The Lost Decade

I realize my postings have been lacking as of late. The thing is life has been going pretty good and since I use this blog as a sounding board for my rants and raves, I just haven't had anything to write about. That is until today. I was checking my email this morning blissfully unaware that life was about to give me a righteous backhand straight to the money maker. What on earth could be so humbling you may ask? A simple email from my high school reunion committee. SON OF A ?&%@! Are you serious? Has it really been 10 years? Indeed it has. It felt like somebody froze my big toe and then hit it with a sledge hammer. Now I haven't been living in denial (in this particular instance). I knew this was on the horizon but until an official notice was served, it seemed like some sort of mythical event that was never really going to materialize like a unicorn bar mitzvah or getting married. Something that just couldn't happen in this particular space-time continuum. I was one of a handful of graduates seemingly lost to that new fangled intraweb because I refuse to participate in the Big Brother of our generation, Facebook. Don't get me started on Facebook because I have some real issues with the whole social networking sites but that is a different rant for a different day. So I clicked on the link to see what this magical reunion had in store for me. I was whisked away to a jungle of bios on how the Class of 2000 was living their lives. I think I've made myself abundantly clear in the past on my stance towards the mindless drones that try to convince their peers that they've got the world by the tail. So I crawled through a handful of postings only to develop a combination of depression, anger, and apathy that manifested itself in the form of a nervous tick that has taken me a the last few hours to kick. So now I'm seemingly adrift in a haze of unbelief and self-pity trying to figure out how I ended up here and what I've got to show for the last decade besides three marginally successful houseplants and a pretty complete movie collection. Life can be such a cruel mistress sometimes.

On a side note: There was little chance I was going no matter when the date but the fact that the reunion is Aug 20-21 right in the middle of harvest, just solidified my plans to be a no show. Plus everybody already knows I'm too cool for school.

Its Marriage Not Nuclear Physics

For some odd reason the planets have aligned in the last month or so to really push the marriage agenda. I got my mail last week and found the April issue of the Ensign. I was thumbing through it only to discover half of the issue was devoted to marriage. And not the usual topics like maintaining a strong marriage but advice on how to actually get married. It was filled with first hand accounts and advice from recently married couples. GIVE ME A BREAK. The last thing I need is lovey dovey couples who are still floating on a cloud made of toasters, reception mints, and an over inflated image of their own awesomeness, to give me marriage tips. They come across as a modern day Mother Teresa reaching down into the gutters of society to provide much needed rays of enlightenment to the disgruntled masses and burdens of society. They actually had the audacity to explain the process that goes into getting married.

I am supremely confident in my next opinion. There isn't a single active Mormon over the age of 23 that doesn't know how to get married. The process isn't that complex. I mean we've all seen some of these people that are dabbling in the matrimonial arts and no disrespect to their genetics but some of these people should not reproduce but here they are, lucky in love. Some of the comments in the articles were so condescending I nearly pulled a hamstring throwing the magazine in disgust. Granted I took the short bus to school but getting married isn't like creating a particle accelerator in Geneva. Here is my breakdown: Two people cross paths. They discover that they don't completely annoy one another so they start a relationship on that. They meet each other's families and seem to handle the inappropriate jokes and that creepy uncle/brother with minimal issues. A few months go by and they are still relatively unrepulsed by the each other so they decide they might as well get married for the tax break and to get society off their backs. End of story. I'm sure love is sprinkled in there somewhere but with the divorce rate as high as it is, sometimes I wonder.

Don't misinterpret what I'm trying to say. I'm not against the institution of marriage. Marriage and families are the building blocks of society and the decline of said institution is proportionately related to the downfall of decency in the world. I fully support my church authorities and the commandment to get married. I am, however, against know-it-all tools who feel it their foreordained mission to spoon feed me step-by-step instructions on how to join the rest of the blissful idiots with their heads in the clouds. The reason I'm not married has nothing to do with not knowing the intricacies of courtship. Could it possibly be because the most "suitable" (I also don't believe there is a one and only but that is a whole other topic) option has not presented itself? People, I beg you, pull your heads out of your self righteous orifices and join society as a contributing member rather than a self-aggrandizing busy body.

