While trick-or-treating tonight, we walked up to a very nice house with a huge, blue Y in the window. Lincoln and his friends knocked on the door and yelled the customary Halloween salutation. When the lady came to the door, the first thing Lincoln said was, "You have the wrong letter in your window!" Now this was totally unprovoked and I in no way coached him at all. The lady was taken aback a little and it took her a minute to respond. She finally said, "Who told you to say that?: while looking right at me. Lincoln immediately caught her off guard again when he very quickly stated, "No one told me to say that, I just know it is true."
It is so nice when you realize you are raising your kid the right way.
I just know that the dozens of faithful readers are just dying to know how my day as a chicken went. It was not as foul as I would have hoped. I was one of two chickens today, although no offense to the other chicken, but I was definitely first in the pecking order.
Being a chicken was much hotter and sweatier than I had thought. It certainly wasn't cheep. My neighbor must have plucked this costume out of the good costume bin, or perhaps the incubator, because this thing was a thing... of beauty. The costume was at the beak of it's talons until, hmm... uh... I've got nothing left here.
I learned a few things this day day dressed in chicken apparel. Just a few:
1. Chickens have horrible eyesight, especially those wearing costumes.
2. Chickens are beloved by hundreds of children, especially those chickens wearing chicken costumes.
3. Chickens shed in the wintertime, especially large, mansized chickens wearing chicken costumes.
4. Chickens sweat like they have been swimming in hot oil, at least those that are in said costumes.
5. Chickens still feel pain, no matter how soft a child punches it in the stomach.
Needless to say, it was a long day, and I only wore the suit for about an hour, but when you are leading a parade, an hour in the chicken suit can be a very long time.
In a show of unity today, stating that we will all stay off drugs, my entire school made a human chain around our school. I felt very united.
My experience with the human chain made me realize just how lucky I was to be the missing link. I held my head high as I held the hands of two six year olds and shouted to the heavens, “DREAMS, NOT DRUGS!”
Now that I have completed this truly bonding experience, I have decided to provide my readers with a basic outline of when forming a human chain is appropriate, just so you are aware.
WHEN FORMING A HUMAN CHAIN IS APPROPRIATE:
1. When stopping someone from chopping down a tree. 2. When you are in a Coca Cola commercial. 3. When you are teaching a group of kids to say no to drugs. 4. When you are playing “Crack the Whip” or “Red Rover”. 5. If you are in a huge musical production and at the end of the show the crowd is cheering wildly for you. 6. When you are attempting to save a dangling man from a cliff. 7. If you are a polygamist on a date. 8. If you are performing a séance. 9. If you are a Rockette. 10. Whenever you are sandbagging.
WHEN FORMING A HUMAN CHAIN IS NOT APPROPRIATE:
1. While standing at the urinals at the football game.
Not that it would be impossible, unless of course the urinators are highly trained to be able to go with no hands, but the odds of that happening are slim to nil.
Many of my followers have been inquiring of what I might be for Halloween this year. I understand the curiosity, for I am a man of many mysteries and escapades. In fact, I know that several people walk this earth constantly wondering what I might be doing at that very second and one of those people happens to be me. My blog has created a fiesta of spectacle, a monument to the man and the legend that is... Cheeseboy. I blame no one for their meddlesomeness nature when it comes to peering through the peephole of my life. I say to you, “Peep away, you peepers of inquiring minds. Let my pathetic existence be your playground.”
Anyway, I know you have all been on the edge of your seats (Hopefully if you are reading this on the toilet and you are on the edge of your seat, you have still left ample room for things to drop, if you know what I mean. I'd hate to cause a mess for your wife to clean up.), but before I divulge my festive garb to be skirted around my loins, let me give you a quick rundown of my costumes on Halloween’s gone by.
2004 - I began my teaching career with the basic Barney costume. Cute, yes, but certainly the First Graders were not appreciative of it as it portrayed our class as a bit, shall we say, babyish.
2005 - My mother-in-law had a very authentic Christmas elf costume. Having watched the movie “Elf” over seven times, I was excited to give it the one two. The costume was okay, but I think the kids were confused. The parents also looked a bit perplexed as my look was more of a “gay dwarf” than “Santa’s helper.”
2006 - My neighbor, across the street, just so happens to be a magician commonly referred to as “The Great Schudinni”. He allowed me to borrow his Dumbledor, the Wizard costume. Given that I could not get the hat to stay on and that it came with a very crooked cane, everyone thought that I was actually Moses. While walking through the maze of parents, they kept saying, “Where is the tablets Moses?” and “You should part these people like you did the Red Sea.” I managed the mumble through my 5 inch beard, “I’m Dumbledore, you idiots! Dumbledore!”
