While many good things are happening downtown to make it a more viable place for small businesses and community gatherings, sadly we are losing some of our most valuable galleries and boutiques. This weekend my favorite little spot, Mode boutique will be closed forever.

To compensate for the emptiness in my heart, I pass on the welcome from Beccy--the brilliant and creative owner--to 30% (up to 75%) off shopping from now until Saturday night. Everything in the store is for sale, from clothes to hangers to displays to furniture. But you know what is not for sale? My broken heart, that's what.

Thanks Mode for making Provo a better place to shop, and thanks for my 30th birthday shirt.
We will miss you.

I haven't posted to my Provo blog since last Friday? How can this be? I will never win Mrs. Provo if I don't do my proper postings. How will the Osmonds discover me if I have a rusty blog?

Truth is, I haven't had time to post because I've just been having so much fun (so much fun Mrs. Provo judges! Wink! Wink!) On Saturday I took my son up Provo Canyon where he pointed out the window like a toting cowboy in a wild western as we drove along. When we approached Bridal Veil Falls I thought he was going to faint. And he does faint, my son, so I didn't put it past him. Water? Falling down gigantic rocks? What? Nobody told me about this earthly delight! Hold breath! Hold breath!

When we arrived at Vivian Park I was surprised to see millions of people there. Were you at Vivian Park on Saturday? Were you there with seventy thousand of your family reunion/roomates/Twilight Facebook friends? Did you have an inner tube slung about your shoulder? Was that you?

Our point in passing through the canyon and the park was to scurry on up South Fork where we were meeting cousins for a day at their cabin. We passed a picnic of people at South Fork park and heard good times from hikers at Big Springs Hollow. It was hot and yet, being away from the city with canyons of cleavage and a delightful stream (good for keeping the watermelon cool) made it tolerable. Tolerable and incredible. All at once.

At the cabin we hiked to a small pond where the younger children painted each other with black mud as the older children floated in inner tubes. I watched my son dig through the layers of rocks as water appeared in his holes. It was our mountain beach equivalent, we splashed, and swam and laughed at gray fish under our feet.

When we were tired from all the afternoon sun, we headed west back home. As we passed Conrad Ranch, a bride and groom were out taking wedding pictures while a lady with a tiered cake wobbled by. I knew in a couple hours the sun would start to set and the ranch would be lit with tiny white lights. Always a magical setting for a romantic country reception.

My baby was asleep by the time we landed at Vivan Park again. We waited for fifteen minutes to exit the park. Could you carpool next time?

In fact, next time let's do s'mores. I am going through an obsession with chocolate, graham crackers and marshmallows. It is not good for my Mrs. Provo figure.

But hey.

Months ago my mother brought before the City Council a chicken ordinance. This decree called for the domesticity of chickens for all Provo citizens. As far as the bold and the brave go, my mother--The City Councilwoman--stands tall. To further amaze you, I will divulge that in real life she is pretty short.

I don't know about your side of town, but here in the tree streets chickens are the shiz. Everybody wants a coop, everybody wants fresh eggs, everybody wants to look just a little bit more organic than their neighbor. We will address this path of pride later, and maybe. Families were holding chickens in their backyards against the law. This time in caps: Families were holding chickens in their backyards AGAINST THE LAW. Do you have any idea what is was like for me to be living amongst outlaws? In caps: AMONGST OUTLAWS?

So days before the big Chicken Debate my sister Page (an outlaw of huge chicken herd proportions) gets an call from Animal Control who informs her that someone called in a threat against her and she had 24 hours to give the chickens away. Reports came in that others were receiving the same threat to their coops. Here is the deal Animal Control, if you really cared about animals you'd give their owner a little bit longer than 24 hours to find them a proper home. I mean, 24 hours? To give away a flock of hens? Were you hoping to not have to buy a ham for this years Animal Control Christmas dinner? Is that it?

Skipping back to the debate, it turns out that the council passes my mothers ordinance 4-3. This is good news. Back in my neighborhood I hear fireworks exploding and revelers in the streets acting like they've been swiped with bird flu, gone crazy. All is well right?

Not right.

Because the ordinance passed 4-3 and not 5-2, the Mayor got a swing at it with his veto stamp. The man came out VETO stamp blazing and shot down the ordinance like the quick and the dead. The town was so stunned at his ruthless roadblock, you could hear a hen lay and egg on a soft bed of straw.

But would my mother give up? Would The Councilwoman not carry on? No. Not her! No! She went ahead and changed some wording, fixed stipulations here and there and stood before the council one more time, a humble servant of the town.

