who think it’s cool to hate small towns, who have what I like to call a “Footloose Complex”, but what those people don’t realize is that Kevin Bacon traded in his sneakers for cowboy boots and made it work, and they should be able to do the same. Reading this nasty—and grammatically sketchy—website made me start thinking about all the reasons why I love Rexburg. Here are a few:

I love driving down Main Street at Christmastime; seeing all the lights and the old-fashioned tinsel poinsettias makes me think of Christmases past. It’s a morale-booster. I love the fact that it is the end of January and the last time I checked, there were still giant decorations dropping from the fir tree at the intersection of Main and 2^nd East. This is a town that can’t let go of Christmas. I relate to that.

I love that bright and early on sweet summer mornings, I can not only hear birds in my backyard, but I can also hear bagpipes playing somewhere in the distance. How many places have their own Bagpipe Club that can be heard throughout the entire town? Not many.

I love that giant squirrels reside in the evergreen trees all over Rexburg (even though I stepped on a dead one once, and we found a severed tail in our backyard the other day).

I love that the college kids keep our town young, and stocked with plenty of plasma in case of emergency. I love that they keep us on our toes when we drive down 2^nd South, and that they drive cars that were not meant to live in a town that gets this much snow. They look so helpless and innocent sliding all over the roads. It’s precious!

I love the neighborhoods near the university, the neat rows of brick houses built in the fifties and sixties. These are unassuming homes, built to last, and built differently from each other. I love that you can have five chickens in your backyard even if you live within the city limits. I love that I feel safe letting my seven-year-old son walk to and from school by himself.

I also love that my son can wear a Carhartt hat, shirt, overalls, and coat out in public and not be mocked, but appreciated. I love that our sign says “America’s Family Community” and it really means what it says because every third vehicle in town is a mini van with stick figure stickers on the back window that show each member of a ten-person family, including the dog.

I love Broulims. I love Horkleys and their obscenely cheap fountain drinks.

I love that if I really needed to, I could walk almost anywhere in town. I love that if a vehicle isn’t a mini van or a student-owned mini cooper, it is a giant diesel truck. I love the can-do attitude of the people who risk life and limb every time they get in their car to go to the grocery store during a snow storm, or just after a snow storm, or two weeks after a snow storm.  I love that school only gets canceled when it gets cold enough for the diesel in the school buses to turn to gel. Rexburgians are tough.

So next time someone asks you where you live, and you say “Rexburg” and they say “oh. I’m sorry” you just say, “well, I’m sorry that you are stuck at the jerk store and no one has bought you yet.”