A Moment in Time, Part 1

This is us. The Ken and Katie Craig Family. This is a #familyselfie taken last Sunday, on the eve of mine and Katie’s 20th anniversary. We took it to capture a very precise moment. A moment that is fleeting. A moment that I wish were more...still.

It’s the last moments of having my family all under one roof. And I kind of love this moment.

Don’t get me wrong. I am super excited for my oldest, Abbie, who will move into her dorm room on Saturday, the 29th. (Go Cougars!) I believe in her, and I have all the confidence that she will take over the world and create the greatest happiness in her life. And I want her to do that. That’s what Katie and I had in mind 18 years ago.

But that ushers in a whole new era. The era where most of my very favorite people and best friends start to not live with me anymore. Yes, you’re correct, it will be 17 years before that era ends. And yes, I’ll be 60 years old by then, and yes, whenever I think about that, it makes me kind of want to take a nap. But yes, our family dynamic is permanently changing, and my feelings about it are all over the place.

Abbie speaking at her graduation. And Hillary offering moral support. 

Speaking of emotional moments, August has provided a bumper crop of them at the Craig house. The first being the fact that Abbie turned 18. Katie and I both spoke at a graduation ceremony we held for her in our backyard, and I - because I apparently like to fall apart in public - took the opportunity to read and give Abbie a letter I had written to her just two days after she was born. After I wrote it I had then put it away with the idea I would give it to her "some day." And that day turned out to be on her 18th birthday.

I won't post the entire letter, but here is an excerpt.

August 10, 1997

Dear Abbie,

I wanted to let you know some of the things that I felt prompted to bless you with when you were given a name and a blessing on August 10, 1997. I don’t know why. I guess I just figured that at some point in your life you may be a little curious as to my impressions of you when I only knew you for a couple of days. I mean besides the fact you were the cutest baby ever sent to this or any planet.

It’s funny. By the time you are old enough to read this, and maybe appreciate it, I will seem like a pretty old guy to you. But if you could see me now, writing this. I feel so young and naive and unsure of my abilities to be a good dad. To be a good parent. I haven’t learned enough about the whole thing to be wise or even knowledgeable. But I’m not scared. I love you so much, I think that will drown out the insignificant mistakes, and maybe even some big blunders.

I blessed you to be a light to those you come in contact with. Even though I have only known you for a short while, I sense your personality is one of this nature. One of the greatest gifts we can have in this life is charity. The way we treat others means everything. To be able to lift others by being yourself is a great accomplishment and it means having the Spirit with you.

I love you very much. I’m glad I’m your dad.

I never would have imagined fatherhood to be what it has been these last 18 years. I am a better person because I get to be Abbie's dad. She is a light to those who know her – including, and maybe especially, to her family. She loves goodness. I have always appreciated the way she assumes the best about me. It makes me want to be better.

I will miss her being present in our home everyday. I will miss her piano playing being in the background of Sunday afternoons. I will miss her telling detailed stories of daily events. I know Katie will miss her being her right-arm. But we are so, so excited for her. This is really her moment, too.

A Quarter of a Century

You guys. It was 25 years ago that I began my college life. Yep. BYU, 1989. That’s when it all started for me. That seems like a lifetime ago. No cell phones. No Internet. No moveable type. No combustible engines. The earth’s crust still cooling.

But really, it was the end of an era. The end of the 1980s. And the beginning of the 1990s. It was a time to be alive in your teens, my friend. It was a simpler time. Milli Vanilli were still a year away from being exposed, and Bobby Brown hadn’t yet killed Whitney Houston. Sure, it wasn't all glorious. I mean, this was the same time as Richard Marx's Right Here Waiting. (Seriously. It was as if the dude stopped by BYU and interviewed freshmen men and women in love to see how they felt about departing LDS missionaries.) Also, I may or may not have left on my LDS mission with a pair of Hammer Pants. (You can't touch this, indeed.)

                              

What was popular in 1989/1990? Well, it was 25 years ago. And while I had been a pretty decent journal keeper in high school, and on my mission…that freshman year at BYU was not a time of record keeping for me. So, my memory may not be 100% accurate.

I believe I owned a Ferrari, wore Armani suits exclusively, and aced all of my classes. Yep, that sounds about right.

Here I am on my way to my first college class.  

Oh, wait. I’m getting some flashbacks now…

From a pop-culture perspective, I kicked off my freshman year with the B-52s’ Love Shack and finished it with Sinead O’Connor’s Emperor’s New Clothes. Began with Tim Burton’s Batman and the historical biopic Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure and wrapped it up with Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October. Started with the first few episodes of The Simpsons and ended with the first few episodes of Seinfeld.

That freshman year was truly one of the most formidable years of my life. Even now, twenty-five years later, there are moments that feel as clear as if they’d just happened. And decisions I made that still affect me. And people I met who I still love, dearly.

Back in the late 1990s, Katie and I used to get asked to do youth firesides on "The Top 15 Things You Should Know Going Into College." We haven’t done it in years, so I don’t know how much of it is still applicable. But here is what used to top that list:

1. Don’t schedule any classes (that you want to pass) before 9:00 a.m.
2. Your wardrobe will increase 10 fold, due to roommates and neighbors. This also goes for worldly possessions – computer, cds, hair products, etc.
3. You will make life-long friendships – get to know as many people as you can.
4. You will willingly go on dates the night before a final or the night before a paper is due.
5. A date overrides hanging out with your roommates or friends.
6. Be careful dating newly-returned missionaries. They only want one thing – somebody to listen to their mission stories.
7. If you were smart in high school, so what?
8. You can know everything and fail a test; or you can know nothing and ace a test.
9. Most of your education will be obtained outside the classroom.
10. Your parents will begin to seem much smarter.
11. Every clock on campus has a different time.
12. You will have countless opportunities to serve other people.
13. Don’t neglect your testimony.
14. You will not watch the news nor read the newspaper – you will be totally out of touch with the “real world.” (I think social media has mitigated this. But I could be wrong.)
15. If you wear slacks or a skirt, everyone will ask why you are “all dressed up.”
Bonus Advice:
16. College is for experience – take some fun classes that have nothing to do with your major.