She shot, the vote went up. This time 5 hands were raised in favor. The chickens wouldn't have to face the Mayor and his veto stamp ever again. Coops are being raised, fresh eggs are being fetched and outlaws are coming out of their hiding. It is a good day to be a Provonian.

By the way, perhaps you noticed that the Mayor wrote about the chicken ordinance in the monthly Provo newsletter? Thanks to The Councilwoman and her fearless advocacy of friend and fowl alike.

I learned my lesson a while back to never publicly share negative feelings about a person, place (and sometimes a thing) on my blog. Once I complained that the Peaks Ice Arena was closed even though they promised (PROMISED) us they'd be open on Thanksgiving for public skating. Oh boy, did that light up my inbox with people who have passionate ties to the Peaks Ice Arena. Who knew?

But, I have long written love notes to Cafe Rio for their unwavering devotion to fresh food and no frills eating style. I have blogged, visited and cashed in thousands of FREE MEALS! Which is why I feel a wee bit justified in complaining about the new look and sound of the dinning room.

Chup and I went in the other day and found graffiti all over the faux finished walls.

What are all these stenciled statements?

Getting yelled at in Spanish never tasted so good?

The pressure is on, black or pinto?

When did Cafe Rio turn into a gimmicky franchise with the need to compensate for something by distracting you from the food?

"Chup," I said as we looked around, heads rotating around the place, like seeing Manhattan for the first time, "I am actually embarrassed that we are eating here."

Shake your salsa maker?

But what may be worse (I am still trying to decide) is the background music which plays a strange salsa of Brian Adams, 50's doo wop and the Lion King soundtrack, often interrupted by a suave, deep voice reminding us that we are "listening to Cafe Rio Radio."

Ambiance is everything to me, and suddenly the food didn't taste like it used to. It tasted like money, franchise kingdoms and the Four Tops.

Go ahead . . . try to eat it all?

What happened when Cafe Rio didn't care how long you had to wait in line for their pork salad because they knew it was worth your wait? When did they start caring about me as a wallet, and less about me as a mouth and stomach? When did they stop hating me for not ordering fast enough? And why the stencils? Why? Why? Why?

Anyway, Chup won't do take out because we've had some tragic endings to that whole operation. So it is either eating with blindfolds and earplugs or quitting them forever.

Excuse us, this is serious.

While in Scottsdale, Chup and I were having dinner with some locals. When asked about our plans for our little vacation, I told them I wanted to take Chup to Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West. My first visit there was life changing in a way I'd like to compose some day.

They both confessed to never having been to this gem in their backyard desert. I shook my head at them, how could they miss out on such a unique experience?

But in returning back to Utah we flew over Timpanogas and I remembered that I had never been to the Timp Caves, or even hiked one speck of the Timp trail. How can I call myself a Provonian having never been inside the belly of our majestic mountain?

(I've also never ventured south to Moab to see Arches. I've got some exploring to do. Sounds like.)

By the way of a happy ending, one of those locals at dinner generously used well-connected resources and hooked Chup and me up with a personal tour of Taliesin by none other than Mr. Wright's apprentice, Arnold Roy of the Senior Fellowship.

It was like getting a tour of the Timp Caves by a bat.

Speaking of, how can I get connected to that tour?

Whenever we visit El Azteca (which is, let's be fair, once a week) Chup and I bring home a bag of chips (crispy and homemade) and a tub of their hot salsa.

It is so hot. Like inner body cleansing heat that begs for mercy.

I offered some to my teenage nieces Lindsay and Emily yesterday. You can see their reaction in my picture above. I thought they'd stop at one dip, but Emily ended up saying,

"This is so weird. I can't stop."

One time I mistakenly left a tub in the car over night. In the morning the car was on fire with the smell of pungent peppers and ancient Aztec secrets.
One time I ate an entire bag for breakfast, the fire of the salsa fueled my blood and I had enough energy to clean the whole house before noon.
One time we ate the mild salsa (which is really sweet with a slight of pepper) but we'll never go back again.

El Azteca is like Cheers to us. We like to go in where everybody knows our name. Or at least suffers through our earnest Spanish conversations. We always see someone we know eating enchiladas in the booth next to ours. This last time we bumped into brother-in-law Ric and his infamous father, John who asked me to pull up a chair at our table. Which I did, only to become privy to some very exciting news about to drop on Provo's culinary front.

John knows all the business.

But before we got up to leave, hot salsa in hand, John yelled to me with a wink,

"Now, don't go putting that information on your blog."

So, we'll wait. But in the meantime, try the hot salsa at El Azteca.

Burning sensations, feelings of sublimity.



Enter our Provo Freedom Festival Photography Contest here!