2007 - We picked up a very cool Davy Jones pirate costume at the after Halloween sale at the Disney store. It was normally over $100.00, but we got it for a cool $25. It was very cool but a tad scary for the first grade crowd. All those snakes for a beard can be a little off putting for a six year old. Especially when the person wearing the snake beard is your first grade teacher. I am thinking that next year I will be Davy Jones, the Monkey, not the pirate.
2008 - I will be a chicken. Full chicken regalia. I plan on dropping plastic eggs behind me as I walk down the halls. I may actually drop a few pellets too. We’ll see what I am able to round up. I’ll post pictures, but it will likely look like something like this:
Just discovered this band and they are remarkably fresh. Very upbeat and dark at the same time. The horn section also gives them a nice, neoteric sound. Given that there are so many good songs on the one album, I am a bit surprised that they are not bigger than they are. The video is a nice change of pace too, with some interesting cameos.
Much like most six year olds, one of Lincoln's favorite pastimes is complaining. Why just yesterday he was complaining because we were not going to allow him to bring the laptop to Disneyland in December. A conversation with Cathi ensued and it got me thinking about how a six year old's complaints have changed over the years and how a parent responds.
When I was six: Mom, when are we going to get there? We have been driving forever!
My parent's response: When I was a kid, we had to drive for hours with no air conditioning. In fact, when we drove to Disneyland, we had to drive across the desert with nothing but a giant block of ice in our passenger side window to keep us cool, and when that melted my mom would give us giant leaves to fan each other with. And we loved those leaves! We were grateful she remembered to pack them.
My six-year-old now: Mom, when are we going to get there? We have been driving forever!
Our response as parents: Look son, you are one lucky kid. When we were kids we didn't have laptops or even a DVD player. We were forced to read books and look for slug bugs. Sometimes we would even sing songs together! And I'll tell you something son, we loved it. We were grateful for those Neil Diamond mixed tapes. Now play your handheld video game or listen to your iPod.
My parent's response: Cable? Cable?! Do you realize that when I was a kid, we didn't even have television in color? We had to turn the channel with a knob on the television! We were even forced to watch episodes of Lawrence Welk until our faces turned pink pastel like the set. And you know what? We loved it! We felt lucky just to have a television, we felt fortunate to have pink, pastel faces. No, we are not getting cable.
My six year old now: Mom, can you DVR this episode of Spongebob?
Our response as parents: DVR? DVR?! Are you kidding son? We can't DVR it because we already have Oprah and The Daily Show taping right now and it will only allow us to DVR two things at once. Besides, do you realize that when I was a kid, we had something called a VHS tape machine? And we could only tape one program at a time, and even then we were lucky if it actually recorded. Sometimes we even had to adjust something called the "tracking" to get it to play without lines in it. And then, even if you were lucky enough to actually tape the show you wanted, your sister might come along and tape over your episodes of Get A Life with episodes of Quantum Leap. It was miserable.
No, I won't DVR this Spongebob, but you can watch one of the 14 episodes we already have DVR'd if you want.
My parent's response: McDonalds? McDonalds?! Are you out of your little, six year old mind? Do you think we are made of money? Do you know how much it would cost to take the entire family to that place? Why, a quarter pounder with cheese costs over a dollar. No, but maybe tomorrow we can go to Millies Burger for the three cheeseburgers for a buck.
My six year old now: Mom, can we go to McDonalds?
Our response as parents: Oh, ugh. Do you really want to go to McDonalds? Don't you realize that I would like to get up in the morning? I eat four bites of that stuff and I am like a duck that has been punched in the duck stomach. I can't breath, can't move, a large pressure pressing on my chest. No, that stuff is the devil. Besides, don't you realize how much saturated fat is in that crap? Those fries are 20% potato, 80% a mixture of fat and acid from that burning oil. You do want your daddy to be alive in ten years, don't you?
No, we can't go, but maybe we could warm up some chicken nuggets at home and go to Crown Burger tomorrow.
We had our family pictures taken the other day by my sister-in-law, Jana. She did an amazing job and they turned out really nice. Thank you Jana.
It really isn't fair because Cathi looks like she could be on the cover of a magazine in every single picture, while me and the boys are just praying that we are looking at the camera. The boys look cute, but how can I keep up with 'Miss Lovely' over there? Honestly, could she be any more photogenic - it is ridiculous! It's like every shot of her is a cover of Women's Day magazine. At least my hair was combed. Anyway, here is just a taste...
(Please be advised that it has taken FOREVER to upload these few photos and the photos in the post below. There are a ton more great pictures, but due to the speed I have decided to limit it to these few. I'll try and post a few more tomorrow.)
I have decided that IF my Utes somehow run the table and win their remaining 4 games, I shall rush the field as the final seconds of the BYU game tick away.
I have never rushed the field, although I considered it after the big win in 04. Given that going undefeated this year would be even more remarkable than in 04, I feel that my first field rush would be appropriate.