Just Another Self Esteem Boost

Well I guess it wasn't meant to be. I lost in the first round of the brawl. Honestly I'm really glad I didn't win because I don't think I could write a blog a week all year long. I really didn't have much of a chance. How am I supposed to compete with a girl writing about dresses? I do think it's a sad commentary on the mormon culture. They relate more to a 20 year old buying bridesmaid dresses than at 27 year old writing about the complexities and intricacies of life. I think that is one of the reasons why its so hard being older and single. People still place a stigma next to you wondering why you didn't buy bridesmaid dresses ten years ago. But that is just one of the joys of being a menace to society. Thanks for all the support but apparently most of you haven't been paying your tithing otherwise I think it may have come out differently.

On a side note this is a reason why I would never have won anyway:
Is it just me or does anybody else have an issue with the Osmonds? I have a real hard time dealing with the fact that Pres. Monson spoke at the funeral of Marie Osmond's son. He had been in and out of rehab and committed suicide in LA. I realize everybody deserves the benefit of the doubt but the fact that the Prophet spoke at a funeral of somebody that really had nothing to do with the church other than being part of a famous family gives the impression that you can lead whatever life you want and as long as you have connections, your life will be celebrated as an example of righteous living. I understand that I'm a cynic and generally a bad person so I'm probably on an island with this one but writing on a blog is cheaper that hiring a therapist.

Blogger Brawl

Thanks to a little encouragement from my cousin Lisa, I entered the Mormon Times 20 Something blogger contest. I have been selected as one of 32 bloggers to go head to head until a winner is selected by the readers. The main focus of the blog is being single and dating as an older mormon. So my first battle is March 10 on Mormon Times so if you are so inclined you can check me out there and vote if you are so moved. I'll probably be disqualified at some point for preaching false doctrine and leading good members astray but until then, anything goes.

http://www.mormontimes.com/mormon_voices/guest_blog/?id=13193

Dealbreaker

It's incredible to see how fast time goes. January is almost over and I've yet to post a good rant in the new year. My babies are growing into such quite the luscious specimens thanks in large part to my gentle yet firm form of parenting (my babies are my two house plants). I've already got growers planting spring wheat so unfortunately it looks like winter in the 509 has vanished. I've had an adventure or two but one in particular really sticks out. If you watch the show 30 Rock you are familiar the the term Dealbreaker. For example, "ladies, if your man is 35 and still wears a name tag to work, that's a dealbreaker." I've developed some dealbreakers of my own recently. I've decided as part of the new year to broaden my horizons on the dating frontier. What a terrible mistake! I was set up with a girl a couple of weeks ago and it was hands down the worst dating experience I've ever had. This leads me to my first Dealbreaker. "If a girl hasn't seen Dumb and Dumber, regardless if she liked it or not, that's a dealbreaker." Honestly, how is it possible that a person between the ages of 10 and 40 has never seen the cinematic treasure Dumb and Dumber? I should have given her cab fare then and there and bid her adieu. The second dealbreaker "if a girl moves across the country to be closer to a guy she has met once, only to live in his parents basement for an entire year while he is dating somebody else, that's a dealbreaker." I don't think any further explanation is required. The third dealbreaker "if a girls claims to be runner up to Miss Washington even though she can't remember the year it happened, that's a dealbreaker." Yeah I googled it and no dice. The final dealbreaker of this brief date "if a girl claims to make 90 dollars an hour at a baby apparel store she doesn't own and has no discernible job title, thats a dealbreaker." A few other questionable qualities: she is also planning on camping out to see some Nicholas Sparks movie, her favorite band is Nickleback (for you old timers out there Nickleback is a Canadian band whose lead singer is a horse), and she claims to have owned 4 houses (she is 24). The amazing thing is all these things happened over dinner. It was an epic evening to say the least. The whole thing has really shaken my resolve to "broaden" my horizons. I'm feeling pretty comfortable with the view I've got right here.