I so very thoroughly loved my freshman year of college. As I mentioned, some memories are still so clear…

I didn’t have a car my freshman year, and I walked almost everywhere. I’ve always thought BYU’s campus was beautiful. I loved the feeling that I knew every foot of it. I loved walking everywhere. I loved being outside. Except when it was so, so cold. I had come to Provo, Utah from Molokai, Hawaii. I’m not sure I ever acclimated. I lived in the dorms at Deseret Towers, and I can remember one night, walking back from campus to the dorms – with a date – and we both suddenly realized we were about 13 seconds from freezing to death. We ran into Heritage Halls – where neither of us lived – just to warm up for a minute before heading the rest of the way to Deseret Towers. (If you knew how close these buildings were to each other, you would be inclined to make fun of us. But. You. Weren’t. There. It was a near-death experience if I ever had one.)

My first college football game. I’m admittedly not a huge sports enthusiast, but I loved going to BYU football games. The student energy, the crisp fall air, the excitement of the game. And this was the year of Ty Detmer.

I would often borrow a car from my friend, Brian. He was a very generous individual. The first time I ever drove in the snow was in his car. It was late, so thankfully there wasn’t much traffic. I came up on a stoplight, I applied the breaks, and I sailed right on through the intersection. I never told Brian about that.

Even with not owning my own car, I remember becoming familiar with all the local haunts in Provo and Orem. But anything north or south of there might as well have been on the moon. Except the exit to Temple Square, in Salt Lake City. I somehow knew how to get there. Anyway, I thought Provo was the coolest town.

There were two dance clubs in Provo that we would go to. The Palace and The Ivy Tower. The Palace was pretty tame, but The Ivy Tower – the place we always seemed to end up at – gave me the creeps sumpin’ fierce. I couldn’t tell you why, precisely, but I was unnerved by it. Why couldn’t we all just attend dances in the partially-lit Wilkinson Center Ballroom?

The Ivy Tower. It was more foreboding at night. I promise. 

I went to the Varsity Theater all the time. I remember seeing The Princess Bride and The Little Mermaid on several occasions. They would also show U2’s Rattle & Hum, as a midnight movie, and there would be a huge line for that.

I remember that sleep sort of happened whenever it happened. I loved taking naps my freshman year. And I loved staying up super late. I didn’t love getting up early, so much.

I hiked the Y, of course. Took dates to the Utah State Hospital at Halloween (what was wrong with us?!). Ditched my Psychology class every Friday afternoon and went to Movies 8 with my friend, Jim. (Didn’t you ditch classes and go to the movies with my friend, Jim? You should have.)

Something else Jim and I always did. We would ride the elevator up to the 7th floor of Q-Hall like this - holding ourselves up above the floor by stretching our arms and legs out to bolster ourselves against the elevator walls. Because. 

I can't tell you why my pal, Justin, is wearing a Heineken t-shirt (except that he was just always fancy), but I can confirm that we are in his dorm room, singing/rapping to the Beastie Boys. 

Me and my best roommate, Bob. No matter what filters I played with in iPhoto, I could not hide those acid-washed jeans.
And that's a powerful statement. 

And I of course participated in the campus-mandated practice of "creative dating." This included going "Disco Bowling" (it's a thing) and also being the recipient of ask-out-candygrams.

I'm the one in the blue - with white shoes! Ah, the things you can find at D.I. 

Seriously, is there no hiding acid-washed jeans? 

Also, I am embarrassed (now) to say that my friends and I also engaged in the endearing game known as “Safety.” No board, no dice, no cards. Just a fist and a strong stomach. The rules to Safety were as follows: If you were ever to “pass gas,” you were to loudly declare “Safety!” before somebody hit you. If you said “Safety” before somebody hit you, you were indeed “safe,” as it were. Meaning that nobody was allowed to hit you at that point. If you let one rip, and then somebody hit you before you said “Safety” then it was fair game – everybody playing the game could hit you over and over until you a) died, or b) touched a doorknob. Once you touched a doorknob people had to stop hitting you. (If you died, people were allowed to continue beating you, because technically you did not reach a doorknob. I didn’t make up the rules to Safety, folks, I just played as fairly as the next guy.) I remember one time standing in the middle of campus and watching one of my friends, across a crowded square, running for his life, and another friend running behind him at the same break-neck speed, punching him in the back, between the shoulders, over and over. And I thought to myself, “Welp. He should have said ‘Safety.’”

Finally, on April 7, I remember walking up to the Provo Temple all by myself, sitting in the grass behind the temple, and opening my mission call to Lisbon, Portugal.

I'm a pretty nostalgic guy to begin with, so I thoroughly enjoy pulling out photos, putting on some Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation or They Might Be Giant's Flood and meandering through memories of a truly wonderful time in my life. So if any of you who were there would like to join me, I'll be … right here … waiting … for you.

Breaking Up. It's Hard to Do.