Currently under consideration are three ways that I could rush: 1. Topless. 2. Topless with a Utah flag hung over my back like a cape. 3. Topless, with the flag cape AND a huge red U pained on my belly.
Of course, this would all prove moot if they somehow lose to NM, TCU or -gasp, gulp- BYU.
So, given that I will be going to the BYU game with Ike, Jake and Jordan and Dad, which of you are in for the field rush? Dad, do you want to paint your belly red with me?
High School Musical 3: It's Complicated is out in theaters today, and I must admit that I am more than a little bit curious; so much so that last night I caught myself watching Part II on the Disney Channel. Cathi came in, laughed, and asked why in the world I was watching this. I was not sure how to respond. However, I am not sure why I am curious or what is causing this, but I took two testosterone caplets and I feel much better now.
Speaking of curiosity, for some reason I found myself watching about five minutes of Paris Hilton's My New BFF last night. I came to two conclusions after throwing up in my bowl of popcorn: 1. Popcorn is about 60% less tasty when filled with barf. 2. The perfect ending to this show would be if everyone on it realized that having Paris as a BFF would actually be a bad thing and abruptly left the show.
Speaking of Disneyland, I really wish they would bring back the Skyride and the People Mover. The Skyride was such a relaxing way to get from one end of the park to the other and no matter how crowded the park was, you could always just walk on the People Mover and get out of the sun. Plus, the Tron portion of the People Mover was an astonishing feat of imagineering.
I taught a lesson today on brushing your teeth and keeping them cavity free. The other day Lincoln asked me a very good question that I posed to the class: If you are just going to lose your baby teeth anyway, why do you need to brush them?
I received various answers from the class. One child said brushing your baby teeth helps keep your new teeth clean. One girl actually suggested that brushing your baby teeth makes them loose and helps them to fall out. However, I thought the most creative answer was: "You have to keep your baby teeth clean because when they fall out, the Tooth Fairy does not have time to clean them all; she has more teeth to collect." Makes perfect sense.
I also learned that if the Tooth Fairy accidentally forgets one night, your parents can call her and tell her to bring you DOUBLE the money the next night! What a deal!
Finally, it is good to see that Jana has discovered Yo Gabba Gabba and now lists it as one of her favorite shows. Glad to introduce you to it Jana. It is a pleasure. I wish nothing but hours and hours of viewing and your boys get sucked into that ludicrously maniacal world. (Strangely enough, as I type this, I am watching one of my favorite bands, I'm From Barcelona play on the show. I also noticed another one of my favorites, Datarock, was on today. How is that possible?)
My brother is taking a day off to go work at a polling booth on Election Day. That’s right, my twenty -something-year-old brother believes in democracy so much that he has volunteered his time on this special day to hang around a bunch of elderly women. Of course, I use the term “volunteering” loosely as he will actually be paid for his time. Nevertheless, I actually wish he was working my precinct so that he could find my name on the list in less than 20 minutes.
I swear that I tell those old ladies ten times my last name before they are finally able to locate it on their book of names. “YOSPE - With a Y.” - “Hmm, Barbara, do you see a Yospe on here somewhere? Maybe he is in precinct 4412 and not 4411? Did you say Yospe with a J?” Oh boy, this is much more complicated than it has to be. "Where do you live? Do we need to look at the giant map on the wall to figure out where you live?"
I love the lady that is ready at the helm with the “I voted.” sticker. Maybe that will be my brother’s job. She’s got the sticker half pulled off, ready to plaster onto your chest. On Election Day, I should pull up my shirt so she can paste it right to a patch of nipple hair.
So, as I see it, there are pretty much five jobs at the polling booths:
1. The lady that finds the names. 2. The lady that points at the paper of where to initial. 3. The lady that points the direction of the booths, as if you didn’t know. “You mean I need to walk over to THOSE computer screens. Ahh, thank goodness for your loving guidance so as not to confuse me with the normal computer screen on four long legs that usually line the hallway of the Junior High. 4. The lady that gives out the sticker. 5. One man behind them all to supervise things.
It kind of reminds me of the ward library, with all these old ladies standing around, pretending to work, and if you don’t fill out the checkout sheet on the counter just perfectly, they squirm and sweat until they melt into the ground in a rage of frustration.
The last time I voted, there was a poll worker knitting. By the time I cast my ballot, she had knitted a full set of leg-warmers. She was just that good.
My guess is that the gist of Jacob’s job will be plugging the computers back in when they accidentally become unplugged. How and why they give a group of 80 year olds computers that they have never used before and expect an election to be a success, I will never know. My grandma just barely figured out how to delete her spam email and we’ve told her over a dozen times how to do it. In fact, I think she still has a cheat sheet posted next to her computer, just in case. (She was deleting her thousands of spam one by one as they came in. She had no idea how to delete them all at once.)