To top it all off, I found out yesterday that she told my friend that she has me wrapped around her finger. That's news to me. I'm starting to get nervous that one day I'm going to come home to find a severed head on my doorstep.

Take Your Comedy Routine Outside

Last night I stumbled on a pet peeve of mine that rivals shortening the name (which happened at church a few weeks back and my testimony was pretty shaken). I was at FHE last night for the first time in a month or so. I've been kind of busy but in reality I just didn't feel like attending. It was a gingerbread house making extravaganza so I figured I would put my architectural skills to use. I was sitting around the table with some friends just shooting the breeze when the elder's quorum president wandered by. You may remember said president from an earlier post. Anyway he sits down and interrupts our conversation. Out of the blue he makes a dramatic face of shock and wants my friends to introduce him to the visitor he has never met. He obviously was referring to me since it had been a while since I attended FHE. He proceeded to ramble on about how he had never seen me at FHE and how I must be sick or lost. I was about three seconds away from shoving a pretzel stick up his left nostril. Did he really think he was the king of comedy and that I would double over in a fit of laughter because of his well timed and equally hilarious observation of my attendance record? I was a tad irritated because after that he just stood up and walked off like he was Don Quixote or Don Juan (he thinks he is a smooth criminal when it comes to the ladies). I just sat there for a little bit almost in awe of the absurdity of what had taken place. I realize to most of you it seems petty and trivial but its just another thing to add to my already grossly overloaded list of things that annoy me.

By the way I made a lovely gingerbread outhouse complete with pretzel stick siding and a peach ring in the shape of a moon over the door.

Worst Decision Of My Life

So I woke up this morning to endless possiblities. A Saturday off with nothing pressing to do. I hadn't been to Costco in a long time since the closest one is an hour away. Being the bachelor that I am, I only had one scoop of laundry soap left and was down to the last roll of toilet paper. So I decided to venture out. I chose to go west because that Costco is close to a ski shop and I needed some ski wax. I told a friend of mine that I was going and she advised me heavily against it. I guess its been so long since I've been to Costco, I've forgotten about what a zoo sample day is. I could barely find a shopping cart let alone a parking space. I finally got inside and of course I got "that" cart. Stupid wheel had so much hair and nasty jammed in it, it would jam up and I'm left bulldozing a squeeker around the bagels. I almost got into fistacuffs with a "rural" gentleman over a block of delicious Tilamook pepper jack cheese. Plus this Costco did the soap in the opposite corner of the store so I have to shove my way through traffic with a loaded cart that won't roll on all four wheels just to get some Cascade and Tide. Then I decide to use the self checkout lines to save time. Everything is going great until go to pay and realize that they don't take VISA. What's that all about? They'll take American Express but not VISA. Really? Fortunately they accepted my debit card and after twenty minutes of trying to worm my way through a bunch of obese middle-aged men and their slices of pizza, I made my way to freedom. Exhausting. Plus everybody kept giving me the stink eye because I was passing them in the aisles like I was in the Indy 500. I guess some people just like to relish the atmosphere that only a bargain club warehouse can provide. The day was saved by a trip to Wendy's and a no. 6 combo with a Dr. Pepper.

Hello My Name Is...

A shocking revelation has recently been brought to my attention. It is the personal introduction followed my church calling IE "Hi my name is Chet Chippewa; elder's quorum pianist." These people exist. One particular example can be found in the glorious Moses Lake singles ward. The elder's quorum president. Every person he introduces himself to he follows it up with is status on the religious hierarchical ladder. Can you imagine if everybody did this. "Hi I'm Steve Gravy, and I have webbed feet." "Hi I'm Molly Juniperberry and I'm a convicted felon." I suppose it would make life easier. I'm not sure what is more sad, the person doing the introducing or the person being impressed by such magical feats. Apparently it must do something because the dude has had like 4 girlfriends in the last 3 months so who am I to judge. But I make an impassioned plea to society as a whole; Unless ordered by a judge or your probation officer, spare us the grandiose title. Nobody cares. Not even your grandma (seriously she called me and we had a whole conversation about it).

