The Craig Report

It's Published!

2012-02-16T08:50:00.000-08:00

You may have recently heard some news about a book beingreleased in which I am a contributing writer. I would like to dispel all rumorsat this time. (Well, not all rumors.Because then the world would be boring. But the rumors about this book? Yes, I would like to dispelthose right now.)

It’s TRUE! Our book is complete and ready to launch!

This miraculous publication could not come at a better time!Our world NEEDS THIS BOOK! It will inspire the human soul, delight theintellect, and fight tooth decay! It will heal hearts, mend relationships, andprobably finally get Two and a Half Menoff the air! This book will save the country and maybe even the world, I tellyou!

But only if you buy a copy!

So, here is the deal-io, my friends. Allll of you who havetold me in the past that I should write a book because you would tooootally buyit – and you know who you are – (Mom) – that time has arrived!

In all sincerity, it really is a wonderful collection ofstories, from some gifted authors/story tellers. These essays are humorous, spiritual,personal, and well told. It would make a fantastic gift for any of the majorholidays coming up, including the Academy Awards.

Tell Me Who I Am will be available soon throughmore traditional means (Amazon) but we are offering it now for a discount of30% off the regular price if your order before March 10. That’sright, order this instant classic by March 10^th and get this $15 treasurefor only $10.50!

And if you come find me I will autograph the book AND giveyou a dollar for boosting my self-esteem! So then we both win! You get the bookfor $9.50 and my self-worth is validated.

Happy reading! And thank you, everyone, for your love andsupport. I am really excited to be a part of this amazing project!

Buy the book here:

All I Ask of You

2012-02-14T11:00:00.000-08:00

Several years ago our stake (Church unit comprising of anumber of congregations) held a Valentine’s Day party for all the adults. Therewas a talent show (of sorts) involved, and Katie and I were asked toparticipate.

We wrote a song parody of “All I Ask of You” from Phantom of the Opera. Problem is, wecouldn’t perform it. Well, Katie couldn’t perform it because she said she didn’twant to sing it with anyone else but me. And I couldn’t perform it because my singing is so painful to humanears it has been known to anger monks, make people change political parties,and start wars among peaceful nations.

So we wrote it, but we then recruited our wonderfullytalented friends Ben and Trinity to sing it. And boy, howdy, did they ever! Ourvideo camera wasn’t working that evening, but we did happen to catch an audiorecording of their performance.

And I present it to you now, without Ben and Trinity’spermission.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! I love you.

Part Time Authors

2012-02-06T08:30:00.000-08:00

…But full-time awesome.

As this is our official “Launch Day,” and presumably morethan our wives and mothers are now reading, I’ll make the introductions. ThePart Time Authors are, in order of appearance on the blog and in our candidphoto: Ken, Patrick, Chris, and Josh....

Click here to read the rest of the exciting new project I get to be a part of! And after you read my intro, scroll down and read the rest of the posts. We've been writing for a week now!

The Circus Is In Town

2012-01-26T07:00:00.000-08:00

When I look back over my life up to this point, there is anon-short list of moments when I realize, “Oh. I’m that guy.”

Completely snubbing the salad bar at a buffet so I can putthose calories to better use by enjoying a third dessert? Yes. I’m that guy.

Staying up late watching a movie on TV that I already own onDVD and could watch at a reasonable hour? Yep. I’m that guy.

Waxing my face so I don’t have to shave so often? Yes.Unfortunately, I am that guy. (Well,I was that guy on one, single occasion.)

And finally…owning a 12-passenger van just so my family canlegally fit in the same car? Somehow…I am now that guy.

It’s true. The Craig family has been relegated to drivingwhat is essentially a bus. Apparently we as a civilization agreed to let the automobile industry define "anacceptable family size" in this here country of ours. And evidently, thatnumber is less than 9.

“Oh,” Normal Car Designers say, “You’ve decided on having sevenchildren? Well, guess what. You no longer fit in a standard minivan, you hippyfreaks. Congratulations on being a spectacle. Please select a vehicle from ourNonconformist Line of Automobiles.”

So, yeah, we are now thatfamily. You know the one. You tell stories about them from when you were young. “Oh, man. There was this one family in ourward/neighborhood/trailer park/compound that was so big; they had to travel ina bus!”

But you know what? I fully embrace it. There are far morepros than cons in owning a vehicle that may or may not require a commerciallicense to drive.

Pros:

* The fact that our family needs a vehicle this bigmeans I have at least 8 best friends and we now can go everywhere together.
* I will never again have to set up a tent when "camping."

* There is actually so much room on the benches that I have yet to hear "Will you stop touching me?!"
* I will never lose it in a packed parking lot.
* Soon I will be able to teach the kids "van surfing," as seen in the 1985 Michael J. Fox blockbuster, Teen Wolf.

* At Halloween Trunk or Treats, we have enough room to makea spook alley right in our van!

* For youth activities at church, the teenagers actuallythink it’s cool to get to ride in a vehicle so big! Popularity! (Winning!)
* You feel taller, and a little more regal, than everyone elseon the road.
* I think this summer I will try driving it around the neighborhood to sell ice cream from it.

* There is enough space between the front and back that Katie and I can have private conversations!

* On “date night,” Katie and I can take the van out, find anice quiet spot, lie down on the bench, and ... take a nap!

Cons:

* When Katie wants to read to the kids (which she generallydoes on road trips), she has to use a megaphone for the kids in the back tohear.
* Each time I fill the gas tank I think, "And now one less child gets to go to college."

P.S. Did I really just have a family photo shoot in front of our van? Yep. I'm that guy.

P.S.S. What other pros and cons am I missing?

Shameless Plug

2012-01-23T19:00:00.000-08:00

It’s been a while since I brought it up, so I wanted to remind you about The Story @ Home conference. I don't want you to miss out! All the popular people are going to be there! (Not the ones you hated in high school. We’ve gone to great lengths to make sure they know they are not invited.)

Anyhoot, it is two days of workshops, lectures, and entertainment – all about telling your stories, tracing and creating your family history, and all the wonderful technologies now available to make it easy and a delightful way to spend some time.

I have personally been asked to speak at this conference. I KNOW! I am honored, humbled, and not sure what to wear. I'm thinking this. You can pretty much wear one of these anywhere.

My lecture is about how to tell your story; sharing your spiritual convictions without sounding like the preacher on Pollyanna. (That's not exactly how they explained it to me, but in order for me to understand complex themes, I usually break it down in my head to the Disney movie it most resembles.)

And since I didn't get you anything for Christmas, how about THIS: The December discount package is still available! Check out the links below!

And P.S., it's kind of an unspoken thing, but this is really a popularity contest amongst us speakers. So if I have the fewest people show up to my lecture, I have it on pretty good authority that those popular kids from high school are going to be waiting outside the conference to give me a wedgie. Especially after I just referenced Pollyanna in such an un-masculine way like that. So. Please. Come.

See you in March!

Facebook link

Conference link

Conference registration link

2011 in Review

2012-01-10T15:39:00.000-08:00

I’m a bit late on the year-end recap here at The CraigReport. 2011, which was a delightful year in many ways for us Craigs,ended bump-ily.

It was a year that brought us Lucy. A year where Roxanna wasbaptized, Garren received the priesthood, and Abbie received her YoungWomanhood medallion. A year where I was privileged to travel to New York,Boston, and China. A year when Katie was blessed to assist numerous womengiving birth. A year when we finally decided to fly our freak flag and bought a12-passenger van. A year where we thoroughly enjoyed countless visits withfriends and family and were reminded how fortunate we are to know suchincredible, generous, witty people.

And it was a year that ended with an illness that punched usin the collective throat and mocked us while we tried to breathe. It is only now, over a week and half later, that weare crawling out of the hole that was The Last Week of 2011. It has put life onhold for longer than any of us anticipated.

So I promise to be back soon with a tale worthy of reading.In the meantime, please enjoy our Christmas card, and a video with some of ourhighlights from 2011. We love you.

A Crafty Christmas

2011-12-05T17:00:00.000-08:00

Well, if you’re anything likeme, you are already full of Christmas cheer! And by “Christmas cheer,” I ofcourse mean Southern Comfort Vanilla Spice Egg Nog.

You have also no doubt alreadystarted your Christmas shopping. (If you’re already done with your Christmas shopping then … well, I respect you, but please recognize we’llnever be the kind of friends who can read each other’s minds. We are from twodifferent worlds, you and I. You live on planet Overachiever, and I live onplanet Procrastinator. We’re friendly with each other, but a lot of times,behind each other’s backs, we’re doing that thing where you twirl your fingeroutside your ear and roll your eyes, indicating that the other person is crazy,and that you are in third grade.)

Where was I? (This egg nog, Itell you, it can make me loopy.) Oh, yes: Christmas presents.

So, here’s the thing. Perhapsyou have children who want to give each other presents, but they have no budgetfor such things. Or perhaps you yourself are not so anxious to spend money onsomething that comes with a fajillion pieces that you are going to have to pickup every other day or that will be broken in record time, or that you will findat the bottom of the toilet for some inexplicable reason.

What do you do then? Whatkind of present could you possibly find? I’ll tell you. And I’m going to tellyou for free!

Ladies and gentlemen, I pointyou in the direction of The Family Fun magazine. You’ll find in the November issue a charminglayout of two adorable children that have a most magical mother. A lovely womanwho has hand-crafted for them a paper doll set, starring … themselves. (Yes, that's my very own Roxanna and Tanner in that there layout.)

Click here for a link to the online magazine issue!

It’s genius, right? Yousimply take photos of your children, print them on card-stock and cut them out, and then let themdesign and create their own clothing. Paper dolls…of themselves! What a perfectgift this holiday season! Inexpensive and exciting! Perfect for a cold,winter’s day, when the kids are home and snuggled indoors, eating tomato soupand grilled cheese sandwiches.

Three cheers for Katie Craig,the talented craftswoman behind this stroke of brilliance! A woman who’s mindis full of creativity! A woman who is now famous for being in a nationallypublished magazine! A woman with whom I gladly share my egg nog while we singour planet’s national anthem, which hasn’t been written…yet.

Canadian Vacation

2011-11-18T21:15:00.000-08:00

Today feels like the appropriate moment to bring you a Friday Films selection that symbolically bridges the relationship between the country of Canada and this here United States of American.

With Thanksgiving being next week, and Canada’s Thanksgiving Day having just taken place a few weeks ago, why not celebrate this delicate balance with a little something I like to call…

Canadian Vacation.

The back-story:

In the summer of 2003 we were attending a family reunion in upstate New York. Katie’s family had gathered in from all over the country, and we were visiting Church History sites. On this particular day, several of us ventured over to Niagara Falls. (Not officially a Church History site.)

I brought the video camera, as tourists are wont to do.

As we were getting out of the car Katie commented, “You know we’ll never actually watch any of this video footage. Video of water falling? BO-RING.” Then she got an idea. An awful idea. Katie got a horrible, awful idea.

"Let’s make our little tour of Niagara Falls into a movie!” she said. “Like, a movie with a plot and dialogue and craft services and everything!” And then she enlisted her family members, who know just as well as I do that when Katie is in her "creative zone," you don't mess.

The story:

The plot (if you can call it that) was made-up on the spot. (But according to reviews, it is still better than Jack & Jill, the most recent Adam Sandler rubbish.)

My character is a giddy, naïve tourist who becomes completely enraptured with Canada, He greets everyone he meets, tries to speak the language, and wants to become a Canuck.

UNTIL…the fateful moment he rides the “Maid of the Mist” boat, and actually brushes up against the Falls. He gets nervous, then nauseous…then decides that he absolutely hates Canada.

Well, he can’t get back to America too soon, and actually gets emotional when he does. But are his touring days over for good?

Closing Remarks:

Why haven’t I posted this video before now? Well, because. Because I’m a little self-conscious to show it to you, quite frankly. Because we only shot each scene one time. Because I don’t know who was on wardrobe that day, but my shirt is no less than 9 sizes too big. Because the story line is a bit weak. And because I only recently found it, going through old family videos.

Please enjoy Canadian Vacation. Eat your heart out, Chevy Chase.

Now Playing!

2011-11-03T08:15:00.000-07:00

You can relax, Las Vegas. We are heeding your call. We’veheard your plea for quality family entertainment, and we now answer you.

“For my money, there are just not enough Broadway musicalreviews in Clark County!” you’ve declared.

“Oh, yeah,” we respond, brimming with excitement like we’vejust purchased the best birthday present for you ever and can’t wait for you toopen it. “How about THIS!”

“Is it cute?” you wonder.

“Is it CUTE!? we answer, almost insulted. “You can’t evenhandle the cuteness of this production! We’ve got the entire Craig family isone song (with special permission from the Fire Marshall, as it exceeds maximumoccupancy of adorableness on one Stake Center stage); plus a solo by Abbie, aduet featuring Garren, and another number with Roxanna, Tanner, and Becca thatwill literally knock your socks off.” (Fire Marshall asks that you tie yourshoes really tight. Cuz seriously, socks will be flying off everywhere. Andthat’s a hazard we’re not insured for.)

“Can I bring my whole family to see it?” you query. “Will mykids be able to sit through it?”

“Yes and yes, folks. Being sensitive to your demand forfamily fare and also due to budget restraints, we’ve eliminated all numbers fromChicago and Miss Saigon, and most numbers from Priscilla Queen of the Desert. And to hold the attention ofchildren, we’ve been sure to include selections from Beauty and the Beast and Suessical.”

“But I do want somebawdiness in my live theater,” you actually hear yourself say out loud.

“Welp. We’ve got a pregnant Mary Poppins singing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious … andan innocent Bert just singing along beside her refusing to acknowledge its inappropriateness.Does that count?” we ask back.

“Sold,” you say. “How much?”

“NO CHARGE,” we throw back at you. “And you are guaranteed agood time, or your money back!”

“When can I see this absolutely charming and delightfulproduction that critics are raving about?”

“Tonight and tomorrow night. Yes, Thursday and Friday (Nov 3and 4) at 7 p.m. at the LDS stake center on 7500 Tule Springs, off US 95 and Durango.”

“I can’t wait!” you scream.

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO! IT’S TONIGHT AND TOMORROW!” we yell back. "WHY ARE YOU STILL SITTING THERE READING THIS!?"

Please come say “Hi!” if you come to the show.

And we totally won’t be offended if you ask for ourautographs.

Scared Stiff

2011-10-24T17:30:00.000-07:00

In just a few days you’llfind ghosts and goblins lurking about. You’ll see costumed freaks flooding theneighborhood, people celebrating the macabre. Yes, it’s Halloween! Or, as Lady Gaga calls it, “Just another Mondaynight.” (Hey-OH!)

This is a night when we playpranks, tell scary stories, bob for apples, and visit the neighbors to ask forfree hand-outs. Ah, Halloween. Or as radio talk show hosts refer to it, “OccupyWall Street.” (Zoing!)

Well here at The CraigReport we have a tradition of telling a haunted tale or two each October.And this year is no exception…

(I’ll give you a minute todim the lights and turn on some creepy music. And your fog machine.)

If you’ll journey back withme … about three years ago … almost exactly to the day…

The weather is finallypleasant in Las Vegas during the month of October; and as is custom on warmevenings, Katie and I were sleeping above the covers on the night of thisspine-tingling event.

It was not an unusual night,by any means. The kids had fought us on going to bed at a reasonable hour, we’deaten ice cream, and The Office wasnot as funny as it had once been. By all signs, situation normal.

However, sometime just after2 a.m., I suddenly woke up, almost in a jolt. But though I was awake, I found itimpossible to move. As one would expect at that hour, the house was silent andstill. But it was more silent and still than ever. The overwhelming feeling I had was that I was under water. Myhearing was deafened, muffled. Icouldn’t breathe. And I could not so much as lift a finger. It was if my bodywas pinned down, even being pushed into the bed. Being suffocated by nothingmore than the pressure of the atmosphere around me.

I made a conscious effort tosit up, as if raising my torso would immediately provide oxygen. With tremendouseffort I tried to lift my head. Butstill nothing budged.

I could feel Katie lying nextto me; her body only inches from me, sleeping peacefully as if absolutelynothing life-threatening was going on next to her.

I became panicked and againexerted all the energy of my being to raise myself to a sitting position.Though incredibly sluggish, I could finally feel some hint of movement. I feltlike I was far below the surface in a large body of water, trying inslow-motion to reach the surface for that first breath. But it felt like I would never make it.

After what seemed likeseveral death-defying minutes, I pulled through the thick air and sat all theway up, taking in a large gulp of air, and then another. My pulse was racingand I was even perspiring. I had no explanation for what’d just happened, but Ididn’t feel any sense of impending doom or fear. The room felt clear and whereit was once dark, I could see the outline of the room through the light thatcame in the window. I rolled over andcuddled up to Katie, putting my chin on her shoulder and my arm around herbody. She mumbled something incoherent, but I recognized it as a, “Are you ok?”kind of a mumble. My heart slowed down, and I fell back asleep.

The next morning I told Katiewhat had happened. Neither of us knew what to make of it. We never discussed itagain. Fact is, I’d never discussed it with anyone until last month, when I wasvisiting with my brother, Dehn.

We were at dinner and Dehnhappened to tell me about a companion he’d had on his LDS mission in Japan. Heexplained a time when his companion had awakened, frozen to his bed. It wasessentially the same thing I had experienced three years ago. His companion,who was Japanese, told Dehn that it was something that occurred quite regularlythroughout his life. This was also the case with other Japanese missionariesthat Dehn talked to.

After I told Dehn theexperience I had, he pointed me in a direction where I could read more about it– in fact, a magical place where I could read more about anything! This fairyland place is called Wikipedia. It’s on the Interwebs.

It turns out this kind ofevent is called sleep paralysis.

According to Ripley’s Believe It or Wikipedia, sleepparalysis can last from several seconds to several minutes, and in some rare cases(generally following a post-Thanksgiving dinner food-coma), up to several hours! Doctors, scientists, and drugaddicts have also acknowledged that sleep paralysis may be accompanied byterrifying, vivid hallucinations and an acute sense of danger. (Uhm, no doi!)

Evidently some of the causesof sleep paralysis include narcolepsy, increased stress, suddenenvironmental/lifestyle changes, or excessive consumption of alcohol coupledwith lack of adequate sleep. (You can read all about sleep paralysis here.)

It was of course comfortingto find an explanation of something that had truly felt inexplicable – even ifthe resolution was less paranormal than I had anticipated, and more of aphysiological occurrence. As is the case with most things supernatural,political, or taking place at Lady Gaga’s house.

If you are new to The CraigReport, or just looking for some frightening tales to get you in the Halloweenmood, you might consider…

When I Was Left at Home Alone and Three Men Robbed Our House…

When I Went to the County Coroner’s Office…

When Katie and I Were First Married And We Heard Footsteps and Nobody Was There…

My First Trip to a Haunted House…

The Power of Storytelling

2011-10-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

Something you might not know about me is that I keep a blog.

It’s true.

I started it in 2005, back before the Internet was eveninvented. It all began when a handful of my friends from college decided toentertain each other with storytelling via blogs.

That was what hooked me. I’m a sucker for storytelling.

I don’t think I am unique in my love of stories. I do thinkI am unique in that I find a full-size Butterfinger bar just too rich for me,but I have no problem eating an entire bag of Hershey’s Nuggets with Toffee& Almonds in one sitting. But story telling? Doesn’t everybody love that?

I find myself drawnto stories. I crave them. Love reading them, writing them, telling them andhearing them. If somebody sits down next to me and says, “Did I ever tell youabout the time in college when the whole seventh floor of our dormitory wasabout to ambush this guy in his room, not knowing the entire BYU football teamwas on the other side of the door, waiting to crush us?”* I will say, “Startfrom the beginning and tell me every detail. What were you wearing and did theteam sing their fight song as they pummeled your face?” (*True story. I can’t tell you who it happened to, though, because I don’twant to incriminate anyone. But yes, that is how my face got this way.)