The last time I voted was the primaries and there was a kindhearted old lady in our ward that took my name. When she asked if I was voting Republican or Democrat and I told her Democrat, I swear she gave me quite a little stare of disbelief and shame. As I left, I informed her that I my socialist membership card had not yet arrived in the mail, but I had received my Planned Parent coupon book. Just kidding, but I should have.
Cheers to you Jacob - you have more of a patriotic pulse than I do.
I have found myself in a bit of a quandary as of late. A quandary that would confound the wisest of Egyptian kings. Sit back, relax and allow me to detail my vexing botheration.
Given the fact that after my pooping of the pants story and the fact that I really have nothing to hide anymore, I feel comfortable sharing this conundrum with my closest friends and closest strangers.
Approximately 6 months ago I began to jog without support. I mean, I was supported, but at the same time I wasn’t. Let me put it this way - I was without undergarments during my runs. I decided to go without the tighties for one reason alone: the chafing. The chafing was unbearable. All that sweat coupled with a dark humid place made for an infestation of chafes so raw, so red, one might compare it to the underside of Santa’s belly roll.
Once I freed myself from the confining grasp of underwear, I felt as though the chains had been removed. (Metaphorically of course... I did not actually have chains in my underwear. Chafing would have been the least of my worries.) I felt as though I could fly. The 'man' could no longer hold me down. I was a fluttering butterfly, but without butterfly underwear, or once again, chains.
I now realize that running without my under-britches may be a warm weather luxury. I generally run after the sun goes down and lately, during my final mile, I feel as though I may become frost bitten in the unmentionable areas. Wearing skivvies during my daily jog would certainly solve this problem. The goods become so frigid and painful down there that I am often forced to "hold" things, which becomes a bit embarrassing while running down 5600 South.
So the question becomes - frostbite or bloody chafing? I leave the topic on the table for the forum to discuss.
Another great Swedish band. For some reason, Sweden is just soaked with great bands at the moment. These guys are slightly electronic and very catchy. I find myself humming their stuff throughout the day. Here is one of their best. (Although the video is a little dull. Sorry. But the song is great!)
Help! I’ve been tagged! Actually, I have been tagged any number of times, but have never actually completed the designated tag as I have found them to be a colossal waste of time. However, in the spirit of tagedness (and in the spirit of a still lingering Christmas, 07), I have decided to create my own tag and tag myself. Thus, I have been tagged by none other than me, myself. And away we go...
Three things: 1. Tinfoil 2. A retainer 3. A hairball.
Three people that have tagged me: 1. Tammy 2. Lori 3. Esther??
Three people I wish would tag me: 1. Any man named Tom with a mustache. (Must be of Asian descent.) 2. David Hasselhoff 3. Bilbo Baggins
Three people or things I wish I could tag for charity purposes only: 1. The Special Olympics 2. The homeless guy that plays the accordion outside after Jazz games. 3. The extras from ‘High School Musical’. So underappreciated.
Three jerk faces that deserve to never get tagged:
1. The evil BYU fan that tormented me all through Junior High. 2. Dr. Phil and Oprah for never returning my calls or emails. Especially Oprah. 3. Sarah Pailin’s moose hunting pals.
Three people that I know just wish I would tag them: 1. Miss Slendersome 2. Dr. Calvin Tyroski Jr. 3. Bobby Bobbinfuss & The ‘Bobbinfuss Five’
Three things I would rather do than respond to a tag: 1. Building personal hygiene kits for obese monkeys.. 2. Skinning a pile of dead ferrets. (But only if the ferrets have been pre-cleaned by ferret cleaning experts - and as long as they have been killed in a discreet, humane manner such as being run over by a truck or whacked over the head with a wooden spoon.) 3. Make my own “pretend” tag, as I am doing right now. Yeah, this is SO much better than responding to a regular tag.
I now tag the following people: Grandma, a cab driver and Ike
**Disclaimer - Do not share this post with your impressionable youth, it may give them evil thoughts to do evil things. I have repented of these sins and while I have not shared them with my Bishop, he reads my blog regularly. Just in case he doesn’t read this post, I have forwarded it to a Rabbi. Considering I am of partial Jewish descent, I have a firm belief that my admittance to a Rabbi will absolve me of nearly 25 - 40% of my sins, depending on how Jewish I actually am. The other 60-75% I will have to take up with my Bishop. So the way I see it, this is a start...
As a youth I was very involved in science with my friends. We loved it. In fact, we created an amazing science project and recorded some incredible findings. Together we manufactured one of the largest water balloon launchers this side of the Mississip. When fully stretched, one person could launch from the roof of a garage, while two people held each end of the rubber band on the ground. One might refer to it as the Cadillac of water balloon launchers.
