Birthday with a Bang

          Last weekend our daughter, Nicole, came home from BYU for a quick trip to celebrate her birthday.  And a grand time was had by all.  EXCEPT, perhaps by those of us gathered around her birthday cake, which is to say everybody.

          Some time ago I got the ingenious (note sarcasm) idea to order musical, rotating candles from China.  I know, I know—you’re already thinking, “Wait—isn’t this the place that invented fireworks?”

          But it looked very cute online, and played a wee little birthday song, somewhat off-key but who’s counting, in the high pitch you’d expect a ladybug to sing, if ladybugs could sing.  As the candles burn in their pink flower-shaped container, the petals slowly open and the entire thing twirls.  Quite a show for only a couple of dollars, right? (Second clue: extremely inexpensive)

           The top of the box says, "Intellecual Candle" and these are the actual instructions on the side:

Explanation to cutline:

1.      Direct lit products top erect lighter spark rod. (Banned in windy conditions)

2.    Bar ignition spark eight candles, automatically open and play happy birthday music petals. If you want to stop the music, will the coppe line.

3.     Note: 1- Minors do not operate independently, 2- Please avoid candles lit 40 cm in the face, 3- Please before the flame blew out the candle unburnt.

Nicole’s cake was a cheesecake topped with homemade lemon curd, so rather than make a mess of it, she asked if we could place the candle beside the cake. No problem.  

           I struck a match.  “Get ready to make a wish,” I said.  And we carefully touched the flame to each little wick. And waited.  And waited.  The flames grew.  Things began melting.

No petals opened, though a very faint tune could be heard just before A HUGE EXPLOSION that threw bits of melted plastic and metal in all directions.

     Yes, military experts could use this sort of Trojan Horse birthday bomb to great advantage.  As the smoke cleared and we all surveyed the damage (and I pulled a weird metal ring from my hair), I had to wonder: What on earth did that girl wish for?

Just think—you can grant a wish right now-- mine!  Visit jonihilton.com and order my books! 

     

It's Eggzasperating!

          Hang onto your egg baskets, folks.  It would be illegal to sell an American egg in most other countries.

This is because we sell washed eggs and they do not. Nor do they refrigerate them.  I know, it’s an (egg)shell shock. But to England, most of Europe and Asia, and pretty much the rest of the world, we are the weird ones.

 Here’s the poop, quite literally, on eggs:  When an egg has a bit of chicken poop on it, and maybe even some feathers, they just take it home. Maybe they brush it off, maybe they actually wash it, but they don’t gasp in horror the way we would.

          In the U.S., Japan, and Scandinavia, farmers give eggs a bath and shampoo and then a thorough drying.  Then we chill the eggs, and sell sparkling clean beauties to people who take them home and put them in the refrigerator where they keep more than twice as long as the unchilled ones. 

Elsewhere, they sell them at room temperature and store them at home the same way. How can that be safe, you ask?  Well, here’s the deal.  Our machines that wash the eggs and remove the chicken doo, also remove a thin coating that keeps bacteria out. So we spray the eggs with oil and chill them, which then keeps germs away. We also go through a bunch of other safety steps. 

But this seems like a lot of work and expense in some countries, so they don’t do it.  Also, not everyone has big refrigerators. 

How do they prevent salmonella? In Great Britain and some other countries, they vaccinate hens against it, which we do not, since we do all that other stuff.

So you can choose to wash and then chill eggs, like we do here, or go the other route and don’t wash and don’t chill them.  But you can’t leave a washed egg out at room temperature, because it will start to sweat, and  moisture can transport bacteria into the egg.  Also mold.  So if you buy a refrigerated egg at the market, take it home and just chill, baby.

Which method is best?  Both seem to work.  It seems to be a perfect eggsample of agreeing to disagree.  And I say bring on the Benedicts, the omelettes, the quiches and cakes. What’s a little diseggreement between friends?

And speaking of friends, be a pal and buy my books here.  You can also watch me discover a double yolk on one of my YouTube Mom videos here. 

Red Carpet Mama

          This is my kid walking the red carpet last week at a Grauman’s Chinese Theatre premiere in Hollywood:

          This is Lilly Singh, aka Superwoman and YouTube sensation, also on that same red carpet:

If you are not already one of her 8 million followers on YouTube, or one of the billion people who have viewed her posts, I will tell you who she is.  She’s a 27-year-old Canadian rock star, rapper, motivational speaker, singer, and comedian who has a Justin Bieber-type following of screaming teens. And our son, Cassidy, just helped film her world tour.

It’s called “A Trip to Unicorn Island,” and Lilly recently told Jimmy Kimmel about it here:

Cass and crew went to Mumbai, Toronto, London, and I forget where else, to film this YouTube star in action.  The entire docu-movie is on YouTubeRed, but here’s just a preview:

Normally I wouldn’t brag so unabashedly, but I have unexpectedly garnered a bit of cachet, just by being the mother of a guy who knows Lilly Singh.  Last week I was substitute teaching in a high school language arts class, and saw a group of teenage girls in a cluster, chatting.