Land Of The Lost

I enjoy grocery shopping. I should say I USED to enjoy grocery shopping. I suppose my love for it stems from my childhood when I would go with my mom to Albetson's and on occasion she would let us kids open the wheat thins and eat them while we were shopping. Recently however, my joy has been tainted by the very thing I used to love. I loved the environment. Each aisle was a new adventure. One side of the store was the jungle of produce while the other side was a industrial setting of meat and seafood. A surprise awaited around every corner. Now those surprises usually consist of an overweight gentleman scratching himself in front of the frozen pizzas. I'm sure all of you have experience Wal-Mart fever. No matter when you go, there seems to be an overcrowding of characters that can best be described as former carnival ride workers. Where do these people come from and why are they all congregating at Wal-Mart. I suppose I don't do myself any favors by always shopping on Saturday but these people appear at all hours of the day. Today I was deciding on which brand of peanut butter best represented my extreme attitude toward life, when I witnessed something rarer than a unicorn's bar mitzvah. There was an EXTREMELY overweight lady on a store provided motorized scooter. Well I'm not sure if she broke it, the battery went dead, or the entire machine just couldn't take its miserable existence anymore, but there she was in the middle of the aisle yelling across the store at what I can only assume was her husband for help. I guess her husband was too eager to get to the libations aisle and left her in the dust. I would have offered help, but she wouldn't stop muttering long enough for me to get a word in. It was just another example of the litany of surprises that can only be afforded at Wal-Mart. When will I learn my lesson and start shopping somewhere else? Probably never because I feel so much better at the state of my affairs after a brief hiatus into the land that dignity forgot.

Follow My Lead

I haven't had much to rant about lately but something recently has gotten under my skin. This will probably be pretty foreign to those of you who have names that can't be shortened but for those of us with names that are easily changed, there is a major epidemic out there. I always introduce myself as Clinton. For my entire life I've referred to myself as Clinton. My parents have always called me Clinton. My siblings have always called me Clinton. So why is it that the second after I introduce myself to someone new, they immediately ask if I go by Clint? If I went by Clint, don't you think I would introduce myself as Clint? Are those last two letters that big of a tongue twister? At least those people ask. Some people just automatically start calling me Clint. I mean if somebody introduced herself to me as Victoria, I would start referring to them as Vicky or Tori. Maybe Ictor but I would at least ask. Usually being called Clint isn't that bad but there are certain people out there that when they say Clint, it sounds super trashy and redneck. I don't know if it is their accent or my general feelings of disdain toward them for changing my name, but sometimes it just comes out wrong. I think the whole name thing could be an underlying reason for growing the beard. People think twice about sabotaging a person's name if that person has a beard. Probably because a beard makes people think you are smarter than you really are (at least that's the case with me).

It just doesn't make sense. If you feel like changing my name, whey not switch it up to something extreme like Bojangles, Vanilla Mischief, or Kevin? I'll bet Eastwood never had to deal with this.

Beard Busy

As you have noticed, I've been MIA for a while. Well that is due to the fact that all my energies have been devoted to facial hair establishment and maintenance. As you can see, it is coming along quite nicely. That glorious jungle on my face is about 4 weeks worth of complete devotion. Actually, I started the beard at the beginning of buckwheat harvest and I can't shave it until we are all finished. We've got about 600 acres left but it rains here every three days so I could end up looking like ZZ Top by the time its all said and done.

And yes ladies, I am single.