We scouted each neighborhood for the perfect launching spot to test drive our nifty gizmo. We settled on Steve’s house. It sat high on the hillside, overlooking the entire valley, near the "H" (for Highland) rock. Below his home sat an abundance of very wealthy houses, along with a few stores and a K-Mart. We had an endless amount of targets to choose from. You may take a look at our findings below:
THINGS THAT WILL NOT LAUNCH VERY FAR INTO THE NEIGHBORHOOD
1. Head of lettuce 2. Roll of toilet paper 3. Cobs of corn 4. Garden squash 5. A group of cherry tomatoes 6. Potato Salad, or anything sticky really. 7. Large water balloons. The would often break upon launch and soak the holders.
THINGS THAT WILL LAUNCH VERY FAR INTO THE NEIGHBORHOOD
1. Regular sized tomatoes 2. Golf balls - Those things would fly! Dangerous, yes, but we only really shot them at the roof of K-Mart and amazingly enough we would hit it at nearly a mile away. 3. Small water balloons. 4. A stuffed animal with a medium sized rock inside. 5. Chestnuts. 6. A plastic bag of dog crap.
I know we launched a lot more crud, but I just can’t recall what it all was. Steve, you probably can help me out on this? It was your house after all.
Oh man, those were some great times. What a great house that was! They had a HUGE outdoor pool with an attached hot tub. I recall sluffing seminary a few times, driving up to Steve’s house, taking a quick dip, launch a few items and return to school, still in soaking wet shorts and thongs (yes, the butt kind), just in time for math class. I have a few other stories to tell about our times there, but I am afraid that my mother will already be overly disappointed in me when she reads this post.
Long live the water launcher!
*Note - This photo is not of me and my friends. I have no idea who these losers are. I just found this picture on the internet. I thought it would just give you an idea of the moronic thoughts that were going through our minds back in the mid 90's.
After we put Lincoln to bed, sometimes a half an hour will pass and he will still be awake. We will be watching TV and all of a sudden we will have a short, completely off the wall conversation with him like the one we had tonight.
LINCOLN: [Yelling from his bed.] Mom, dad?
CATHI: Yes Lincoln.
LINCOLN: I thought of a good name.
ME: A name for what?
LINCOLN: You know, like a person.
CATHI: You can tell me about it tomorrow. Go to bed.
[I, however, am curious.]
ME: Okay Lincoln, what is the name?
ME: [Laughing] Is it a boy or girls name?
LINCOLN: I don't know yet.
ME: Good name Lincoln. Now go to bed.
It was funny because he had been laying in bed for over a half hour and I know he was just making up strange names for people in his head the entire time. It is also funny because this is the type of random, bizarre, after-he-has-been-in-bed conversation that we have all the time. Maybe we will name our next kid Jeanba.
Do you really think that the louder you "woooo", the better the wave gets?
Are you easily swayed by your peers?
If the entire audience was jumping off a cliff, would you do it too?
If people were doing the wave while jumping off a cliff, would you do it too?
Is it because one of the furry mascots told you to do it?
Do you feel like your involved in the world's biggest class project for losers?
Were you obnoxious cheerleader in high school or did you aspire to be an obnoxious cheerleader?
Do you think that someone is going to throw out free tee shirts to the section that has the best wave? Maybe pizza?
Is doing the wave just a Utah thing? A Mormon thing?
Were you all once Cub Scout Denmothers and had to think up clever cheers for the boys?
Perhaps we could all just pretend to blow up our hand and give the team a collective "big hand"?
Why are you doing the wave while OUR TEAM has the ball?
In life, do you enjoy being an overwhelmingly, repugnant distraction?
Are you one of those people that have to read the subtitles out loud at a foreign film?
Do you realize that doing the wave makes you look lame?
Do you realize that you are paying more attention to watching the wave go around the stadium than actually watching the game?
PS... If you are under the age of 12, please disregard this letter.
PPS... My friends and I once tried to start the wave around Old Faithful while waiting for it to go off. It was actually going pretty well and we had good participation, but that is a blog for another day.
Another game day today. This time I went with my Principal, which was great. He picked me up, bought me water, even brought me a chair to sit on. It was a lovely day and our date could not have gone better. We didn't hold hands though. Thoughts regarding the game...
Corbin Louks is a very fast man. It will be fun to watch him full time next year run the offense.
Best game so far this year by the offense, no doubt. Very consistent, scored every quarter.
Best overall game this year.
Crazy lady is getting old.
It was my first time ever sitting in the South end zone. Very interesting perspective of the game from that angle.
The next game scares me more than any game so far this year. New Mexico always gives us fits, especially at their place.
There was a man in the student section wearing a full, red, spandex body suit that even covered his head. It was the freakiest thing I have ever seen at a game.