We're coming up on Valentine's Day this week, kids. Love abounds! Except when it doesn't. And you know who you are. And believe me - though I am crazy-insane in love with my wife for decades now, there was a time when I treaded the ground of "Having to Figure Love Out." And that inevitably included break-ups. And man, I hated those.

I used to work with a girl named Tobie.* Tobie had lived in Las Vegas for a number of years, but originally heralds from Planet Drama, where she is considered royalty. (*Names have been changed. Kind of. She spells it without the “e.”) Each morning when I walked into the office, I couldn't wait to see what the Crisis De Jour would be. The dramatic episodes ranged from “Last night I talked to my mom for the first time in three years!” to “I lost 1.5 pounds!” And most memorably, when she broke up with her boyfriend of eight months. Or more accurately, he broke up with her. And what, I ask you, could be more dramatic than that?! (Well, if you’re Tobie, then just about anything.)

So I’m listening to her heartbreaking story, line upon line and precept by precept, when I suddenly begin having flashbacks to my own breakups. I start getting knots in my stomach, I get a little moist under the arms, and I find myself looking for the opportunity to assure Tobie that her and I can still be friends, even though we aren’t the ones breaking up. It’s just instinct.

For me, breakups were the absolute worst. I avoided them like they were cancer. Oh, how they pained me to the core of my dating soul. It’s still hard to talk about some of them…

Tess Dresher. Fourth Grade. I can still recall the day she walked up to me during recess and asked me to “go with her.” “Sure,” I answered. And those were the last words every exchanged between Tess and myself. We occasionally sat by each other, and I gave her a very special Peanuts Valentine’s Day card, but we never did speak, or even make eye contact. So I guess technically we are still “going together.” Boy is she going to be mad when she finds out I got married and had eight children. She’ll want to break up for sure. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

Julia Zimmerman. High School. It was the summer of 1987, and I was sixteen years old – with a license to drive and to date! I knew Julia really liked me when her mom had grounded her and she promptly ignored said house arrest to go to the movies with me. Yes, we were young and crazy in love! I was pretty sure that after the summer of 1987 I could die happy. By fall of 1987 I was so miserable I was praying for death. We went to different high schools and Julia was first to acknowledge that our long distance relationship wasn’t really going to make it. I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I felt like somebody was cramming my heart through a paper shredder.

College break-ups were the toughest, obviously. You've all been there. Sometimes it's almost cliche. But there was genuine pain, due to genuine feelings and possibilities. It might be too soon. I don't think I can talk about it. Her name was Danielle. It was Halloween night. We had gone to a party and we were sitting in my car in the parking lot of her apartment complex. I was dressed as Aladdin, she was Jasmine. Things had been in the pooper for quite some time, and it felt like a stranger walking by could glance in our direction and know exactly what was happening. It was silent for a few minutes, and then I spoke up. Tell me if you've had this exact conversation before:

“I think we should see other people.”

"Define our relationship,” she said.

“What?”

“Define our relationship!”

“Uhm…we should…see other people…but we can still be -”

“Are you giving me the Friend Speech? Don’t you DARE give me the Friend Speech!”

“Uh…NO…never, never. I think it’s just me.”

“OH, NO – the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ bit?”

“Noooo! That’s not what I mean at all...”

An eternal silence. Like…three days have passed while we’ve sat in the car. And finally she speaks.

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I…don’t understand the question.”

“I can’t do this!” she yelled, and bailed out of the car.

Joy to the world.

It was truly painful. Of course, not as painful as Tobie’s overly dramatic reaction to the hair she found in her salad at lunch one day. “I almost ate this and diiiiiiieeeeedddddd!”

My Back in a Saddle Again

Usually I'm uncomfortable taking pictures of me with my shirt off, but I've made an exception for you. 

You've heard me tell the story about how I almost died at our stake Youth Conference because a pack of negligent teenagers dropped me during a “faith fall” object lesson, right? Out of a tree? 1988? You can read about it here. (Also, I may or may not have just spoiled the ending for you.)

Well, that special event in my life has resulted in some creative methods for treating back pain over the years. Since 1988, I have undergone treatment from a series of chiropractors. Now, I am aware that there exists some skepticism surrounding this industry, but I have personally found success and relief through chiropractic care. There isn’t that much controversy to me. I hurt, I get treated, I feel better.

However, like any profession, not all chiropractors are created equal.

Case in point: Dr. Arthur Fonzerelli. (Names have been changed.) (Because I can’t remember his name.) Dr. Fonzerelli was probably in his late 50s, and when it came to his nose, he had a bit of an Ichabod Crane thing going on. He had thin hair on top, but it was still black.

Dr. Fonzi was the uncle of a girl I was dating in college, and his office happened to be in a neighboring town to our little university. It was 1993, and my back had recently been misbehaving. I was complaining about it to Danielle, the girl I was dating (name has not been changed, because I remember her name), and she suggested I go see her uncle, The Fonz. During this same time period I was also complaining that Sally Field was completely miscast as Robin William’s wife in Mrs. Doubtfire, but Danielle said there was nothing she could do about that. Nice attitude. I believe that is what later led to our breakup. 

Anyway, though initially reluctant, I finally paid a visit to the Doc, and surrendered a piece of my dignity that I can never retrieve. I visited his office exactly three times, and each appointment was more bizarre and unsettling than the one before.

