W, M, L, L, L, L...

My wife is an excellent teacher, motivator and mother. I have four young girls and I hope every one of them turn out to be just like her. I love it when I come home from work and find Holly teaching them some valuable lesson that she has learned from her life.

For example, I walked in the door the other day and saw my wife dancing furiously in front of London and Brooklyn. She was alternating between shaking her face in their faces and then turning and shaking her butt in their faces. And as if that was not impressive enough, during her dancing, she kept throwing out what looked to me like gang signs.

I know I should have asked what was going on, but it was too entertaining not to just stop and stare. In actuality, I found out later that the gang signs were not gang signs at all, but were simply her hands making the shapes of Ws, Ls and Ms, which stood for whatever, major loser, loser, loser.

In the midst of this critical and timely instruction, I was able to quickly piece together that my daughter had been treated unfairly at school and had been called a loser, loser that day at recess.

A true saint, Holly quickly told my daughter that this action said more about the other person’s lack of self esteem than it said about my daughter and re-counted a story when she was also attacked by a woman who was insecure

Although similar, Holly’s trouble began not in elementary school, but at the piano bar two weeks earlier when a woman who was being pushed to the back of the room said that Holly may or may not have a stain on her pants and told her she should go to the bathroom and check it out.

Being a man, I was unaccustomed to this type of female warfare, but was quickly informed that this is standard course for cat fights and that women will always result to such levels in a heated discussion.

Holly, knowing that she had no such stain of her pants, thanked the woman and then proceeded to dance in front of her in a rapid motion that made me feel like I was watching Bring It On 4, the Piano Bar Edition. She elegantly shook her face in the girls face and then turned and shook her butt in the girl’s face, just as she was doing to Brooklyn and London on this particular occasion.

Upon hearing this story, Brooklyn immediately felt better and was resolved to deal with her bully the next day at school, not through violence, but through the art and expression of dance.

Whenever possible, Holly and I have vowed to provide our children with opportunities to excel in the arts. We believe that it shows a level of class and sophistication that can sometimes be lacking in today’s environment.

Holly told Brooklyn that if this girl ever called her a loser again, she should simply get in her face and dance, while making the signs of W, M, L, L, L, L. Holly felt that throwing in the two extra L’s would provide the ammunition Brooklyn needed to really make an impression that she was not to be messed with again.

And while the jury is still out on Brooklyn’s retaliation tactics, there was proof that no good deed goes unpunished last night when Sydney came to me in tears, saying, “Brooklyn and London did the butt, butt, shake, shake thing to me and knocked me down.”

I, and this is really the point of the entire story, was forced to call a family meeting and create a hard and fast rule that we will only condone the use of butt, butt, shake, shake on individuals who live outside of our home and, furthermore, we would all agree to save it for the most grave situations.

Each of my children then took an oath to keep the butt shaking to a minimum and each agreed to only use it outside of the four walls of our home, which only serves to remind me of what an excellent father I am and further prove that although we all have butts, they should not always be shook.

How do you feel about???

I love to comment on social norms. Pet peeves. Little things that would normally have little consequence in the world, but can be debated freely without the fear of offending your colleague or loved one.

I believe that this great desire to debate the inconsequential is a direct result from 10 years of watching episodes and reruns of Seinfeld. They were the kings of the inconsequential debate. And although they were debating unimportant elements, their passions were profound.

Which leads me to a new section on my blog that I have entitled, How Do You Feel About??? In this section, I will frequently pose a question and ask for your response, feedback and discussion. And while you may find these matters of little importance, its much more fun than determining why the GOP spent $150,000 outfitting Palin.

In regards to Palin, I believe it spent too little. She needs more Botox and some lip waxing and maybe a lift. Listen, put my money to good use, if we have to look at her, make her better looking. It is too late to save McCain’s appearance, but there is hope for Palin.

So, without further hesitations, let’s get to today’s question, which I took from the Yahoo! website:

We've all seen it before. The couples who can't stop kissing or cuddling each other while you're trying to eat peacefully or patiently waiting for your table. The ones who are so in love and/or inebriated that they lose sense of their surroundings and behave as though they think they're alone. What do you think of restaurant display of affection? Should we be able to enjoy a little restaurant smooch now and then or is it disrespectful and/or gross?