Paul Kruger is the best defensive player I have seen at the U since Luther Ellis and that is saying a lot.
8-0 feels great! It sure feels better than the alternative, 7-1. Now that would suck.
I would like to speak for a moment on the subject of quests. I have embarked upon a quest unlike any other quest I have ever embarked upon. My quests generally involve figuring out how to open a bag of chips or finding my car in a huge parking lot after a movie. I keep my quests simple, easily obtained and uncomplicated. Nevertheless, today I shall begin the "Cheeseboy Perfection is the Quest!" quest.
You may ask, "Why would you ever want to come across as an arrogant, egocentric pinhead by even hinting that you're even close to perfection? And why begin a quest that is something as unattainable and pretentious as perfection?" Very well formed question, hypothetical person that in reality is myself asking myself a question. Well, the reasons for beginning on such a quest are three fold:
1. As a ploy to sell tee shirts.
2. It is better to try and fail than to never have tried at all.
3. I got a crapload of tee shirts that say "Perfection is the Quest" and I've really got to sell them.
I know what you are thinking, your quest, much like the company Qwest, is nothing but a load of hot gas, or air, depending on which quest you are talking about. "Perfection is the Quest" has a nice ring to it, and it looks great on a tee shirt. My motto last year was "Invested Fully" and those tee shirts sold out in minutes. I even told my boss about my quest and he had some magical coins made up for me to hand out to all of my relatives. I am so excited to ultimately fail!
Some may find my perfection antics a bit haughty and dubious. To you I say, maybe, but I am better than you and so my perfection will come easier. Some may say that my perfection quest makes me a natural target and enemy to those that are not as paradisiacal or ecclesiastical as I. To you I say, you should first aspire to be as good as me, and THEN you can have the perfection quest like I.
Wish me luck, for I am already so close to my goal. The only thing that stands in my way during this quest are: 1. My various bad habits such as grinding my teeth and biting my nails. 2. The fact that achieving perfection is impossible. 3. A nasty group of speedy, nasty Horned Frogs. Darn those Horned Frogs! Darn them to heck!
Nevertheless, you want to buy a tee shirt?
**UPDATE - Some moron reporter wrote an article in the SL Trib today. Gordon something is his name. The most damning quote in the article:
1. Pride goes before the fall. Spin the Quest for Perfection motto any which way you want, but it was a dumb idea. No team should talk about being perfect, not on the field or off it, let alone print it on 50,000 T-shirts screaming: "Kick our a**!"
How did he find out about my quest anyway?! And what does he mean by "team" anyway? It's just me Gordon.
Today marks a very important anniversary in the life of Cheeseboy. It was one year ago today that I went to the doctor's office. This may not seem like such a big deal, but for one such hypochondriac, such as I, making it a year without visiting the doc is quite an accomplishment.
In my ten plus years of marriage, there has not been a single year where I have not contracted some deadly, maniacal disease that needed urgent attention from a specialist. Nevertheless, this year I made a point of doing all that is in my power to stop this inane habit of making an appointment for every lump, scrape and oddity that my body deals with on a daily basis.
That is not to say that this past year has not had it's share of health scares. Recently I have had a persistent jock itch on the old undercarriage - if you know what I mean. I also had a very painful rash on my back a few months ago that was so awful it actually left a pretty bad scar. In addition, I swore I had an enlarged prostate because of, well lets just call it a leaky faucet. Finally, during the first 6 months of the past year, the middle of my back tingled almost nonstop. I attribute this to over-anxiety and stress about the state of my health.
A full year without visiting the doctor and for once in my adult life, I seem to be in perfect health. The jock itch may have been irksome, the back rash painful and the mythical enlargement of my prostate bothersome (Much like BYU's "mythical 1984 National Championship.), but I feel that I am a better man for having lived through them and survived.
Best wishes and purest "shout outs" go to my second favorite team (at least today) the TCU Purple Horny Toads. I pray that you have been living right, I fear that you have not. Please, please, for the love of all things holy, surprise me tonight you beautiful frogs!
I recently discovered this band on a crappy soundtrack for a crappy movie. I don't even remember the movie, but at least a bit of good came from it. This is a surreal band with a stinging sound. This is one of their best:
In my class I like to have a lot of fun. I dress up and create new characters with different voices to keep the attention of the students while we do a bit of writing together. Lately, I have thus created "Halloween Dude", a ruffian with a long black wig, giant sunglasses and a coarse voice. Halloween Dude's job is to select one student in the classroom to sit in front of the room and share with us what he or she is going to be for Halloween. Such was the case today - what I thought was going to be just another run of the mill Halloween Dude day. I was wrong.
