A New York State of Mind

New York and I have a very complicated relationship.

We've haven't technically met yet, but having watched countless episodes of Law and Order and The Late Show, I feel like we are fairly well acquainted nonetheless. I appreciate New York's history and culture and celebrate it's close proximity to Canada and Steven Cobert.

I think that we really could have had something together, New York and I, something deep, something meaningful. But, alas, it was not to be.


Last Summer, my brother Moose and sister-in-law Brianna were lured away by that temptress state and her promises of masters degree programs, NFL internships, Buffalo wings, and New York style trauma patients. They loaded up their polar bear dogs and drove east following the siren song of the Empire State.
One year later, they finally came back to visit.

Over the eight days they were here, we tried to show that our hearty western states had just as much to offer New York. NYC might have the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, but IF has the 4th of July Parade. Sure, we might not have giant balloons or performances by the Jonas Brothers, but our parade does have dancing landscapers and plenty of adorable nieces and nephews to keep Moose and Brianna company. That's got to count for something, right?

Moose and Brianna are living in Buffalo, the birthplace of the Buffalo Wing, so there is plenty of good food for them to partake of over there. But I doubt that any of those wing festivals could boast a more accommodating waitress than our own little Kylie Monchichi. She was more than happy to put the food directly in his mouth and then help him chew it. I'd like to see those fancy New York restaurants compete with that!
Speaking of food, in New York they have plenty of New York style pizza, but a cute little place by Jenny's house serves authentic Italian pizza; the kind Moose learned to love while serving as a missionary in Southern Italy.

See Moose, wouldn't you rather be in Utah playing with your Niblets and eating real pizza than in New York eating spicy wings and hanging out with NFL players?

The pizza was delicious. We all ate until we were more than full...

...except Baby Milo. Poor Milo was sentenced to a lunch hour in his car seat and was not at all impressed with the fancy-scmancy pizza. Not impressed at all.

On the day before they left, we made one more last ditch effort to convince Moose and Brianna that the western states were just as hip and happening as the East coast. We took them to a bowling ally where Bentley and Maxwell spent the bulk of their time daring the ball return to dent their skulls, Jonah performed a series of interpretive dances, and Ruby let the air vent style her hair and whisper sweet nothings into her ears.

We all had a blast...except poor Milo who ended up with the abandoned shoes; forgotten, alone, and slightly smelly. Once again, the baby was not impressed. Not in the slightest.

Later that night, after Moose and Brianna's 78th BBQ in six days, we celebrated their visit with a firework extravaganza. We shot off six mini-fountains and lit sparklers. We had a blast, but....
... once again Milo seemed totally bored with the situation. Poor guy. In his three months of life, Milo has shown a certain propensity for the metropolitan lifestyle. Living in Happy Valley really cramps his style.

The one thing that did impress Milo was his Aunt Brianna. He spent hours trying to convince her to take him back East with her. The little guy was certain that he was destined for bigger and better things than his Utah town could provide.

I felt the same way about wanting "bigger and better" things, but Moose assured me that it would be difficult to ship a NFL player to me for Christmas. Turns out, tight ends don't fit in the postal service flat-rate boxes. I guess I will just have to fly out and visit them and bring a really big carry-on bag....

And now that Moose and Brianna have winged their way back to Buffalo, I find myself even more conflicted in my feelings for the great state of New York. I am still very much interested in the historical sites, the cultural events, the professional athletes, and the world-class cuisine, but I am afraid that if I ever do make it out to visit, I will be much more concerned with spending time with my New York family than seeing the New York Sites.

Thanks, Spencer and Brianna for spending your vacation with us. We really hope that we won't have to wait another year to see you again, so here are some reminders of what is waiting for back here...

...a squishy, hard to impress baby...

...and a nephew with madd interpretive break dancing skills.

Take that, Rocketts!

New York's got nothing on us!

Greg's 4th of July MTC Care Package

Dear Elder Greggie H. ,

Happy 4th of July! I hope you are having a great week there at the MTC. You sound so good in your letters; keep up the great work!

When I was serving, the two 4th of Julys that I missed were the days that I was the most homesick (but don’t tell Jenny that - - I told her that I was the most homesick the day she got married). I hope this package helps ease the pain of missing out on Mom's favorite day, but if the included goodies don't help, just remember that it is also Dad’s grumpiest day. That should work!


You should start the day with a couple of Advil, just in case you get to feeling like you have a case of Warren’s annual 4th of July strep throat. Remember spending the holiday stepping over his virus-riddled almost-corpse? Your big brother sure knows how to party, eh?

I know how much you enjoy spending time with your nieces and nephews, but try to appreciate the fact that you get to go two years without serving as their human Kleenex. If that cheerful, yet mucus-covered thought doesn't help, munch some of these Sugar Babies if you start missing Warren’s girls. Oh, and these Sour Patch Kids should bring back some vivid memories of Jenny’s kids. Plus, the cavities they will give you should come close to same pain you felt every time the niblets "accidentally" hit you in the mouth with their swords.