First visit. He asked a lot of questions, gathered information, and took some x-rays. He did a pretty flaccid adjustment (I’m not sure that’s the correct industry term for it) that was fairly benign, and told me I could leave.  Not an efficacious treatment, but harmless enough. He was so soft spoken and uncle-y, I just kind of went with the flow and lowered my expectations of actually feeling better while simultaneously taking comfort in the fact that Danielle would be happy with me for being obedient and doing what she told me to do, and maybe I would be rewarded with some smooching. (But probably not.)

Second visit. At the beginning of the visit he said, “So, would you say there’s been about 20% improvement since your last visit?” I started laughing, because I thought he was making a funny.  I removed my shirt and turned to find him standing there with his clip board, pencil poised to write down my answer. He was serious. Not wanting him to feel bad, but feeling no different than before the first visit, I pretended to contemplate my percentage of wellness and kind of mumbled back, “Erm…. uh…. hmmhmm…two…(waving my hand back and forth)….maybe…I’d say two...percent …better?”  He wrote it down.

“I think we’re going to try something more aggressive,” he said. “Like…addressing my back pain?” I wanted to ask. He led me into an adjoining room and had me sit/hunch forward over a bench, while he strapped some electrodes onto my lower back.

“We’re going to try electrotherapy,” he casually said.

“Okay,” I responded with some trepidation.

“You’re going to feel some currents through your back. It’s going to be uncomfortable. I’m going to turn up the intensity with this dial, and you tell me when you can’t stand it anymore.”

“TIME OUT,” I said. “I don’t like to play games like this.”

“You’ll be just fine,” and he started to turn it up.

I tried to be my bravest for as long as I could. “Mercy!” I said.

“Okay,” he answered. “I’m going to leave it there for 10 minutes.”

“What the WHAT?!”

And he left the room. I had never felt this variation of pain before, and it was intense! I felt like something was alive and kicking in me, and I was going to give birth to it – through my CHEST! Currents were having a rave inside my body and I could only anticipate death and my corpse detonating, leaving parts of me covering the entire room. The good news is, if I am ever hit by lightening, it’ll be a walk in the park.  Shoot, I might even enjoy it.

And imagine my surprise, when I actually did feel better when he turned the machine off! Kind of like how your face feels better once somebody stops hitting it with a car. Or how silence sounds so nice when Nickleback is the alternative.  I went home, exhausted and confused.

Third and final visit. I walked into his office, and he asked me to strip down to what the Fashion World terms “tighty-whities.” Not totally unusual; easy access to my back and all. He asked me again, “Where would you say, percentage-wise, your improvement is at? 20%?”

I stood there with the same incredulous expression as the visit before, but this time, much more vulnerable, as I looked like I was an underwear model. Well, I looked like I was modeling underwear. (I’ve never, on my best day, looked like an underwear model.) I mumbled the same response as the prior visit. “Wha-…. uhrm….yeeeaahhh…two…(waving my hand back and forth)….maybe…I’d say two percent?”

“We’re going to try something different today (oh, good!), so…follow me.”

My relief was short lived, as I started following him from our private patient room…out the door…into the hallway. I found myself standing in the public domain...with only my underwear on.  I could see the waiting room.  And they could see me.  Like one of those dreams. But despite the ethereal music of Enya that permeated the office, this was indeed no dream.

Yep, if you were sitting in the right (or wrong) spot in the waiting room, you had a comprehensive view of more Ken Craig than most people care to see. I’ve never seen more raised eyebrows in my life, as people shook their heads, covered children's eyes, and kept a careful distance between them and me.

We stopped in the middle of the hallway, at some adjusting apparatus there. Yes! In the middle of the hallway! Did somebody leave it there accidentally? Was this really the best place for this thing?

“Go ahead and lie down on this,” he said.

And, as if under some form of hypnosis, I did what he asked. No sooner was I horizontal, but clamps snapped over my wrists and ankles, strapping me to the table and rendering me unable to stand back up, get off the table, and flee from his office out into the streets; cold and exposed, but safe.

He pulled a lever and the table jolted into a vertical position. Now I was standing, in my skivvies, strapped to a table. This equipment could not have been legal. I’m not even sure it was 20^th century machinery. Then, the straw that broke me: Dr. Fonz put his hand on my lower back, and started rapidly pushing my torso forward. Push, release. Push, release. I suddenly looked like I was doing my best Elvis impression. In my underwear. In the hallway. In a torture device.

That was it for me.

I started talking very fast, in a half-panicked voice, like a kid trying to sell a lie to his parents. “Yep. Yep, I’d say I can definitely feel a twenty percent improvement. Twenty or maybe even 25!”

Push, release. Push, release.

“What did Danielle say to you? Did she tell you I didn’t like Mrs. Doubtfire? Did that personally offend you?”

Push, release. Push, release.

Finally, after what felt like 18 years, he stopped, unstrapped me, and we went back to his office. I put my clothes on while he filled out paper work. He then said, “I’m not sure what else will help you.” He seemed so defeated. I almost felt bad for him. I probably would have continued to see him just to make him feel better, except that his practices terrified me. Who knows what he would have tried next?! “If you jump out of this plane without a parachute, I really think the landing will give you a twenty percent improvement.  Here, hand me your pants before you jump….”

You’d think this single experience would have steered me clear of chiropractic doctors, but the truth is I’ve had exceptional care from the chiropractors I’ve met since then. The only real fallout from my adventure with Dr. Fonza-crazy is that to this day, I can’t listen to Enya without instinctively and subconsciously dancing like Elvis.  And I have no tolerance for Mrs Doubtfire, but that was a pre-existing condition.

Love at the Rock's

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.