Well, the reason I bring up stories and storytelling is thatI have been asked to participate in this delightfully hip storytelling-and-personal-and-family-historykind of conference being held in Salt Lake City in March! And I wanted to makeyou aware of it, since we just established that we are all fans of storytellingand eating Hershey’s Toffee and Almond Nuggets. (I’m actually not sure preciselywhat the refreshments will be. But I can tell you what tasty treats will be inmy satchel, so come and find me if you need a fix.)

This fantastic event is happening March 8-10, 2012 in SaltLake City, Utah. It's called ThePower of Story @ Home, and it's sponsored by Cherish Bound, Family Search,and the Casual Bloggers Community. This is a link to theirwebsite.

This event is really ideal if you have a hankering to learn more about

-different mediums for recording personal and family history,

-blogging, or

-searching out your family history.

I hope to see you there! Yes, YOU! You’re so adorable whenyou pretend you don’t know I’m talking to you. If you have any questions, not about dorm room ambushes, let me know!

Flattery Will Get You Everywhere With Me

2011-09-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

If you've seen me without my make-up on then you'll agree with me when I say that if they made a movie about my life, I would be played by thisguy:

Clint Howard, brother of Academy Award winner Ron Howard.Aside from our looks, we have something else in common: Ron Howard won't return either of our calls.

And if Clint isn’t available, I assume they’d go with this guy.

Or this guy.

However, in the past three months Ihave been told, no less than a dozen times, that I actually look like this guy.

Zachary Levi.

Let me just set the recordstraight right here and now: This does NOT offend me. In fact, it might be the single most awesome and inaccurate thing anybody has ever said to me.

The comments vary. I geteverything from “DUDE – it is uncannyhow much you guys look and act alike!” to somebody saying, “You know who youremind me of? Chuck.” And the person next to them saying, “Huh?…Yeah, I can seethat.”

The thing is: While I wish I did, I don’t think Ido.

Sure, I'm genuinely flatteredthat people associate me with this guy. I've watched Chuck, and I think he’s witty and highly entertaining. Otherreasons I like that people associate us together: he’s 10 years younger than me, he's a superstar celebrity, and “danger” is his middle name.

But truthfully, besides thefact that we’re both tall, dark, and male, I don’t see the resemblance. Unless you are basing this comparison on Zachary's character on Chuck, where he is perpetually in over his head and completely under-qualified in what he's doing. In that instance, I do find common ground between us.

But these people persist! Andthey are not even in the same room together. I have one friend who is soconvinced that I am Zachary Levi, she wrote her own blog post about it.

Jump to a completelydifferent circle of people – the teenagers at church! I had a young lady come upand say, “I thought of you during Tangled,because you’re totally like Flynn Ryder.” Voice of Flynn Ryder? Zachary Levi.

Again, I am honored. And I would like to invite Mr. Levi to consider the role of Ken Craig...should that screenplay ever be written, I mean. And if he's too busy to give it a look-see, well, no worries. I've got one more doppelganger I've already been in contact with. Clyde.

Clyde is the one in the passenger seat.

So, I'm curious. What celebrity are you told you look like? And do you think you looklike them? And do you think Steve Buscemi will hunt me down, roast me over anopen fire, and eat my head for mentioning him in my blog? Because he kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies, and I wouldn't put that past him.

A Good Ol' Fashioned Throw-Down

2011-08-29T17:30:00.000-07:00

What you see above is not a multi-generational photo. No, this is simply Katie’s family – the one she grew up with. The Fillmores. You have her parents there, front and center, and then all the siblings (minus one, Robyn, who passed away when she was 8 and Katie was 14).

Yes, you’ve counted that correctly. 10 children. Nine daughters. In a row. I’m just going to let that gel in your mind for a moment.

Though it’s contrary to social standards as well as most movie stereotypes and dated stand-up comic jokes, I quite enjoy my in-laws. And I’m always intrigued by how diverse they are. I mean, nine young ladies baked in the same oven and raised in pretty much the same environment…but their approaches to life as well as their passions, interests, techniques and leg-shaving habits are as varied as their hairstyles.

However, one thing they do have in common is their universal subscription to the frugal mantra “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” None of these exceptional women have the attitude of “I am entitled to Such-and-Such,” or “I deserve Thus-and-So.” These are prudent, parsimonious girls.

And while I admire that trait, I will freely admit that what I love most about it is that these cost-conscious attitudes occasionally produce what the Fillmores affectionately refer to as a “Throw-down.”

According to tournament rules, a Throw-down may occur when three or more of the sisters know they will be together for an evening. It involves the preliminary steps of going through your closets and drawers and bagging up whatever clothes you are feeling “done” with. You then lug these clothing items to the Throw-down location (usually in somebody’s living room), and when all are safely gathered in…you hock your wares.

Please note, you are not actually selling your clothing to the highest bidder. Your goal is just to get rid of your clothes, and hopefully head home with armfuls of clothing that your sisters – for whatever reason – are no longer interested in. It is essentially a “clothing exchange” party, wherein you are throwing down your old clothes and picking up used clothes that are now new to you.

Simple enough, right? But where the hilarity ensues is here, in the trading of the clothing. See, one of the other traits that the Fillmore Girls all share is honesty. OR, you might also call it “dismal salesmanship.” They wait their turn, then stand before the crowd and present their clothing, like an auctioneer. An auctioneer who, despite his honesty and disdain for the clothing items in his arms, manages to get other people to snatch them up. I have to think that it’s because each girl is so enthusiastic and upbeat with their sales pitch, you can’t help but want to give it a try! And then try it on immediately in the “changing area,” otherwise known as “behind the couch.”

Last week all the sisters were together – plus the new addition of Mark’s wife – for the first time in many years. The excitement and energy were almost tangible. I could barely contain my giddiness in anticipation of the singular sales pitches! And it did not disappoint. And for you, I present here some of my favorite quotes, overheard at a Fillmore Throw Down. (And said with much enthusiasm and gusto!)

Katie, holding up a straight, red dress: “This dress is super cute, but you can’t wear it if you are pregnant…or nursing…or if you’ve ever had a baby. Or if you are bloated.”

“This is cuter than it looks.” (And it wasn’t.)

“This blouse is nice, but I have a hard time moving my arms in it.”

“These pants say ‘dry clean only’…but they’re not anymore!”

“These pants might fit you…the elastic just isn’t good for keeping them on.”

Rachel, walking into the room and then observing Stephanie holding up an item of clothing, “Hey! Wait, what’d I miss?...YUCK!”

“These are so cute, but they’re size 8, so I only wear them when I’m pregnant or just had a baby.”

“This is completely out of date. I should have gotten rid of it when it was still in style.”

“You could make this jumper into a nice tote bag.”

“Here’s a good ‘wash-the-kitchen-floor’ shirt!”

“These pants come with spit-up on them.”

“I like that shirt!” “Well, it’s got weird sleeves.” “Ok, great!”

“This jacket is kind of ratty on the ends.”

“When I wore this, people told me I looked like a bell.”

“This is so cute…I actually might keep it.”

“These pits are a little sour on this one…I’m not even sure why I held on to it.”

“This sweater makes you look like a bee…or that you’re from Hufflepuff.”

“Here’s some running shorts. They’re Speedo. They kind of feel like a diaper. But they wick away the moisture!”

“Here’s a shirt. It’s actually a little boys’ shirt. But I like the fabric.”

“This one just has a couple of holes in it. And the pits have seen better days. But it’s a cute shirt, and I wore it a lot.”

“This is a shirt Rachel gave me … but I feel like a pumpkin every time I wear it.”

“This skirt is nice and long, but you can’t walk in it.”

“This one is so old that Eve wore it out of the Garden…and in high school.”

The Stake Dance: A Metaphor for Life

2011-08-16T09:30:00.000-07:00

Without permission, my daughter Abbie turned 14 last week. And I have no one to blame but myself, as it even happened on my watch, and I did absolutely nothing to stop it. In my defense, I was distracted by my life-changing AppleTV and being able to watch YouTube videos on my television! Ah, technology. I kind of fear you, sometimes.

The thing about being 14 in the LDS Church is that you now get to experience that rite of passage known as … The Stake Dance. And Abbie will be attending her first on Saturday.

(For you non-LDS’ers, a standard congregation in the LDS Church is called a “ward.” Several wards combine to make up a “stake.” And once a month a dance is held in one of the ward buildings for all the youth, ages 14 to 18 in the entire stake. It’s a marvelous social opportunity for the young people in today’s world to come be together so they can bask in the overpowering odiferous combination of cologne and body order, circumvent actual conversations by texting each other from opposite ends of the gym, and at all costs – including death first – avoid any actual dancing.)

My gosh, what an emotional rollercoaster a Saturday night stake dance used to be for me. It was like experiencing puberty in a microwave. In one single evening you were terrified, elated, awkward, euphoric … you loved everyone, you hated everyone, wished you were younger, wished you were older, you had the sweats, and by night’s end…your voice had changed, and you were four inches taller.

The energy was palpable. Circles of friends assembled in assorted areas throughout the low-lit gym; half-dancing already, gossiping, hoping that “certain somebody” would be showing up that night, making lists of what songs you were going to request from Mr. DJ, and deciding what to do after the dance – going to Bob’s Big Boy for shakes, or going to toilet paper some poor soul’s house.

I remember my very first stake dance. My parents dropped me off outside the church, with a pep talk from my dad on how I should just grab the first girl I saw and use some pick-up line like, “Hey Sweetheart, teach me to dance.” Apparently my dad hadn’t been 14 in many, many years. And “sweetheart” must have been a warmer salutation at that time, or on that planet.

I walked into that gym alone, the youngest guy in the room, and immediately scanned the place for any sign of safety or reassurance. I suddenly found it in the face of Sherri Rosquist, a friend from my Sunday school class. I hadn’t been in the room two minutes and she came up to me.

“Hey, let’s dance!” she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me with her.

“I don’t know how,” I answered, as I walked out onto the floor with her. I really didn’t feel timid about having never publicly danced before, as much as I felt I should legitimately warn her that things could get unsightly, if not physically and socially precarious for the both of us.

“I’ll teach you,” she kindly responded, with a big smile and all the confidence in the world.

Bless you, Sherri Rosquist. Bless you for saving me from a night of discomfiture and an entire adolescence of shame. Bless you for knowing how to dance. Bless you for your forwardness. And bless you for calling me back to the dance floor when, during the humming part near the end of Modern English’s “I Melt with You,” I assumed the song was over and started to exit from said dance floor.

As the song finally did end, I thanked Sherri and began walking away when a tall brunette stepped right in front of me and blocked my exit.

“Wanna dance?!” she beamed.

Oh, hold me. It was the spectacular Danielle Martin! She had been my regular babysitter when I was 8 and she was 12.

Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, this is precisely what

Danielle Martin looked like when she asked me to dance.

I remembered her well, as she had occupied a starring role in my dreams lo those (many) six years. I’d had my suspicions when I was 8 that Danielle may have had what scientists termed as “the hots” for me. After all, when the other kids were sent to bed, I was allowed to stay up and watch TV with her until we heard my parents pull into the driveway. At 8 years old, that spelled out love to me! But our forbidden love had to be kept a secret.

But not anymore! Now I was 14 and she was a bombshell of an 18 year old, and we were on a dance floor! The scene was set, and all that we needed was the perfect soundtrack to celebrate the moment. So you’re probably thinking what I’m thinking. Yep. Cue the Hall & Oates.

The night continued down this magnificent path, enchanting moment after enchanting moment. I got jiggy wit it, I socialized with the “older” crowd, I delighted in the array of refreshments. It could not have been better.

And that’s when I saw her.

She was beautiful; this nameless lady in a red dress, with dark hair and blue eyes. Of course I can only assume you’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking. Yep. Romance was in the air. Cue the Wham!

She was standing in the midst of several other attractive and significantly older women. 18 year olds. Well, thanks to a sensational experience earlier with Danielle Martin, plus an evening of flawless socializing…I was really overloaded with a false sense of confidence. I could not be shaken. I walked boldly up to Red Dress, completely convinced we would one day tell our grandchildren about this night.

“Wanna dance?” my voice warbled, surprising even myself.

It was the last song of the evening, and heaven bless her, she actually nodded her head. Wow. Really, the only thing that would have made the moment even better would have been if she’d instead just said, “Not a chance.”

See, it quickly became evident that she hadn’t done either of us any favors by agreeing to dance with me. She clearly didn’t want to be there, and I clearly wanted her to be there so badly that my palms were sweating as if this dance were being judged by Church leaders themselves and my life hung in the balance.

Who was I to think an attractive 18 year old woman was desperately waiting for a junior high kid to come make her evening by pulling her away from her ostentatious friends and out onto the dance floor in front of a condemnatory crowd to enjoy what had to have been the single longest love song ever recorded in the history of ever?

Not a word. Not a single word spoken between us. I blamed myself, of course. But I blamed her, too. Sure, I obviously put her in the difficult situation of not wanting to crush the spirit of an overly-zealous pubescent boy while also not wanting to dance with him…but once we found ourselves in this horrific predicament, she did absolutely nothing to save me. She didn’t compliment me on my “Deacon Two-Step” (the quintessential dance move of all stake dance first-timers), she didn’t ask if that was Drakkar Noir or Old Spice that I was wearing (it was both, I wanted to smell really special), and she didn’t ask me what I thought of the intricate subtleties and underlying meanings behind Wham!’s “Careless Whisper,” which was underscoring our unending dance. Nothing. Just complete, painful silence.

It felt like days had passed.

Finally the song ended, our hands dropped to our side, and we both did an about-face and marched away from each other, equally embarrassed and ashamed.

And that’s life in a nutshell, my friends. Ups and downs. Peaks and valleys. Unstoppable, then humbled. Cloud Nine, then Cell Block Nine. But what a journey. And what a soundtrack! You’re probably thinking what I’m thinking, right? Yep. Cue the Howard Jones.

So You Think You Can Dance AND that You Know Katie?

2011-08-10T10:48:00.000-07:00

So today is Katie's birthday. If you already knew that, then congratulations - you're pretty cool! But HOW cool are you? Just how well do you know Katie? Read the following stories and decide for yourself...

Katie knows Jon Gosselin!

Katie makes her entire family go sugar-free every January!

Katie is known in some circles as The Kid Whisperer!

Katie is available for hire to star in infomercials!

Katie used to leave me love notes when we were dating in college!

I had feelings for Katie the first time I ever saw her!

Katie looked like she was 16 when we got engaged!
Next week will be 16 years that we've been married. Here's a video from two years ago.
And yes, of course, you most likely are already aware...that Katie homebirths.

Happy Birthday to the most remarkable, delightful, lovely, talented, hilarious, genius I know; who also lets me pinch her bum in public. World...I give you Katie Fillmore Craig.

Without Fail

2011-08-03T16:30:00.000-07:00

I was recently visiting with a dear friend of mine at work when I noticed a heavy, metallic plaque situated on the front of her desk.

It read, “What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?”

If I KNEW I could not fail? Let’s rock that list, shall we? And I’m just spit-ballin’ here.

First, of course, I would hie to Kolob. (In the twinkling of an eye.) (But make no mistake, I would also come back to earth. I’m not done yet.)
I would go on ABC’s summer sensation, Wipeout! and win! (And by “win” I obviously mean “take over John Henson’s job.” I think that just looks like a bunch of fun.)
I would maintain a diet so horrific that it would offend the delicate sensitivities of both health enthusiasts and PETA members alike…but I would magically keep a gorgeously svelte physique.
Drive my car around without ever having to fill it up with gas, ever again.
I would bring MC Hammer back in style.
I would bring his pants back in style as well.
I would wear MC Hammer pants to church.
BASE jump off the Eiffel Tower without a parachute…and live.
Go back in time and attend Neil Diamond’s 1972 “Hot August Night” concert at the Greek Theater in Los Angeles, California.
Sail around the world in my very own yacht; without having to take lessons or have any idea how to sail or know what I’m doing OR come across any sharks or whales or any animal that makes me nervous. Dolphins are okay, if they maintain a distance of 25 yards, as specified in a contract drawn up by my lawyer.
Develop my own island in the Caribbean and call it Awesomeland.
Run for President of Awesomeland.
Lose the election – because I don’t want to be president of anything.
Become Superman, with the added ability of being able to turn invisible.
Sentence Martin Lawrence to a lifetime in prison for not being funny.
Own exclusive rights to doing impressions of Jack Nicholson, and not allow anyone to do them anymore. Not because I do a good impression of Jack Nicholson; but because I just think it’s enough already, people. And that goes double for you, Robin Williams.
Receive an Academy Award for Best Abs in a Major Motion Picture.
Receive $1,000,000 a month in returns on my investments. Any investments. I really don’t care what investments.
Shave once a year.
Fly my own jet. Again, no lessons – just instincts. I don’t have time for lessons. And Jason Bourne seems to get by on instincts.
Be Jason Bourne. But without the killing. Just mad fighting skills.
Replace Bono as lead singer for U2 and be even more adored by the public.
Write the “Great American Novel.” Or just the “Great American Bumper Sticker.” Yeah, I’d settle for the bumper sticker thing. (It’s less effort, plus it would allow me some time to actually consider what it means to “not fail at something”….because in my mind, I may or may not truly comprehend the difference between achieving something and receiving super powers.)

Nothing Left Unsaid

2011-07-27T14:00:00.000-07:00

I’m not normally a “nervous flyer.” And while I am not best friends with turbulence, we’re certainly not bitter enemies. If things get a little bumpy while in the air, I don’t panic, scream, or slap the person next to me. (If the in-flight movie is starring Ashton Kutcher, however, those are precisely my reactions, and I make no apology for it.) But on a recent flight, we experienced some severe commotion while in the air, and as I was thrashed back and forth, the thought actually went through my head, “Have I left anything unsaid?”

I am not what you would call emotionally reserved; so when it comes to my family, I am pretty open. I throw around the “I love yous” like I’m asking for somebody to pass the green beans! But I do it with generous sincerity. So the family, and even most close friends, are covered. But what of all the other people I know? And even those I DON’T know?

Faced with sudden, profound fear that life would be ripped from my very breath, I grasped for pen and paper and began to write down the things I had once erroneously determined were better left unsaid. Here is that list.

Dear Snider Family. Thank you for inventing In-N-Out Burgers. I love you.

Dear Lincoln. I somehow still have your MTV Party to Go Volume 2 CD that I borrowed in college. I hope you can forgive me. I certainly didn’t mean to keep it for 18 years. Additionally, over the years, I have grown increasingly embarrassed by the mere fact that it is even in my possession, due to one particularly notable track from 1992, performed by the impish hip-hop group known as “Naughty by Nature.” I believe the CD is still intact. It’s in my garage, wrapped in a brown paper bag, at the bottom of a concealed, unlabeled box. So even though I will indeed miss "setting adrift on memory bliss," as one of the other tracks suggests, it is time this treasure box of 90s dance music be returned to its rightful owner. Please be sure to remind me to give it back to you the next time you are passing through town.

Dear PetSmart. Remember when I tried to return that sharp-fanged, malevolent alien-mouse and you refused to take it back? And then you actually threatened me that if I did return it then it would most likely just be sold as snake food? I immediately marched from your store to my friend’s house and fed it to his snake. Thanks for the idea. Joke’s on you.

Dear Katy Perry. We are all super impressed. Now please cover up; your mother is thoroughly embarrassed.

Dear Heather. Many years ago you made me a mix tape. And even though I had previously made a very zealous and clear case regarding my disdain for Michael Bolton, you included a Michael Bolton song on the tape. At some point, in this life or the next, I believe you owe me an apology. Or at least an explanation.

Dear Lady GaGa. I thought of a title for your autobiography. “Born This Way, The Devil Made Me Do It, and Other Lame Excuses for Why I’m Not Accountable for My Life Choices.” Do you like it? P.S. Nobody was born to wear a “meat dress,” m’Lady. Nobody.

