Is it Possible to Underhear?

          We all know what it means to overhear. Well, I would like to underhear. And what I’d like to underhear are the songs St. Bob sings at full volume, whenever they pop into his head.

          Mind you, these are not legendary hits everyone loves. These are obscure songs from a zillion years ago, most of which nobody knows. The latest offerings have included Mississippi Mud, Put Your Shoes on Lucy (Don’t You Know You’re in the City), The Race is On, Way Out on the Windswept Desert (complete with yodeling), Kalijah, Buttermilk Sky, and Short Fat Fanny.

          One of my friends has a husband who does the same thing. These guys have matched up on the above tunes and more: May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose, You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd, and She Got the Goldmine, I Got the Shaft.

          Bob could be the all-time world champion on Name That Tune, except it isn’t airing anymore, and he’s a game show guy, so thus ineligible. He can hear one note of intro to some song, and not only tell you the title, but who recorded it and in what year. He also knows every word, and can imitate the drummer doing a solo halfway through.

          How is there enough time on earth to learn the ins and outs of every song ever recorded?  Maybe he has a photographic memory, but for sound. What would that be called?  How about annoy-ographic memory?

          I will, concede, however, that he has a lovely bass voice and all the guys in the church choir try to sit by him so they can follow his lead. Either that, or he’s teaching them Short Fat Fanny.

          He’s also my cameraman when I record a Youtube Mom video. Check ‘em out for life hacks, tips, and motherly advice!

Gold and Chocolate

           Ever been panning for gold?  Well, it happens that just half an hour from my house, kids go to Sutter’s Fort on field trips. Yep, the Sacramento area is where gold was discovered in 1848, triggering the Gold Rush.

          Better yet, dear friends of ours have a mountain home on Miner's Ridge, with three lakes atop piles of tailings. These lakes are just crying to be panned for gold. (Okay, you can’t hear the cries, but you know thar’s gold in them thar hills.)

          Turns out you can’t just shake a pan of gravel. There’s a technique to this. Luckily, our friends showed us how it’s done and we sat there chatting as we scooped up sand, swished it around, and looked for glimmering flecks of gold. “Oh, there’s a cute one,” my friend and I said a few times, selecting rocks we liked. AND I’M SURE THE PROSPECTORS SAID THIS SAME THING WHEN THEY COULDN’T FIND ANY GOLD, EITHER.

          Then this morning I was shamelessly raiding my husband’s birthday jar of trail mix for the M&Ms, and decided to pour a bunch into the lid, then shake it so the M&Ms would show up.

          Oh my gosh—I’m panning for M&Ms! And it worked!  See? Everything you learn has a purpose. I just hope there isn’t an M&M Rush when word gets out.

Speaking of words, check out my Youtube Mom videos (there are hundreds online) where I tell you amazing life hacks and DIY tips!

The Unwelcome Wagon

           There used to be a lovely slice of Americana, where women would drop by the homes of new people moving in, and bring them all kinds of goodies, gifts, and coupons. It was called the Welcome Wagon.  Alas, these in-person visits are no more, though the company still does online marketing, mail, and telemarketing. (Isn’t this a bit like your favorite candy shop turning into a car warranty store and then calling you every day?)

          Anyway, lots of folks choose to do it themselves. In our family, the kids know --and think it’s the law, possibly-- that if someone moves in, they get a plate of cookies. I also like to recommend good local merchants, restaurants, and such. It’s neighborly. It’s nice. Right?

          So I saw a moving van down the street and decided to pop over with a plate of goodies the next day. As I arrived, a man came walking down the driveway, so I hurried to meet him. I introduced myself and said, “I thought I’d bring you some cookies. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

          He took the plate without a word, got into his pickup truck, and drove off. Whaaat?  Why didn’t he go inside and ask his wife and kids to come out and meet the new neighbors? Or at least take the cookies into the house, instead of just driving off with them?

          WHAT IF HE’S A BURGLAR AND DOESN’T LIVE THERE AT ALL?

          It’s mighty suspicious. And what person--myself excluded-- could eat an entire plate of 16 cookies all by himself?  Surely he would take them inside to share, maybe grab a couple of them for the road, and then leave.

          UNLESS HE’S A THIEF ON  THE RUN. OR A CRIMINAL MASTERMIND. 

          It’s mighty creepy. Not sure it’s as creepy as a woman driving by later to check things out, spy, and see if he’s still there. But we’ll find out.

And yes, this incident later appeared in my book, Golden. Sometimes art imitates life.

The Klutz Olympics

           Once again, I have come up with a great idea. The Olympics just started and we are watching people who are so athletic that they seem to be created by animators. I fully expect one of them to leap into the air and zoom about like Superman, using their country’s flag as a cape.