My Most Embarrassing Moment on Record

One night, whilst in college, I went out on a first date with a girl named…hmmm… It started with an E. (I cared for her, deeply, as you can see.) Elaine? Elizabeth? Anyway, we were walking through a park, fairly close together, but with our hands in our jacket pockets, as it was a fall evening, and the weather was pleasantly cool. When out of the blue, Ellen (?) says, “Tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

I did not care for this.

Firstly, I had known Ester (?) for about two days. Who was she to demand to know my deepest, darkest secrets? Was I to automatically trust this attractive, though virtually unknown woman at face value? A woman who had not shared her deepest, darkest secret with me? A woman who found it perfectly acceptable to walk through a park and consider it a date? A woman whose name started with an E! (Edie? Electra? Ebony?)

But secondly, and most importantly…I didn’t have any deep, dark secrets. Unless you count my extensive Huey Lewis & the News CD collection. (And I don’t.)

I’ll never know what Edwina (?) was probing for that day. But I have attended a number of social gatherings since then where people play such “get-to-know-you” games where you are required to recount, in great detail, information you would not normally or casually put on display. “Deep, dark” information, as it were. Only now it is masqueraded as “What’s your most embarrassing moment?”

Well, I happen to have one.

It was early summer, 1993. If memory serves, Rod Stewart couldn’t remember if he’d told us lately that he loved us, Tom Hanks was having difficulty sleeping somewhere in Washington state, and I was dating a lovely young woman from Salem, Utah. Danielle.

With BYU not located too far from Salem, we would occasionally go visit Danielle’s family for some dining and dancing. (Mostly dining.)

On this particular weekend, her family’s ward, the Salem 374^th Ward, was having a barbecue in a nearby canyon. I am a big fan of both barbecues and canyons, so I was excited to go.

It was still early enough in the summer that it was quite cool up the canyon, so there was a roaring fire to take off the chill. I had helped Danielle’s little brother get a plate of food, and he went off to sit by his sister on a log by the fire. I got my own plate and, not seeing a place to sit, remained standing as I ate on the other side of the fire, straight across from Danielle and her little brother.

There was really a large turnout of people, and there were conversations taking place all over the camping area; though most people didn’t drift too far from the fire. I had chatted with a few pleasant folks, making nice and quashing ramped rumors about our impending engagement.

I was finishing the last of my barbecued chicken and preparing to throw my plate in the fire, when I felt an odd sensation around my…uhm, derriere. It was a hand. At first it was cupping my bum, but then it began to rub it. And rub it. And rub it. It was as if my bum were a lamp, and they were expecting Robin Williams to appear. Alarmed, my eyes searched across the fire for Danielle. Not that it would have been okay if Danielle were doing this to me, but she was really the only familiar person there.  

Slowly, as if I were being held at gunpoint, I turned and looked to my left. There, facing away from me…was a total stranger. She was probably mid-forties, long hair, mother of five. And her right hand was now stuffed into the back pocket of my jeans. She had clearly mistaken me for somebody else. For example, her tall, firm-bummed husband. Unsure of what to say, but confident this was going to end no other way than badly, I didn’t say anything.

I stood there staring at her, waiting for her to turn and make eye contact with a man who she did not know. A man who was not comfortable with the whereabouts of her hand. A man who did not give this stuff away for free!

Finally, she turned and realized she had been fondling the wrong bum. Oh, the horror in her eyes! The shock! In an effort to defuse the situation and bring some levity to the entire scene before she could speak, I threw my arm around her shoulder and said, “Hey, baby, you coming with me?”

“YOU’RE NOT MY HUSBAND!”

Well, she had found her voice. The entire ward stopped and turned. Wards from neighboring canyon barbecue parties stopped and turned. Yes, in addition to roving hands, this woman had some lungs. But now, while her stating of the obvious should have incriminated her, I suddenly look like the visiting sick-o from outside the ward, who has been going around shoving people’s hands into my back pockets.

Well, we all had a good laugh, she decided to go back to her husband, and I never went back to visit Danielle’s family – or their ward. 

Potty Humor

Since you asked, I play racquetball about three times a week at a tremendously fashionable gym in town that goes by the name of The Las Vegas Athletic Club. This gym is overly crowded; nevertheless, since it is on my way to work, I bring my toiletries and do my showering bidness there, in spite of the enormity of body hair casually on display in the locker room. (Not mine, others.)

Oddly, brushing shoulders with Wookies is not the most offensive part of my morning routine. It is the four bathroom stalls located directly across from the sinks where I brush my teeth and wash my hands after applying a medium-sized dab of hair gel, referred to as “product” by my hair gal, Holly. Anyway, these bathroom stalls might as well have revolving doors with how much use they are getting, and unfortunately, the room is permanently permeated with the most pungent funk that has ever burned your nose hair.

It is affecting my life.

I fear my teeth are suffering the consequences, because I cannot stand to be in there long enough to give them a proper cleaning. I’ve tried holding my breath; I’ve tried going in at different times of the morning; I was even going to try pulling the fire alarm so everyone would evacuate and I could brush in peace, but if they aren’t evacuating from the dreaded stench, I have my doubts they would evacuate from the less-threatening effects of fire.

Then I leave the gym and head to work. I work in an office building where a single bathroom is shared by, oh, I estimate about 40 men. There are two “sit-down” stalls; and again, they are in frequent use. And if you thought the gym was bad… Now you are dealing with a more enclosed space, and the less-health-conscious mindset of Corporate Americans. Oh. My. Stank. 

Many are the days I am torn between doing a “stop, drop & roll” while I crawl out of the bathroom or being a Good Samaritan and hanging around to make sure this poor individual isn’t in need of immediate transportation to the hospital; because they must be dying inside.

