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.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
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 alarge 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.
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
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.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
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.
So yes, today, I am thankful for cars.
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...
Monday, October 29, 2012
Excuse Me, Your Age is Showing
Today I had the chance to observe a perspective teacher do a counting lesson with a kindergarten class. I remember being a young college student...so fresh, so inexperienced.
So not digital.
She was using the smart board, which, if you've never seen one, is like a giant, wall-sized iPad. In the course of teaching this lesson, she marked and moved things around on the smart board. When she swiped to the next screen, it inadvertently skipped a couple of pages.
"Oops," she said, "J.K."
J.
K.
J.K.?!?
What the? I wondered if the students wondered why she was reciting the alphabet when they were supposed to be counting. In reality, I think it went right over their heads.
But really, has life become so fast-paced, so instantaneous, so digital, that we are now speaking in initials? That we speak the way we text? By the way, does anyone else think it's funny that text is now a verb?
Just to be sure, I asked my 9-year-old if he knew what "J.K." meant. It went right over his head.
"So what does it mean?" He asked.
"Just kidding," I replied.
"No, really, what does it mean?"
"It means just kidding," I said again.
"Oh. Well that's dumb. Why don't you just say just kidding instead?"
Exactly.
So not digital.
She was using the smart board, which, if you've never seen one, is like a giant, wall-sized iPad. In the course of teaching this lesson, she marked and moved things around on the smart board. When she swiped to the next screen, it inadvertently skipped a couple of pages.
"Oops," she said, "J.K."
J.
K.
J.K.?!?
What the? I wondered if the students wondered why she was reciting the alphabet when they were supposed to be counting. In reality, I think it went right over their heads.
But really, has life become so fast-paced, so instantaneous, so digital, that we are now speaking in initials? That we speak the way we text? By the way, does anyone else think it's funny that text is now a verb?
Just to be sure, I asked my 9-year-old if he knew what "J.K." meant. It went right over his head.
"So what does it mean?" He asked.
"Just kidding," I replied.
"No, really, what does it mean?"
"It means just kidding," I said again.
"Oh. Well that's dumb. Why don't you just say just kidding instead?"
Exactly.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
I WAS a Size 6
I've picked up a long-term sub assignment this month. It's back at my former school, which has been a lot of fun. It's been nice to talk to former co-workers and it's always a treat to get bombarded with hallway hugs from past students.
So I've been there for a few weeks and I have a couple left to go. In this time, I have learned something new about myself: I'm a stress eater and I have a drinking problem.
Lest you show up on my doorstep to haul me off to Jenny Craig or AA, allow me to explain.
I have this thing about paying with exact change whenever I can. I like the neatness of it. Also, it keeps my wallet from feeling heavy. Yesterday, when picking up pizza for my daughter and her friends, the total was $23.86; I did not have the exact change, nor any change, for that matter. And I realized -- I'd spent all of my spare coinage on multiple trips to the vending machine in the teacher's lounge. Doritos, Cheetos, fruit snacks... Snickers, Reese's peanut butter cups, trail mix... I know. I have a problem. But seriously, who calls the school, asks for the sub by name, and then complains about how they don't care for the quality of instruction their child is receiving?!? I would have told her to come on down and teach it herself, but my mouth was full of potato chips at the time. In her defense (as well as mine) she didn't understand that Title 1 help means remediation, not acceleration. But still. Complaining to the substitute?!?
On another occasion, the principal, a good and decent man, found out that I had a headache. After an hour of doing kindergarten assessments, I returned to my room to find a bottle of coke on my desk and a text on my phone saying I would need to get some ice. Does that make him an enabler? I don't know. I was too busy guzzling my room temperature soda to analyze his role in this situation.
This brings me to my drinking problem. Yesterday, as I cleared my desk for the weekend, I had a drinking glass, a travel mug, a water bottle, and yet another bottle of Coke to take home.
The goal pants are getting tight.
So I've been there for a few weeks and I have a couple left to go. In this time, I have learned something new about myself: I'm a stress eater and I have a drinking problem.
Lest you show up on my doorstep to haul me off to Jenny Craig or AA, allow me to explain.
I have this thing about paying with exact change whenever I can. I like the neatness of it. Also, it keeps my wallet from feeling heavy. Yesterday, when picking up pizza for my daughter and her friends, the total was $23.86; I did not have the exact change, nor any change, for that matter. And I realized -- I'd spent all of my spare coinage on multiple trips to the vending machine in the teacher's lounge. Doritos, Cheetos, fruit snacks... Snickers, Reese's peanut butter cups, trail mix... I know. I have a problem. But seriously, who calls the school, asks for the sub by name, and then complains about how they don't care for the quality of instruction their child is receiving?!? I would have told her to come on down and teach it herself, but my mouth was full of potato chips at the time. In her defense (as well as mine) she didn't understand that Title 1 help means remediation, not acceleration. But still. Complaining to the substitute?!?
On another occasion, the principal, a good and decent man, found out that I had a headache. After an hour of doing kindergarten assessments, I returned to my room to find a bottle of coke on my desk and a text on my phone saying I would need to get some ice. Does that make him an enabler? I don't know. I was too busy guzzling my room temperature soda to analyze his role in this situation.
This brings me to my drinking problem. Yesterday, as I cleared my desk for the weekend, I had a drinking glass, a travel mug, a water bottle, and yet another bottle of Coke to take home.
The goal pants are getting tight.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
It Only Took Nine Years
Several years ago, I was on one of those crazy, nighttime grocery store trips with my two girlfriends, Liz and Jen. Because, you know, sometimes that's the most fun a mom gets to have. Liz and Jen are two of the funniest people I know.
So anyway, we're walking down the spice aisle at H.E.B. when Jen notices something. It's a small bottle of cinnamon and sugar mixed together, for some inordinate price of $3.29 or something like that. She picks it up, holds it in my face and says (with her loud Texas accent): "Seriously, HOW lazy is America?!?"
Maybe you had to be there, because it was all in the delivery. I promise, it was very funny -- and I don't think it had anything to do with the fact that it was 10:00 at night and we were using the grocery store for entertainment.
Fast forward to yesterday. My hubby and I are walking through Costco (at the perfectly acceptable hour of 4:00 p.m.). After placing a package of uncooked tortillas in my cart, I looked up and beheld something to finally add to Jen's "Lazy List" along with the pre-mixed cinnamon sugar:
Need I say more?
So anyway, we're walking down the spice aisle at H.E.B. when Jen notices something. It's a small bottle of cinnamon and sugar mixed together, for some inordinate price of $3.29 or something like that. She picks it up, holds it in my face and says (with her loud Texas accent): "Seriously, HOW lazy is America?!?"
Maybe you had to be there, because it was all in the delivery. I promise, it was very funny -- and I don't think it had anything to do with the fact that it was 10:00 at night and we were using the grocery store for entertainment.
Fast forward to yesterday. My hubby and I are walking through Costco (at the perfectly acceptable hour of 4:00 p.m.). After placing a package of uncooked tortillas in my cart, I looked up and beheld something to finally add to Jen's "Lazy List" along with the pre-mixed cinnamon sugar:
Need I say more?
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