Utah, I expected more from you.

I've lived places.  I've seen things.  I've lived in places where I was not surprised to see flaming tires rolling down grassy hills at family barbecues.  I've lived in places where mullets prevailed and special tree stands and fishing spots were the standard topics of conversation, where parents named their children Catfish and Bubba.

I feel like I can expect those things from Idaho or Alabama.  Owing to it's diversity, I think Utah should be held to a higher standard.  Hence my grave disappointment twice this week: first, when I saw a tweet about Barbi Power Wheel racing— a spirited event where the competitors remove the motor, battery, drive line, and whatever else might weigh the Barbi Bopper down.  After removing the dead weight, they a much larger load of dead weight— the driver.  The first down the hill in one piece wins.  "Wins what"? you might ask.  My response is: "Please, don't ask".

The second head scratcher occurred just this morning.  My daughter and I ventured from our front door in Suburbia to check the mail out by the street.  Surprised, we found ourselves dodging large piles of manure in our drive way.  Knowing a couple who owns two large bull mastiffs, I attributed the special surprise to them and made a mental note to mention it to them the next time I saw them.  As my son and I began picking the poop up and putting it in the bag, a neighbor informed us that it was, in fact, not bull mastiff manure.  She had photographic evidence of an unplanned cattle drive through our subdivision.

Honestly, Utah, you can do better.

New Family at the Farmers Market

I love going to a good farmers market. It's wonderful to wander through the tables of veggies and fruits and flowers, and my husband loves finding new local vendors to buy steak or cheese or olive oil or hot sauce from. Sometimes you can even find family you didn't know you had!

The little town we currently live in has a small farmers market every week (every Thursday at mid-day, the best time for a market... ?) with a surprisingly varied selection of veggies, meats, and cheeses. After meandering down the single row, looking at the delicious things to nibble, I saw a blanket at the end of the aisle covered with African-style baskets. I'm a sucker for anything African, after spending a couple of months in Kenya, so I made a bee-line for the basket blanket.

Upon reaching the vendor, I found him chatting on his cell phone. Hearing his accent, I knew he was actually African (or doing a dang good impersonation). He hung up and started chatting with me and my kids, and when we asked about his accent he revealed that he was from Ghana. I told him I had visited Kenya for two months, and then ... then he hugged me. He hugged me and announced that we are family, because I have been to Africa. I smiled and politely extricated myself from the awkward embrace and the conversation continued as he tried to sell me one of his baskets. He asked where I was from, and when I told I grew up in Montana I had to brace myself for another hug. He said he had always wanted to visit Montana and find a woman to marry. He then asked if I had a sister he could marry. I was almost sorry to tell him my only sister was already taken.

What a disappointment! I could have had the chance to have an overly-friendly basket-making Ghanan for a brother-in-law. Guess I'll just have to put up with that other guy who decided he could manage my sister.