What it has come to is this: I have grown weary of smelling O.P.P. (Other People’s Potty habits.)

Perhaps I come across a bit insensitive; and if so, it’s most likely because I’ve never been much of a P² myself. (P² = Public Pooper.) I’ve always been an “At Home” kind of a guy. And at this point in my life, if I come home and Katie and the kids are off running errands, and I have the house/bathroom to myself…I almost get emotional. It’s like Christmas morning.

Of course if you are going to force the issue I will admit that there are emergency situations, and that is why we have public restrooms. I guess. I remember in college, at BYU, I actually had mapped out the best restrooms on campus. You know, in case I was too far from my apartment, or was uncomfortable, or just newly married and trying to keep a good impression going at home.

The best restroom on BYU campus? Seventh floor of the Tanner Building. Nobody is ever – ever – up there. One time I went in there around 11 a.m., and the lights were still off from the night before! Delightful.

The worst bathroom? The basement of the JKHB. One time I was in there because, I don’t know, it must have been a life or death situation, and I checked and nobody else was in the bathroom and I was minding my own business in the stall furthest from the door...when somebody else entered the bathroom. I sat silently. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t flinch. I did not want to be acknowledged. And so stellar was I in my silence, that when this intruder left the bathroom…he turned off the light. I guess he figured nobody in there, no need to waste BYU’s precious electricity.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been trapped in a dungeon-like bathroom in one of the most vulnerable positions you could ever be left in…but it was an experience I shudder to repeat ever again. I really had to hurry because the only thing worse would have been to have somebody else wander in, turn on the light, and then hear me in the stall and wonder why some weirdo would have been sitting in a bathroom stall in the dark.

The bottom line (pun intended) is this: If I am doing the world a favor by keeping my Potty Habits in check, why should I be exposed to O.P.P.? Why is this not on the ballot? Where does my candidate stand on this issue? And where does my candidate stand on federally subsidized back-waxing at local gym locker rooms? Because Oh. My. Chewbacca. 

The Clarks

Nature's first green is gold, 


Her hardest hue to hold. 


Her early leaf's a flower; 


But only so an hour. 


Then leaf subsides to leaf. 


So Eden sank to grief, 


So dawn goes down to day. 


Nothing gold can stay.

            Robert Frost

Katie and I met in The Garrens, a comedy troupe that performed sketches and improvisations weekly on BYU campus. We had been friends for just over a year, when in the fall of 1994 we started dating. By complete serendipity, we had two classes together, and though we didn’t know it at the time, one of the classes included two individuals that would become two of our favorite people ever. Chris Clark and Lisa Valentine. Now affectionately referred to as…The Clarks.

College is this huge-normous social experience, with perpetual conversations and story telling and dialogue and interchanges and meeting new people and having shared experiences… It’s this continually open channel of communication. It is its own world, sincerely. And in that inimitable little world, the four of us quickly became good, good friends.

From the fall of 1994 to the summer of 1995 the four of us seemed to be walking very similar paths. Katie and I started dating about the same time as Chris and Lisa. Things started to get more serious about the same time. All of us had similar emotions, similar interests, similar points of reference. But it was more than that. There was something very effortless about our friendships. And born out of all this was this level of trust and safety and acceptance. And genuine happiness for each other. And the hilarity. My gosh, the hilarity. So entertaining and amusing were our conversations (to us), that it became burdensome to find a break in the banter and return to our regularly scheduled reality. It usually came to an end when somebody would say something like, “Well, I’m already late for class, I better go” or “I’ve got to get up in three hours to take a test” or “I’m going to the bathroom, please don’t follow me.” And even the occasional, “You guys, seriously, shut up, ER is starting.”

We ate countless meals together, acted in several plays together, watched thousands of movies together, and created many inside jokes together. And then we all got married. (Not all four of us to each other.) Chris and Lisa were married in June of 1995, and Katie and I in August of the same summer.

And when the Craigs returned from their honeymoon just in time to start fall semester at BYU, who were the first people to see them? Yes, the Clarks. And the bonding continued.

The next two years meant more inside jokes, more eating out, more dialogues, and more similar reference points, as we started talking about having babies and having lives after college. Lisa performed in The Garrens with us. We’d all go to Chris’ plays. Sundays always seemed to be our days to either go for walks around Provo, or to eat dinner, take communal naps on the Clarks Futon, and wake up in time to watch The Simpsons.

In the summer of 1997 we all four simultaneously finished BYU. (Please note I did not say all of us graduated at this time. But we were done with school in that we would no longer be attending classes, this we were sure of.)  The Clarks weren’t sure what exactly they were going to do, but they were going to do it in Provo. And the Craigs were equally unsure about what they were going to do…but they had the impression it was going to be outside of Utah.

It was while sitting in the Clarks living room one night, discussing these very issues, that I noticed a wooden dish rack, painted green, that Lisa had made and hung over their kitchen sink. On it, she had written out the words to the Robert Frost poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay. I had read the poem a number of times before, but it became very personal and bittersweet to me in that moment.

In the eternal sense of things, of course, those things that are the most golden do stay. Our marriages, our families, eternal truths, testimonies, our relationships with others.  But in this mortal life, there are these golden moments, these golden periods of time. And they don’t stay.  

Your kids won’t always be able to crawl up on your lap and pull your arms around them. Your parents won’t always be able to jump in a car and drive to your house when you have something exciting happening. You won’t always have a newborn to walk to sleep. You won’t always be on a small Hawaiian island as a newlywed. And you won’t always be able to live next door to some of your most cherished friends.