The Littlest Con Artist

Last Saturday I was on my way home from work when my cell phone rang. Now my most called numbers have distinctive rings so I know who it is before I look (mainly so I can prepare myself for the boss's call). The ring that penetrated my ears was the sound of a pinball machine going crazy. It could only be one number "The Hurricane." As many of you might know, I refer to my brother's family as The Hurricane. I love getting calls from them because usually the kids want to tell me about something that happened to them. This particular day I was completely unprepared for the conversation. My brother was on the other line and told me my niece, The Bam, had a question for me. Being naive, I thought it was going to be something about how awesome I think I am. The Bam says hello and immediately dives into her question. I can hear my brother in the background coaching her on. The conversation went something like this "Uncle Clinty, my school is having a walk-a-thon and I'm going to walk (whispering in the background How far Dad?) I'm going to walk a mile and a half. Will you sponsor me? Grandma already gave me (whispering again How much Dad?) Grandma already gave me 25 dollars." Brilliant. There is no way I could refuse that offer and no way I could give less than Grandma. I replied,"Okay Bam, what if I give you another 25 dollars?" She said,"That is okay but I need it really soon! (whispering in the background But Dad I don't want to talk to him anymore)" My brother gets on,"Well I guess she's done." What a sucker I am. The check was in the mail that very day. She played my like a fiddle. My only question is, isn't a mile and a half a pretty good distance for a kindergartner? Plus isn't the school starting a little young getting the kids out pedaling sunshine and rainbows? Well I'm a proud donor to The Bam's Hillcrest Elementary Walk-a -Thon. I just hope in the future she doesn't call up asking for my right leg, because sure enough two days later you will see me hobbling around with a 2X4 duct taped to my leg muttering to myself, "Why on earth does a first grader need my leg for show and tell."

Things My Mom Taught Me

I've decided to follow up my last post with the co-most influential person in my life my Mom. Whenever I did something usually my parents fought over who "had" to claim me: the Bakers or the Bowens. Both genetic lines are pretty full "short bus" DNA so I think its a toss up. My brother looks like a Bowen and both my sisters look like Bakers but I'm some genetic mutant with no specific look from one particular side. So I guess what I'm saying is both my parents are to blame for this outcome.

The majority of things my mom taught me can be summed up in a quote she often said before I left the house with my friends, "Don't embarrass me!" She knew I wouldn't get into real trouble but there was a high chance that she would hear on Sunday from somebody that they saw me Friday night putting a teacher's kid's bikes on the roof or sleeping on top of the high school auditorium. True on both accounts. My mother taught me patience. I didn't learn it but she taught it constantly. She always told me patience was a virtue, so I always claimed to be unvirtuous. She had the patience of a saint. From putting up with me trying to stick 50 grapes in my mouth at the dinner table or watching me fake vomit over the sight of lamb stroganoff. My mom taught be the quickest route to the hospital. She chauffeured me for a broken nose (church ball), gashed leg (Cadillac in the snake river), gashed head (trampoline under clothes line, WWF with dad), and even a broken ear drum (a Q Tip with a vendetta). She even put up with me doing a header into the filing cabinet at the doctor's office while there for my brother. My mom usually doesn't do well with blood, but when it comes to her kids (especially me), she is Hercules. My mom always taught me to eat my vegetables. Once again I didn't learn but she was quite the teacher. I remember one time I wouldn't eat my green beans so she said I couldn't leave the table until I did so I decided to play chicken. An hour later, I choked down cold green beans because she called my bluff. I think that is where I get my stubbornness.

I don't know if most homes are like this, but if Dad got mad, we could handle that. If Mom got mad, your life was about to suffer drastic consequences. But my mom is definitely the glue that held us all together and often times kept us stuck to the wall after "doing something embarrassing."