So I ran an experiment.  “Hey,” I said, “Do any of you guys know who Lilly Singh is?” 

Dead silence for a solid second as they inhaled all the oxygen in the room in a gigantic gasp.  “I LOVE HER!” they all screamed in unison, as if they had rehearsed it.

And now I am the most popular sub in the history of American education.  Just saying.

And when you need another YouTube channel addiction, check out mine--  I’m the YouTube Mom, 

and offer hundreds of videos right here.  Can’t promise any rapping or dancing, but definitely some life hacks we all need.

Sing What?

All my life I’ve been fascinated by lyrics.  And you know I wrote 18 lyrics for my new musical, The Best Medicine, right? It’s a wonderful comedy with incredible music by Jerry Williams, and we’re hoping to launch it soon.

          I like clever lyrics that surprise you, that show some effort by the songwriter to get it right.  I’m always disappointed when someone lands a hit song with ridiculously lazy lyrics.  And we’ve all heard them.  You can search “worst lyrics” on your computer and find dozens of examples. Here are few eye-rollers:

          Madonna: I don't like cities, but I like New York. Other places make me feel like a dork.

Pink Floyd: I know a mouse and he hasn’t got a house.

Neal Diamond: I am, I said to no one there, and no one heard at all, not even the chair.

The Killers:  I'm down on my knees, searching for the answer… Are we human or are we dancer?

Feeder:  Get a house in Devon, drink cider from a lemon.

Bob Dylan: Give me some milk - or else go home.

          On the other hand, a lot of lyrics get mangled by the listeners.  Is this the fault of poor enunciation on the part of the singers, bad reception on your car radio, or our tendency to hear what we want to hear?

          Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” was heard as “Tony Danza” by many.

          Maybe we’re just in the mood for humor.  Lots of folks heard “The sheep don’t like it, rockin’ the cat box” when The Clash actually sang, “Shareef don’t like it, rock the Casbah.”

          And when Toto sang, “I bless the rains down in Africa,” some heard it as, “I left my brains down in Africa.” 

          TLC’s “Don’t go chasing waterfalls” became “Don’t go, Jason Waterfalls” to many, and Macy Gray’s “My world crumbles when you are not near” was heard as “I blow bubbles when you’re not here.”

          Years ago Jimi Hendrix sang, “Excuse me while I kiss the sky,” and people would sing along with, “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.” Nirvana’s “Here we are now, entertain us” became “Here we are now, in containers.”

          Apparently we will believe the craziest lyrics are actually real, because people thought Eddie Money’s “I’ve got two tickets to paradise” was “I’ve got two chickens to paralyze,” 

and the Beatle’s “The girl with kaleidoscope eyes” was heard as “The girl with colitis goes by.”

          Imagine people singing along with their car radios when Bob Dylan sang, “The answer my friends is blowing in the wind,” except the listeners were singing, “The ants are my friends, they’re blowing in the wind.”

          But my favorite was discovered by one of our sons when he was about eight years old.  Someone was singing Credence Clearwater Revival’s “There’s a bad moon on the rise,” and he said, “Hey!  I always thought that said, ‘There a bathroom on the right.’” 

          And, actually, that’s probably better information to have.

Have you seen my newly revised website? Check it out, and take a minute to watch the music video at the top of the home page.

Phoney Baloney

Well, it has finally happened. We got rid of our land line and now we’re like everybody else (or nearly everybody else)—solely connected to the world by our cell phones.  Here are the sad remnants of a life gone by:

I have resisted this.  I love the idea of a land line.  I liked walking in, seeing the message button blinking to let me know someone still loves me (or at least wants to sell me a timeshare), and having a phone that I owned, but which didn’t own me.

With a land line, you can literally walk ten feet away.  You can ignore it entirely, go outside, run errands, and come back fully able to return whatever calls have come in.

No longer.  Now we must be reachable instantly.  And if not by phone, then certainly by text.  Because everything in this world has suddenly become urgent and cannot wait two minutes.  We now walk around, tethered like a Minute Man, ready to fight a fire or deliver a baby at the drop of a hat.

How did people function before this?  The answer is: Quite well, actually.  There was a feeling that you were truly the master of your own ship, able to have a quiet walk if you wished, or to enjoy the solitude of a good book.  Today those attempts at private time are interrupted by dings and buzzes, screens lighting up and faces of callers appearing as if by magic.

It’s as if we’ve all agreed to tear down our walls and live in one gigantic house together, yanking on someone’s arm as they head into the kitchen, shouting to someone else in the bathroom, never having to wait a single second to make contact.

Yes, I know you can ignore it (if you have the discipline), but then you must explain yourself.  What on earth were you doing that was more important than answering my call?

So yes, I miss the good old days.  I even miss dial phones, and the pink Princess Phone I dreamed of having when I was a little girl. The dial lit up.  It actually Lit. Up.