When the Clarks visited us this weekend, all those feelings came back. How heartbreaking it is to know that we can’t walk over to the Clarks to borrow a cup of “Please tell me you TiVo-ed The Office last night because we totally missed it.” And how comforting it is to know that while it is no longer the mid-90s, our friendship is just as gold as it was, and shows no signs of ever fading. 

*Editor's Note:

I had written this tribute to our friends, the Clarks, some months back. I didn’t intend to post it as a blog, but rather, keep it as a personal note. But the timing is such that I wanted to pay tribute to them.

Chris’ sister, Stephanie, and her husband, Christian were in a plane crash on Saturday, August 16^th. You may have heard this story, as it has been widely told in the blogworld, and the focus of some attention in the news as well.

Stephanie and Christian are alive, and at this point, have shown enough improvement that they are not even considered trauma patients anymore. However, they have extensive burns and will remain in induced comas for months, while they heal.

If you are interested in reading the story you can follow it on the blog of Chris and Stephanie’s sister, Courtney. She keeps it up to date. She is also, in my opinion, a wonderful writer.

So are Chris and Lisa, if you would like to read their blogs. I find them some of the funniest people I know, and regarding this specific experience; I believe they are approaching it with an incredible balance of love, patience, and faith.

If you read their blogs, you will find links to ways you can help – donations, auctions, prayers, fasting. It is overwhelming the support this family is receiving. 

18 Again

Once upon a time I was a College Freshman. There is never a time in ones life equal to the sensation of being a college freshman. You have essentially stepped onto the launching pad of adulthood, but nobody is expecting you to act like an adult. Which is good, since you have no intention of behaving like one.

It is your first real taste of independence. Nobody is going to force you to go to class, nobody is going to tell you that a Snickers doesn’t count as dinner and that you can’t go to Denny’s at 1:00 a.m. and order the culinary genius known as Moons Over My Hammy. And nobody is going to tell you that throwing an oven and washing machine off the roof of your dorm is a foolish notion. Though you might figure that out on your own only moments afterwards.

One of the best things about college, and your freshman year, specifically, is that you find yourself surrounded by a sea of people. With very little effort, you meet literally hundreds of people. Your dorm, your classes, the people you go to church with, your friends from back home who went to the same college, their friends and people from their classes and dorms, your roommate’s friends, people you see at the same time every day on campus until you finally talk and find out you know some of the same people, and finally, the folks at Denny’s who recognize you when you walk in and have your Moons Over My Hammy all ready for you by the time you sit down in your booth and pull out your sketch plans for how to get the oven and washing machine from the basement of your dorm to the roof.

Three of my favorite people from my freshman year were Greg, Jim, and Justin. We all lived on the seventh (top) floor of our dorm and became fast friends when we realized we all had similar tastes in movies and music, as well as a proclivity for making fun of the same people on our floor. We were thick as thieves that year (note: no actual thievery took place), and kept in regular contact for a few years afterwards. Eventually we all took different paths of study, married different women, moved to different states, and fell out of touch.

A couple of years ago, thanks to this newfangled technological advancement known to you kids as the “Internet,” combined with the mid-week doldrums of the corporate world that drive the working man to waste time on the Internet rather than do any actual work, the four of us tracked each other down. Classic inside jokes were exchanged, annual Christmas cards followed, and the occasional “congratulations on your new baby/job/house” emails were sent. And then…a couple of weekends ago… it happened. A reunion.

With Jim living in California, Justin and Greg both in Utah, and myself right in the middle, the four of us decided to gather in Las Vegas. We arranged for a room at the Luxor hotel, and it served as our home base from Friday night through Sunday morning. After referring to our brochure of Nevada State Mandated Activities for Tourists, we spent the weekend eating at buffets and other Las Vegas eateries, riding on roller coasters, walking the Strip, irritably discussing the heat, and shopping but not buying anything.

But truth be told, most of our time was spent sitting around and harkening back to a different era, trying to recall as many tales of bawdiness and ribaldry as we could. And oh!, the scandalamity that was exposed! Our own little soap opera, our first year of college was. And how delicious to dredge up the details and dynamics of each antic.

Now, here’s the thing with getting together with people you were good friends with 17 years ago (when you were younger and consistently made ridiculous and oftentimes selfish decisions) and then haven’t seen much since then: There’s a question as to how much you have changed. Here are three telltale points to help you, the third-party observer, decide:

1. The Playing of “Safety.” Safety was a game played by many of us. No board, no dice, no cards. Just a fist and a strong stomach. The rules to Safety were as follows: If you were ever to “pass gas,” you were to loudly declare “Safety!” before somebody hit you. If you said “Safety” before somebody hit you, you were indeed “safe,” as it were. Meaning that nobody was allowed to hit you at that point. If your let one rip, and then somebody hit you before you said “Safety” then it was fair game – everybody playing the game could hit you over and over until you a) died, or b) touched a doorknob. Once you touched a doorknob people had to stop hitting you. (If you died, people were allowed to continue beating you, because technically you did not reach a doorknob. I didn’t make up the rules to Safety, folks, I just played as fairly as the next guy.) It was certainly a test of manliness when we were younger. But it’s been 17 years and we’ve all grown up a bit; plus we are totally out of practice, as none of us had ever successfully convinced our wives our families should play this game.