Things My Dad Taught Me

We all have things our dads taught us that we don't realize or appreciate until years later (unless you are one of the Menendez brothers). The other day I caught myself doing something that I specifically learned from my dad not directly but in a subconscious way. I needed to clean my shower, so what better way to do that than when I'm actually in the shower. You aren't worried about getting wet so you can really focus on the job. My dad does this all the time. He will get in the shower and instantly yell for the Tilex so we would jump to because that meant we wouldn't have to clean it later. Between him and my mom I've inherited a real ocd complex about cleaning things. Once I realized why I was cleaning the shower in the shower, I started to think about other things I learned from my dad not in lessons but in everyday situations. For example, during the summer the pothole crew would patch every mile in the county. They would usually stop at the church in the shade for lunch (our church is a mile from the house out in the country). If my dad saw them resting there, he would stop at Farmer's Corner on the way back from a parts run and buy a bunch of Pepsi. When he pulled up to the crew, and handed out the icy libations, the crew would tear up (well maybe not tear up but they enjoyed it). After a few of these exchanges, I asked my dad the rational behind it. He told me to observe the miles around the house and shop. Sure enough, we had the best patched roads in the county. I think my dad is some kind of genius (don't tell him I said that). He did the same thing for us and the hired help. Two or three afternoons a week, we could count on some cold beverages showing up. After throwing it back, we had a sense of obligation to really put our nose to the grindstone. Diabolical thinking. My dad always tried to work along side us and the hired help doing the crappy jobs to show that the job needed to be done and he wasn't above the fray. It worked, Now I always try to put some time in doing the butt jobs to show everybody we are all on the same level (not technically but emotionally?). Seriously my dad might be some kind of Freudian Master Jedi. I'm sure my dad isn't proud of this but he taught all of us kids how to swear. Just ask my littlest sister about days in the beet field. My dad wasn't a huge swearer and rarely swears in his old age but he taught us very important combinations of swear words and everyday objects that really opened my mind to all the glorious possibilities. This lesson can also be attributed to any of the old timers in the neighborhood since I've heard swear words over the pulpit.
I'm sure there are thousands of other little things that I don't remember or fully appreciate yet ie.. if you aren't going to do a job right don't do it at all. This never made sense to me because not doing the job at all never seemed to be an option. It sure would have saved me a lot of time and energy. But I digress. My dad has the patience of a saint once you realize he is the local employment agency when it comes to 12-17 year old white kids from the ward. But I suppose if he wasn't institutionalized trying to raise me and my siblings (mainly me), the man can probably handle anything.

Grateful for the Sabbath Day of Sabbathness

Yesterday I finished up a ten day straight 150 hour harvest stretch (the math averages out to 15 hours a day) that included two Sundays. Often times when people say they don't even know what day it is, I think they are lying but I had a severe case of that very thing. I attribute it to one thing, the lack of a Sabbath. Now I don't care if you are religious or not. I don't care what church you go to or how often. All I know, is in my life that seventh day works wonders. Maybe not because of what I learn or who I see, but the feeling that there is something different about the day. It helps reset the calendar. Most farmers in the Moses Lake area don't work on Sundays, but I've been a few hours north near the Paloose where Sunday is just another day for farmers to work. I'm not judging them or saying they are bad for wanting to work on Sunday, but it makes life such drudgery to have nothing to look forward to at the end/start of the week. I remember growing up one or maybe two Sundays when the neighborhood had to harvest beets to help a neighbor out before the winter set in but even then, you could feel that Sunday was different. I would imagine after enough Sundays in a row without church be it due to work or play that the feeling would go away, I never thought as a kid I would appreciate Sundays and church as much as I do now. So go out and try church. Rumor has it they keep Nilla Waffers in the nursery closet.


As a side note: Go check out the Bowen Clan's blog. Little Kami G started school and I must say she looks pretty scholarly and stylish.

The Face Of Freedom

About ten days ago I came home to a package on my doorstep. I hadn't ordered anything, so naturally I assumed the box contained anthrax especially when I saw the return address was from Idaho. I carefully opened the box and gasped at its contents. Nothing on the face of the earth could shock me more than this.

After I treated my ulcer and changed my pants, I decided this is actually a blessing. How else could I get this much "face time" with the leader of the free world. So I set about with a make over.

With a few days of "hair raising" discussion, ideas began to "sprout"

Finally we both agreed I was right and the "grass" really was "greener" on my side of the fence.



A special thanks goes out to my sister for the oddest, most spectacular birthday present I've ever received.

Technically my birthday isn't until Aug 3. Then I will wait for my AARP card to arrive in the mail.