Dear Lenny. When we were roommates, I always thought it was kind of strange that you dated a girl named Stevie, and then a girl named Sam. I always promised myself that if you dated a girl named Jake, I was going to say something. Anyway, I’m glad you married Harriet…though I do think it’s strange you call her Harry. Just sayin’.

Dear Jonelle. That time you accused me of buying out the store’s entire stock of Haagen-Dazs Chocolate Peanut Butter at one time and I rolled my eyes and declared you a state of preposterousness…yeah, you were dead right.

Dear Taylor Swift. I’m not your target demographic, and you made my face do this when you were on Saturday Night Live …

...but dang if I don’t find it absolutely adorable when my 7 year old belts out the lyrics to Love Story. So thank you for that.

Dear Delta Airlines. Thank you for the opportunity to reflect on those memories and emotions that had long been buried…but never died.

What things are YOU leaving unsaid?

Warm and Fuzzy Memories

2011-07-05T16:00:00.000-07:00

The wisest choice I made as a teenager was to avoid being filmed in home videos. (The second wisest choice I made was to eat TWO Double-Doubles every time I went to In-N-Out. Ah, the metabolism of a teenager. I miss it.)

I don’t remember the precise year home video cameras were priced low enough that every American family decided to own one; but if memory serves, I believe our family got one Christmas 1985. I was 14 years old.

Few people can pull off 14 well. You’ve got Frankie Muniz, Michael Cera, and of course, Justin Bieber. I am none of those people. I knew it even then, so I avoided the lens.

There is some horrific footage of a 1988 Ward Roadshow practice where I played the unfortunate roll of John-Boy (of Waltons’ fame), and it is extremely painful to watch. If you are ever forced at gun-point to watch it, you can see that I clearly felt I was doing everyone a favor by showing up to practice. I had perfected the “eye roll” that all mentors and leaders enjoy seeing in youth, and I was chomping the heck out of a piece of gum – as if the flavor had personally offended me and I was going to kill it.

But as painful as it is, I occasionally watch the footage when I’m alone. Because it serves as a reminder that I was wise beyond my years to avoid being videotaped. I wince as I watch, then I pat myself on my back, and carefully put the video tape back in the unmarked shoe box in my closet. Never to be seen by my children.

Instead, my children snoop through things like old photo albums and boxes. And recently, Abbie found this photo of me.

Judging by the orange/pink/yellow medley going on with those swim trunks – combined with the light swirls of navel hair peeking through the life jacket – I’m going to say this is summer 1987. 16 years old.

I have no recollection of this photo being taken. But I absolutely love it, and here’s why:

My kids think it looks awesome. THIS is how they think of me as a teenager, and not some plaid-wearin’, gum-chompin’, eye-rollin’ John-Boy who could eat two Double-Doubles with fries, root beer, and chocolate shake. (Your judging me, aren’t you?) So this picture has won me “cool points” with my kids.
I think I might have U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name” going through my head in this shot. This was the summer of The Joshua Tree, after all.
I look at this photo and I feel washed over with nostalgia and memories of the water skiing trips of my youth - every summer, all summer long. At least I think they were all summer long. My memory of my teen years may be a bit fuzzy.
The photo is slightly out of focus. Just a bit blurry. (Kind of like my memories of my teen years, apparently.)
Look closely at my face. What do you see there? Is that…smolder? I could swear it is, but I have no idea how it got there. Try not to flirt back. That young man doesn’t exist anymore.

"Ken"fucius Philosophy

2011-06-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

You know, you can't believe everything you read. That's why I never do it. I am just too jaded. But I have heard a lot of stuffs lately about our economy and how analysts have officially declared it a national state of "being in the pooper." I even recently heard people mention that we as a country have actually borrowed a ka-jillion dollars (give or take a few cra-fillion) from our neighbors, China. Did you know that? Man. Where was China when I was 18 and wanted to rent a helicopter for prom?

Anyway, I wanted to see if this entire thing was true, so last week I went to China my own darn-self. I went as a representative of my company, SealSource International, but additionally, I was undercover for YOU, my friends. (I will be invoicing you later this week for this service I have provided.)

Here is what I've discovered: We have GOT to pay back China, and I mean right away, because we do NOT want China to be holding this over our heads and thinking they are the boss of us!

Let me paint a picture of what our world would look like if China took over!

Do you know what THIS is?! This is what you'll be doin' your "business" in once China is in charge! Evidently they do not mind the squatting, the burning thighs, or the 92% chance you are going to get unspeakable things on or in your pants. Plus, if you're like me, you are going to get zero reading done if toilets are reduced to this humiliating state. (And as I mentioned earlier, I barely read anyway!)

However, the number one reason we need to pay back the money to China is that if we don't China is going to insist we adapt to a Chinese diet. And you, sitting there with your face full of orange chicken and egg rolls – you can think again if that’s what you’re anticipating being “real” Chinese food. I have been to China, and I have seen the food up close and personal. And that’s not what we’ll be eating.

Yep. That's octopus.

This may be fine for those of you who already enjoy stewed donkey or peppered bullfrog (Arkansas, I’m looking in your direction), but I cannot subsist on this fare. (Oh sure, this may help with America’s obesity problem, as our lack of desire to eat will leave us all scrawny; but is this really how we want to solve this issue? I think not. I am not familiar with the current political positions on this issue, but the candidate favoring the eating of pig claw will not be receiving my vote. And that’s final.)

Now, for the good news. For those of you living in metropolitan areas, you will most likely become the new Shanghais of the United States – and Shanghai is pretty dang cool. Especially if you currently reside in a Marriott Hotel. The Marriott Hotel in Tomorrow Square, in downtown Shanghai, is nothing short of spectacular. So you New York and Chicago folks, yours will be a smoother transition than the rest of us, once China has taken over. And you cab drivers – congratulations, the change in driving practices will be negligible.

The Marriott in Shanghai.

Ladies and gentleman, this is my report. I feel I have presented my case as clear as I am able. Please, trust me. If we don’t pay China back soon, and they begin enforcing a schoolyard sense of justice, things are going to be digestion-ally hideous, metropolitan-ally hip, and transportation-ally comparable to what we’ve got now, if you’re a Hollywood stunt driver.

I Miss You, Katie.

2011-06-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Katie, I will be home tomorrow. I've missed you.

Friday Films: Guys' Apartment

2011-05-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

Today’s Friday Films is a live performance from The Garrens.

If you are not familiar with The Garrens, this is the improv and sketch comedy troupe that Katie and I were both in during our college days at BYU. This is also where Katie and I met, fell in love, tore our ACL on stage (that was mostly Katie) and were voted Most Likely to Undress on Stage (that was mostly me). I’ve written about The Garrens on a few other occasions. Specifically how we came to be, our history, and then how Katie and I came to be. You can read those bits by clicking here. And I, of course, endorse doing so.

Each Friday night we performed our original material on campus at 7:30 p.m. and 9:15 p.m., to a crowd of about 750 people between the two shows. It was a wonderful creative outlet, and I dearly miss it, as well as those I was blessed to perform with and call my friends.

This particular sketch featured today is called Guys’ Apartment. In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit that I wrote this particular bit. One night, when Katie and I were dating, I was hanging out at her apartment and all her roommates were there and I was watching them all interact. I realized that there were these very real customs or cultures that went on in college girls’ apartments. And I noticed that they were vastly different than men’s apartments, where the only real “custom” is to shut the bathroom door when you’re sitting in there. That was usually followed.

So I watched Katie and her roommates interacting and thought how funny it would be to have a sketch where the men are acting just like college girls – not effeminate or girly, but adapting to their customs. So I went home and wrote this sketch.

Now, please keep in mind I wrote this for a very targeted audience. If you were not a girl attending BYU in the mid-90s…you may not catch every detail and joke. For example, it was a BYU tradition in girls apartments that if a girl kissed her date goodnight, she had to buy ice cream for all her roommates. So some things may be lost. Additionally, at this point, you could consider this a “period piece.” It was written and performed in 1995, for crying out loud. Most people did not have cell phones, email, or the Interwebs.

Also, the filming of it is not with the most high-tech equipment. The sound is especially inferior. So you have to listen quite carefully. Also, you should know, my character is loosely based on Katie.

Thank you for indulging me. I really used to have a good time performing this particular sketch. The last time we performed it was in the Marriott Center, about 16 years ago. So go back with me to 1995, somewhere in a girls’ apartment near BYU…

How to Praise Your Children

2011-05-25T09:52:00.000-07:00

Today I am once again featured on Modern Mormon Men. This time, I have some advice on how to properly interact with your children. I have seven of them. All adorable. You're welcome, Universe.

You can read it by linking here.

Raising Money for Hair Products

2011-05-23T13:26:00.000-07:00

Do you remember watching or enjoying the hype of Live Aid?

According to the Interwebs, Live Aid was “a dual-venue concert that was held on 13 July 1985. The event was held simultaneously in Wembley Stadium in London, England and John F. Kennedy Stadium in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It was one of the largest-scale satellite link-ups and television broadcasts of all time: an estimated global audience of 1.9 billion, across 150 nations, watched the live broadcast.

I recently bought the DVD for $18.

I was enjoying watching my favorite band, Philadelphia’s own The Hooters, when my … ah, you got me. No, my actual favorite band is U2, and they were established as preeminent live performers after their appearance here.

I was rocking out in my old age when my six year old walked up to me.

Her: Dad…what’s wrong with Bono’s hair?”

Me: Oh…it was 1985.

Her: Oh…so…(nodding her head like she’s getting it, but kind of still questioning)…hairbrushes hadn’t been invented yet?

Me: Touché.

Love in the Time of Lemon Zinger

2011-05-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

If by chance you’ve had the opportunity to view the John Cusack/Kate Beckinsale movie Serendipity, then you’ll remember the beginning of the movie and you don’t have to read the rest of this paragraph. If not, drop everything, come over right now, and I’ll show it to you so you understand the rest of my story. Or just read this brief synopsis: at the end of their serendipitious meeting, Ms. Beckinsale writes her name and phone number on the inside cover of the book Love in the Time of Cholera and tells John Cusack that the next morning she is going to sell it to a used book store. If he finds it, then fate will bring them back together. Fast-forward years and years and see Mr. Cusack as each time he passes a used bookstore, he picks up Love in the Time of Cholera and looks inside for that phone number.

For years and years.

Dear John Cusack, I get it. I have been on such an adventure.

It was summer, 2002. Avril Lavigne was demanding to know why we had to go and make things so comp-li-cated and Leonardo DiCaprio was taunting us to catch him if we could. And most importantly, I walked into an Albertsons one afternoon and unsuspectingly picked up a carton of Blue Bunny Ice Cream’s limited edition flavor…Lemon Zinger. And my life was never again the same.

Lemon Zinger was a concoction of lemon ice cream, vanilla wafer chunks, and delicate lemon truffles -- all swirled together with lemon meringue. We ate it exclusively all summer.

And then it disappeared.

Yes, Blue Bunny had warned us that it was a “limited edition,” but I refused to believe it. I thought it was a “limited edition” the way that the Las Vegas Athletic Club has a “limited time $5 enrollment.” (That “limited time” has been running the entire 13 years I’ve lived in Las Vegas.)

Fast-forward years and years. It is now 2011. For nine years, each time I have entered a grocery store, I have walked the ice cream aisle, hoping against hope to find Lemon Zinger on the shelf. Not once.

Have other flavors come into my life? Oh, heavens, yes. Are they superior to Lemon Zinger? Most likely. But how could I know? To not be able to have it – that is what pained me. It became my crutch. “I’m sorry I’m being so cranky today – I haven’t had Lemon Zinger in 8 years.” “I would do the dishes, but it throws me into bouts of depression since none of the dishes are dirtied with Lemon Zinger.”

It finally came to a head last January. For work, I happened to be at a grocer trade show, here in the L. V. Low n’ behold, Blue Bunny had a booth. I approached. A Blue Bunny employee stepped up and smiled. “Can I help you with anything?” she asked. Always the professional, I looked her directly in the eye. “Here’s why I hate you,” I started, and then began an emotional diatribe about my long-lost Lemon Zinger that had been festering in me for almost a decade. It ended in tears. She tried to console me with a Blue Bunny ice cream sandwich. Through my tears, I unwrapped it, held it in one hand and crushed it into my other palm, like a cigar. I didn’t even blink or look away, even though it was cold and stung a little. But I was enraged and had a point to make.

“I’m sorry,” she said, motioning for security. “But there just wasn’t enough of a demand for it.”

“Not enough of a demand?” I loudly and indignantly barked. “Lady, let me tell you a little story about a TV show called Seinfeld. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Then perhaps you’re aware that the first season or two there was no demand for Seinfeld. Believe it!. But NBC kept it around, giving it some time to catch on. Some time to be appreciated, recognized, and develop a following. And maybe – just MAYBE – it developed SUCH a demand that it became the most widely successful television show OF ALL TIME! How’s THAT for a demand, sister?! Lemon Zinger could have become Blue Bunny’s Seinfeld. But now…now, you’ll never know. You blew it. I hope you can live with yourself. You disgust me.” I turned to walk away, but went back. “If you still have any of those ice cream sandwiches left, I’d like one, please. And I promise not to smash this one into my hand.”

I share this experience now because about two weeks ago I stepped into a Baskin Robbins to get a birthday surprise for a friend. The Baskin Robbins lady was preparing my order and asked, “Would you like to try a sample of our Flavor of the Month?”

Well, I’m not the world’s most passionate guy, but I’m not stupid either, so I said, “Alright.” She handed me a spoonful of what appeared to be ice cream, and I shoved it in my mouth.

It wasn’t ice cream. It was heaven-churned heavenliness of frozen heaven. The taste came right back to me.

“What is this?!” I wept, and ran to the counter to read the label. Baskin Robbins Golden Oreo Gold Rush. Lemon custard ice cream and Oreo icing ribbon, topped with Golden Oreo cookie pieces.

Is it exactly the same? Not ingredient-for-ingredient. Does my mouth know the difference? No. No, it doesn’t. Spoiler Alert: John eventually found his book… and I have found my ice cream. I have been to Baskin Robbins several times since then. And I hope May never ends.

Highs & Lows

2011-05-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

A dinner ritual for our family is that we go around the table taking turns recounting our “highs and lows” for the day. You know, the best and worst things that took place that day. Our hope was that it might spur some lively conversation and provide some insight into how each child feels about their stage of life, current events, and of course, have the opportunity to rat out their siblings’ bad behavior and/or tell weird stories about their friends.

You might expect to hear something along the lines of, “Well, my ‘highs’ for the day included riding my bike, playing with Jo-Jo Marie – who told me that her dad passes gas when he’s watching TV – and having a dance party with Abbie. My ‘lows’ were cleaning my room and also…when Tanner wouldn’t let me play with his lightsaber!”

There have been some eyebrow raising discussions, of course, but for the most part, I’m beginning to see a pattern develop.

Becca, who is 2 years old, generally starts the discussion by reminding us about it. “Mom! Dad! Highsandlows! Highsandlows!” (Most anything Becca says includes exclamation points.) Then Becca will begin to give us not so much the stories of her “highs and lows,” but an itinerary of what she’s done that day. “Uhm, my highsandlows was, I eat breakfast…then I look at books…and my highandlows was, I played games with Connor…I made poops in the potty…and that’s Lucy, and I kiss Lucy, and she’s asleep, and that’s all!”

Next is Tanner, age 5, who rather indignantly states, “Don’t ask me what my highs and lows are. I’ve told you; don’t ask me. Every day is just fine. I like all my days. I don’t have ‘highs and lows.’” Then Katie will try to jump start it. “Well, what about when you played soccer in the backyard with Connor?” Then, with great conviction, “Yes. That was awesome. That was my high. But don’t ask me anything else.” So Katie strategically mentions all the things he’s done that day, item by item, and only then will Tanner admit that he had “highs and lows.”

Then it’s Roxanna’s turn. She’s 7. And as anticipated, Roxanna (possibly our pickiest eater) will look down at her plate and say, “Well my low is having to have two asparaguses…and kind of this salad, too…(then, moving her fork like a laser-pointer in a marketing presentation)…and my high is this chicken.”

Connor, age 9. Connor is a little more diverse, except that his list invariably includes Star Wars or Legos. But if he has watched a movie that day, it will always be listed as a ‘high.’ No matter how poor the movie. “My ‘high’ today was watching The Berenstein Bears and the Messy Room.” Me: “No, it wasn’t.” “Yes, it was.” “That could not have been your ‘high.’ Do we even own that movie?” “Yeah…I don’t know where we got it. It’s pretty lame. But that was my ‘high!’”

Garren, age 11. Garren is at a magical age where he still thinks that doing anything with his dad is cool. Whatever we’ve done together that day, Garren will list it as one of his ‘highs.’ “My ‘high’ was picking weeds with dad in the front yard. Then a gang of bikers came by – you should have seen them – they got off their bikes and waved knives in our faces – they stole our minivan out of the driveway – they graffiti’d the house – they threw beer bottles at us – one of the bottles hit me in the head. And Dad and I were like, “Whoa!” Those were my ‘highs’.”

Abbie, age 13. Abbie will genuinely share her “highs and lows.” Her dreams, her disappointments. Her hopes, her fears. But not her crushes. Some things are just not for public display.

What are my highs and lows? My high is that my children will openly share their lives with me. My low is the thought that at someone else’s dinner table, their child is sharing that “Tanner’s dad passes gas while he watches TV.”

This is Lucy. 2 weeks old. Currently has no lows.

Friday Films: Shearer Genius Designs

2011-04-29T13:30:00.000-07:00

I’d like to introduce a new feature here at The Craig Report that I may or may not commit to doing on a weekly basis. I’m going to call it Friday Films! (Please note: Actual films may or may not be featured.)

Our first gem was filmed in 2002, but I only recently purchased the software to convert old video tapes to digital. So – hooray! – you are all in for a real treat as we gather around and watch old home movies starring the Craigs!

WAIT, DON’T GO!

This will be worth your 60 seconds.

For our first installment of Friday Films, I’d like to showcase my adorable wife, Katie. (I sort of have her permission.) This film is entitled “Shearer Genius Designs.”

Here is the Behind the Scenes story. Katie was feeling flummoxed about the decorating of our home. She just didn’t feel this was her talent. After mentioning this to our dear friend and yours, Jeni Shearer, Jeni stopped by one afternoon and in the sum total of about 20 minutes, completely changed our home for the better.

Because Katie is so clever and delightful, she couldn’t just write a simple note thanking Jeni for her help. No. She did this. She filmed a “thank you” for Jeni – in the form of a fake infomercial-style tribute.

I’m not sure what my favorite part is, but I think I’ve narrowed it down to two things. One, the “character” that Katie decided to play in her infomercial has it all: including some sort of throat-warble, fake mole drawn above her lip, and a wonky eye. I would watch an entire movie about this character. My other favorite thing is Katie’s dedication to getting it done. Not only was she holding the camera herself, she was also battling three tiny children who, as you’ll be able to see, almost refused to let her film without their interference. Yet, she managed to out-maneuver the outnumbering marauders.

One final note, there is no such thing as Shearer Genius Designs, though there should be. So don’t bother Googling it or trying to hire their services. Katie made up the name. But with a name like Shearer, it practically makes itself up.

Enjoy your Friday Films!

Placing My Dignity on the Conveyor Belt

2011-04-26T11:15:00.000-07:00

Just a heads up, I am featured today over at Modern Mormon Men. It is evidently the "Manly Mommy Blog."

Click here to head on over and take a gander at my horrifying personal experience in line at the grocery store.

Announcing Lucy

2011-04-22T19:04:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in a uterus not so far away, there was a delightful baby girl named … Lucy.

Lucy refused to come out.

Her parents thought maybe it was because she had heard of the ridiculous “economic climate.”

Or the sadistic gas prices.

They were also suspicious that she didn’t want to come to a world where Scarlett Johansson was romantically linked to Sean Penn.

Or a world with Sean Penn.

