Magic Shell and Bearded Weirdos

It was after 10 p.m. on a Saturday when my husband and I decided an ice cream treat would sooth the pain and embarrassment of getting sunburnt the day before. We drove to the grocery store to get ingredients to make a banana split and a container of Ben & Jerry’s for me.

We were red-faced and tired, we shuffled our feet along as we picked up vanilla and chocolate ice cream then spent way too much time studying the ingredients on the bottles of chocolate syrup and caramel. Did you know that “Magic Shell” doesn’t have high fructose corn syrup, however, the regular hershey’s chocolate has regular fructose corn syrup AND high fructose corn syrup? 

The vibe in the store got eerie as the lights dimmed. Surely they were not closing this early on a weekend. At this moment we remembered that we forgot to grab the essential ingredient to a banana split: bananas. Now we had to backtrack.  

While turning a corner with our cart, we finished a conversation where I said something unimportant or interesting as I am known to do and my husband responded with “huh.” 

A woman was at the end of the aisle and turned her head almost “Exorcist”-like and said “Did you say ‘whoa?’” Baffled by her hearing “huh” as “whoa,” and at such a distant from where we were standing, my husband said “what?” She repeated in a serious tone, “Did the word ‘whoa’ just come out of your mouth?”

“No,” he said in a there's-no-way-you-could-have-heard-me denial. 

It was so strange that she would have heard us talking and also that she would ask if we said “whoa” as if it were a cool word making a comeback like “groovy” or “radical.”  

As we rolled our cart closer to her, she also came towards us with a cart like the conversation never happened. I looked at her and noticed she looked a little angry as she muttered something under her breath and, without looking at either of us, said “...you bearded weirdo.”

Both of us were paralyzed in shock. What just happened?

We mindlessly wandered over to the bananas and wondered if she was self-conscious about her weight. Did she think we were talking about her 5’3” slightly over-weight frame? Was there another bearded weirdo who asked her for money outside and she thought my husband was the same one? Or were there voices in her head telling her that my husband was a creep? Maybe she just really hates beards and the people who grow them. 

If I could go back in time, I would have asked, “why did you call him a weirdo?” Surely that wouldn’t have landed me with a broken face in the bread aisle. 

Whatever her reason for being so angry, I feel sad for her. She might really hate herself so much that she thought we were talking about her. Or she really is insane.

Protests, Hippies and Cancer

In college, I participated in those just-out-of-the-parents-house things that you do: Partying at Frat houses, playing instead of sleeping and joining too many college clubs. One particular club introduced me to recycling, Gardenburgers and protests.

I found myself camping outside the gates of a nuclear test site in Nevada in 1995. On Easter morning we were going to stick it to the man. OK, so I really didn’t know what we were doing, but I was along for the ride.

This protest was a message to the government that they had taken this land from American Indians and now some have been afflicted with cancer as a result of nuclear testing.

After exchanging stories about other protests during our vegan breakfast, about 50 people gathered at the entrance to the test site. Police held their positions near the cattle guard and a ceremony of sorts began with hippie drumming, incense burning and a Jesus-looking man wearing a brown robe leading the group. The man spoke about why we were gathered. People were invited to join in this spiritual circle; the first group to enter were the American Indians; then the people who have or had cancer; then the people who have had a loved one who has or had cancer.

This was when I entered the circle. The majority of the protesters joined at this point as well. We were prepared to make our statement to the police by trespassing. By doing this, we would be detained in a fenced area (divided for men and women) constructed for the purpose of the infamous Easter weekend protest. This was exactly the opposite of what you see on “Cops.”

When I joined the circle as someone who had been affected by cancer, the only people I knew at that point were both of my grandmothers. One of them had died from breast cancer when it was caught too late.

Had I gone to the protest this past Easter weekend, I have so many more family members and acquaintances who have been through radiation and chemo. Fifteen years ago, I would have told you that there would be a cure by 2010. The situation has improved, but there’s still no end in sight.

I knew that when my mother discovered she had colon cancer in 2005 that she wouldn’t peacefully protest that beast invading her body. She fought the battle and became a stronger person because of it. I admire her strength and feel empowered knowing someone who has conquered something of that magnitude.

Protesting was a battle that made me feel strong, but her battle was bigger than that. My mom actually fought something huge and won.

The Art of Step-parenting and Pulling Pranks

Everyone has their reasons for wanting children. My mother insists that you should have children so that someone will change your diapers when you are old. That might be her way of justifying having her children, but it’s no secret that she doesn’t want me taking care of her when she’s old. She already has signed up for a retirement home just to prevent the things her children might do to get back at her for not letting us eat candy.

I have often joked with my husband that he had a kid just so he could have a buddy; A videogame-playing, potty-humored buddy.

As I’ve grown into my role as a stepmother, I’ve come to realize that I would do the same thing. If I had a daughter, she would be my shopping buddy, someone to do crafts with and help me paint the fingernails on my right hand. But I’ve already got my hands full with a husband and a stepson.

I cherish my relationship with my stepson. I now have the little brother I never had and my poor teenager is the victim of a prank-loving stepmom.