 

And those dreams are hard to relinquish.  So, at least I have a cell phone case that looks like a perfume bottle, with a handy chain so I can carry it around easily: 

But I still don’t want to be a slave to it. Every night when I plug it in,  I make sure it won’t ring by turning the ringer off, putting it on airplane mode, and then turning it off entirely. 

“Don’t you want to wrap it in duct tape and bury it outside, just to be sure?” St. Bob asked the other day.

Hey.  I may have embraced the technology of this new world.  But I don’t have to trust it.

Put down the phone, put up your feet, and enjoy a few of my YouTube Mom videos (or one of my books)!  I promise not to call and interrupt.

Cute as a Button

          Children like to challenge you.  How’s that for the Obvious Statement of the Day?  But what young parents don’t realize, is that this continues well into adulthood, as evidenced by our fully grown, eldest son, who recently set out to prove me wrong when I said, “That is cute as a button.”

          I love buttons.  They are cute, right?  When does our love of buttons begin—as babies when we get buttoned up for a cold day? 

When we read about Peter Rabbit and the buttons on his coat? 

When we find a box of them and pretend they’re pirates’ jewels?

When we learn to sew and carefully choose the best buttons we can find?

Whatever.  Buttons are universally recognized as being cute.  And there’s a cliché to prove it.  But Richie has never accepted anything without challenging it, so he immediately found the following examples to disprove my sweeping statement:

And now, my dear readers, we will all have to start saying, “That is cute as most buttons.”  Or just switch it up entirely and say, “That is cute as a puppy.”

Don’t start with me, Richie.

Loosen your buttons and relax with one of my books—you can find them in hard copies and as ebooks right here.  And check out my YouTube Mom videos, too!

Bear With Me

          What is it about winter that makes us think of bears?  They aren’t even around, right? They’re hibernating.  Maybe it’s because polar bears make us think of snow, or bear fur makes us think of warm coats.  Whatever the reason, bears come to mind.

And, having grown up in the Rocky Mountains, I am one of many who has a bear story. I was a little kid at the time, probably 8 years old, my sister 13.  We had just gone on a family vacation to Yellowstone.  This was back when black bears happily roamed the park (hence the creation of the Yogi Bear and Jellystone Park cartoon).

People weren’t supposed to feed them, but then people aren’t supposed to break speed limits, overeat, blah blah blah.  People break rules.  In fact, waaaay earlier the park even had bleachers set up by the trash dump, where people would sit and watch the bears rummage through bean cans and banana peels.  Finally this was stopped, as officials realized that garbage is bad for bears.  It’s even worse for humans because tourists would occasionally get gobbled up along with the orange rinds.

But in my childhood, you knew to steer clear of bears.  Maybe roll down your car window an inch or so, and toss out a lifesaver or a slice of bread, and then snap a picture.  But basically stay away from them.

Unfortunately, no one has trained bears to avoid humans.  So when my dad, an avid fly fisherman known for his uncanny ability to sense a good bend in the river, pulled over into a meadow and took off in his waders for a perfect place to fish, the rest of us waited inside the car, where it was safe. 

Dad disappeared into the trees, and we sat.  Within five minutes, we saw a gigantic bear lumbering towards us from the far end of the meadow.  Instinctively, we locked our doors.

He got closer.  And then closer.  We looked around to see if there was something else he could be heading for, but we were the only item of distinction in the meadow.

Within seconds he was behind our car, his long nose jabbing up into the air as he sniffed.  It was at this moment that my mother realized she had wrapped up some bacon and put it in the trunk.  Yikes.

The bear took a swipe at our bumper.  Then at the fenders, denting them in.  He growled.  He knew there was bacon somewhere in this metal contraption.  He placed his mammoth paws atop the trunk and pushed down, bouncing the car on its shock absorbers.

“Don’t move!” my mother whispered.  But the bear was bouncing my sister and me like ping pong balls on a trampoline.

Now he roared, slammed all his weight onto the trunk, broke the car’s axle and popped a tire. It also bent the lid in enough to pop it open, revealing all our luggage and, of course, the bacon. Here's someone else's car after a bear got to it:

My mother was shrieking, my sister was wailing that she had now sat on a fish hook, and I was frozen in panic.  The bear rummaged hungrily through our belongings, piercing a 3-inch thick book with his teeth, and finally finding the bacon.  A few chomps later he sauntered off, apparently unwilling to break windows and eat screaming females.

No way were we going to open the doors and survey the damage.  Besides, my sister’s fish hook was her greatest concern and getting a barbed hook out of human flesh is no small project.

Two minutes later my father returned, having decided this was not the best fishing spot after all.  But as he approached the car, you can imagine his surprise.  The trunk lid was up, clothing was strewn all around, and the entire back end of the car was destroyed, like a bomb had gone off.  Here's what a bear did to an airplane just this year:

“What on earth happened? I was gone ten minutes!”

And that, my friends, is all it takes. 

You can read even more hair-raising adventures in JUNGLE, my adventure romance novel that will take you to an uncharted island in the Indian Ocean.  You can find it in hard copy or e-book here!