Happy Dance

I have some pretty exciting news today. Last month I entered my novel into a contest called the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. It's a contest with several rounds, and yesterday I learned that my novel made it to the second round! I'd be lying if I told you I didn't do a little happy dance in my kitchen with my husband and kids. And then I did a little happy dance in the car. I may have even done a little happy dance at the gas station in Beaver, Utah. There weren't any witnesses, so you can't actually prove it. I have no idea how far it will actually go, but for now, I'm counting this as a small triumph!

I will probably be happy dancing for another day or so, and then I will be biting my nails until March 12, when the next advancement is announced. *That seems so far away!*

So if you want, do a little happy dance with me right there on your side of the screen. Right now. Go ahead.

It's fun, isn't it?

PANTS!

I have nothing much to say today, except for this:

Dear People Who Make Pants,

Please, for the love of Mike,* once and for all, would you just finally realize that we (meaning the world) need pants that cover our hineys and stay there when we walk, bend, sit, reach, eat, run, wipe the table, get out of the car, get into the car, stretch, talk on the phone, pedal our bicycles, pose for a picture, do the laundry, go to job interviews, lie on the couch, crouch on the floor, stoop on the steps, and generally live our lives?!?!?

Also, please remember that some all of us have curves and junk in the trunk and waistlines and hips bigger than our waists. Please take that into consideration the next time you cut some fabric and sew it back together.

Thanks,
Every Woman, Everywhere.


*I love my Uncle Mike.

Courage.

For Christmas this year, I decided to make gratitude journals for my husband and kids. Each book is entitled, "365 Things I am Grateful for in 2013." I thought it would be a fun exercise for us to do together, finding something to be grateful for each day this year -- and acknowledging it.

I thought I would share what I was grateful for yesterday.

Yesterday, I got called in to my old school to sub second grade. It's the first time I've subbed since before the shooting at Sandy Hook happened. Yes, that event hit especially close to home for me, as it did, I'm sure, for every other teacher in America. I'll admit, it was on my mind as I pulled into the parking lot. As I entered the classroom, I took note of little things, like how this classroom was exactly three doors down from the office; like how the door opens out to the hall and not in to the room, which would take an extra bit of a second in the event of a lock down. Also, how there was no way to lock the door from the inside. I also noticed that the wall between the hallway and classroom is made of cinder block, and how that was a good thing.

But then the bell rang and the kids came in, and we talked about what Santa brought them and the difference between summarizing and retelling. We added two-digit numbers and played "I'm Going to the Moon." We stayed in for recess because it was EIGHT degrees outside and we learned about electrical charges. All in all, it was a really good day at school.

And so, the thing I was grateful for yesterday was courage. I never thought of teaching school as a very courageous thing to do (that's usually reserved for the police and firefighters and customer service reps at Target). But yesterday, it took a little courage for me to walk into a K-4 elementary school, in a small town, with a close-knit community.

And I was grateful I had it.

Today's Christmas Thought

Well, Christmastime is here. One of my favorite Christmas albums ever is the one by Michael Crawford. The way he sings "O Holy Night" speaks to my soul. Among the many beautiful songs on the album is one called "Scarlet Ribbons." It's a sweet little song, whose story goes something like this:

It's Christmas Eve, and a man stops in front of his daughter's bedroom door, where he catches her praying for some scarlet hair ribbons. Touched by this humble and simple request, he rushes out in search of said ribbons. Of course, it's late at night on Christmas Eve, and all the stores are closed. He returns home, empty-handed and disappointed that he will have let down his daughter the next morning. He goes back to her room to admire her sleeping face, and there, at the foot of the bed, miraculously, are some beautiful scarlet ribbons. He stares in awe, then ends the song with these lyrics:

If I live to be two-hundred,
I will never know from where
came those lovely scarlet ribbons,
scarlet ribbons for her hair.

Well, I can tell you EXACTLY from whence they came: HIS WIFE!!!!!!

Honestly, are you as exhausted as I am? Not that my husband isn't any help at Christmas, but I am the one doing most of the legwork here! Case in point: Today, we were driving in the car, when he mentioned that he thought we should get our son his own set of scriptures for Christmas. I told him I thought it was a great idea and asked him what kind he thought we should get.

"Well, I know he wants his name embossed on them."

"Okay," I replied and started spouting off all the different styles and prices, when he said,"He's only 10 so I was thinking of getting him the cheap ten-dollar student kind."

"Those don't exist," I said.

"That's what I paid for mine."

"Yes. Back in 1985."

"Well, I'll stop by a Deseret Book Store this week and start looking." Actually, we all know that's code for I have no idea what I'm talking about. Besides, you can't START looking the week before Christmas.

Scarlet ribbons, indeed.

An Open Letter to the Kardashians

Dear Kardashians,

Stop it.

Please.

For the love of all that is good and right in the world, I beg you to knock it off. Why, you ask? I'll tell you.

I try to not be a selfish person. Yes, occasionally I sneak into my closet and enjoy a piece of dark chocolate away from the kids. Sometimes I like to hold onto the remote control during prime time. But in general, for the most part, I really try hard to be unselfish.