Alumni Pride

I work with a guy who is a huge Washington Huskies fan. I gave him so much grief when BYU landed the top quarterback in the country over UW. He is always hassling me asking me what Rexburg was like because he knows it drives me crazy when people who went to BYU Idaho try to pass it off as if they went to the Real BYU. Now if you're the kind of person that is easily offended or takes it personally when somebody disses your school, especially BYU-I, you should stop reading now and go toast an English muffin.
Recently an anonymous cohort of mine and I were making a list of why people go to BYU-I. We came up with some real gems. I'm going to keep this person anonymous so if you are offended you can blame me but if you like it you can credit my co-author. Here is what we came up with:

BYU-I
Because Provo wouldn't let you in.
BYU-I
Because the community college doesn't have a Family/Human Development major
BYU-I
Because cosmetology school was full
BYU-I
Because Californian parents think it's a Mormon reform school
BYU-I
Because you need something to fill the time between Xango juice sales conventions
BYU-I
Because birds with big hair flock together
BYU-I
Because the Prophet says even the academically challenged need to get married
BYU-I
Because high school doesn't have a 13th grade


Here are a few that don't pertain to BYU-I:

Door-to-door summer sales
Because you couldn't return the engagement ring
The JSB auditorium
Because day care isn't free
Utah State
Because rebel Mormons aren't that rebellious
BYU Democrats
Because your dad wouldn't pay your tuition

And finally:

BYU
Because the mission president wouldn't let you extend any longer.
BYU
Because you think people are dying to hear about you being a Zone Leader
BYU
Because no other place has married housing called "The Rabbit Hutch"
BYU
Because 1984 will always be relevant
BYU
Because there is no downside to dating your home teacher
BYU
Because braided belts and socks with Birkenstocks will never go out of style

Remember I'm an equal opportunity offender

Domino Effect

People in general are sheep. That is why fashion magazines sell so well. The public will see something that another person has and immediately covet it. While Mormons aren't necessarily followers with Vogue or GQ, we have our own "golden idol" to yearn for. It is like Indiana Jones in the temple of doom when he switches a bag of sand for the gold. Mormons, especially young men, try to trick women into marriage with what is essentially a bag of sand. The pandemic sweeping many a singles ward this time of year is the dreaded "engagement". Once one person proposes, the dominos begin to fall and within a couple of weeks there are 5 or 6 more couples that have committed to walk that Green Mile. They are sheep I tell you. All they see is the lovey dovey hugging and kissing that is going on and will do anything to have that. In most cases the proposal comes mere weeks after meeting the girl. PEOPLE SLOW YOUR ROLL!
Engagements are just like Indiana Jones. Once you have the gold, a massive boulder falls out of the ceiling and nearly crushes you to death. Then after escaping the creepy ancient ruin, you have to out run the native tribes and their poisonous arrows only to leap onto a puddle jumper narrowly missing a fall from a cliff to your death. In the "engagement" scenario, the crushing boulder or angry natives can take various forms. From crazy in-laws, to sitting down figuring out which color pattern goes better: dusty rose and peach or fuscia and periwinkle blue. Whatever it may be, the odds of you "dying" are staggering. Once a person gets married, they are never the same and not in the good way that the bishop is always trying to sell. All single friends denounce you. It is nothing personal. It is actually required by law. The Founding Fathers wrote it into the Constitution saying "...all single people are required to severe their relationships with married couples within a fortnight of said union." Pretty harsh but old Ben Franklin knew that interaction between married and single people would only cause chaos because once the bliss has worn off, married people try to drag more single people into the quicksand that is matrimony so they won't have to suffer in silence.
So remember all you citizens of the Single Nation: not all that glitters is gold. As my mother always said, "just because your friends jump off a cliff that doesn't mean you should" Actually my mother always told me before I left the house, "Don't embarrass me!" I'm sorry Mom. I tried but something in my DNA compels me to act like a mouth breathing miscreant.

For those of you who struggle with sarcasm, this is a perfect example. It is purely satirical. I only wrote it because I have yet to convince a female to accepting my bag of gravel.