Or maybe she was worried that our society was ignorant enough to buy into the hype that food items which bragged about not having trans fats were somehow “healthy” or something.

And finally, they thought maybe she had some concerns about living up to the high standards of adorableness already set in place by her six siblings.

But then, one day, Lucy listened closely, and could hear her family talking about how much they already loved her. How much they wanted to hold her.

She heard her sister singing the Tangled soundtrack no less than 83 times a day. And she thought she just might like to sing with her.

She heard her dad say, “I would kill small animals and kick elementary school kids to the ground for another pint of this Haagen-Dazs Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream.” And she thought she just might like to try some of that ice cream. And perhaps kick an elementary school kid. Maybe.

She heard her brothers quoting Star Wars and thought maybe it would be cooler to see this movie, because the dialogue actually sounded kind of hokey.

And she could almost feel her mom's hands as they rubbed her swollen belly, and she sensed how much more lovely it would be to be cradled in those arms. She could hear her mom’s eager voice calling out to her, wondering when she would be able to kiss her face and smell that amazing baby-breath.

Finally, she couldn’t bear to not be with her family another day, and she decided it was time to move on. Time to make her debut.

So on April 19, 2011, at 10:50 p.m., weighing 10 lbs 14 oz, Lucy arrived on the scene. She was immediately loved by all, and overnight, the entire world improved by her presence.

~~The End~~

The Beginning

Modern Mormon Men Blogging

2011-04-14T20:30:00.000-07:00

Hey Kids!

I'm contributing to the newest in niche blogging: Mormon Men. Because I am the very model of a modern (major) Mormon man.

It officially launches tomorrow: April 15, 2011.

You should check it out! www.modernmormonmen.com

As of Friday morning, when it kicks off, my first contribution is below the initial announcement/welcome. But other contributions will be posted pretty quick. So maybe read down. It's called "Legacy in Progress." It's about the legacy that I am leaving my posterity. (Spoiler: My legacy is a mixed-bag.)

Speaking of Babies

2011-04-12T22:00:00.000-07:00

Nope. No baby yet. Yes, we are overdue. Way overdue. If this baby were a library book, it would be carrying a hefty fine.

But since we are on the subject of babies, I thought I would share something with you that will make you so stinkin’ jealous of me; you might find it extremely difficult for us to stay friends.

Ready?

In the arena of “song rhyming” (that’s what I call words that don’t really rhyme, but because they’re masked as lyrics, we kind of forgive them), “Katie” totally rhymes with “Baby.” What? It DOES TOO!

Listen, if Sting says that “cough” rhymes with “Nabokov,” then I’m pretty certain “Katie” rhymes with “baby.”

At least Sting was trying. Unlike some “artists” who actually “rhyme” a word with … itself.

“We were trying different things

And we were smoking funny things.”

Really? Mr. Kid Rock, please. You must have been smoking funny things if you thought we wouldn’t pick up on that slice of laziness.

Anynote, the reason you should be jealous of this musical serendipity in my life is this: You know how oftentimes, throughout the day, you will casually serenade your significant other? Right? You know, you pass in the hallways or on your way out the door or when he or she walks into the room – and there either isn’t enough time to have a thoughtful conversation or there are too many ears present at that moment or your mind is in the middle of some project – BUT you want to acknowledge them. You want them to feel that you are aware of them and you noticed them and think it’s pretty great that you get to be together and so you…sing to them…just a line…or two… Anybody else do this? Well, you should.

Well, that’s what I do. And I ask you, what is cooler than singing a song that has “baby” in it, but SWAPPING IT…with KATIE!? Answer: Nothing. Nothing is cooler than that. And you know it. And my gosh, I wish you could see how jealous you look right now!

Many are the days I stroll into the bathroom while Katie is in the shower and I belt out SmashMouth’s “I Can’t Get Enough of You [Katie]!” Sometimes, to mix it up, I’ll sing The Foundation’s “[Katie]! Now that I found you, I can’t let you go. You’re in the shower and your head is sudsy-o!” I have to admit, that’s pretty fantastic rhyming.

Or if Katie is feeling hard on herself, she’ll be telling me about some way that she let herself down. That’s when I jump in with Chris Isaak’s “[Katie] Did a Bad, Bad Thing.” This has worked every time! If you’re trying to make me smile, that is. If you’re trying to make Katie smile, this has failed miserably. I usually rebound with “Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My [Katie].” That helps. It doesn’t really help her feel better, but it distracts her, because she hates that song. So we start talking about how lame that song is. And pretty soon, she’s forgotten about her disappointment.

My favorite is when Katie is leaving the house to go somewhere, because I have a cornucopia of Baby/Katie songs to choose from. Van Morrison’s “[Katie] Please Don’t Go” or Player’s “[Katie] Come Back” or even Franki Valli’s “Bye Bye [Katie], [Katie] Goodybe.”

I rarely go with Amy Grant’s “[Katie] [Katie],” because that’s just overkill. And I equally avoid America’s sweetheart, Justin Bieber, and her hit song “[Katie].”

Finally, when I’m trying to set the stage for romance, I croon with Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My [Katie]” or Peter Frampton’s “[Katie] I Love Your Way.” Or, if I want to be sure that romance won’t visit my house for weeks, I have two options: Bread’s “[Katie] I’m-A Want You.” I only sing this if I’m-A want to get the cold shoulder for a fortnight or two. And trust me, I’m-A not-A fan of any such thing. Or finally, if I really want to be alone, I lead with Sir Mix A Lot’s “[Katie] Got Back.”

Welp, I’m off to help my lovely wife cope with the fact that this baby isn’t in a hurry to get here. I’m planning to distract her with the following songs:

Ice Ice [Katie] - Vanilla Ice
Mammas Don't Let Your [Katies] Grow Up to Be Cowboys - Willie Nelson
[Katie] Don't Forget My Number - Milli Vanilli
[Katie]face - U2
Tell Me [Katie] - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Sweet [Katie] James - James Taylor
[Katie] I'm a Star - Prince
[Katie] It's Cold Outside – Dean Martin

Any other ideas? I’m-A needing suggestions.

Midwife at the Oasis

2011-04-05T09:30:00.000-07:00

Last Christmas Eve

If you are just tuning into this program, I would like to bring up something that will more than likely make you think twice about where you are going to sit once you are visiting us inside this here Casa de los Craigs: We homebirth.

Yep, we have six children, and five of them have been born at home. Two on two different couches, one on a bed, and two on a toilet. Yes, we employ the services of a midwife. Margie the Midwife, if you are going to press me for details. And yes, the toilet births were not intentional, and yes, the midwife wasn’t here, and yes, it was totally our fault for not calling her at the appropriate time.

Actually, this is probably more information than any of you would care to know about. Unless you are partial to words like “afterbirth,” “placenta,” “mucus plug,” or “meconium.” (Don’t even look up that last word. Basically, it's "uter-poo.") But here we are at the top of a week when we are expecting Baby #7 to arrive on the scene at any moment, and I’ve got babies on the brain. In fact, let me go check with Katie… I’m back. Katie’s asleep, so I’m guessing she is most decidedly not in labor.

Over the years many people have wondered why we even considered using a midwife in the first place. Did we have a bad experience with a doctor? Do we not have insurance? Did we want to plant the placenta in the backyard and see what magically blossomed? Are we only a year out from moving to northern Idaho and living in a compound? Are we hippies? Does Katie shave her legs and/or armpits and is Ken growing his own crop of hemp?

See how quickly you got there? “Oh, the Craigs homebirth? I had no idea they were hillbillies.”

The answer to your inquiring questions is this: maybe. No, not really. Really, it all began when Katie was three months pregnant with Abbie, our first child, and suggested she would like to explore the possibility of using a midwife. I laughed and laughed and laughed…and laughed...but then I noticed she wasn’t laughing. Then it got awkwardly silent. Then I cleared my throat, squinted as I pretended to look out the window, and told her about how I thought we should grow some hemp in the backyard.

Truthfully, my knee-jerk reaction was to not entertain this idea for even a nanosecond. This stemmed directly out of me having no idea what using a midwife meant, but assuming it involved angry women, posing as doctors, who would try to exclude me from being involved in the birth of my baby. I also pictured large, Swedish women coming into our home with some medieval tools and a pot of hot water, instructing Katie to get up on the kitchen table and start pushing.

But in a still and tranquil moment one night, Katie quietly explained to me that she had a desire to experience birth naturally and she knew midwives would be supportive of that; and that she liked the idea of this personalized, nurturing care that would be more innate with a midwife than with a doctor who would not be standing by your side for the entire experience.

And sure enough, with each appointment my conviction also grew that this was the only way to have a baby. The personal involvement and intimacy that comes with having a baby with a midwife is, from my own perception, unparalleled in the medical profession.

After that first experience with Abbie, we moved to Las Vegas. We couldn’t find a practice of only certified nurse midwives, like we’d found in Utah, so we began looking at the option of a homebirth with a homebirth midwife. And that is how we found Margie the Midwife. And that is why our other five were born at home. And that is why our hemp/placenta tree in the backyard is really comin’ in nicely this spring!

I haven’t officially blogged the birth stories of my three oldest children, but it is my goal to do so and post them on their birthdays this year - July, August, and September. In the meantime, here are the birth stories of…

Roxanna (where we didn’t call the midwife on time and I freaked out)

Tanner (where Tanner was born only 15 minutes after the midwife arrived)

Becca (where we once again didn’t call the midwife on time, but I freaked out much less)

And here is a photo of Katie, recently doing a stand-up (read: sit-down) comedy routine about being pregnant. She is the funniest person on the entire planet.

Not From the Pulpit

2011-03-29T11:27:00.000-07:00

The reviews are in and the critics all agree - THIS is a YouTube video!

My friend and bishopy-colleague, Bishop Mike, and I took a break from out weekly interview appointments and thought we'd make this video to demonstrate for the youth of the Church the dangers of YouTube.

If only ONE young man is terrified enough to stop squandering time flagrantly surfing YouTube and instead delves into his Duty to God booklet...I consider it a success.

Enjoy. And please YouTube responsibly.

Wax On, Wax Off

2011-03-24T19:00:00.000-07:00

I need everyone to sit down, please. I have some unfortunate news for you, and I think you should brace yourself. My dear friends, I have been diagnosed with folliculitis. That’s right, let it sink in. I know you are in shock, so take just a few minutes to regain your composure. I remember when I found out. It was 1993.

For those not familiar with this particular ailment, folliculitis is a condition where hair follicles are damaged by friction from clothing or shaving, and result in a rash or tiny, ingrown hairs. According to the Interwebs, pseudofolliculitis barbae is a similar disorder, but occurs mainly in black men, where curly beard hairs are cut too short, and curve back into the skin and cause inflammation.

I remember thinking that pseudofolliculitis barbae sounded more like what I had, but despite my vertical leap and ability to lip sync every last word to EnVogue’s “My Lovin’ (Never Gonna Get It),” the dermatologist told me it was plain ol’ folliculitis. I told him, “Whatevs, home slice. Shoo’(t).”

I asked for the cure, and the doctor told me, “Grow a beard.” I was a BYU student at the time, and in case you live in a cave or were born on the Bayou, you may have recently heard that BYU has an Honor Code; and one of the standards is you could only sport a beard on BYU’s campus with proper documentation (read: a Beard Card) and a signed agreement that you clearly understood that you were, in fact, not going to heaven.

For the next couple of months I dabbled in a cornucopia of methods to tame this ailment. One of which, I will now publicly and shamefully disclose: Waxing.

Yep, waxing. My thinking was that if I pulled all the hair out of my neck in the most excruciating method known to man, then I would not have to shave my neck for an extended period of time, and that would give my follicles a much needed vacation from the steel blade that caused them so much irritation. This seemed completely logical to me. Of course this was at a time in my life when a number of techniques or practices that were reckless and possibly illegal seemed “logical” to me.

I brought the kit home from Smith’s, heated up the wax on the stove, and stripped down to a towel, so as to not get wax all over my clothes. I wasn’t sure of the extent to which this could go badly. But I was confident it could at least destroy my clothing and possibly the entire apartment.

I had carefully timed it so that this experiment would be conducted alone, while my three roommates were occupied with an assortment of activities outside of our apartment.

Unfortunately, my roommate and dear friend, Lincoln, unexpectedly came home and walked in on an awkward scene of me in the vanity area, in a towel, slathering hot wax onto my neck.

The apartment and in fact the entire city of Provo, Utah, went silent as Lincoln and I locked eyes. Finally, somewhere in the far end of the county…a dog barked.

“What’cha doin’,” asked Lincoln, carefully, as if he were trying to talk me into letting a hostage go free.

“Just…you know…nuthin’.” I answered, casually putting one hand on my hip and hiding the container of wax behind me with my other hand. Silently praying that he wouldn’t notice the single strip of wax on the right side of my neck, or the fact I was only in a towel. Or that I had an Enya cd playing. And some candles burning.

“Is that wax?” he began his questioning.

“Perhaps.”

Then, with both hands up, as if showing he wasn’t concealing a weapon, “I think you should put that down.”

“It’s too late,” I stood my ground. And turning to face the mirror, “I’ve already started. And I’m doing this.”

“My friend…I don’t think you understand the significant pain this is going to cause you.”

“I’ll be fine,” I snapped back, coating the rest of my neck with heavy, heavy layers of hot wax.

When the wax had hardened (no, of course I hadn’t read the directions) I stepped back up to the mirror to get a good, close look at my neck, and strategize where I could get a firm hold of a corner of wax (no, of course not paper, didn’t you read the part about how I didn’t read the directions?). I was almost giddy to pull off sheets of wax and hair and folliculitis. And there, by my side, was Lincoln, morbidly anxious to watch the process.

With my right hand, I latched on to the left upper corner of wax on my neck, just below my ear, with a plan to pull a triumphant sheet of wax and hair and folliculitis – and in fact all my problems – diagonally down. I gave it a slight tug just to test its bond to my skin. And that was the precise moment when I realized that I just might be wearing a slab of wax on my neck for the rest of mortality, because it certainly wasn’t going to come off.

“At least I’ll never have to shave again,” I thought. I tugged again, significantly harder this time.

“SWEET SAINTS AND SOLDIERS, DID SOMEBODY TAKE A FLAMETHROWERE TO MY FACE! MORPHINE! I NEED MORPHINE!”

This is what my brain was yelling at me. But on the outside, I was strong enough for a man, even if I was using this stuff that was made for a woman. All Lincoln could see was a single, huge tear well up in my right eye.

“See? It’s fine.” I over-confidently stated. Then, while Lincoln scrutinized, and I successfully kept the tears at bay, I started to painfully, meticulously, agonizingly pull bits, chunks, flecks and even shards – but never sheets – of wax off my neck. It was as if the wax was “white” and my neck was “rice.” They simply refused to be separated without a fight.

After a long time and a lot of yanking, I finally put my foot down and asked Lincoln to not follow me as I stepped into a hot shower to try to scrape off any wax remains. I got out and checked myself in the mirror again. My neck was florescent red; literally glowing. It was like a beacon. It was the Rudolph of necks, and if Santa had been recruiting, well, I'd be on a much different career path than I am now.

Then, to add insult to red and painful injury, not only was it unsuccessful in postponing the need to shave, but it rendered my neck so raw, it was if I had tried to shave with a dull potato peeler. My ambitious experiment had failed huge.

The remedy I finally settled on, and still utilize to this day, is to shave with an electric razor every other day. This seems to keep the folliculitis at bay. However, on occasion, and usually when I’m listening to RUN DMC, I find my pseudofolliculitis barbae still flares up, yo.

Lincoln and I in 1995, on-air for a weekly radio show our comedy troupe would do.

40 Movies

2011-03-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

For those of you keeping score at home, I turned 40 on Thursday. Nothing much seems to have changed, really, except I think I might be having problems with my memory. But that’s been going on for a while. I’ll find myself searching for a word that I KNOW I know, you know? But I can’t seem to find it. Anyway, for those of you keeping score at home, I turned 40 on Thursday. Nothing much seems to have changed, really, except I think I might be having a problem with my memory. Did I tell you this already?

So the idea came to me to share My Top Favorite 40 Movies. 40 Movies for 40 Years! But then I remembered how much I struggle with making lists of “favorite things.” I am horrible at it. Truth be known, I only have three things I can list as “my favorite.” 1. My favorite wife. (Katie) 2. My favorite brand of ice cream. (Haagen-Dazs) 3. My favorite Billy Ray Cyrus song. (None of them).

So the best I can offer you is 40 Movies I Like That I Conveniently Had on My Apple TV that Were Easy To Edit Together. Don’t get me wrong, these are movies that left impressions on me – whether they were instantly quotable, made me laugh, changed my perspective, haunted me, or resonated with me on some level. But I can’t say with any conviction that these are my “favorite.” And don’t try to make me! That list is fluid and ever-changing.

I’m sure you have a similar list in your head, and I’m sure it’s wildly different than mine. I’m not here to debate, just share. Unless you want to debate why I don’t have any Martin Lawrence movies on this list: because I have a very sound argument for that.

(P.S. Bishop Craig would like to make you aware that a handful of these movies must be viewed on TBS, CleanFlicks, or ClearPlay. Or else!)

So how many can you name?

Click here: Ken's 40 Movies

Countdown to 40

2011-03-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

On Thursday I will be 40 years old.

You may be wondering how I’m feeling about this, the last few hours of my 30s. Or maybe you’re not. Maybe you have ADD and started to wonder how I was feeling, but then you were distracted by an incoming Tweet from Charlie Sheen. That’s understandable.

Truth is, I’m actually quite fine. And that’s a little disappointing to me, because I had really been looking forward to a Mid-Life Crisis of Biblical proportions, ladies and gentleman. Like a “checking out of this so-called town, buying a yacht, sailing to Italy, writing my novel, then adapting it into a screenplay, and eating a mountain of canolli for breakfast while my kids form a folk band and become street performers to support our family” kind of a Mid-Life Crisis. Go big or go home, I say.

That’s what I was looking forward to. But here I am, not rocking the boat.

And it’s not that I’ve completed my Bucket List or climbed every mountain. It’s not that I am exceptionally accomplished or successful or wealthy. It’s not even that I “don’t feel 40.” Oh, I do. But I’m fine with that.

Aside from wishing I lived somewhere more tropical, I feel ridiculously blessed to have the life I do. It is better than I could have crafted in my mind at any age. It is certainly better than anything I deserve.

In my humble opinion, it is my privilege to know some of the greatest people currently residing on this planet. They live within the walls of my own home, or I’m related to them, or they feel like family to me. I absolutely love the people I get to associate with. I completely get Will Rogers’ famously cited mantra “I never met a man I didn’t like.” I cannot overstate the gratitude I feel for the influence of my family and friends on my own life. I am me because of them.

I am blessed to have a wife that is superior to me in every way, and doesn’t throw it in my face. I know nobody more forgiving or compassionate, more funny or insightful, more wise and witty. Her profound faith and quiet sacrifices make sense of my world. I could not fathom happiness without her smack dab in the middle of it.

My children mold me and I strive to be better for them, so that I may leave a legacy that will inspire them. Or at least not embarrass them. (That’s really the target I am more confident I can hit). Their outpouring of love and enthusiasm confirms in my mind that despite my transparent flaws, I am doing something right. They see it in me.

My parents, siblings, and in-laws are fountains of unlimited love and encouragement. And I am blessed with friends who, despite mountains of evidence to prove them wrong, assume the best about me. I love all of them dearly.

I am blessed with clarity of who I am, where I came from, where I want to go, and how to get there. And I am given the opportunity over and over to be penitent, change, and improve my attempts to get it right.

Yes, I still feel an internal pining to leave some kind of original, noble footprint on the world. Maybe that’s selfish or hollow or shortsighted, I’m not sure. Yes, there are exotic places I would still like to live. Talents I would like to develop. But to spend time and energy focused on what isn’t means I am not recognizing the abundance that is, and the abundance still available to me. To turn 40 and not celebrate this gift would be, to me, a display of ingratitude to my Father.