Yesterday Chup and I officially made it through seven years of marriage. As far as I can tell neither one of us is itching. It's good.

To celebrate, we took the acclaimed Michael Wiltbank on his offer to take our pictures in front of the Provo Temple where we were sealed. Our official sealing took place in the evening in the early winter, making it impossible for our sunny day temple shot which so many Mormon couples hang in their early apartments.

In recent years I have fallen in love with the unique look of my temple. It doesn't carry the spirals of the Salt Lake Temple, or the biblical recollection of the Mesa Temple, but it's a gift from the decade of its conception. Built in the late'60s, the design is symbolic of the cloud by day, fire by night promises given to the children of Israel.

While most local Mormon brides (it seems) make quick appointments to the Salt Lake Temple for their dream wedding, I cheer on those who settle on the Provo Temple. So do local photographers, for that matter. It has a charm, temple workers are astounded and thrilled to help with a live sealing, and you are sure to get a breathtaking view of Squaw Peak in your wedding photos.

So lovely in fact, in seven years you might be tempted to do it all over again.





Enter our Provo Freedom Festival Photography Contest here!

I am still buzzing after the weekend of delights. The early morning balloons, the breakfast burritos, the grand parade, the family picnic, the three-hour nap, the Stadium of Fire, the burning patriotism in my bosom. This may be the weekend I will always remember as the one where I first fell in love with Joe Jonas. Who knew he was so cute?

Here are some of my favorite of our weekend photos. If you look at the end of this post, you will see that Chup and I are holding a photography contest for all the masses of photographers in Utah County. Yes, step right up!

Downtown on the eve of the big day:
Captain America doesn't come to just any old parade:
Can you tell we're big fans of that Steve Clark candidate?


Please Enter Our First Ever Photography Contest:

Did you take pictures of your family enjoying Provo's weekend festivities?
If so, post them up on your blog,
include a link to this blog,
(or our button)



plant us a comment in this post saying something like,
"Dude, check out my daughter feeding our dog a snow cone at the parade!"
and we will follow that link to your blog to check out your photographic brilliance.

On Friday, Chupa and I will decide our favorite photo of all,
and award the winner with a
dinner for two at Rooster.

Yes, this Rooster.
(the lava cake is worth the entry, I promise you this.)

Please enter (we've never had a photography contest before--did we mention?) and good luck!

My final answer is this: the best part of the Freedom Festival is coming together as American citizens to celebrate the birthday of our nation. I love the vibe of downtown's fair and thrill rides. The blocking off of Center street for the pedestrian view of the excitement. I love running into old friends at the mini donut booth. Hearing the anticipatory fireworks going off around me at night.

We are making plans to do it all this year. By midnight on the fourth I am sure our bodies will be aching for slumber and tired of the fun. In our family there is a saying we pass amongst ourselves as the festivities wrap up.

"Before you know it, it will be Christmas."

But before Santa comes, I want to also wish my father a Happy Birthday. His passion for politics and change must've been present in the womb, he decided to enter this world on the Fourth of July. A true Yankee Doodle Dandy, a funny man with an good heart. If you see him in the parade will you join me in wishing him a happy day?

He's 52. In case you were wondering.

Happy Fourth of July everyone!
I hope to see you around this weekend!

Maybe the best part of the Freedom Festival would be the fireworks, except since ditching the Stadium of Fire for a night at home, I've yet to find the perfect spot for watching the firework show. I like to feel the fireworks in my chest, and have them echo in my ears, so I've got to be close. Yet, I like to snuggle with my favorite Yankee Doodle Dandy and a crowd kinda ruins the effect.

One year Chup and I drove around the stadium in circles with my mom's convertible top down. Another year we were invited to the BYU football practice field, which was spectacular, but that privilege has come and gone. We tried our rooftop last year, but it was too hard a surface. Why do we have rocks on our roof anyway?

I would just go to the blasted event, but I don't really love ash in my hair either.


Anyone want to divulge their firework watching secret?

For my whole life the Grand Parade was the best part about the Freedom Festival. Color, queens, music, cannons, clowns and usually The Councilwoman or The State Rep in an antique car. And every year as the police cruisers rounded up the last of the floats, I was always sad to think that 365 days remained until the parade would come again.

Then I'd feel horrible for the person who had to clean the overflow in the ditch--hemorrhaging with trash and melted tiger's blood snow cones. Glad it wasn't me.

Though the parade and I only reunite every other year (like the balloons, I can't appreciate the intensity of the parade annually in my old age) I declare the best seats are anywhere in the shade on the north side of Center, between 3rd East and 7th East.

And of course, don't forget to wear your Old Navy t-shirt. Obligatory.