          So here’s my thought. What if, next, we had The Klutz Olympics? As a certified klutz, I can assure you that normally coordinated people cannot fake this, not even clowns, not even actors playing klutzy characters. Those of us who are truly clumsy recognize a well-rehearsed fall or fumble. Nope, you’d have to be a genuine klutz to qualify.

          And then, videographers would simply film us going about our day. Bumping into door jambs, knocking over water bottles, tripping over chairs. Hey—we don’t even need trainers!  Nor do we need to devote hours and hours to practice. We simply do what comes naturally and get medals.

          I can visualize my edited video. It would look like yesterday, in the car with St. Bob.  I was trying to get into the car carrying a box and it smacked me in the face somehow. We drove to the post office where I was going to pop in and mail it.

          Joni: I can’t believe I hit my nose with that box!

Bob: I can.  (Hands me his wallet)

Joni: What if I lose the money? What if I lose your credit card? 

Bob: You’ve already lost it.

          Joni (baring teeth, trying to look tough): I’ll be right back. (And then I tripped up the stairs and dropped the box, my knees and hands slapping the cement.)

          I’m telling you, if we had a Klutz Olympics I’d win, hands and knees down.

          Klutzy or not, I do have hundreds of cool life hacks  on my Youtube channel.  Check ‘em out!

Heck No

           I spent most of my formative years in northern Utah, and when I first saw the movie, Napoleon Dynamite, it felt like a documentary of my childhood, right down to the chicken farms and the 4-H.

          Just to clarify, I did watch it again and thought it was hilarious once I got over the trauma of seeing a tetherball again. But most of all, I loved the “Heck no” phrase, which you can still find in abundance in this region.

          In fact, I am surprised there is no college major offered in hecknology, after which you can become a hecknologist. Or a hecknocrat, you can choose.

          Hecknically, it’s a phrase that elevates no to NO, all the while avoiding profanity, so as not to offend.  And it takes a certain savoir faire, a certain cool polish to speak it correctly (if in doubt, you could call a hecknician to speak for you if you can’t get anyone to offer hecknical support).

          Indeed, not to fall back on a hecknicality, but not everyone has the hecknicological talent for it, nor the hecknique. Sure, you can dance to heckno music, but using it in conversation could make you look like a heckojunkie from questionable hecknography.

          No, it seems only those with real roots in southern Idaho or northern Utah can claim membership in this hecknocracy; only we can engage in hecknicolor  hecknobabble. I suppose tutoring could help erase your hecknofear, but would you ever become a hecknomaniac?  Heck no.

          However, you may console yourself by purchasing my books and reading them to your heart’s content.  That’s a heckuva way to spend an afternoon.

The Chick Magnet

           There’s something about St. Bob that uninhibits women, shall we say.  I’ve seen women make passes at him on the freeway, in meetings, after performances we’ve attended, and once, when we brought some Christmas gifts over to an elderly lady in our church, she whispered, “I love you” to him while I was standing approximately four inches away.

          Another elderly woman, again in our church, told him her garter snapped when she met him.  I’m telling you, I could fill a book with these events.

          So the other day we decided to take the nearby walking path around the wetlands. Two women were approaching, one on her cell phone. Just as they got to us, the phone one said, “Hello, Sunshine!”

          Now, of course Bob insists she was saying this to someone on the phone. But c'mon, this is rather amazing timing, don’t you think? And, given his history as a chick magnet, it could be she was still waiting for someone to pick up.

          And you can take that any way you like.

Why not pick up a couple of my books? It’s too hot to go outside (plus you might run into flirty women), so stay inside and read.

What's That, You Say?

           Have you ever met someone who “hears what they want to hear”?  Yes, you have: Me. 

         A few years ago I asked a group of friends what they would do for a living, if they weren't whatever they are now.  One friend, a doctor, said, "Psychopath."

         I was immediately fascinated. What a cool choice!

         Then he elaborated and I realized he had said "soccer player."

          Okay, not nearly as exciting as a psychopath.

          Then the other day a college student from China, who had recently joined our church, came over for dinner. He was delightful—happy and genial, great sense of humor.

          I asked him what he was majoring in. 

          “Pastry,” he said.

          Ding-ding-ding—best news of the day, right? I told him he could come over and do his homework in our kitchen every single day.

          “That’s so cool that you’re studying pastry,” I said.

          “No, no—history,” he explained.

          Oh. My happy expression melted onto the floor, and here’s where the needle scratches the record, for those of you who know that sound.

          All the wind left my sails.  History?  I mean, I have nothing against that field of study, but compared to pastry?      (sigh)

          These kids today.

Hey, are you having a heat wave where you live?  Staying inside? That’s a perfect time to watch my Youtube Mom videos. Enjoy a pastry while you watch!