2. Quotable Movies. The five most quoted movies our freshman year in college were as follows: Three Amigos, Uncle Buck, Weird Science, Planes Trains & Automobiles, and Weekend at Bernie’s. These were also the same five movies most quoted on this particular weekend. And I have three of these movies in my own personal movie library this very moment. (Even more alarming, two of these movies feature non-Academy Award Winner, Mr. John Candy, one of them features a plot surrounding a dead man that nobody realizes is dead, and one of them is Weekend at Bernie’s.)

3. Music. Never mind what we listened to circa 1989/1990, when the four of were at lunch on Saturday, catching a few minutes of a basketball game on television, and I started singing “Coach says to get my head in the game…” and Jim, Greg, and Justin all jumped in to sing along “Wait a minute, get my head in the game!”…we knew that the mighty had fallen. While I’m glad my six year-old doesn’t know all the lyrics to the Beastie Boys’ License to Ill…I don’t know how I feel about me knowing the words to Disney’s High School Musical.

So at some point throughout the past seventeen years we had each determined on our own that public farting should not be encouraged by being turned into a game, that slapstick comedies are still funny, and that our musical libraries would have to make room for Disney soundtracks and the capricious musical talents of Raffi.

And if the Luxor is missing an oven and a washing machine, we don’t know anything about it. But they might want to check the pool…where they landed….after we threw them off the roof.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

My co-worker, Tobie,* has lived in Las Vegas for a number of years, but originally heralds from Planet Drama, where she is considered royalty. (*Names have been changed. Kind of. She spells it without the “e.”) Each morning when I walk into the office, I am curious as to what the Crisis De Jour will be. The dramatic episodes range from “Last night I talked to my mom for the first time in three years!” to “I lost 1.5 pounds!” And more recently, she broke up with her boyfriend of eight months. Or more accurately, he broke up with her. And what, prêt ell, could be more dramatic than that?! (Well, if you’re Tobie, then just about anything.)

So I’m listening to her heartbreaking story, line upon line and precept by precept, when I suddenly begin having flashbacks to my own breakups. I start getting knots in my stomach, I get a little moist under the arms, and I find myself looking for the opportunity to assure Tobie that her and I can still be friends, even though we aren’t the ones breaking up. It’s just instinct.

For me, breakups were the absolute worst. I avoided them like they were cancer. Oh, how they pained me to the core of my dating soul. It’s still hard to talk about some of them…

Tess Dresher. Fourth Grade. I can still recall the day she walked up to me during recess and asked me to “go with her.” “Sure,” I answered. And those were the last words every exchanged between Tess and myself. We occasionally sat by each other, and I gave her a very special Peanuts Valentine’s Day card, but we never did speak, or even make eye contact. So I guess technically we are still “going together.” Boy is she going to be mad when she finds out I got married and had five children. She’ll want to break up for sure. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

Julia Zimmerman. High School. It was the summer of 1987, and I was sixteen years old – with a license to drive and to date! I knew Julia really liked me when her mom had grounded her and she promptly ignored said house arrest to go to the movies with me. Yes, we were young and crazy in love! I was pretty sure that after the summer of 1987 I could die happy. By fall of 1987 I was so miserable I was praying for death. We went to different high schools and Julia was first to acknowledge that our long distance relationship wasn’t really going to make it. I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I felt like somebody was cramming my heart through a paper shredder.

Danielle Perrett. College. Danielle and I dated for an entire year, from October 1992 to October 1993. But by June of ’93 I knew we were not meant to be and that a breakup was inevitable. Since you know my aversion to breakups I can tell you that rather than actually breakup, I considered leaving the country. I was about to call my travel agent when Danielle informed me that she was leaving the country for three months for a study abroad program. I may have sounded a tad too supportive, but away she went, and there I stayed, to date and engage in much frivolity throughout the entire summer. By the time Danielle returned at the beginning of September, I had crafted, in my mind, how the breakup would go. And seven weeks later, at the end of October, I finally found the intestinal fortitude to go through with it. And it was the kind of train wreck that, if you were watching it in a movie, you would fast forward through it, so painful would it be to watch.

It was Halloween night. We had gone to a party and we were sitting in my car in the parking lot of her apartment complex. I was dressed as Aladdin, she was Jasmine. Things had been in the pooper for quite some time, and it felt like a stranger walking by could glance in our direction and know exactly what was happening.

It was silent for a few minutes, and then I spoke up.

“I think we should see other people.”

“I told you to see other people last week.”

“I mean you should see other people.”

“I told you I don’t want to see other people. You should.”

“I have.”

“You ALREADY have?!”

“Hey, I don’t want there to be bad feelings between us.”

“Are you giving me the Friend Speech? Don’t you DARE give me the Friend Speech!”

“Uh…NO…never, never. I think it’s just me. See, I have a problem with –”

“OH, NO – the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ bit?”

“Noooo! That’s not what I mean at all...”

An eternal silence. Like…three days have passed while we’ve sat in the car. And finally she speaks.

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I…don’t understand the question.”

“I can’t do this!” she yells, and starts bawling as she bails out of the car. “I can’t talk about this right now!” and she leaves the car door open, running into the night. I get out and follow her to make sure she makes it to her apartment, then drive to my own. I walk into my place to find a ringing telephone. I answer.

“…Hello?”

“I just want to make sure I heard you LOUD AND CLEAR!”

“Uhhhhh….yessssss.”

“Define our relationship.”

“What?”

“Define our relationship!”

“Uhm…over...?”

Some muffled sobbing, and then click went the phone.

Excruciatingly painful, right? But not as painful as Tobie’s overly dramatic reaction to the hair she found in her salad at lunch today. “I almost ate this and diiiiiiieeeeedddddd!”