Mom’s favorite part of the 4th of July is hosting all of the people who come for the parade, so here are some “mixed nuts” to represent all of the assorted nuts from the ward and our family who end up on our lawn.

I’m sure you won’t miss the sticky, obnoxious stress-fest that is the annual 9th Ward snow cone sale, but here is a little something to help you relive the smell of the parade. They didn't have any horse-poop candy, but the cow poop candy should help get you in the spirit of things.

Taking the kids to the zoo is getting to be a 4th of July tradition, so here are some animal crackers for you to look at so you don’t feel left out.

You probably won’t miss wrecking your arm muscles cranking the freezer, but these Baskin Robins Candies should help in case you have a craving for mom's homemade 4th of July ice cream (Since you and your big, strong arms weren't here, we actually decided to use the electric freezer this year... but we will make sure the hand crank freezer will we all ready for you when you come home) .
With the economy continuing to tank, I hear Melaleuca is cutting back on the fireworks display. So between the “fire” gum, pop rocks, and the glow sticks, you might be getting a better show that the rest of Idaho Falls.

We all love ya, and miss ya, and love ya some more!
Tchau! (or some other such Portuguese nonsense)

Mindy
P.S. Jenny and her family won't be there either, but SHE doesn't get a care package ;) If that doesn't make you feel special, then nothin' will.

And to the all of the non-missionaries out there...

Happy 4th of July!!!!

Happy 4th of July!!!!

Happy 4th of July!!!!

One fear conquered... only 9,173 to go!

Our branch is special.

But not the kind of "special" that has air quotes around it.

Wait...I guess we are that kind of "special" too, but that is not the subject of today's post.

Today we will be discussing how our young single adult branch different because of the special rules that we are expected to follow. And by "special rules", what I really mean is "no rules." Like, none at all. We routinely travel to distant locations, ride four-wheelers in the fall, go sledding in the winter, tubing in the summer, and once a year we have a co-ed camp out that is "chaperoned" by a married couple who met in the branch and are rarely seen outside of their tent past 8 p.m.

One of our most popular "special" activities is boating at the Hobson's dock. Our evenings at the dock are always successful outings due to the fact that there is a variety of activities available for the attending branch members to participate in.

There is an abundance of shade available for land-lovers to enjoy the food, folks, and fun provided by the wonderful FHE committee.

For the slightly more adventurous, there are rope swings and a giant slip-n-slide that runs down the hill and deposits branchers (and, last night, two members of the branch presidency) directly into the river.

And since it is a boat dock , there are also many boat-related activities to engage in as well, including taking a leisurely turn in the paddle boat or being dragged behind a powerboat traveling at break-neck-speeds while clinging to tubes or water weenies.

And, for those branchers who have decided that they have nothing left to live for, there is always the opportunity to take a slow ride down that long, nautical green mile to jump off Rock Island. Believe it or not, some people jump off this thing for fun, while folks who have not done their home or visiting teaching for three consecutive months get a complementary push from the relief society and elder's quorum presidents. Rock Island: Fun, yet Functional (in a capital punishment kind of way) .

I used to think that our stake leadership allowed us such a wide leeway on the rules because they wanted to give us every opportunity to have fun. The kind of fun that facilitates activating area young single adults who are less active in the Church, and the kind of fun that leads to roommate arrangements of an eternal nature. But now I am thinking that they allow us to do a lot of this stuff because they giving nature a clear shot at maximizing the law of natural selection. Thinning the herd, so to speak. It's just a theory, but I think I might be on to something.

In my three years in the branch, I limited my boating activities to riding inside the boat and taking photos of those soon-to-be-naturally-deselected folks who enjoy being dragged behind a boat or plunging off a giant lava-rock formation into the fast moving river.

I enjoy my little boat rides a lot, and this time the ride was even more exciting thanks to an appearance by the Snake River Queen, our local river boat. We had a great time buzzing the boat while showing the passengers our best Somali pirate impersonations.
My decision to spend the past three years safe and dry IN the boat is the result of my very rational fear of rivers after almost being thinned from the branch herd on our first branch white water trip.

A trip that, in the years since, has become known as "The disastrous branch rafting trip". A trip that included nit-picky, ticket-happy state policemen, devious entrapment into park service fines, several near-death experiences, and a run in with a park ranger who may or may not have been the fulfillment of the prophecy in the Doctrine and Covenants about Satan having control over the waters in the last days.

The following photos should help explain why I have been extremely hesitant to put myself in a position to make it easier for mother nature to pick me off via her raging river (They should also clear up any lingering questions about why we haven't had a branch rafting trip since I was put on the activities committee) .