A Public Service

As many of my devoted readers are aware of, my post usually deal with something that annoys me. Today is no different. While there are many things out there that bug me like guys that wear skinny jeans. Seriously their shoes look like water skis with those things on plus blood circulation has to be severely restricted. But that isn't what has been bugging me lately. I would like to bring attention to the horrible practice of the chapel PDA. You all know what I'm talking about. It has hit epidemic status ever since Generation X has been unleashed on the world. I want to discuss a different types of the not so sacred, sacrament meeting display. The first is the "elderly." This type is the only one I give a thumbs up to. Basically because it is so rare and the old timers are probably only doing it to keep their pacemakers ticking. The second type is "pushed to the brink." You only see this with married couples that have more than two kids on their bench. It is usually a result of a long hot day at church where if they don't get some help, one or more of those kids is going to get thrown out of the mini van on the way home. I give this a pass the majority of the time and the only reason I don't allow this 100% is because of that one creepy couple in every ward that has been married for over ten years but still acts like a newlywed couple still on their honeymoon. That is a pretty traumatic site for a young impressionable lad or lass that has to sit behind them for an hour. The next few types are were I really get disgusted. The "newlywed" is a perfect example. We get it, you are in love and just got married. I don't need to see Peter Priesthood whisper sweet nothings into Molly Mormon's ear only to have Molly rub Peter's back so provocatively that it probably wouldn't even be allowed on cable TV. This is 99 percent of the time off limits. The only reason I don't go full on against if because there is always that weird couple that you have to watch because you don't think they could be any more disgusting but every Sunday they have a way of stepping up their game. A close relative of the "newlywed" is the "newly engaged." While similar to the "newlywed" the "newly engaged" varies because they aren't yet legal. The comment most often associated with this one is "save some for the honeymoon." Always a 100% no-no. Now we get into my area of expertise. The single's ward shenanigans. The most common is the "dater." This couple usually forgets that the date ended on Saturday night and they feel it necessary to continue the PDA into the sabbath. This can be super uncomfortable especially when they sit in the middle of the long benches surrounded by strangers rather than isolate themselves on the short pews. I have a real hard time with this one because they are so blatantly trying to show everyone else how awesome they are. This goes without saying 110% no. The next type has really burst onto the scene in the last few year. Its called the "girl power." For some reason, girls feel the need to provide moral support to their Friends in the form of excessive groping and rubbing. I was this yesterday where one girl playing with the other's hair and then spent the next 20 minutes giving her a shiatsu massage. Now I can't fully explain the reasoning behind it but I think it is some form of protest against the "dater." They are trying to prove that they are much better off without the weaker sex but 9 times out of 10, given the chance, Molly would leap over the bench to get with Peter. All if can do is give a confused shrug of the shoulders and have the finger in the negative. The final type is by far the most troubling. It is the kissing cousin of the "girl power." I call it the "bro." Identical in every way save one to the "girl power", the "bro" substitutes a little bromance into the equation. Guys should never be rubbing other guys' backs. Period. I don't even like discussing this form of debauchery. What can I say? NEVER. So please use this as a template and lets try to keep our hands to ourselves. Church is for filling our spiritual canteen or if you are like me and your canteen is already overflowing its for catching up dreams and visions. The sabbath day is not a way to demonstrate your PDA.

Plus it makes all of us lone rangers look like the hermits and old maids that we are so desperately trying to deny that we are. The Spanish have a saying "no comeis pan en frente de los pobres." Translation: Don't eat bread in front of the poor."

That Special Time Of Year

There is a magical time of year that only occurs in the most remote of location: single wards. The season known as running with the newbies has begun. The first Sunday after high school graduation the lemmings descend into the valley of "responsible adults." Yesterday the chapel sounded like a high school cafeteria the day before the prom. All those youngsters were able to sit wherever they wanted and it was comparable to letting prisoners on death row select their last meal. Absolutely brutal. I couldn't figure out why this year I was more annoyed than usual then I started doing the math. The year I graduated high school, all of those new kids on the block were enrolled in the third grade. When I got home from my mission those cool cats were in the sixth grade. When I graduated BYU these juveniles were freshmen in high school. That is an equation that equal depression. Even if I wanted to date one of these gems I could never feel comfortable dating somebody that my littlest sister babysat. I would ask for your pity but I've got more than enough created by my own ego.