But you should probably check back in with me a few hours before I’m 50.

1971

1977

1987

1995

2010

Carpe What, Now?

2011-02-26T08:30:00.000-08:00

I don’t like to get on my pedestal and publicly shame people, but I feel a moral obligation to say something here. (Also, I actually do kind of like getting on my pedestal and publicly shaming people. But only if they sit silently and let me do it. I don’t like confrontation.)

As a society, we are constantly bombarded with the diatribe of “living each day as if it were your last.” Columnists, pop singers, new-age psychologists, tattoo artists…they all think they’re some kind of “made-you-think” poets with this line. But I find this philosophy to be – how do I put this delicately? – a compost pile.

Let me paint a picture for you of what would actually happen if I lived each day as if it were my last.

I would be fired. Because guess what – if it’s my last day alive, I’m ditching work that day. And sometime around, oh, day 2 of me still being alive but not showing up to work, my boss would probably call. “Uhm – are you coming in today?” “Sorry, Boss. I’m living each day as if it were my last. I won’t be in.” “Uh-huh. Well, ya hippy freak, to me, today IS your last day.”

I would weigh precisely 500 pounds. If I know it’s my last day on earth, I am eating Crunch Berries and Chocodiles for breakfast, two rib-eye sandwiches for lunch, and a Tommy’s Burger for dinner. Five pints of Haagen-Dazs for dessert. Now, that’s a dangerous way to conduct your diet for one day; but if it just so happens to not be my last day on the planet? Well, things are going to quickly get uncomfortable and, digestionally-speaking, unpleasant for me and everyone around me.

My family would hate me. Imagine your child or parent calling you daily and saying, “I’m sorry to tell you this – but I’m dying. These are my final hours, and I just wanted to call and tell you how much I love you. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. I will miss you.” Emotional havoc ensues. Everybody is a big, weepy mess…until the next day. And the next. And the next. Then your phone call eventually receives a response like this: “There are no powers on heaven or earth that will stop me from coming over there this instant and removing any doubt that you will be taking your last breath today.”

Any material comforts would soon be gone – why pay my mortgage or gas bill? “Hi, Mr. Craig? This is Nevada Energy. I’m afraid we’re going to have to shut off your electricity if you don’t pay your bill today.” “Oh, do your worst. The joke’s on you! I’ll be dead tomorrow!”

I’d be making some powerful enemies, telling certain people exactly what I think of them. Starting with Nevada Energy, but moving on to people who set the gas prices, customer service at APX Alarm, Bill Maher, and Oprah Winfrey.

My final point to this nonsensical advice of living as if you were dying is this: H.H. Morant famously said, “Live each day like it’s your last and someday, you’ll be right.” Really H.H.? You do recognize that all those days leading up to that tragic day are days you’ll be wrong, don’t you? What kind of faulty reasoning is THAT? If you are so desperate to be right about something, why not choose an event that you would be excited about? “Live each day in your pajamas, because someday, you won’t have to go outside.” Now you’re on to something. Have Dr. Phil tattoo that on your lower back, Tim McGraw!

Love at the Rock's

2011-02-14T12:11:00.000-08:00

It’s Valentine’s Day, and love is in the air! Or in the toilet, I don’t know. Frankly, I can’t keep up with your love life. But over here at chateau d’ Craig, we’re settin’ up for a night of sparkin’! (Just Katie and I. The kids have been legally restrained from sparkin’ with any interested callers until they are of proper age. Which is 26.)

Most of my Valentine’s Day nostalgia takes place in elementary school, where we would gladly hand out Valentine’s cards to everyone in class. Boy, girl, weird smelling kid with a lip fungus – everyone was endowed with a written sentiment. On Valentine’s Day, charity abounded and we were all compassionate. Then junior high happened and we were ashamed of ourselves for ever thinking that we could all be friends, especially with anybody not wearing Guess jeans. In high school, February 14^th was pretty much just February 14^th, and unless you were in love, love was not discussed. However, I do have some very specific Valentine’s Day memories from my college era.

Today I’m dusting one off for you from the Before Katie and I Were Together and In Love and Life Was Better than I Deserved chapter. It’s actually a very funny chapter…now.

Valentine’s Day, 1994. The scene: a wintery Provo, Utah. My love interest at the time, we’ll call her Tamara (because that’s her name), had only one Valentine’s Day wish: that our special holiday dinner would take place at Olive Garden. Not a high-maintenance, gal, that Tamara; evidenced by the fact she was willing to go out with me in the first place.

I called to make reservations, but was informed by the college student de jour working the hostess desk that Olive Garden did not accept reservations. This should have alarmed me. But for some reason, the only inconvenient consequence I could fathom was that we would be sitting in the lobby of Olive Garden a smidge longer than we had originally thought; no big whoop.

There are questions of mortality that just can’t be answered until the next life. What are the details or how matter was organized to create the earth? Why do some of our personal convictions conflict with scientific evidence? Why do bad things happen to good people? And why, in the face of all practicality, did I think I could simply show up at an extremely popular eatery on the evening of a nationally celebrated romantic holiday in a town that houses a university where dating is obligatory by decree…and think that I would need to merely wait an extra five minutes for a table, and all would be well with the world?

We pulled up to Olive Garden, and it was complete anarchy. Hungry, frustrated crowds without reservations spilled out of the restaurant and into the parking lot, turning on each other. Women openly wept, men used language like “fetchin’” and “flippin’” as they paced around their cars…outrageous! It was clear we were only moments away from someone exhibiting behavior usually reserved for Church basketball games.

I popped the car in reverse, looked over my shoulder, and did my best stuntman driving as we narrowly escaped the parking lot – couples and even restaurant employees jumping on my car, yelling at us, “Are you going to eat somewhere else?! Take us with youuuu!”

I explained to Tamara that we would simply jump on the I-15 and head north until we came across the next Olive Garden, somewhere between Provo and Salt Lake. She seemed on board, but 40 minutes later – with horrible traffic, icy weather, and our starving stomachs now digesting our livers – we decided we would just settle on the next restaurant we spotted.

And that’s when it hit me.

Porter’s Place.

Porter’s Place (as described on their website) is a little, out-of-the-way restaurant located in Lehi on historic Main Street, in a 1915 brick building. And as the name suggests, it’s dedicated to honoring Mormon Pioneer Orrin Porter Rockwell. Porter served as Joseph Smith’s and Brigham Young’s bodyguard and was one of the first converts to the LDS Church. He was a close, personal friend of Joseph Smith, known for being a bit rough around the edges.

Now, if this doesn’t scream Valentine’s Day…I really don’t know what does. Really.

I can’t remember how I’d heard about the place, but I had a hunch that you did not need a reservation, and it would not be crowded. And sure enough, we sat right down. Imagine my delight to see that all the dishes were named after historical LDS people and places. I enjoyed a delectable Parley P. Pratt (French dip pastrami with Swiss cheese) and Tamara had the Orson Hyde (a BLT). I was tempted by The Destroying Angel (a one-pound burger), but decided not to go to the dark side.

Having completely impressed Tamara by taking her to a romantic dinner at what was essentially a saloon, we decided to head back to my apartment for dessert and a video. (I know. HOW did she ever let me slip through her fingers? Don’t be jealous.)

We were hummin’ along the I-15 back to Provo when my car decided to no longer be a part of our plans, and…just…stopped. I pulled over and tried to start it again, but it was pouting and would not cooperate. I zipped up my jacket and jumped out of the car to wave down some help. Nuthin’. Car after car after car sped right on by, its occupants probably stuffed with Olive Garden and romantical thoughts, without a care in the world. Evidently brotherly love takes a holiday around Valentine’s Day.

I jumped back in the car to warm up.

“Here’s the thing,” I said to Tamara. “I don’t think anyone will stop for a strange man on the freeway in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, this close to the state prison.”

“Agreed,” she smiled, not expecting my next sentence.

“And that’s why I think if you get out, somebody will pull over right away. People will be quicker to help a young lady in distress.”

She approved. At least, verbally.

Romantically, I opened her door for her and helped her out. (And they say chivalry is dead!) Then I watched her, and any chance of a good-night kiss, start walking away. Immediately, a car pulled over. My plan worked, but I still somewhat expected her to just get inside the guy’s car and ride off with him, leaving me in the rain with my decrepit vehicle and a half-eaten Parley P. Pratt. I wouldn’t have blamed her. But instead, he backed up, gave us a jump start, and away we went, before my alternator decided to go on strike again.

Back at my apartment, we dried off, warmed up, had dessert, and borrowed my roommate’s functioning car so I could take Tamara home.

And you know what? Maybe it was because earlier in the day I had filled Tamara’s room with red, pink, and white balloons. Maybe it was because she recognized it wasn’t my fault that the Olive Garden didn’t take reservations. Maybe it was because we spent the night laughing despite the escalating ridiculousness of the evening’s events. But whatever the reasons, the night was highly entertaining, even if the date did not end predictably.

The End of a Website

2011-02-10T23:00:00.000-08:00

I was recently at a luncheon where my friend, Pete, was speaking. Pete, you should know, is the foremost social networking guru in all the world. Also, he once fired me from a job that I hated. Also he is a man in his 40s who is wearing braces for the very first time. So clearly, my relationship with Pete is complex.

But he really is a respected professional in the world of digital public relations. He knows how to maximize the use of all things Internet-y to build your business. (P.S. Don’t tell him I said “Internet-y.” He hates that word. It’s like nails across his virtual chalkboard.)

Facebook, YouTube, blogs, RSS feeds, Twitter, websites – Pete knows what all those things are!

So, anyhoot, after the lunch I went up to Pete to compliment him on what a fine job he did firing me those many years ago, and also on what a great job he did speaking on this particular occasion. We began casually chatting when he actually brought up my blog. I know! Genius Media Expert and current brace-face Pete Codella reads my blog! I was flattered. And then, like slap in the face, he suggested that my blog wasn’t a blog at all, but actually a website! Like HE would know! He then explained that by definition a blog should be open for comments.

“Blogs are interactive,” he pointed out, “and should allow visitors to leave comments and even message each other. It’s the interactivity that distinguishes them from other static websites.” To which I totally saved face by responding, “Uh…no-doy, Pete!”

Well, who am I to argue with the metal-mouthed master of all things web-based? Nobody, that’s who. I am ashamed. I have only rarely turned my comments on, but I’ve been calling this thing a “blog” this entire time. Well NO MORE, my blog/website reading friends!

I have decided that 2011 will be The Year of the Comments.

So from now on, I’m listening. To everyone except Pete “Smarty Pants” Codella. So there.

A Testimony of Facebook

2010-12-31T13:00:00.000-08:00

Over breakfast this morning my family and I were hosting a What Are Your Favorite Memories of 2010 discussion. Mine included a family from the island of Terceira, in the Azores. A story 20 years in the making…

It was the summer of 1990. Ghost ruled the box office, MC Hammer was taunting that “we couldn’t touch this,” and my LDS mission call took me to Lisbon, Portugal. Though the boundaries might appear strange on a map, the Lisbon North mission included the Azores, a group of islands off Western Europe, about a third of the way back towards the United States. These islands are beautiful, with rolling green hills and farmland, and the occasional small European-style village, complete with cobblestone streets and neighborhood bakery and butcher shops.

When my plane landed on the island of Terceira (one of the Azore Islands) I walked out into the wet, cool air, and I felt a literal, physical stirring in my soul. I had the distinct impression (not uncommon for missionaries) that I was specifically called by the Lord to serve in this area. That sensation was spiritually comforting and emotionally exciting to me. I couldn’t wait to get to work.

That first morning, while eating breakfast, my companion informed me that we were going to visit a family that was not actively attending church. He had met with them a couple of times, and they were warm towards visits from the missionaries. It was the mother of this family who was primarily struggling. She had been hurt by some harsh words of another member, and hadn’t been to church in some time.

We knocked on their door that morning, and when the mother answered she covered her face with her hands and wept. Though I was still new to the country and my Portuguese was not wonderful, I understood her explanation that the week prior she had dreamed that missionaries approached her and told her it was time to go back to church. And I was one of those missionaries in her dream. So when she saw my face that morning at her door, she knew it was time to go back to church. This was by far the easiest missionary work I had done my entire mission. And faithful to the impression she received, she and the entire family returned to full activity in the little Branch.

I served on Terceira for six months, spending many hours teaching, visiting, and eating dinner with this wonderful family, the Alves’. They became a highlight of my mission, and some of my favorite people in my life. They were my family away from my family. The parents, Luis and Nair, were generous with all that they had, and freely gave to the missionaries. The children, Herberto (at the time, 15 years old), Paulo (13) and Nisa (6) were always excited to see us. And Madalena, Nair’s mother, was so grandmotherly, she refused to let us ever leave without eating something. Which worked out well, because her cooking was so good, I usually refused to leave until I had eaten something as well. Their home was one of warmth and love.

My mission ended in the summer of 1992 and this serendipitously coincided with a large temple excursion that many Members in Portugal and the Azores were making to the Frankfurt, Germany Temple. My parents picked me up at the end of my mission with the intent of doing some touring, and we arranged that part of that touring include Germany, at the same time that the Alves family would be there.

I believe there are moments in this life so overwhelming powerful, that earthly words fail to convey the emotions we feel. And sitting in the witness chair that afternoon, in a sealing room inside the Frankfurt temple, watching the Alves family, dressed all in white be sealed for all eternity…well, that was one of them for me. It was a treasured tender mercy from the Lord, and one that I would never have dreamed of asking for. Sitting in that room, I realized that if I had been told beforehand that I would serve my entire mission and have no other success but this, I would have done it in a heartbeat.

The first couple of years I was home from my mission included frequent letters between the Alves family and me. But as time went on and life got busier, we unfortunately fell out of touch. I could not find their address, and even such newfangled contraptions as the Internet and PeopleSearch failed me. But then…Facebook.

Just a few months ago the thought came to me to try Facebook. I searched for Luis and Nair. Nothing. I searched for Herberto and Paulo. Nothing. Then I used my brain and realized that Nisa, who would be about 25, was the exact demographic to be a Facebook aficionado. I searched for Nisa Alves.

Up popped a profile photo of a beautiful dark-haired young lady, a baby in her arms, next to a young man in a white shirt and tie. They were standing atop a grassy hill that overlooked the city of Angra, Terceira, with the quiet bay off to the side. I immediately recognized this as the site where every missionary who served on that island had his photo taken. And this lovely young woman looked exactly like Nisa.

In broken, rusty Portuguese, I penned the following message: Nisa, I don’t know if you remember me, but I am Elder Craig. Almost 20 years ago I went with your family to the temple. This photo sure looks like you. If it is you, and you remember me, please write back.

The next morning I received the following message (in Portugese, of course). I’ll translate: Elder Craig. Of course I remember you. We have searched and searched for you over the years. I have much to tell you. My mom and dad are serving a mission for the Church on the island of Madeira. I am married to a man named Paulo, who served a mission for the Church in New Jersey, and speaks perfect English. He is the District President for all the Azores. We were married in the Madrid, Spain Temple, and we have a beautiful daughter, Madelena – named after my grandmother, who has passed away. My brother Paulo was also married in the Madrid temple, and he and his wife are expecting their first baby. My brother Herberto is married also and has two children.

For days I could think of nothing else but the Alves family. What was once a family on the brink of falling away from the Gospel was now three generations blessed by the crowning sealing ordinance of the Temple. I had never felt more of a kinship with Ammon, who was so overwhelmed in glorifying the Lord that he said, in Alma 26:16, “Behold…I cannot say the smallest part which I feel.”

We are regularly in contact now and I am giddy every time I hear an update from this marvelous family. Including this Christmas card I got from Nisa just last week. This has been a highlight for me this year.

Merry Christmas in 2010

2010-12-24T11:30:00.000-08:00

Our Family Christmas Card for 2010. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
With love and non-mistletoe-obligatory kisses,
The Craigs

Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

2010-12-22T19:00:00.000-08:00

When I was a teenager I was fascinated by the federal mandate that if two people found themselves under the mistletoe at the same time, they were legally required to kiss or suffer the consequences of the appropriate fines and possible jail time.

I secretly pined for the opportunity to somehow be at a Christmas party where romance was in the air and suddenly I and someone with whom I had been exchanging quasi-flirtatious advances for months serendipitously found ourselves under some strategically placed mistletoe, and it was just the nudge we both needed to move past our awkward teenage inhibitions and take our relationship to the next level: sharing our first kiss in front of a crowd of ruthless, unpredictable adolescents.

Of course I was juvenile in expecting such a thing to actually take place, and I blame Hollywood. For two reasons: One, there isn’t a single movie scene with mistletoe in it that does not involve people passionately, passively, or even reluctantly kissing under it. Whatever the back-story, they end up kissing because of that mistletoe. And two, I just think it’s been a while since we’ve blamed Hollywood for something.

The only plant-provoked kissing I’ve ever participated in was in 1979. I was 8 years old and not savvy to the rules surrounding mistletoe; however, I had heard rumors surrounding the effects of red roses on the women folk. And I happen to have one I fancied: My neighbor and sometimes babysitter, Christy Stovall. Christy was what is sometimes scientifically referred to as babe-o-licious.

Undeterred by the fact that she was 10 years older than me, I remember playing in my backyard that fateful afternoon and noticing my mom’s rose-garden. Beautiful red roses for the taking. And I remember the thoughts coming together as if I were solving a great mystery, putting together a delightful emotional puzzle.

I looked over at my younger brother, Justin. “I bet if I give a rose to Christy Stovall, she’ll kiss me.”

“Why would you want her to do THAT?” he asked.

I asked my mom if I could cut one of her roses to give to somebody.

“Okay,” she agreed. “Who do you want to give it to? Your teacher?”

Was she kidding? Mrs. Colunga? Clearly my mom had not spent enough time volunteering in my third-grade class and standing next to Mrs. Colunga, who looked as happy as Droopy the Dog and barely had the restraint to not smoke directly in front of the students. I wouldn’t kiss her at gun point, much less under mistletoe; and certainly not by my own initiation with roses.

“Oh, I’ll find somebody.” And that somebody was a tall brunette with Jordache jeans and a voice that put butterflies in my stomach. Somebody who went by the name of Christy.

I took my rose and crossed the street to the Stovall house. My little 8-year old heart was thumping, but I felt pretty confident in my scheme. I knocked. Christy opened the door herself, and I silently handed over my rose to her. She reached out and took it; brought it up to her nose and inhaled it.

“Is this for me?” she asked.

I just nodded my head.

“Oh, you are so sweet!” she gushed, and then bent all the way down and softly kissed me on my left cheek. “Thank you so much; it’s beautiful.”

With a silly grin on my face, I shrugged my shoulders and turned to walk home, kind of shuffling my feet in an awe-shucks manner.

I could not believe I had pulled it off. I could not believe I conceived the idea, put the dominoes in order, knocked over that first one, and then watched everything magically come to fruition. It was genius. I was a quixotic mastermind! I had powers some men dare not dream of!

I like to think that since that day I have used my powers strictly for good. I’d like to think that; but Hollywood has really blurred the lines for me on what is “good” and what is “bad.” That Hollywood. They just go around making a mess of everything.

Welcome to the Season

2010-12-09T17:30:00.000-08:00

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

And by that, I of course mean it’s that time of year when my caloric intake matches that of the late, great Dom DeLuise. (And by “great,” I am of course referring to Cannonball Run I and II; and by “late,” I am of course assuming that he is deceased. Which means there will be no Cannonball Run III, and therein lays the real tragedy.)

But my reckless eating habits during this season are only part of the many reasons it’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Other reasons? I thought you’d never ask. Here are some previous posts on some subjects as:

Christmas Movies

Christmas Music

What I Feel Should NOT Be Called Christmas Music

Egg Nog

Christmas Caroling and Hilarious Videos

Tanner's Debut

2010-12-07T00:15:00.000-08:00

My imaginative and formerly-reserved son, Tanner, turned five years old on Saturday. The best thing about Tanner is that if you have the time, he will gladly occupy it by relaying to you whatever is on his mind. And if you don’t cut him off, he will not on his own accord stop talking. And some of the things he says will leave you amused and often puzzled. It’s delightful and entertaining, and, like, way cheaper and more appropriate than most things you could spend your money on in Las Vegas.