From my perspective, kissing on the lips is fine. Even appreciated. Kissing many times throughout dinner is wonderful. It is nice to be with your loved one and you should be happy and display that to her and to others around you. Even fondling a leg underneath the table is a great way to say I love you and completely appropriate.

Along with a little fondling of the leg, try running your hand up your loved one's back. This is an excellent display of affection, some would even say that it is a remarkable display of love and is warmly accepted by your date or spouse.

But once you kiss longer than one minute, you have crossed the line.

Now, with this being said, it does not mean that I am going to turn away and not watch this affection. I mean, it is impossible to turn away. But it should be taken into consideration that this is not kosher.

In fact, there is a pretty good chance that I am going to take out my cell phone and take a picture. It is in my blood. I have to look. I don't want to; I have to. I am not proud of it, it is just a fact of nature.

It is no different then when I went to the Dueling Pianos at the New York, New York (I KNOW, we go there a lot) and a woman broke her foot from jumping in the air to her favorite Van Halen song (try to guess which one).

How could I know it was broken? How was I so sure? Ah, well, the bone was sticking out of her ankle. Clean out. Holly kept telling me to turn away, but it was impossible. I was drawn to it. I had to look. I had to stare. It took everything I had not to take a picture with my phone. Seeing my vulnerability and sensing her impending embarrassment, Holly actually took my phone away from me and put it in her purse. So, you see, it is in my blood. I have to look.

And although I don't condone it at all times, public affection has its place and is appreciated. For example, I recently gave Holly two large hickeys on her neck. Somehow, she did not see these, or feel these, until she went to yoga the next day for the entire world to witness.

And while she complained, I argued that a woman celebrating her 14th wedding anniversary should wear these hickeys as she would wear a badge of honor. They say to the world that this person is loved, cherished and HOT!

Even though I lost this argument, I felt that my point had been made. And while these hickeys where not given in public, they were displayed in public, which solidified that affection had taken place.

So let's hear from you. Yes, you. You now have to comment. Yes, you know who I’m talking to. Yeah, you, the one who is reading this online. Go comment. How do you feel about PDA?

The things we do when we are young...

The following was an introduction posted by Brandon Stout, one of my favorite people from Cyprus High School, Home of Scholars and Champions, regarding a feature for our alumni group. Memories like the one written below are priceless.

I had completely forgotten that this ever happened, but it instantly brought back a flood of memories from high school. And, more importantly, I think we would all agree that the truly mean thing to do would have been to let someone go outside the locker room with their shirt on inside out. Am I right or am I right?

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Fellow CHS Alumni,

I remember one not-so-fine morning when I went entered P.E. class at Hunter Jr. High with my shirt inside out. Of course, I didn't realize it was inside out, but Matt Brimhall couldn't possibly miss something that tease-worthy. To my instant dismay, he invented a new song, on the spot, just for me. It was to the tune of "Shout, shout, let it all out", but instead, Matt sang "Stout, Stout, your shirt's inside out".

I have since enjoyed singing that same song to my son a number of times. Matt is part of a group of friends that went to school together for 13 years, from Kindergarten to 12th grade. We were the first group of students to finish 7 years at Douglas T. Orchard Elementary, the first group of students to finish 3 years at Hunter Jr. High, and we finished our last years at Cyprus, as old as the state, or so it seemed compared to the other schools.

Goals...

This is a photo of one of our business associates from Lehman Brothers. She was a tremendous resource for our company when I was working for Del American, building high-rise residential condominiums near the Strip.

When you look back at this photo, it is hard to believe that this company is now out of business. Its roots date back more than 144 years, when the company's founder provided financing for cotton farmers in the south.

And while no one could have predicted the remarkable roller coaster ride in the global financial markets, each of us should have been able to predict how nice my hair looks in this photo.

Nearly every scholar, and even some little league baseball coaches, preach the virtues of making goals, writing them down and achieving them. Therefore, I have taken this opportunity to state, in a public forum, that my new top priority is to grow my hair back to this length. And then make it blonde.

And while many of you may be thinking to yourself that I should focus my goals and efforts on the economy, or my kids or fixing that stupid tile in my living room that has been chipped for what seems like forever, all of these things must come second to my new goal of growing out my hair.