This is not one of those times.

But I'm asking you this for selfish reasons. You need to stop it, because what's happening out there is killing me. You're creating a whole clueless army of mini Kardashians. And they must be stopped. They're standing in the security lines at the airports of the world, wearing their velour track suits with rhinestone words on the hineys, hands full of glossy, designer handbags that cost more than my rent, tripping over their stiletto heels. But who can blame them? It's probably hard for them to see anything from behind their giraffe-like eyelash extensions.

And then.

And then, after they eventually figure out that they have to unbuckle their high heels before removing them from their feet for the TSA x-ray machine, they pull out what I can only assume is a large rodent small dog from one of the many glossy bags (you're only allowed two, by the way). So then what happens? They hold up the entire security line while TSA agents stand around in their blue shirts trying to figure out what to do. AND THE REST OF US HAVE TO WAIT. We don't want to wait. We don't care about their scrappy little dogs. WE WANT TO GO HOME!

In closing, Kardashians, please. I'm begging you. Turn off the cameras. Turn on the privacy filters. Shop at Target and let the rest of us get on with our lives.

Sincerely,
Cindy Stagg

P.S. Don't even try to keep up with me.

All I Want for Christmas

I want to start out this post by giving a little shout-out to my nephew, Tyler Swan, whose high school football team will be playing for the Utah 5A State Football Championship next week. Go Diggers! (Yes, the students at Jordan High are known as The Beetdiggers, which, I know, sounds like a school Dwight Schrute would attend).

With the NFL in full swing and high school football the big talk in our family these days, I've already decided on what I want for Christmas this year.

Can you guess what it is?

No, it's not season tickets.

And it's not a jersey representing my favorite team.

It's not even a football autographed by my favorite player.

I want...

...and I promise this is good...

a yellow penalty flag!

You've all seen it. Somebody grabs somebody else's face mask and the referee blows the whistle and tosses a yellow penalty flag onto the field. All the players stop and the ref tells them what they did wrong, then penalizes the offending team with loss of yards.

Can you imagine the real-world applications for my very own yellow penalty flag? I mean, how perfect is that? When my kids come in from school and leave a trail of backpacks, shoes, coats, papers, and legos from the door to the kitchen, I can toss my flag and yell, "Penalty! Cluttering! Loss of dessert!"

What about when someone cuts me off in traffic? "Penalty! False start! Loss of 3 car lengths!"

And I'm all about maintaining my personal space. "Penalty! Personal Foul! 10 yards!" 

Oh, I'm getting giddy with anticipation, just thinking about all the uses for my yellow penalty flag. There is no arguing with a yellow penalty flag. You MUST obey the yellow penalty flag.

There is no stopping me with a yellow penalty flag.

I see no flaws in this plan.

Love 'em. Always Have. Always Will.

So on Facebook, I've joined in with the crowd posting daily status updates of things for which I am grateful. I figured today's thing deserved it's very own blog post.

Today, I am thankful for cars. There. I said it. Yes, it's a material thing. But anyone who knows me, knows I love cars. Why?

For starters, I used to work on our cars with my dad. He taught me how to change my own oil and check my lug nuts. We replaced the clutch on his '75 MGB. Once, he even had me stand by with a fire extinguisher while he welded the fuel line.

Ah, memories.

And that's the point. My dad and I built a close relationship because we spent so much time together beneath the hood of a car. He told me stories about his 1964 1/2 Mustang. After a day of grease monkey-ing, he'd take me to 7-11 and buy me a Slurpee and a classic auto trader magazine. Man, I spent hours staring at the pages, picturing myself behind the wheel of a '57 Thunderbird or a '55 Bel Air.

Cars are also what launched my writing career. Every writer will tell you that they were always a writer, and I am no different. For me, cars just happened to be the first thing I ever got PAID to write about. Because of it, I have had some pretty amazing adventures. I've driven a Toyota FJ Cruiser along the San Andreas Fault. I've flown on the Ford corporate jet to their proving grounds and spent a day driving the F-150 all over the desert. I got to ride in a Lexus stock car with a professional race car driver, where 210 miles per hour felt like melted butter. Oh, my heart is racing just thinking about it!

Beyond that, a car is a miraculous thing. The internal combustion engine -- a common thing anymore, but what an idea. Add a turbo charger, modify it here and there, bore this, plane that, and pretty soon, you are the envy of every car lunatic in the world. My favorite car lunatic story is that of Hau-Tai Tang, who, as a young Vietnamese boy, fell in love with a Mustang delivered overseas to the army base near his home. After the war, his family immigrated to the U.S. where he continued his love affair for the car. Mr. Tang grew up and became chief engineer of the 2005 Mustang project.

I mean, how cool is that?

Finally, to me, it's all about what the car represents. It's not status or success; it's freedom. It means I can get behind the wheel, pedal to the medal, and go anywhere I choose -- even if it's just to the grocery store.

Tell me this isn't the sexiest car you've ever seen. 

(And people think I love James Bond for the acting).

One Day...

So yes, today, I am thankful for cars.