And speaking of appropriateness and Tanner, I have a video for your viewing play-sure.

When Tanner was 2 years old, our stake (Biblical/LDS term for a gathering of “wards” or congregations, usually about 5 to 12 wards) produced a play for all to enjoy. It was a “musical revue,” wherein a number of pieces from different Broadway musicals were performed, tied together loosely by a storyline written by my very own wife and resident hotty, Katie.

Katie, 8 months pregnant with Becca, was working together with the director and as they were deciding on which musical numbers would work for the show, someone joked about the idea of having an 8-month pregnant Katie Craig sing “I’m Just a Girl Who Cain’t Say No” from the musical “Oklahoma.” Because really, what’s a stake play without some good ole’ fashioned innuendo?

And somehow it happened. It was decided that Katie would sing the song and our five children – with an additional three that were actually not our children – would be part of the number, with me kind of standing in the background.

Since my part was minimal and the director knew my schedule, she told me I only needed to come to the last two practices before the performances started. (And that is why she is going to heaven.) During the practices I watched Tanner in complete amazement. Without encouragement, at only 2 years old, he followed his brothers and sisters, doing whatever they did. It was adorable! But the thought kept coming to me that practices were one thing, and performing on a lighted stage in front of 1,000 people was something entirely different. I had my concerns about opening night.

Not only did he do it, but he stole the show. You can’t hear all the laughter on the video because the microphones were fed directly into the cameras, but the place fell apart whenever he did something. This adorable 2 year old in a red union-suit (you know, with the buttoned-up bum) was all about the performance. And at the part where we all gather in a circle with our hands on our knees, Tanner is shaking what his momma gave him right at the audience, and I bet there was pants-wetting going on in that there crowd.

So, here’s to you, Tanner. One of the most entertaining people I’ve met in my life. I hope you never change.

For a bigger picture, click here.

She Inherited Her Dad's Singing Abilities

2010-11-30T16:00:00.000-08:00

Friday morning, still in a Thanksgiving Dinner food coma, I roll over in bed to find my two-year old wanting to sing to me. Barely awake herself, she's rubbing the sleep out of her eyes on the first ditty. See if you can name these tunes. (Good luck if you're not LDS and haven't been in Primary before.)

She's off key, but baby, can she sell it! I love that face. And I'm thankful for iPhones.

Random Thankfulness

2010-11-25T20:00:00.000-08:00

Whenever I consider the abundance of blessings in my life, I always have my Top 5. I think most people do. And generally, the list includes such themes as faith, family, friends, and health. As I said, I’m no exception to this. If there were nothing else good in my life, I would maintain the greatest level of gratitude and graciousness because of these most foundational and fundamental blessings. My convictions of who I am , where I came from, and where I am going – and who I get to go there with – create the symbolic north star in my life.

But I should never stop there. We are encouraged to count our blessings and name them one by one. So in addition to the most essential and life affirming blessings I’ve already mentioned, I think I would like to try an experiment and see if I can write down the first 100 things that come to me for which I am grateful. Not in any particular order, and certainly not “least to greatest.” I want this to be more a stream of consciousness.

The funny.
The benefit of the doubt.
Witty conversation.
Personal stories of triumph – anybody’s.
The kindness of strangers.
Being trusted.
Coming home from anywhere to 14 arms that want to hug me.
Katie’s sense of humor.
The examples of spiritual leaders.
The musical talents of my children.
DVRs.
Sketch comedy.
Improvisation.
Dinner with friends.
Fresh guacamole.
Cheeseburgers.
Steak at Del Frisco’s.
Chilled watermelon.
Haagen-Dazs.
Almond M&Ms.
Hershey Nuggets
The Proclamation on the Family.
Personal notes, received from friends over the years, kept in a box, to be read anytime.
My parents’ support and confidence.
Six brothers and sisters who share their life’s experiences with me.
Autumn colors.
The Pacific Ocean.
Songs that take me back to specific times and places.
People who assume the best about me.
Forgiveness.
Receiving advice from trusted sources.
Katie’s unfailing confidence in me.
People who take me to lunch.
Listening to somebody speak who is clearly the expert in the room.
Faithfulness.
Buying clothes without having to try them on.
Hearing a new song that immediately resonates and I swear I’ve known it my whole life.
Movies I’m ready to watch again the moment that they end.
Katie’s growing belly.
Becca’s kisses.
Tanner’s smile.
Roxanna’s laugh.
Connor’s ingenuity.
Garren’s dedication.
Abbie’s articulation.
The love in my home.
No car payments.
Listening ears.
Scripture.
Tender mercies.
To have confidence in people I work with.
Katie’s conviction of her divinity as a woman.
Katie’s ability to prepare our children for success in their life’s decisions.
Danceable music.
Quiet music.
Home videos.
Other people’s vivid memories of things I’ve long since forgotten.
Originality.
Pioneers – of anything praiseworthy.
My senses.
Sleeping next to my wife.
Inner strength.
Written expression.
Spiritual promptings.
Personal revelation.
Priesthood blessings.
Emotional comfort.
Pillows.
Indoor plumbing.
Hot showers.
My children asking me to tell stories from when I was young.
Abbie being 13 and still holding my hand in public.
The goodness I feel in my children, just by being in their presence.
Independently owned restaurants.
People who offer us hand-me-downs.
Colors of the sky at sunset.
Herbal remedies.
Light, in every sense of the word.
Plates of treats dropped off by neighbors and friends.
Compliments. I can live an entire month on one compliment.
Books.
Insightful lyrics.
iPods.
My iPhone.
Couches and blankets, together.
Christmas movies.
Having the perfect gift for somebody.
Houseguests.
Excellent seats at concerts.
To be able to travel and see different cultures.
Old friends.
New friends.
For friendships that can go years without communication and pick right back up as if no time has passed.
Mentors.
Freedom.
Exercise.
Massages.
Quotes that inspire me to keep doing what I’m doing or to change what I’m doing.
That there’s still time left.
Feeling that my life is better than I deserve.

No Place Like Home for the Holidays

2010-11-17T21:45:00.000-08:00

Undecided on if you’re staying home for Thanksgiving or traveling to spend the long, food-frenzied weekend with family? Please allow me to throw in my 2 cents by regaling you with two stories that may help you make your mind up.

My Night in Jail

My Method of Staying Awake Whilst Driving Late at Night

And as a side note, a cautionary tale on eating too much...

A Bun in the Oven

2010-11-11T21:45:00.000-08:00

I was recently sitting on the couch with a good friend when she leaned over and almost whispered to me, “Aren’t you glad you had six children? What if there was no Becca?” I felt immediate and profound sadness at the thought of it. What if there was no Becca?

It happened more than a few times this last summer when we would all be sitting down to dinner, and I would look around the table just before praying over the food and say, “Wait, who’s missing?” Now, in my defense, there are EIGHT of us sitting around the table, in various shapes and sizes, and, for some inexplicable reason, oftentimes in various stages of undress. So you can see how I might be unsure of exact headcount accuracy. Also, it is rare that we all arrive at the table at the same time, as generally somebody is on the phone, somebody is reading a book and ignoring all life forms, somebody else is at Scouts, somebody else is on the computer, and somebody else is pooping in their diaper. (And usually, that’s Becca. And usually, she has wandered off to conduct such business alone, in the privacy of a closet.)

But this handful of times I am referring to was different, because on these occasions, there was precisely nobody missing. I would ask for the roll call and Abbie would start with her “One” and then Garren follows with “Two” and Connor with “Three” all the way down to Becca, who is technically “Six,” but oftentimes yells whatever suits her, including “Nine!” or “Threeve!”

Each time, when it appeared that everyone was there, I would look over at Katie, kind of confused with my impressions and wondering why I was “off.” Katie would be staring back at me knowingly, in complete silence, but with this soft, warm look on that beautiful mug, like she knew exactly why I was feeling like somebody was missing. Somebody was. And that somebody will be arriving in April.

When a Stranger Texts

2010-10-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

I like to think I’m a pretty rational fellow. I don’t believe everything I read, I have never purchased a can of Spam or the more health-conscious Spam Lite, and despite his recent resurgence in popularity, I remain creeped out by movie star and poster boy for herpes: Mickey Rourke.

My point (and I have one here, somewhere in my wallet): I’m a pretty calm fellow. I don’t panic easy. But sometimes…when it comes to my children…even Hollywood cliché-sounding dialogue throws me into an irrational state of alarm.

Picture with me, if you will, that you are about to head out with your family to a wonderful night at the theater. Everybody is giddy with the anticipation of Broadway songs that will stick in your mind for days to come so that later that weekend, when you are about to go out with your wife to a party and she asks how she looks, you inexplicably blurt out in song, “You’re never fully dressed without a smiiiiiile!”

I digress.

Anywhich, we were all about to head out, when Connor, my 8 year-old snuggles up on the couch and admits that he’s feeling crummy. I check the temperature of his forehead and get an accurate reading with the back of my hand: Definitely Hot. He’s buried under blankets, slightly delusional, and says he just wants to stay home. He’s 8. He’s a responsible kid, and we’ve left him before. But not this late and not with this much distance between us. But I can tell he feels yucky and doesn’t want to leave the comfort of a blanket, hunkered down on the couch and, for the first time in his young life, fully and totally in control of the Disney movie selection for the evening.

He reassures Katie and I that he’s fine. She leaves her cell phone with him and we explain that he can call or text any time. And we roll out.

The show was sold out, and so not all of our seats were next to each other. I sat on one side of the theater with half the kids, Katie on the other with the other half. We were told to turn off our cell phones as the play started, but last I checked it is STILL a free country, and I had an 8 year old at home that needed to be able to reach me. So up yours, Summerlin Library. If that is your real name!

We were in the final act of the play, and if memory serves, despite a Hard-Knock Life (I think because of the close-minded 1933 prejudice towards red-heads) a young girl was being adopted by a prematurely bald Daddy Warbucks, and all looked to be wrapping up pretty well.

When I began a text messaging exchange with Connor that will chill you to the bone. Please read at your own discretion. This is not for the faint-hearted.

CONNOR: Dad, can I eat some toast?

ME: Sure, bud. How you feeling?

CONNOR: Bad. I feel like I am not alone.

ME: (A shot of fear to my heart.) You feel like you are NOT alone? Or you feel like you ARE alone and lonely?

CONNOR: NOT alone.

ME: (Remaining calm, despite a trepidation crawling up my spine as I picture my son sitting alone for his first time in a large, empty, dark house with a silence he isn’t used to as he’s never alone…and irrationally worrying there could be a 2% chance he isn’t alone. “The text is coming from inside the house!”) You are ok, bud. We locked all the doors before we left. You are safe. We’ll be home soon.

CONNOR: I hear footsteps.

ME: (Swearing to hunt down and kill anybody that ever hurts my son.) You aren’t used to the house being so quiet, so you might think you hear something upstairs.

CONNOR: No. I hear them right behind me. But I can’t look.

ME: (Grabbing everything and heading for the door.) We are leaving right now. But I promise it’s your imagination. Everything is okay. Nobody else was there when we left, and we locked all the doors so nobody else could have come in. You are safe!

CONNOR: I don’t know.

ME: (Feeling like I am bordering on melodramatic) I DO! I promise son. You are ok and you will be ok until we get home! Say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to help you feel safe and calm.

CONNOR: Ok.

And man, we split! We ran to the car, threw kids in, and talked to Connor on the phone almost the entire ride home to reassure him that we would never let anything happen to him – EVER.

He has since recovered and has shown no signs of any long-term affects. Could have been the quiet of the house. Could have been the raging fever. Could have been his overactive imagination. But one thing is for sure: It wasn’t the result of watching Mickey Rourke movies while eating Spam. Because that kind of fear will not enter this house – not on my watch!

Haunting Tales

2010-10-11T21:00:00.000-07:00

For those of you who might only recently have stumbled upon this here bloggety blog, it might interest you to know that when the haunting month of October rolls around, I usually like to take the opportunity to spin a chilling yarn or two. It’s my way of welcoming in the holiday. (Please note: These tales do not include gratuitous violence, potty language, or the names Wes or Craven. I’m really more of a fan of the spine tingling, not the terror or the repugnant.)

So, if you’ve had a “tricky” time getting into the “spirit” of the season, and you are wishing somebody would “treat” you to a “spookfest” of unnerving “tales,” and that “they” would stop using “quotation marks” when they write, then search no further, my curious comrade. Turn out the lights, huddle around the eerie glow of your computer monitor … and be warned… the following tales are all true.

(Click on the links below…if you dare… Bwa-ha. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-HA!)

A Trip to the Coroner’s Office
The Case of the Unresolved Footsteps
Home Alone, Except the Three Intruders
My Visit to a Haunted House
My Top 5 Ways I Do Not Want to Die
My Fear of Local Superstitions
The Threat of Murder

My Recent Job Interview

2010-10-01T16:30:00.000-07:00

Beginning October 4^th I will be the proud employee of SealSource International. SealSource provides products for sealing and protecting commercial and retail flooring. Their products are the most technologically advanced available – the latest in Lithium Technology – and all products are “green.” You could even drink it if you wanted! (Note: I’d check what the calories are first. Also, I don’t think it’s cherry flavored, so it might not be delicious. You know what, just forget I said anything about drinking it.)

I’m on their sales team. (So I should check on that “you can drink it” angle. Might not be the main selling point.) I’m really excited about the opportunity.

My interview with SealSource was last month. It was actually a highly enjoyable job interview. How often can you say that? I never feel more exposed, transparent, or sweaty then during a job interview. I would rather watch a thousand Hannah Montana episodes (or “Party in the U.S.A.” twice) then go to a job interview. Such a peculiar animal. (Job interviews, not Miley Cyrus. And I think it’s important I make the distinction, because there’s room there for confusion.)

I’ve had my fair share of jobs, too. And that equals a diaper-load of interviews. My first three job interviews, post-college, looked a great deal like this:

My most fascinating job interview was with a digital imaging company. This was many years ago and my friend, Brent, turned me onto this opportunity, as he had been with the company on the technical support side of things for a number of years. He lined up the interview for me, then he called me a few minutes beforehand.

“Uhm…you’re interviewing with Bo…he’s the president of the company.”

“Great.”

“Yeah…uhm…he wants us to come to his house for the interview. He hasn’t come in to work yet. He….I’m sorry Ken, this whole thing is really unprofessional. Whatever you do, don’t wear a tie.”

Brent picked me up and we drove over to Bo’s house. We walked into his backyard, and I suddenly found myself staring at a very thin Elliot Gould, circa Ocean’s 11. The man had on a robe, shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, a baseball cap, and thin cigar between his lips that had quit smoldering about 15 minutes prior. He claimed to be from Las Vegas, but if so, then he picked up a New York accent from hanging out with the mob for too, too long.

He was hanging out in his back yard, having one of his employees – I’m not making this up – fix his pool. We sat down at the patio table: me, Brent, Elliot Gould, and his other employee.

“So, Ken…tell me about yourself.” (Said in thick, Jewish, NY accent from Las Vegas.)

“Well, I was previously working at Now Defunct Bank of Nevada (name changed to protect…myself0, where we did $300 million in revenue last year.”

“And was that because of you?” (It suddenly became apparent this guy was trying to compliment me, no matter what I said or had done.)

“Well, no. I wasn’t a loan officer, I was the director of marketing. So, really, I would try to drive the business to the loan officers.”

“So, they couldn’t have done it without you, is that what you’re saying? Don’t be modest.”

“Well, I –”

“Can you create a marketing plan?”

“Sure.”

(Looking at Brent, with a very smug look.) “That’s great, because Brent here hasn’t created one yet – and I’m sorry to say, Brent, my wife is very upset with you.” (Mrs. Elliot Gould is the CFO of the company.)

“Uhm…I’m tech support. I don’t think that’s my job…?” said a perplexed Brent.

“What else, Ken?”

“Well, I was working at Now Defunct Communications (name has been changed to protect me again)…but they are having financial difficulties.”

“Didn’t they know that before they hired you?”

“You’d think so.”

“So, they hired you to save them…but it was too little, too late.”

“I guess. Like I was hired to steer the Titanic.”

“You know…I saw Titanic yesterday for my third time…(wait for it)…powerful movie.”

We sat at that table for about an hour, experiencing tangent after tangent, before Bo/Elliot Gould stood up and announced, “Let’s take this conversation to a restaurant. You like steak?”

On the way out to the car he has me follow him into his house, where his wife was on death’s door with some kind of croup. I waited in the hallway, with Bo about ten feet from me, looking into a bedroom, and having a one-sided conversation with someone I hoped was his wife.

“We’re going to The Ranch House, do you want something? Why don’t you come here and meet Ken Craig. I know you’re sick, but he’s right here. Well, do you want something form the restaurant? I know you’re sick, just come meet Ken Craig…we’re on our way to the restaurant. What are you watching, Titanic?”

She walked out to meet me and shook my hand. And if whatever was making her feel that sick was on her hand, I was certainly not going to be eating steak before washing my hands. She looked like she had been praying for death and was hoping I could assist with her termination. We exchanged pleasantries, she whispered “Please kill me,” and Bo, Brent, Employee, and I left.

We sat down at the restaurant and Bo offered me the job. Boom. It was mine. He said he’d have to run it by his wife, the CFO, but as far as he was concerned, it was mine. Said he’d call me early the next week.

I never got that phone call. The next Sunday Brent told me that Bo/Elliot Gould had checked himself into rehab in Reno. But he said Mrs. Elliot Gould was still alive and still wanted to interview me. We met and she offered me the job, in between puffs on her non-Virginia Slim cigarettes. She said, “Well, I’m going to have to look at the books, but I think we can get you what you are asking for.” I never did get what I was asking for, because the next Sunday Brent told me she was filing for divorce and they weren’t sure what was going to happen with the company. I told him “You know what, Brent, I’m not really interested in the job anymore.”

However, I AM interested in the job with SealSource. I am thrilled to be a part of the team. And just so you know – this is a national sales position, so if any of you have connections to people who manage or somehow make decisions on the maintenance or construction of large portions of floor space, please keep me in mind! The company would pay for that business trip and I would pay to take you out to dinner wherever you would like to go! The first glass of SealSource product is on me!

www.sealsource.com

Ken vs. Nature

2010-09-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

I’m not going to lie to you; I’ve done some pretty manly things in my lifetime. I waxed my neck once. Leg wrestled a girl in college to see who was going to pay for our date to see Disney’s Aladdin. I’ve even been disco roller-skating not once, not twice, but thrice! So yeah, I’m kind of burly. But nothing – nothing – tested my masculinity as much as the 50-miler backpacking trip I took this August in the Uinta Mountains, located in eastern Utah.

Yes, you read that correctly. I did it in August, and I’m only now writing about it. Because it was only this afternoon that I finally caught my breath and could sit up and type.

(Whew, I’m back now. Sorry. I had to lie down on the floor for about 20 minutes there. I’m okay now. I’ll keep typing.)

Anyhoot, this test of brawn came about due to my working with a bunch of 14 to 18 year old Boy Scouts. Initially, they were as excited about this trip as I was. (Read: Not excited. Fact is, I would have rather waxed my neck again. And I don’t think I have to tell you how unpleasant that was. Well, if you’re a dude, then I might. B’cuz chances are you aren’t man enough to have done that.) But as the day drew closer, we were all getting legitimately excited about this excursion.

There were six Scouts and three adult leaders. Our goal was to ascend King’s Peak. At almost 14,000 feet in elevation, it is the highest point in the entire state of Utah. Our goal was also to learn and master essential survival skills, discover and develop noble character traits, create bonds of friendship, and test our tolerance for, uhm, “making in the bushes.”

And along the way to the peak, I received an unexpected education on some other matters of adventurous living as well. For example...