I was on this raft when it hit the first set of big rapids on the Wyoming stretch of the Snake River. You can't actually see me in this photo, though, seeing as how I was being crushed by about 700 pounds of free-flying young single adults at the time.

You can't see me in this photo because I am no longer IN the boat. At this point, I was UNDER the boat.

I was still under the boat when this photo was taken, but trying desperately to figure out how NOT to be under the boat any more. Of course, once I actually surfaced I discovered that being under the boat thinking I was going to die was a lot less stressful than traveling down the river outside of the boat amongst the giant, hard, sharp rocks knowing that I was going to die. But, as is often the case, I was wrong. I didn't die. I also put so much as a toe into the river for the next three years. Until last night, when finally repressed the memories of my watery almost-grave and agreed to sit on the dock and let my feet dangle in the water.

But putting my feet in the water turned out to be the top of a slippery slope (or slippery dock, as the case may be) that led to me being cajoled by some dedicated pals into actually getting INTO THE RIVER.

And believe it or not, I actually enjoyed it, despite President Jones and Brother Filmore's repeated observations that what looked like a giant crocodile was slowly floating towards us. Thanks for that, brethren, really. Thanks. Your support means soooo much to me. (And Brother Morley, I wasn't kidding about leaving the branch if you show off that picture that you took of me. The Methodists may not have the priesthood or the saving ordinances it provides, but they also don't have any embarrassing photos of me, so at the moment my Sunday attendance is up for grabs!)

So, having conquered the river without seeing a single beckoning white light at the end of a dark, watery tunnel, I started feeling pretty darn brave. So brave that I even began thinking about jumping off Rock Island when we go boating again in two weeks. But then I realized that I still have quite a bit to live for (my loyal seventh graders continue to write Oprah asking her to set me up with Vin Diesel) and decided that Rock Island was always going to remain a setting for my photos, not the setting for the final scene of the made for TV movie about my life. So instead of jumping off Rock Island at the next boating activity, I am going to sit on one of the tubes.

And maybe, the time after that, I might even let them tie the tube to a boat and pull me somewhere.

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

The Tales of Five Falls

We may be in the midst of the summer season, but this post is about fall, or falls, as the case may be. Today we will be discussing five very different falls and their impact on my life.

The tale of the first fall began Saturday morning at our most recent '15 stake YSA excuse to interact with members of the opposite sex from the other side of the valley' ...I mean 'service project'. The setting for the 'service project' was our very own county fairgrounds. Our objective was to paint the bleachers, grandstands, fences, rodeo shoots, and squirrely members of various wards and branches. An hour and a half into the project, one of those squirrely, half-painted YSAs decided to fall off the top of the grandest of the grandstands. JUST KIDDING! No YSAs were harmed in the writing of this post!

No, the first fall was of a metaphorical nature. You see, one of the big advertising points of this activity was that all participants would get a free shirt...one of those nifty yellow "Mormon Helping Hands" shirts that you would only normally score if your home town was decimated by a tornado. "A free t-shirt without having to suffer through untold devastation, death, and destruction? Cool!" we all thought. Alas, we all thought wrong. Our hopes for nifty free shirts fell when we were informed that we had to give the shirts back at the end of the day.

We were all pretty bummed, especially after we discovered that the shirts were endowed with a magical power that made the YSA brethren actually speak to the YSA sisters. Really. While we were wearing those shirts, boys said a bunch of stuff to us. Stuff like, "Ummm...the other end of the roller is supposed to go in the paint," and, "You know, it might help if you got a little bit of the paint on the fence instead of dripping it on the ground," and even, "Hey, you just splattered paint all over my head!"

But while consoling each other about the loss of our magical helping hands shirts, a few of us got to talking about the abnormal amounts of rain that has recently effected the desert we call home and the river that runs through it. That discussion ends the tale of the first fall and begins the tale of the second.

After de-painting ourselves, Krystal, Lisa, and I decided to take quick trip upriver to see Star Falls at Cauldron Linn. The second fall came close to happening as we hiked down the steep, rock-covered, dirt road that leads to the river in our flip-flops and crocs, but we all thankfully managed to stay upright. The second fall also might have been the actual Star Falls waterfall that we hiked down to see, but since I didn't dare get close enough to the edge of the swollen, raging river to take a photo of the waterfall, we shan't count it either.

Instead, the second fall of this post is the fall from grace that we suffered after we talked our high councilman (who happened to be visiting the same spot with his family) into driving us back up the long dusty road to our car in his 4-wheel-drive truck. That meant that his sweet daughters had to ride all the way up the mountain in the back of the truck. It was hot, dusty, and judging from the screams of terror from the youngest, also kind of scary. Sorry girls.

The fall in the tale of the third fall is actually about a real fall, Shoshone Falls...