Today I selected a semi-quiet and very well behaved girl to be "Halloween Dude-ette". I shall call her "Sarah" for the sake of the story. She was thrilled that she was finally chosen to share her planned costume with the class. She eagerly sat in front of the students and I proceeded to question her about what she had prepared for that fateful day. - I also feel compelled to share the fact that I had not one, not two, but three college students preparing to become teachers, observing me this day. How I got three student teachers is a bit of a long story ...but I digress.
Between my obnoxious acting, the horrible wig and what transpired, I guarantee that these student teachers were entertained far more than they ever would have hoped. The conversation between I, the girl and the class went something like this:
ME: [In a very rustic, almost drunken voice, much like a reformed pirate would talk, but without the pirate jargon.] Okay Sarah, would you please share what you would like to be for Halloween?
SARAH: I am going to be a queen.
ME: Really? Wow, you will be a lovely queen.
S: Well, I am kinda going to be a scary queen.
M: Oh really. Why?
S: Well, I am going to be Queen Anne.
M: Queen Anne? I am not sure who she is.
S: Oh, she died in 1836 (Not really sure what the date was that she said, but Sarah clearly hadt this schtick memorized.)
M: Oh really?
S: Yeah, she was beheaded.
M: Ohhhhh. Umm alright. Sounds scary! Okay, so Queen Anne you say.
The three student teachers are now all giggling quite uncontrollably in the back.
STUDENT SITTING ON THE RUG: WHAT DOES BEHEADED MEAN?
ME: Oh, that just means she died.
SARAH: YEAH, SHE DIED - BY GETTING HER HEAD CHOPPED OFF!
ALL STUDENTS: EWWWW! GROSS! YUCK! etc, etc...
ME: Alright, let's calm down. We have some writing to do.
The three student teachers are now all in full laughter mode.
SARAH: Well, I won't have my head cut off for the school parade, but when I go trick-or-treating, my mom is going to paint a line and some blood on my neck.
STUDENTS: EWWW! ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO HAVE YOUR HEAD CUT OFF?! GROSS etc, etc...
ME: [Still trying to hold character in my Halloween Dude wig and voice.] Alright, enough everyone. We need to get this written down! I still have never heard of this Queen, but let's write this down. Let's see, Queen starts with what letter everyone... ?
[Looking back, I really should know who Queen Anne is. I did take High School World History, but slept through much of it.]
SARAH: She was married to King Henry. He had someone behead her.
ME: Sarah, thank you for telling us about Queen Anne. Can you tell us why you want to be her for Halloween so that we can write it down and be done with it?
SARAH: She is really cute.
ME: Alright, let's focus on that.
- We then completed the interactive writing, focussing on the cuteness, not the beheadedness of Queen Anne. Needless to say, the student teachers may never observe a more entertaining session of teaching in their lifetimes. I am glad my very odd class this year could provide them with that.
Found this while perusing the internet today and I am really not sure what to think of it. Should I laugh or just be disgusted? And to think that I was questioning my manliness. If I would have gone to BYU I would have been more manly than 95% of the males there. Thank goodness I remained an anonymous sissy at the U instead.
Occasionally I will do something so rugged, so burly, so step into a Slim-Jim-ish that I must take a step back and admire my manhood from afar. Such was the case today when I pulled out the remaining titanic root from our front garden bed with my bear hands, a pickax and a broken bottle of rum.
Rarely have I felt so vindicated in my manhood as when that final strand of root, holding fast for dear life, was ripped from it's soil bed. There I stood, staring down at the large crater that remained, mocking it with my eyes and taunting the insignificance of the mammoth stump that I had just retired to it's deathbed. I may as well had a genial blue ox standing by my side, licking me on the arm, as I held the pickax over my shoulder with pride.
It's not that I have ever questioned how manly a man I am. I have many admirable manly traits: I have a mane of arm hair that no one could ever question as being unmanly. I enjoy a variety of meats, nearly raw sometimes, and I have even bit the head off a fish while pulling it from the water. I have pulled a dying yack from the Ecuadorian quicksand, only to skin it and eat it with the filing blade of my Swiss Army Knife. (I used the file blade because the other blade would have just been too easy. I needed a challenge that day in the jungle.)
Nevertheless, there are many that may call me "sissy" because of my job or the fact that I have a nose hair trimmer, or because I watch too much Oprah. Sure, some may point out my perfect styled hair or manicured toenails as potentially milksop and effeminate traits. To these folks I say, "Let's see you pull a 60 pound stump, entwined in roots and dirt out of the ground using only your hands and a few marginal tools!" Given how proud I feel at this moment, I am assured that most of the average population would struggle with such a daunting task. My ego has thus been satisfied; for within the short time of several weekend hours and a few weekday hours, I have pulled not one - but 4 mighty roots from our front yard. Chew on that for awhile you weakly, frail, doubting imps that I have not yet met, but I know exist - at least in my brain.