When somebody says, “It’s only three more miles, as the crow flies,” this means it could be 18 more miles, as you are not, by any stretch of the imagination, a crow.
The more somebody says, "As the crow flies," the more you want to punch them in the throat.
When somebody younger than thirty asks you, “What’s our elevation?” and you answer by singing, “We're on the top of the world, lookin’ down on creation,” they will have no idea what you are talking about. Karen Carpenter, your legacy is fading.
Slim Jims are manufactured, packaged, and shipped directly from hell; and they taste like feet. And I saw a 14-year-old young man eat 12 in one day and live! (So far.)
After seven days in the mountains, you will not be able to remember your previous life; like beds, indoor plumbing, and clean clothes.
If one of the Scouts approaches you, unnerved, with tales of spotting an animal near the lake, the likes of which he has never seen…and the description of the animal sounds like nothing you have ever seen either…and the two of you begin to tell tales to each other of a crypto-zoological nature, in the vein of Bigfoot and the like…and you get kind of creeped out and you feel a long way from home and the comforts of a dependable world…just take a deep breath and relax It’s only a badger.
When you are on Day #6 of your trip, with 4 days left to go, and there is a toilet paper crisis, people become very, very selfish. Also, everything from first-aid kit gauze to clothing begins to look like a whole-lot like toilet paper.
If you stand in front of a campfire for 10 days, the smell will never completely be washed out of your clothes. Even after several washings. (This was actually more of Katie’s education than mine.)
Fish can actually yell at you. It sounds hilarious.
When you are away from civilization and all of the world’s distractions, you will witness selfless acts of courage that will stir your faith in the youth of this world.

And just when I was pretty confident I couldn’t get any manlier, I grew this here beard. I know! (My kids were pretty fascinated by it as well.) And you might be interested to know that I did not wax my beard off. Nope. I used an old-fashioned razor. After hiking the Uintas for 10 days, I really don’t have anything manly left to prove.

I Don't See That On the Menu

2010-08-27T12:15:00.000-07:00

We have a delightful tradition in this here Craig Family where our children take turns making breakfast. It’s a genius arrangement, devilishly devised by my wife, who has taught our children that preparing breakfast will instill in them accountability and life skills, while she has actually concocted this scheme in order to allow her and I to stay in bed longer in the morning. (Sometimes Katie is so smart, I’m a little bit afraid of her.)

And truth be told, our children love it. Well, not every morning. Does anyone love buttering toast with butter freshly out of the fridge, hard as a rock? It’s not picnic to eat that toast either – shredded with giant holes in the middle of it. Like we’re some kind of animals!?

Anyway, our kids have made a real game out of it by insisting that breakfast time is “restaurant time.” So whoever is over breakfast that day, it’s their place. You’ll often hear “Hi! And welcome to Abbie’s Café,” or “Hi, is this your first time to Connor’s Cannery?”

We actually have to wait at the bottom of the stairs, to be seated. Then, once seated (at the kitchen table), we are told by our host or hostess, “We always have a prayer with our guests before ordering.” We say prayer, and then the host or hostess tells us “The Special” of the day – which is, of course, the only thing on the menu.

“Today’s special is … a giant plate of pancakes, with bacon.”

“Today we have whole wheat toast, with a variety of freezer-jams, plus fried eggs.”

Or, on those busy days…

“We have an assortment of cold cereals today; can I set you right up?”

We place our order, and as our host or hostess retrieves the food, we make as much witty banter as we can to each other. This is our opportunity to crack wise.

“I’ve heard great things about this restaurant.”

“Yes, and the bathrooms have reading material in them!”
“Oh, this host, he is the BEST in the city. I don’t even care that he wears his pajamas to work.”

It’s an amusing and lazy way to start the day, and I approve this message.

Then, today.

I had to run an early morning errand, and while en route back to the house (a.k.a. Garren’s Grub), I received a text from my almost 11-year old son/host, Garren, who has impeccable spelling skills, but not so much with the texting on his mom’s phone.

“Breckfart is ready.”

As I walked in the door, he had a smirk on his face and said, “That’s not what I meant to type.” But it was too late. When it came time for the witty banter, I was ready.

“Smells like the special today is rotten eggs!”

“Gosh, you get a lot of wind blowing around in this restaurant.”

“Could you put cheese on my eggs? Not shredded. I’d like you to cut the cheese.”

“You know, I like eggs – but with all that cholesterol. It’s deadly. Silent…but deadly.”

“Are you serving any “magical fruit” this morning? You know, the more you eat, the more you –” (Katie did not allow me to finish that one.)

So, if you’re in the neighborhood, and you’d like to stop in sometime, the restaurant is open for business. But you’ll definitely need a reservation. And please remember, it’s currently only open for breckfart.

OUR 15TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY

2010-08-17T23:35:00.000-07:00

Ken has, on occasion, asked me to 'guest post' on his blog. I have resisted for several reasons.

I love Ken's blog. I love the avenue for expression that it affords him. It is wonderful as it is, and why would I meddle with something great?
It is Ken's blog. You, sweet Readers, come to hear Ken's adorable musings, his witty take on particular subjects like bathrooms, and his sincere diatribes against issues of considerable seriousness such as man jewelry.
Ken has a way with hyperbole. And in the case of a certain wife to whom he is married, he wears thick rose-colored glasses while painting flattering pictures of her with his words. It is understandably one of my favorite qualities about him. But such spectacles may endow the finished painting with more lovely features and attributes than are apparent to the naked eye. Frankly, what if the real thing doesn't measure-up?

But today, I break with all my hard-held excuses and insecurities and do hereby post on Ken's blog.

Why here? Why now? Because even though my sweet husband is hundreds of miles away, hiking with a group of young men and leaders, out of reach of all modern communication technology, he managed to make our anniversary surprising, personal, and very connected. And he orchestrated it with Godfather-esque precision at least 6 days ago, before he left town and civilization as we know it.

So thank you to all his note-deliverers, chocolate-carriers, singers, and fancy-lunch cookers. I'm not going to pry into the details of the arrangements, I'll just assume he made you an offer you couldn't refuse.

And, dear Readers, as you read my favorite blog, think what you will about me and what kind of a woman, wife, and mother I am. I can only say in my defense, I am married to the best man, husband, and father. Ever.

Love,

Katie

UR TXTNG 2 MUCH

2010-08-04T00:30:00.000-07:00

In case you weren’t sure where I stood on such key principles, I’m really not one of those dads who feel that his kids watching a DVD on a road trip is ruining “Family Time.” Today’s world offers such amenities, and that’s fine. Of course, this isn’t the same world that I grew up in. If it were, my kids would be unbuckled, lying down in the back of the Family Van, going to wherever, sharing the space with six siblings, listening to Unforgettable Fire on their WalkMan while they “rewound” their Listen Like Thieves cassette tape by sticking a pen in the spokes of the tape and whirling it around in order to rewind it by hand, thus saving the batteries in the WalkMan for strictly playing cassette tapes, rather than rewinding them. (And yes, in the next life, when the pioneers try to tell me how rough they had it, I am planning on bringing up this hardship in my defense.)

So I’m not your middle-aged fuddy-duddy neighbor who poo-poos all technological advances and thinks they are the demise of our children’s’ character. On the whole, I actually embrace such advances. However, I do have my limits.

Recently I had the unanticipated opportunity to put my head in my hands, angry and appalled, and weep at the thought of our future world leaders. It began innocently enough; I was summoned to listen to a co-worker weave a tale of her daughter’s first date with this “super-cute” boy. (I cannot emphasize those quotation marks enough.)

“So,” the female co-worker begins, “they were sitting in the movie, and about 10 minutes into the movie he texts her!”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Were they sitting next to each other?”

“Yes!” she said, not detecting my disdain, “and do you know what he texted? He texted, ‘Can I hold your hand?’”

“AAAAAAAAAHHHHOOOOOHHHHHHHH!” cooed all the women in the office.

I stood there, stone-faced. I did not coo. I did not cheer. But I had the restraint to not say what I wanted to say, which was, “THAT IS TOTALLY CHEATING!”

I’m sorry, but that is not how the game is played. I understand how the power of texting provides a false sense of bravado and you can say (or ask) things you would never in a ba-jillion years do otherwise. And I can see the allure of going that route. I mean, I’ve wanted to quit jobs, inform somebody their fly was down, and tell-off my waitress all through the power of texting, rather than the more direct and traditional manner of talking face-to-face.

But brother, you are not doing yourself any favors by skipping the entire dance that is hand-holding. You are missing the joy and satisfaction of one of life’s greatest accomplishments. The patience, the reading of body language, the nuances and subtleties of movements, the wishing, the hoping, the fear, the anxiety, the pit in your stomach, the palm-sweats, the glances, the skin brushing. And when those fingers finally lock, it has all been worth it. You can almost hear angels singing.

As an authority on the art of hand-holding, with mucho know-how and enough experience to write a ~~book~~ brief pamphlet on the subject, allow me to walk you through what the experience would have been, won’t you?

Where were we, 10 minutes into the movie? That’s not when you text to see if you can hold the girl’s hand; that is when you are wondering if she is going to be appalled at the amount of popcorn you can eat in one sitting.

15 Minutes: You observe the boundaries. What are the physical obstacles between you and her? A bucket of popcorn? Sodas? Her purse? A wall of anticipation so thick you have to poke it to measure the density?

30 Minutes: You lean towards her, possibly brushing shoulders. First contact. You realize you are paying very little attention to anything going on in the movie at this point.

45 Minutes: You casually place your arm on the armrest of the chair, and slyly look out of the side of your eye to see if she has done likewise. You leave it there for 20 minutes to give her ample opportunity to A) notice it, B) appreciate the opportunity to eat some of the popcorn that you are no longer inhaling, and C) casually move her own arm in that direction. Hands now in the same proximity.

60 Minutes: What the WHAT?! Your hands were so close, and now she has just as casually put her hands in her lap! You do the same, not wanting to appear desperate.

70 Minutes: Hands are inconspicuously back in proximity of each other. You’ve observed and retained about 15 minutes of the entire movie so far, completely preoccupied now by how dangerously close you are to lightly brushing up against her hand with yours – just to see what kind of reflex you get from her. Then you make the move – hand sweeps past hers, lightly touching. Does her hand move? Does it begin to take the direction of opening, fingers prepared to go inter-digitary with yours? Does it completely sit still? Does it actually recoil, going back into her lap, with her saying, “Oh, sorry,” assuming you accidentally bumped her? You both retreat, hands back to yourselves.

75 Minutes: The side of your pinky is now flat up against hers on the armrests. There’s contact, and nobody is withdrawing. You lift your pinky slightly, and her hand begins to slide into your now-shared space. It’s happening! Your hand slides over the top of her hand, she slides under yours, and your hands both turn and CLASP!

Euphoria!

Somewhere, the Hallelujah chorus is being belted out. To the on-looking movie goers, nothing has really changed, but internally, you are a volcano of emotions! You go deaf and can’t hear anything going on in the movie, your heart is visibly pounding in your chest, and your hand immediately begins to sweat, but you don’t dare break away and wipe it on your jeans. It might break the spell!

In fact, you consciously avoid any movement of your entire appendage whatsoever. You don’t want to draw too much attention to your date that you are, in fact, holding hands and probably going to get married some day. You are now a team as you watch this movie. You laugh at the same parts, even making comments to each other (which up to this point had been taboo).

90 Minutes. You remember nothing of the movie – other than it was your favorite movie EVER because you got to hold hands with your date!

Give all that up for the ease of a text message? I think not. Don’t surrender life’s delightful nuances to the crassness of technology. Please, join me in being a responsible tech-user.

(However, that being said; if my fly is down, as an act of goodwill, please consider texting me about it, rather than discussing it. That’s the kind of awkwardness we can all sidestep with the appropriate use of technology.)

The Kid Whisperer

2010-07-25T21:00:00.001-07:00

A friend of ours recently wrote a little story about Katie that I found both charming and about 83% true. You can read it by clicking here.

Food for Thought

2010-07-15T10:30:00.000-07:00

First off, you should know that I am all about chivalry. I am as freakin’ gracious as they gosh-dang come. B’cept with a couple of exceptions. And one of them is when Katie and I are bolting across a crowded parking lot to jump into our car in an effort to escape some protesting, survey-asking, do-gooder who has targeted us as their next victims. At that point, I’m not getting the door for Katie. At that point, the most chivalrous I can be is to wait for Katie to get into the car before I take off and inadvertently run over the surveyor in the process.

Alas, we didn’t make it into the car before being overpowered by our predatory concerned citizen. But you know what – I am SO glad. Because I learned a little something that I cannot believe I had not previously known. Ready? I hope you are sitting down. But not sitting down in your car, reading this on your computer or iPhone whilst you drive. That’s dangerous and concerns me as a citizen.

This is the propaganda that was handed over to me, courtesy of CALPRIG.org:

“Our Kids Need Safe, Nutritious Food. We should make sure that our kids are getting safe, healthy food in school. Some of the meat served in schools is of such low quality that McDonald’s and KFC wouldn’t serve it. Since 2007, 13.6 million pounds of chicken from hens that would otherwise be made into pet food or compost have been sold to the National School Lunch Program.”

I am disgusted. Appalled. Like you, I am ashamed. How has this happened? HOW do we live in a country where companies like McDonald’s and KFC are completely ignoring the advertising opportunities obviously available to them through this study?!

If I were on the ad team for McDonald’s or KFC, you would see an immediate ad campaign along the lines of something like this:

“McDonalds. Now TWO steps above dog food!”

“KFC. Because your kids need something healthy for dinner, after eating compost-food all day at school.”

“KFC. For healthy teeth and a shiny coat!”

“Four out of five moms prefer the McDonald’s $1 Menu to the National School Lunch Program.”

“McDonalds. Not being offended by CALPRIG’s dissing since 2007.”

“Dog food: It’s what’s for lunch!” “Brought to you by KFC, the makers of the recently-considered-more-healthy-in-comparison-to-school-lunches ‘Double Down.’”

And that’s one to grow on…

Sock Hoppin'

2010-07-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

Our family recently attended a church activity that was affectionately referred to as a “Sock Hop.” A “sock hop” was a cultural phenomenon associated with the 1950 and early rock n’ roll. I like to think the name was derived from a common ritual that took place in most American high schools during that era, wherein when a young man asked a young lady to dance; if she said ‘no,’ he promptly took her shoes and went running into the night. Thus leaving her to have to “sock hop” all the way home. (It just makes sense. Of course, I’ve checked zero resources to verify this. But I have to imagine it’s true.)

Not wanting to be unprepared, I thought I’d better do my homework before attending the dance. I began a rigorous study of early rock n’ roll. If a song came on, I wanted to know the moves, the attitude, and the lyrics – so I could belt it out for all the world to hear, while I ran out of the church carrying Katie’s shoes.

I am going to freely admit that I love early rock n’ roll. The simplicity, the playfulness, the contagious toe-tapping. However, in my studies, I came across two songs I simply do not consider boss (to coin a phrase, Daddy-O).

The first song, penned by Gerry Goffin and Carole King, is the 1962 hit from The Crystals, He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss).

What the WHAT?! What kind of complete bull pucky is that? Are those lyrics autobiographical, because that should cause alarm. Let me tell you what some possible song titles would be if my daughter wrote it:

He Hit Me (And My Dad Punched Him in the Throat)

He Hit Me (And His Funeral Services Are This Saturday)

He Hit Me (And He’ll No Longer Be Able to Have Children)

He Hit Me (And Now He Can Only Eat Things Like Jell-O)

He Hit Me (And the Police Still Haven’t Located His Body)

Or at the very, very minimum… He Hit Me (And We Broke Up)

The second song is The Cookies’ Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby). Written by – surprise, surprise – Gerry Goffin and Carole King – the same relationship-savvy duo that wrote He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss). In this lyrical sonnet, our delicate ingénue pleads with us to not say nothin’ bad about her hapless, insipid boyfriend. It’s bad enough this young man is clearly a horse’s patoot, but then, listen to her defense of him. Pitiful.

Everybody says he's lazy

But not when he's kissing me

Everybody says he's crazy

Sure he's crazy, crazy about me (Oh, yeah)

So…what you’re saying is that although it’s common consent that this boy is a useless, unmotivated sap, he’s pretty aggressive and “un-lazy” when he’s trying to eat your face and pushing the boundaries of moral decency. Hmmm…I hear what you’re saying…and while “assertiveness” may be a commendable trait, I’m just not sure that’s a ringing endorsement of his character. Not really the kind of integrity we’re looking for. And then there’s the issue of his sanity, to which you drolly respond “Oh, yes, he’s absolutely insane in the membrane – insane over ME!” (as you throw flowers in the air and twirl). Meanwhile, this “crazy for you” kind of guy is taking a baseball bat to the car of that friendly, upstanding sane boy that he saw you talking to at school. Ah. That’s sweet. Now, why would we say anything bad about your baby?

But aside from these two songs, I have to state for the record that in general, early rock n’ roll songs were delightfully lighthearted, fun tunes. I say we need more sock hops! I miss the simple days of yesteryear – when little ditties made you smile, when youth shared a single soda with two straws, and when Gerry Goffin and Carole King were evidently in a highly dysfunctional, complex relationship that led to financial success and abusive kissing.

***

Here’s a clip of our festive night. Let me just answer your questions right now:

Yes, Katie made those poodle skirts for Abbie, Roxanna, and Becca.
Yes, it was the most fun night of Connor’s life.
No, they did not play He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss) or Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad (About My Baby)

Presiding in Love

2010-06-19T16:30:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: This is my article, already published in this month's issue of Desert Saints Magazine. The magazine did not include this delightful photo from the same era as this story. That's me on the left, and my brother, Justin, next to me. My grandpa has his arm on me, and that's Dad next to him. And please notice I have my Mork & Mindy tank-top tucked into my shorts. I like to look nice, even when I'm on vacation and out in the country.

Presiding in Love

I was 10 years old the first time I ever saw my father cry.

Prior to that, I lived with the belief that he had simply been born with constipated tear ducts. I mean, life had certainly dealt him plenty of opportunities to be emotional. He just didn’t respond. Like the time he and I were playing Frisbee in the street and he jumped to intercept said disc, which I had thrown with all the accuracy and precision of a 7 year old, and he unintentionally landed on the sidewalk curb, spraining his ankle. (P.S. I was 7 years old the first time I ever heard my dad swear.)

It just wasn’t in Dad’s makeup to display his emotions. He’d grown up as an only child in a home where any demonstration of genuine feelings was met, on a good day, with indifference, and on a bad day, it was used against you. Not a great deal of warmth or acceptance. But from where I sit, he grew into an exceptional man, regardless of less than ideal circumstances.

He served a mission for the Church in New Zealand, came home and went the to the University of Arizona, and met and married my mom – who more than made up for any lack of love and approval that was previously unavailable in his life. He was then drafted and went to Vietnam. I think he may resent being away from my mom during those months more than anything else in his life. On rare occasion, if it’s late enough and quiet enough, he will share some of those harrowing experiences with me. And I marvel at his strength, mentally and emotionally.

My dad may be the wisest man I have known. Certainly one of the best, thanks in large part to my mom’s influence. My parents went on to have seven children. I found it remarkable that a man who was an only child became the father of seven. I’ve sometimes wondered, though never asked out loud, if there was a point when he thought, “What in the world am I doing? Let’s rein it in here.” But it’s my conviction that his family is where he finds his greatest joy. That’s what I learned that Sunday afternoon, while sitting across from him in the living room, when he openly cried.

My dad was an accountant by profession, but was always on the prowl for other business ventures. That’s how his mind worked – always busy looking for opportunity. Around 1981, he had developed a wonderful, revolutionary idea. He had raised a great deal of investor money to launch everything…and then his business partner disappeared with the inventory and cash in hand. That left my dad with the feeling that he had just landed on a proverbial business curb, and sprained his entire livelihood.