I’ve gone as far as purchasing gag items like plastic cat poop. Because I can’t keep a straight face, my husband rocked that trick. We heard my stepson yell, “Dad, the cat pooped on my bed!” We went to investigate and my husband proceeded to lick it to ensure that it came from a cat. I covered my mouth with my hand as to appear more horrified than entertained.

One prank I successfully saw through was feeding my stepson a lemon “cupcake” for breakfast. We had corn muffins a week earlier and used the frosting leftover from the real cupcake, frosted the corn muffin and topped it with a raspberry. I watched him eat it in slow motion and he said, “it’s really dry...” I lost it and confessed.

Everytime my stepson gets punked, my husband soothes the pain with, “You’ll always remember that. You will never forget the time that Amy disciplined you with the squirt bottle after you left the bread bag open.”

Being a prankster has its repercussions. On a July holiday that involved fireworks, my husband yelled at me to come outside, “Amy, you’ve got to come see this bug!” I ran outside into the dark and found two smiling, yet disappointed boys. Apparently my bare feet missed all of the snaps that were laid out for me to step on.

With April Fools’ Day coming up, I’m wracking my brain to think of the best pranks to play on these two, but it really doesn’t matter if I do or don’t fool them. April 1 is as significant as Feb. 14 in our world. We play pranks on each other 365 days of the year. That’s exactly how we show our affection.

Celebrating My Heritage

I was at a club on a Friday night as I often am, when a girl I had recently been introduced to approached me and said, “So what are you?”

This question perplexed me and I worried she wanted to fight me. She came off a little tough. I shrunk imagining a smoke-blowing caterpillar asking Alice, “Who are YOU?” What does she mean, “What are you?”

She realized I was confused and said, “Like, I’m a Latina … ” Oh. It made sense.

Still baffled, I contemplated how to answer. “I’m a mix of things,” I eventually said lacking the same chest-beating pride she had when she told me she was Latina.

For a split second, I thought I might have an identity crisis.

Although I identify as American, I don’t think of myself as the origins of my ancestors. From my family’s research — they are Mormon, so I am know that family tree drawing all too well — I’m aware that I am Danish, Finnish, Swedish, English and a little Scottish.

I’ve never thought much about my own roots, but have enjoyed some of the food and traditions passed down through the family.

Every year on New Year’s Eve, we would put our shoe at the door as the old man and baby new year go house-to-house and break in and put gifts in your shoes. For a long time I thought this was the same kind of tradition as the bunny who hides eggs in your home or the man you leave a plate of cookies out for. It was a huge surprise when I found out this geriatric and practically naked infant only stopped in my house in the whole neighborhood.

My family-history-loving mother re-creates dishes from her ancestry such as Swedish bread called limpa made with fennel, caraway and anise seed. I like to say I celebrate my Swedish lineage by shopping at Ikea and H&M (at Fashion Place Mall soon).

The Scandinavian side of my family has always been the most celebrated. But I remember embracing all types of cultures and learning about different countries by taking part in their festivities.

It’s admirable to see younger generations celebrating their culture’s traditions, but it’s also important to explore and learn about other traditions and celebrate the diversity within our country.

Every culture has fascinating traditions and food and everyone should take the opportunity to learn about each other.

The Mom and Miss Manners

As we learn about what makes a woman pin-up perfect in this week’s issue, I think it’s a good time for a reminder that beauty is only skin-deep.

More important than fire-engine-red lipstick and hosiery with seams up the back is being a classy lady. You can look sexy on the outside, but if your manners and attitude stink, well then, so do you.

I’m an old-fashioned girl when it comes to etiquette. My mother was a big fan of reading books by Miss Manners and then putting our lessons into practice at the dinner table.

Dishes would often collide at the table as nobody could remember if we pass to the right or to the left. It was inevitable that someone would end up talking with food in their mouth to holler that someone had their elbows on the table. Pointing out other people’s bad manners certainly makes one look better.

Table etiquette is just one facet of being ladylike. There are manners we all know we should follow but don’t. Or maybe that’s just me.

A classy lady doesn’t gossip, swear or tell dirty stories. I would like to deny all of those things, but sometimes I open my mouth and the filter disappears.

One of the most important things about being a demure dame is to be genuine. Imagine how ugly a person can be when they smile and tell you what you want to hear, but deep down you know they don’t mean it.

As far as outward appearances go, don’t ever leave the house in your pajamas. And don’t leave the house looking like you just rolled out of bed. The hat and sunglasses trick goes great with a skirt and tank. And you’ll look famous, rather than hungover.

My mother always tells me stories of my aunts and grandmother visiting the city and wearing their furs and fancy hats. I honestly wish I had that kind of concern for what I looked like when I left the house. I’m horrified when I see someone I know in the grocery store on a Sunday morning. Part of going so early is so to avoid anyone I know and get away with looking sloppy.

I was recently looking at black-and-white photos of Salt Lake where gents were in suits and ladies were in dresses and heels. And that was just for the Days of ’47 parade. How on earth did they camp on the streets like that?

If you are ever unsure of what it means to be a lady, just turn on any reality TV show — especially “Bad Girls Club” — and act in a way that is exactly the opposite of those girls.