...and people's attempts to keep their loved ones from falling into the falls. I loved that people took the warning sign to heart and leashed both their small pets and their small children. In fact, I think I enjoyed the sight of the leashed-kidlet just as much as I enjoyed the sight of the beautiful, bone-crushing waterfalls. He was a nice distraction from the ever-present knowledge that nature is constantly coming up with bigger and better ways to do me in.

The fourth fall is when we fell off the "good health wagon" when we stopped at Carino's on the way home for some cheesy, oily, carbohydrate-filled goodness. But we didn't stress too much over that particular dietary dive. We actually enjoyed every moment of it, as witnessed by Lisa's pre-meal "ooooh" face and post-meal "ahhhhhh" face.

The fifth and final fall is the one my brother took while giving his first talk in his new YSA ward this Sunday. Poor Mikey passed out (twice) while speaking about a conference talk by Elder Eyring, that was ironically titled (and I am not making this up) "Man Down". (Hehehehehe "Man Down". Dude, that slays me!)

Mikey's great fall (which I'm sure will live on in singles ward history for many, many years) just goes to show how new Mikey is to the YSA scene. I told him that there are better ways to get close to the girls in his ward than creating a need for them to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation.

But all kidding aside, I'm glad Mikey decided to take the plunge and attend the singles ward. i mean, just think about all of the happy girls who went home after church and got to tell their parents that the cute, new returned missionary totally fell for them during the meeting. And if the bishop was having trouble receiving inspiration about what calling to give Mikey, it should be pretty obvious that he is highly qualified to pass out the ward bulletins before sacrament meeting. And Mikey really has no reason to be embarrassed. I'm sure that Elder Eyring will agree that summarizing his talks is not a job for the faint of heart. I could go on, but I'm afraid that if I annoy Mikey too much, he may drop me when he comes to visit in August . That would be a real downer during his trip, wouldn't it?

Goals - Summer '09

Everyone seems to have a goal this summer.

President Obama is bound and determined to revamp the U.S. health care system so that every single American has equal access to the best medical treatments.

On a more realistic note, Optimus Prime wants to save Shia Labeouf and the rest of humankind from some big, mean, foul-mouthed transformer-thingies.
Some goals are designed to bring joy to loved ones. My brother Warren's family has set a goal to visit Hogle Zoo before the end of the summer.

My brother Spencer and his wife are working towards visiting all of the major league ball parks.

Some goals are health-related. The Cocoa Puffs bird wants to shake his addiction to transfat-filled breakfast foods.


Other goals are set to help prepare yourself for the future. My most recently returned missionary brother Mikey wants to earn money for his return to BYU, while my most babiest brother Greg is well on his way to achieving his goals of proficiency in giving a variety of door approaches in Portuguese and more successfully digesting food from the MTC cafeteria.

Nelson Mandela, U.N. Secretary-General Ban Ki Moon, and Miss America all want world peace.

Speaking of "peace", my sister's family has a related, but less global goal of making it through just one day this summer without having the kids fight each other.

My fellow branchers have set a variety of goals for themselves: buying their first home, preparing to serve missions in places like Scotland and Texas, getting ready to move out of state to attend school, visiting family half a world away, and saving lives in rural hospitals.

Other worthwhile summer goals include saving the environment, starting a family, finding a new job, starting a new business, adding to your retirement savings, protesting to make your vote count, and becoming the top story on CNN by threatening to nuke the entire western hemisphere.
My friend Elizabeth and I also have a goal this summer.

As professional educators, you might think that our summer time focus might be to rework out classroom standards and benchmarks so that they are more completely aligned with the ever changing needs of our students.

It's not.

Or others might assume that we might dedicate our three student-less months protesting our state's financial abandonment of education, or donating our time to build free medical clinics in Burma, or maybe even getting some sort of professional help to understand our increasingly pathological need to blog.

But, no.

Our summer goal is much more lofty, more daring, more far-reaching, more....appetizing.

We are working very, very hard to try every flavor of snow cone at our local snow shack.

That's right...EVERY SINGLE FLAVOR.

And to those out in blogland who would mock us, who would label our goal as frivolous, inconsequential, or trite, I have three words for you: caramel coconut cream.

And three more: peach berry colada.

Oh, and lime riki... and ocean sunrise... and orange dreamsicle... and caramel apple... and Maui wowwie.

And if those highly complex arguments don't sway you, let me close with this: Wouldn't this world be a better place if more psychotic Korean dictators, oppressive middle eastern supreme leaders, power-hungry alien robots, and deficit-embracing but well-meaning commanders-in-chief spent a little less time on their other goals and a little more time pondering the beauty and functionality of a combination spoon/straw?

Well, wouldn't it?

I thought so. I accept your apology.

Now, if you will excuse me, we still have around 28 flavors to try and it is my turn to drive.