The truth is, I believe that when you look good, you feel good. And really, all of those problems will basically go away if I can get my hair looking like this again. Like they all say, blondes do have more fun, and I am sure that this new style will throw me right into that category.

And for those of you who are wondering why on earth I'm wearing Elvis sunglasses at night, you need look no further than the bathroom attendant at the Palms Restaurant in Caesars Palace. Which leads me to wonder, why are there bathroom attendants in the first place and why am I supposed to tip them?

If, for example, they gave me advice on going to the bathroom, I would be more than happy to give them a buck or two, but as it is, bathroom attendants do nothing more than force me to skip the process of washing my hands after using the establishment. These bathroom mafia types manipulate you into feeling guilty if you use any of their stuff, including water, so in an effort to save a buck or two, I will wash my hands outside.

However, on this night it was my birthday and my boss purchased these sunglasses from the bathroom attendant, who was appropriately, for Vegas, dressed as Elvis. This was my finest moment ever in a bathroom and a goal I had long desired to accomplish. As I walked out of the stall, not only did my boss drop money into the tip jar for me, which allowed me to use any cologne I wanted to sample, he also bought me a pair of these glasses to wear for the rest of the night.

Which proves my entire point. Anything is possible, if you will simply start making goals.

PS: Jimmy, get over here and fix that chip in my tile.

PSS: I am not really this shallow. OK, maybe I am, because I made up this entire story so that I could post this photo online. So don't worry, I am even more shallow than you may have thought.

Holly, 1989, Drill Team Photo...

Holly is directly in the center, standing up, proudly representing Orem High. Is it just me, or does it look like every girl who attended Orem High had to be blonde or at least be willing to get their hair frosted.

May I have another...

One of my brothers is a Marriage and Family Therapist. He went to a number of years of school, earned his PhD and is very talented. Being a therapist and having a number of clients, he has a confidential phone system where you can confess anything you would like to him in private.

I, however, being somewhat of a jokester love to leave messages on this line that may or may not be 100 percent true. Quite frequently, these messages revolve around my manhood and its length. I mean, 38 inches is not much, but you have to work with what you were endowed with, am I right?

Earlier today, however, my brother returned my call, because he is nice and, more than likely to ask me to stop leaving crude messages about my romantic talents.

And while I apologized for stating the truth, I really wanted to find out what was so confidential that it had to be stated on a private and secure phone line.

I was convinced that the results had to be shocking. Really, when you think about it, no one ever calls a confidential line and says, “I just called to say I love my spouse.” In fact, more than likely, they would always use a confidential line to confess a plan to whack their spouse.

After my less than heartfelt apology, I asked him, “What do people say on your confidential line. What could be so private?”

He told me that no one really said anything shocking on that line and it was more of a convenience issue to make people feel more comfortable.

But that answer was not good enough for me. I wanted more. I needed to dig deeper. So I followed up by saying something like the following:

“Stop lying to me, I bet they say things like ‘I just punched my husband,’ or something.”

His response: “Oh no, I never deal with people who have it that bad in their marriage.”

“Oh, yeah, ah, that would be bad, I guess,” I said, as I sheepishly hung up the phone. Then, without a moment’s hesitation, I called my wife and said, “I guess we’re the worst of the worst.”

You see, I have a pretty good marriage, and even I have been punched by my wife. We’re men. We deserve it. It comes with the territory. And to be specific, I am not even counting the time they had to use smelling sauce to wake me up. OK, the smelling sauce is a joke.

But it is not all about the punches. No sir, you also have to include the eye lash curler, lip stick case and shoes that have been hurled in my general direction. While most of those missed the mark, they did send a message.

And that message is a simple one: Without fail, in every good marriage, you are going to have conflict, or as us optimists like to call it, “passion.” And when that passion is displayed, you never really know what you are going to get.

But when you think about it, passion is the act of showing you care. It is the glue that holds everything together. It is the bond that makes life worth living. It is what makes life exciting.

Every football coach I ever had, said, “You better start worrying, when I stop yelling, because that is a sure sign that I have given up on you.”

It is no different in a relationship. Without passion, without excitement, without love, what do you have? The answer, in short, is nothing.