At 10 years old, I wasn’t privy to the details of what was happening, and I wouldn’t have understood them anyway. All I knew, in my little world, was that dad wasn’t himself, mom wasn’t as generous at the grocery store when I queried her about certain Hostess treats, and I kept hearing phrases like “losing the house” and “declaring bankruptcy.” It was a little unnerving, though admittedly due mostly to the fact that I wasn’t getting my proper rationing of Ding Dongs.

As I sat on the floor across from Dad that afternoon, I wondered what was going to happen to our little family. I wanted to understand what was happening, I wanted to let Dad know I loved him and was sorry for how things were; and I suppose I wanted to be reassured. I sat there waiting for him to look up from the newspaper at me and acknowledge that I had something to tell him. I was hesitant to interrupt his reading of the “Funny Pages,” which he decried regularly, but continued to read each Sunday, regardless.

“Dad,” I finally half-whispered.

He looked up at me. I wasn’t sure what exactly to ask, or if he felt like explaining, or if my asking would simply be dismissed. My young mind searched for the right words that would hopefully elicit an answer and at the same time offer up sympathy.

“…Are we going to be okay?”

He stared at me, and we were both absolutely still. His face didn’t change expressions, but one, large tear rolled down the left side of his face.

“I want you to understand something,” he began, gently. “I don’t care if we are living in a tent in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere – if our family is together, we will be more than okay.”

And I believed it. Maybe even more importantly, he believed it. In that single sentence, I knew Dad had a testimony of family. I knew his family meant everything to him. I knew he was grateful for me, for my siblings, for my mom, and that the very nature of family relationships is eternal. I didn’t understand “financial burden” or “fraudulent business practices,” or that Hostess Twinkies were “empty calories.” But I understood that my dad loved me and that our family would survive anything that came our way – because we would be together.

The Proclamation on the family states “fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families.” I don’t know that I ever felt more protected than I did in the assurance from my dad that the most important thing to him was to have me, and all of our family, together, no matter what else was happening.

Thought You Should Know

2010-06-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

Throughout my adult life (which, according to public opinion, started at age 37 for me) I have had the pleasure of frequently attending luncheons, forums, seminars and the general merriment of hob-nobbing, wherein gurus and quintessential experts have been beckoned to speak on specific topics where they are the very last word on a subject.

From Stephen R. Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective Ninjas to Chapman’s The 5 Love Languages of Pirates, I am always in awe of people who have pursued a life-long study of pondering and pontificating and are getting paid for it. And a little bit, I’m jealous of them. I have never been so sought after for such an occasion. (Apparently nobody is interested in a seminar regarding The Joys of Cold Cereals, nor the phenomenon I have carefully examined called, “How Come All These 80s Movies I Enjoyed as a Child Are Unsuitable for My Children Due to Bad Language I Don’t Remember Them Having?” (Yes, Back to the Future, that’s me giving you a disapproving look over the rims of my reading glasses.))

I had surrendered. I waved my white flag and admitted defeat to ever being asked to publicly share my amateur opinion on any subject-du-jour.

Until now.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you … The Holistic LDS Living Conference!

No, not the one you saw showcased on Oprah, The Today Show, or America’s Next Top Model. This particular LDS Holistic Conference is in Salt Lake, and it’s next week! Saturday, June 26!

AND I WILL BE SPEAKING AT IT!

AND THIS FRIDAY IS THE LAST DAY FOR REGISTRATION!

AND HERE IS THE LINK TO THE WEBSITE WHERE YOU CAN SIGN UP!

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, “I had no idea Ken was a holistic maharishi!?” And if you admit that to my face, I will openly mock you for it. Because I will be hoping that by openly mocking you, I will distract you from the fact that you are absolutely correct. I am not.

I do live many aspects of a holistic life. But I have not read a single book about chiropractic medicine, herbs, essential oils, whole foods, energy work or using George Lucas’ The Force. I don’t have a degree in aromatherapy and I never went to school to learn how to direct chi. I don’t even know how to tie my own chi. I wear clothes every day, I am not a hippie, I don’t use peyote, and I rarely plant placentas in my backyard. But my life has been greatly influenced – even blessed – by choosing health through natural methods. And that is what my first class is about. My second class is about Gifts of the Spirit.

I apologize for the late announcement. To be honest, I have been intimidated from the moment I was asked to speak, because there will be genuine, licensed, professional experts there to address some incredible topics…and JANEEN BRADY! If this conference were Disneyland, I would be the Tiki Room and would not be offended when you run right by on your way to Space Mountain, Pirates of the Caribbean, Indiana Jones, or even the Dumbo ride. But if you do come, at least wave to me on your way to get Janeen Brady’s autograph. I would love to see you. Especially if his has been years since we’ve chatted. And really especially if you also didn’t remember Marty McFly taking the Lord’s name in vain no less than 3,562 times.

Unexpected Plans

2010-05-22T12:30:00.000-07:00

(Author’s note: It is with Katie’s approval that I share this story with you, my closest readers.)

Last week Katie was three months pregnant for the seventh time.

This week she’s not.

It didn’t sneak up on us, but I’m not sure how you prepare for something like that. Katie knew something was wrong for a few weeks, and was grappling with the possibility of a miscarriage long before I considered it. And even though she told me when her concern started, I dismissed it. I didn’t discount that something might be wrong, or insist that it wasn’t a miscarriage. But I held on to the thought, or maybe hope, that it was something else. Something less definite. I don’t think I realized how much of that day for Katie was spent processing what was most likely happening or what could be happening or what she hoped wasn’t happening. As the husband, without the constant reminder that life is growing within me, I operated on the daily assumption that when Katie wasn’t telling me something, it meant that everything was fine; and when she did tell me something, I could take a moment to wish and hope it away.

I prayed often for Katie. More than morning and night. But I remember the palpable moment I realized that my prayers and supplications were subconsciously, or maybe intuitively, always for Katie, and not necessarily the baby. And I think that’s when I started to slowly, but not out loud, accept what was already impressing upon me in small waves.

This baby was not coming.

A few days later Katie asked me for a priesthood blessing. (For anybody reading who may not be familiar with a priesthood blessing, it is an ordinance in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints where a worthy man who has been ordained and set apart to an office in the Priesthood has the authority to anoint and bless an individual who asks in faith for such a blessing. See James 5:14-15, in the New Testament. In its purest form and intent, personal and spiritual revelation is received for the individual asking for the blessing.)

I had a close friend come over and help me minister to Katie. I love Katie more powerfully than I ever thought I could love anybody. And it hurt to feel her concern about this pregnancy. As I put my hands on her head to give her a blessing, I could feel how known and loved she was to her Father in Heaven. I felt impressed to promise her that this experience would draw her closer to Him. That whether a baby came or not at this time, she would be at peace in her heart and mind and in her soul.

The next morning Katie seemed remarkably calm. Not carefree, but peaceful. She said she knew this pregnancy would not develop into a child for us to raise. And she felt calm and comforted by the blessing. I could see that she was blessed with understanding and insight. I felt reassured by her confidence. I felt bonded to Katie. I thought I was fine and in step with her. I thought I was okay.

I jumped in my car to head off to work and was a few miles down the highway when I found myself not okay. With Katie feeling centered and confident, I found myself finally processing my own reaction to the reality that a child I was anxious to meet would not be arriving. I felt swallowed up in sadness. I wasn’t angry or resentful. I didn’t feel cheated or that life was unfair. I just felt sad. And I felt sad for a while.

We had an appointment with our midwife for an ultrasound. As we drove to the office, our conversation included speculations from one side of the spectrum to the other. From “Maybe I was never pregnant?” to “What if we’re completely off and everything is okay?” But when the ultrasound showed what we had already suspected, that a miscarriage was imminent, we weren’t startled. That sadness briefly stung my heart again, and I studied Katie’s face, searching for any detectable sorrow. I thought I could see it, but it was buried under a brave, accepting face, so I didn’t say a word to her. I felt like speaking would have pulled the foundational block out from under her pyramid of strength, and her calm exterior might have given way. And that just seemed unnecessary. So I simply squeezed her hand.

We drove home, somewhat oddly comforted in knowing for certain where we were at, physically. We didn’t say anything to anybody else, as we hadn’t told anybody yet, not even our parents. The next couple of days were just watching and waiting, but brought us closer. I felt conscious of Katie and what was going on inside her.

At the end of that week, my parents were set to arrive at our house for the weekend, and literally, as I heard my kids squealing that Grandma and Grandpa were here, Katie found me and told me that it had just happened. She cried a light, heartfelt sigh of relief, finally feeling that she had turned a page and felt closure from a long, uncertain experience. I hugged her so close I wasn’t sure if my hug was sustaining her or vice versa. She assured me she was okay, but I could see she was physically and emotionally tired.

I walked outside and met my parents at the car. I hugged them, helped grab their stuff, and then told them a little about what the last week had been like. I wanted to let them know so they could be sensitive to Katie.

My dad and I were taking my boys camping for the night, and Katie and my mom and the girls had planned to do a Girls’ Night at home. As Katie went into the kitchen to start their special dinner, my mom pulled Katie in to her and said, “Don’t you worry about dinner. We’re going out. Let’s take it easy tonight.” I watched Katie melt into my mom’s embrace, crying. It was more than the promise that she wouldn’t have to cook dinner. It was being understood, being cared for. It was the profound link between women, between mothers. It was an answer to prayer and the fulfillment of a blessing. My mom had had a miscarriage between my two youngest brothers and so understood much more deeply than I, though I wanted to. And Katie felt that. I will always be grateful that my mom was there; that she is exactly who she is, with the instincts that she has, and the love she’s had for Katie since day one.

As I thought about that moment I realized how many people I know and love who have had miscarriages. But for how common they are, rarely are they discussed. I imagine it’s because the event may be common, but the experience is personal. It was for us. It seems like a very private grieving; mourning the loss of possibilities, of plans. It often happens before others even know it is a possibility and so is rarely shared until long after comforting arms are needed. Yet, we’re grateful for the comfort and understanding that did come at the right time in the right quiet way; to be surrounded by people who love and support our little family, and who come running to our side when they are needed most.

(Author's Postscript: I've left the Comments button on. I know I don't usually do that...I suppose I just felt like this was a topic on which people might have something to say. And I thought I'd offer a place to say it. If anyone feels so inclined.)

Much Ado About Abbie

2010-05-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

*"Much Ado About Nothing"

*Friday and Saturday, May 14 & 15, 1 p.m. and 7 p.m.
*North Port Industrial Park, 3575 W. Cheyenne, Suite 109
*Tickets available at the door!

Click here to see the mention in the North Las Vegas View!

I recently caught up with Abbie Craig, America’s newest Sweetheart and pre-teen ingénue – and star of the upcoming Pillar of Light Commonwealth’s production of William Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing.”

K: Abbie, it wasn’t that long ago that you first burst on the scene in your highly praised acting debut; playing the part of Narrator #2 in your kindergarten class’ critically acclaimed production of “Three Piggy Opera.” Then you shocked America by going against the grain and accepting small parts in such off-off-off Broadway productions as “The Elk Ridge Ward Roadshow” and “The Elkhorn Springs Stake Musical” – even taking on an un-credited role as the Jack-in-the-Box in the seasonal “Christmas at the North Pole,” directed by your own mom, one of the most sought after talents in the business, with a reputation for being exceptionally adorable, highly attractive, delightfully witty, and fiercely loyal to her husband of almost 15 years.

A: Is there a question in there?

K: I want to know “why.”

A: ‘Why’ what?

K: Never mind. Tell me how this experience has affected you.

A: It’s been a long, learning journey.

K: Mmm-hmm. How has it stretched you, as an actress?

A: Well, I have to hold hands with TWO different boys. And I had to get used to it.

K: What are their names? Seriously, I want names, Abbie. They’ll never work in this town again! Because I will rip their faces off!

A: Dad. I HAVE to hold their hands. It’s for the play. It’s not because we like each other.

K: Always the professional, you are, Abbie. Now, are you being typecast in this play? How are you like this character that you play, the delicate Hero?

A: Well, I’m young. Caring. Loving.

K: And why should people come see “Much Ado About Nothing?”

A: Well, it’s an opportunity to support local theater and family entertainment – which, unless you count the Liberace Museum (and I don’t), is hard to come by in this town. The play is performed entirely by junior high and high school age students – the cast is sensational, the costumes are breathtaking, and the script isn’t too shabby either! We’ve put a lot of work into this, and we want to share it with as many people as possible! We’re really proud of it.

K: And you are the prettiest 12 year old I’ve ever seen.

A: Thank you, Daddy.

May I Axe You a Question?

2010-04-29T15:00:00.000-07:00

For those of you who know me well, you know I’m a pretty conventional kind of a feller. I wear a suit to church on Sundays, I shower every day, and I never drive slow in the fast lane. I even use all the correct grammar and punctuation when I text, for crying-gosh-sakes-out-loud. Bottom line: I’m as socially and hygienically as moderate as it gets.

So obviously, I have no business purchasing, much less wearing this very special concoction:

Yes, AXE Dark Temptation.

I know, I know. Who do I think I am? I should have just kept my nose clean and stayed to my side of the aisle. Right Guard, Old Spice…maybe even Mitchum if I were feeling adventurous. But AXE? What am I, auditioning for an MTV reality series? Old Dudes Not Acting Their Age! Or America’s Next Top Delusional Father of Six. I don’t own any gold chains and I’m not personal friends with any club owners. What am I doing?

And not just AXE, but DARK TEMPTATION!

But hear me out. See, I figure that if there is a body part in need of some serious help in being considered tempting…ladies and gentleman, I give you…the armpit.

So now, when I get all dolled up for a night out with Katie, I gots everything a-workin’ for me. Oh, yeaaaaahhhhh. Salt n’ pepper hair? Check. Pants? Check. T-shirt? Check. (What? Were we going some place nice?) Pocket change? Check. 2005 Toyota Camry? Check. And now…tempting armpits? Double check. Sorry ladies…I’m spoken for.

To be completely candid, though, I should admit that “tempting armpits” was not the biggest selling point for me. No. It was the tagline “As irresistible as chocolate.” Strangely, it comforted me to know that in some post-apocalyptic setting, if all the world was falling apart and food everywhere was predominantly contaminated and looting was commonplace and we were on the verge of extinction…I could eat my deodorant. And it would be delicious. (Or, you know, if it were Sugar-Free January at the Craig house, it would be equally as important to me to have on hand.)

Anyway, I’ve been wearing/eating it for about a month now. And … nothing. I’d like to start a class action suit against AXE for false advertising, because I am neither more tempting than I was before, nor is my deodorant as satisfying as real, legitimate chocolate. But the good news is I think Katie and I might be candidates for the new reality show now in pre-production: People Who Believe Everything They Read, and the Women Who Love Them.

I'm Still Here

2010-04-20T17:00:00.000-07:00

There are some rumors floating around out there that I haven’t posted a blog entry since March 23. These rumors are vicious, unfounded, and a little bit true. And quite frankly, I am appalled at my behavior. But to be perfectly honest and ugly, for a few weeks now, I haven’t even thought about writing a blog post. It’s not that there isn’t anything to write about, and it isn’t that I have lost the desire to write. It’s simply that I cannot for the life of me find the time.

I completely recognize how pitiful that sounds. Because everybody has that excuse. And as soon as you have to announce it and draw attention to it, it kind of weakens your proclamation. I say, let your busy-ness speak for how busy you are.

But for kicks and giggles, I’m a-gonna let you catch just a snapshot of a few noteworthy events over the last four weeks:

Started another job doing copy writing for an ad agency; excitedly worked to grow and prosper my pride and joy - the ever successful Titan Plumbing!; read Donald Miller’s “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years;” conducted the funeral for the father of a dear friend of mine; watched Date Night at the Cineplex and Paul Blart: Mall Cop at home; built a garden in our backyard (mostly Katie did this); organized my iTunes; prepared a training for Stake Priesthood Meeting; ate five pints of Haagen Dazs (not in a row); performed the wedding of two wonderful friends; wrote an article for Desert Saints Magazine about when Katie gave birth to Becca – which may or may not get printed due to it’s “graphic nature”; got an MRI and found out I have two bulging discs and one protruding; had one of my most favorite moments ever in the theater, seeing Dirty Rotten Scoundrels; whittled down what I think might be a good idea for a book to write (it’s autobiographical fiction); performed a “Ring Ceremony” at a wedding reception that was absolutely gorgeous; had dinner with a candidate running for Governor; started a new exercise routine that brings me thiiiiiis close to vomiting every time I do it; listened to my 22 month old daughter do an impression of both Napoleon Dynamite and Nacho Libre; went on a 50 mile bike ride from St. George to Mesquite; laughed when our home teacher sat on a strategically placed Whoopie Cushion that Connor brought home from Cub Scout Day Camp; felt deeper gratitude for my family and friends; and finally...decided that... yes, I will make a goal to find more time to write.

Thanks for still caring…if you’re still out there!

A Conversation with Connor

2010-03-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

Amongst my throngs of children is my 8-year old son, Connor. Connor is one ambitious dude, with auspicious dreams that reach beyond society’s modest celebration of the common and mundane. In other words, you know your kid’s dream of being the next NBA poster child? Well Connor’s dream just gave your kid’s dream a wedgie.

Connor has a “workshop” out in our garage. He has managed to collect some tools, thanks to his mom, who encourages his creative energy, and some friends and neighbors that have generously donated to his cause. And by his “cause,” I of course mean “building a ship, so he can sail around the world.”

This is his singular focus. Everything revolves around “The Ship.”

Me, to Katie: “Can you believe that Abbie will be off to college in six years?”

Connor, overhearing: “Six years? Well, I won’t be here to see that, because I’ll be on my ship.”

“Connor, come in for dinner.”

“Can’t I eat out here? This ship isn’t going to build itself, you know!”

“Connor, did you finish your school work?”

“School work is for suckers who aren’t brave enough to sail!”

“Dad, we should go to In-N-Out for dinner; because once I’m on the ship, I won’t be able to eat hamburgers much.”

Often Connor’s hopes are dashed by a hard dose of reality. Like the fact that he doesn’t have any ship designs. Or enough wood. Or an ocean anywhere near the vicinity. And usually reality is pointed out by one of his parents. And sometimes, no matter how logical reality seems to you, you still feel like a Class A Butt-Munch for being the one to break it to your son. Like you took his dreams, put in a brown paper sack with some doggy doo, lit in on fire, put it on your neighbor Steve’s porch, rang the bell, and had Connor watch Steve stomp all over his dreams. And no matter how much you tried to make it look like Steve’s fault, you know the bad news came from you.

So I decided to take the opportunity to lift Connor’s spirits. An afternoon with Dad. We took a bike ride together last week and rode over to Taco Bell. (Because it was the closest fast food, and not because of our profound appreciation for diarrhea.)

Once there, we chatted a bit and I shared with him that I greatly admired all his wonderful ideas. That I thought every one of his ideas were incredible, and that I was sorry that sometimes it was difficult to make his ideas a reality – but that I would always do whatever I could to support his ideas.

Then we chatted in general about things that made us happy, things that made us nervous, etc. I asked Connor, “Is there anything that makes you embarrassed?”

“Uhm, yeah. Lots of things, actually.”

“Like what?”

“Uhm…public tooting.”

I just about fell out of my Taco Bell booth – but this time, the stomach cramps were from laughing.

“Public Tooting? Yours or somebody else’s?”

“Mine.”

“Well…do people know it’s you?”

“Not usually.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don’t make a face where people would know it’s me. I just kind of look around casually, like everything is normal.”

“Well, when you’re on your ship, you can toot all you want and nobody will know but the fishes.”

So scoff if you will at Connor’s vision. But someday, when you think your life is pretty great because you get season tickets to your son’s NBA games, I will be relaxing on the shores of some remote island paradise, because my son, Connor, built a ship. And we’ll scuba dive and snorkel and swim and tan and eat fresh seafood…and toot all we want, thank you very much. See if anybody in the Staples Center appreciates you doing THAT!