Without passion, you are left with two people, living together, who lack the desire to care, to give and to receive. You are left with hollow individuals who are living life through the motions, but who are empty on the inside.

It should be reassuring that your spouse loves you enough to scream, shout, yell, punch or fight for you or with you. It shows they care; that they are willing to go through the deepest, darkest moments with you, without giving up on you.

That is love. That is unconditional support. That is true romance.

Without fail, passion is the key to happiness and to a fulfilling relationship. And while passion may lead us to do things we normally would not do, no one is ever going to judge anyone for loving with their entire heart, for acting like a fool for love.

Passion shows that you are invested, that you are committed and that you are in love. In the end, without a doubt, I will always trade the unintended quick right hook to the jaw for a life filled with passion.

Who knew kids took this much time...

How much is too much? Does anyone have an answer for this question? It seems impossible to fully comprehend. Can you be too rich? Too thin? Too cute? Too smart? No, no, no and of course not. But I have found out that you can be too busy.

As school started this year, each one of our kids started a sport. Soccer, softball and soccer, respectively. It may sound like I mistakenly listed soccer twice, until you realize I have five kids two of whom play soccer in different sections of the city.

Even better, each of these aspiring athletes have two practices a week and then a game on Sat. Oh, and Boston has two games on Saturday and sometimes he has a game on Friday night, which is awesome and makes me totally love his coach and everyone in his league.

Then, to further fragment ourselves, we decided to “encourage” Boston to start playing an instrument. He picked the Baritone Sax, which is huge by the way and somewhat awkward to carry around, unless you’re the Hulk, but I don’t remember him having a lot of patience in the musical area.

He, Boston, not the Hulk (I really don't know what the Hulk is doing now), is currently learning to play the score from Star Wars, which accompanies Darth Vader’s entrance onto the screen. I’ve asked him to follow me around and begin playing this tune whenever I walk into our home or an important business meeting to psyche out my other children or business partners. It’s been VERY effective.

But with Boston picking up an extra talent, we decided it was important to “encourage” Brooklyn and London to participate in a cheerleading camp, which went every night for a week and included a, you guessed it, game on Friday night. Brilliant.

Throw in scouts, campouts (YES! I can camp.) and church activities and the week starts to become a non-stop, caffeinated sprint from one activity to another.

But we can’t be the only ones, right?

Who else is pulling out their hair as they drive from practice to practice?

Anyone?

Bueller. Bueller.

This entry is dedicated to Matt Smith, my brother-in-law, who said my posts where too long to read, when he visited my house…I think its more about his attention span, but I digress.

PS – "Digress" means to turn aside especially from the main subject, Matt. Just in case you were wondering…

PSS – “Encourage” means I had no shot in heaven or you know where, in changing the outcome, so I simply relented.

Cell phones...for kids?

My son started sixth grade this year, which meant he was sent packing from his cushy elementary school and was asked to enter the cold, heartless world of middle school. With a new schedule and a set of busy parents, we wanted to ensure that when we inevitably lost him, it may be easier for us or the police to find him.

Using fear as a motivating factor, we had a weak moment and broke down and bought him a cell phone. As you may imagine, we are now in constant communication. I know when he is relaxing after school, when he is preparing to start school and when he attempting to miss school.

I am informed. I get text messages all day long, from sun up to sun down. We are connected. I know when it is raining by our house, when he is in the backyard and when he is in the bathroom, photos included.

Yes. I even know what he had for an afternoon snack. No, not from photos of his waste (you sick people), but from the pictures he takes and sends me of his peanut butter sandwich, right before he eats it.

But how many texts are too many? 13 texts? 20 texts? 50 texts? I picked up my phone the other day and I had more than 75 texts from my kids. But don’t worry, each text was carefully crafted and contained a vital piece of critical information, just like the photo above. Some texts had pictures of my son, some photos included all of my kids, while some showed me how much they loved their toys, which now all have names and a special place in our lives and my heart.

Those texts that did not include photos of people or inanimate objects dealt with such weighty issues as, “Hey.” And, “What is going on?” And, “Whatcha doing? Or, "Can we download a Jonas Brothers' song from iTunes?" Which, by the way, is always yes, because they are simply too talented to ignore.

Each and every one of you have now been warned. if you get your son a phone, you'll get into the details of my life, which is the entire point, right?