I have therefore satisfied my existence as a man. I may be a fancy lad, but one might refer to me as "The most rugged fancy lad in the land." Now if you will excuse me, I must go ice down my bulging, sweaty biceps. They have served me well this fine day.
My best friend from the ages of 10-15 just so happened to be a boy named Craig. Craig was a lovable, bumbling boy that would consistently say and do remarkably foolhardy things. For instance, in his kindness he once insisted on mowing our lawn and ran over the trimmer’s extension cord. When we were older, we went to Lagoon and he dropped over $60.00 at one of those absurd booths, simply to be close to the girl that was working it. The funny thing was that he spent all of that money and never actually got up the courage to say a single word to her.
Now that you have the background behind my goodhearted friend Craig, in the spirit of Halloween, I will begin the story.
Each year Craig and I would begin hyping our Halloween evening as if it were to be our final candy conquest. We mapped our route, ensuring that we would hit all of the houses we knew gave out full sized candybars and all of the wealthy homes that we hoped would give out ten dollar bills. On this particular Halloween’s eve, when we were 12 and old enough to venture further on our own, we planned to travel about a mile on foot to hit the famed “Harvard/Yale” area of Sugarhouse. We had heard rumors of the great goodies to be had in that rich hotspot and we were not to be denied.
With our pillowcases in hand we journeyed northward, stopping at the occasional affluent looking home and collecting a plethora of scrumptious sweets. After approximately forty-five minutes of stop and go trick-or-treating, we reached the flush elegance of Harvard Avenue.
Before I continue, I feel that this is an appropriate place to describe our costumes. Craig was fitted with a long, flowing Friar Tuck style hood and dress that ran all the way to his ankles. On his head he wore a werewolf mask, making the ensemble a complete complexity to walk long distances in. Nevertheless, we trudged onward, with large Butterfingers in our eyes and full cans of soda pop in our hearts.
We must have received treats from four homes when we realized - rich people are actually really cheap when it comes to their candy giving. We were getting the usual Tootsie Rolls and Smarties and we were angry. It was also about this time that Craig informed me that he needed to use the restroom. Of course.
As we walked up the thirty-nine stairs to the next elegant mansion, Craig informed me that he would be asking the owner to use the restroom. I pleaded with him to wait, as I knew that this could only spell trouble. Yet he insisted that this was a necessity and that waiting would not be an option. Upon arrival at the doorstep, he was hopping with anticipation.
A thoughtful woman opened the door and he explained in his rambling, mumbling Craigish way the plight of his bladder. She invited us in and I waited in the enormously vast entry of this ambitiously extravagant home. Craig, with his half full pillowcase slung over his shoulder, was shown to the guest restroom, where he scuttled in like a fuzzy, awkward wolfboy with his legs tied together.
What occurred during those moments that Craig was in the guest restroom is still a mystery. The best that I can figure is that that while attempting to take off his Friar Tuck robe, Craig forgot that the candy was still flung over his shoulder. I know I heard something spill and some odd splashing. Minutes passed and Craig soon emerged from the bathroom in street clothes, his costume in his arms. He nervously tried to explain to the woman that while he was frantically maneuvering his robes in effort to meet the oncoming urine, he had accidentally spilled the contents of his candy bag onto the floor and into the opened toilet. He had attempted to fish out as many pieces as he could, but there were some “deep” pieces that were simply not fishable.
As he made the walk of shame out of the mansion, he apologized again and again for his idiocy. She was very gracious and we quickly exited.
On our way down the walkway, Craig informed me that even after he spilled the candy into the toilet, he still “used” it. Therefore, there were 4-5 pieces of candy at the bottom of that well that had been through a dunking, a peeing and then a flushing. 4-5 pieces that someone would need to pull out. However, he did inform me that it would be okay because they were mostly Jolly Ranchers. I am still not sure how or why that made it “okay” but that was Craig for you.
We returned that night with some Candy, me much more than Craig, and some self-respect, again me much more than Craig. I will never forget that fateful Halloween night with my good friend, Craig.
Sitting in church today I saw something that I have never seen before. The lady in front of me pulled out a blanket, covered herself and breast fed her baby right there in sacrament meeting. Now, I am all for women's rights and certainly the right to breast feed in public, but this seemed a little odd and out of place to me. Most women I know take full advantage of the secret church breast feeding facilities. I have even heard, now I don't know this for certain, that the breast feeding room in our ward has been remodeled to include a recliner and a flat panel television. They don't tell the men about this because they know we will all be in there watching football. Apparently, most of the time the women sit, breast feed and watch reruns of Oprah.
Cathi keeps getting invited to one of the following:
1. Tupperware party.
2. Purse party.
3. Bead party.
4. Jewelry party.
5. Scrapbook party.
6. Kitchenware party
7. Candle party
8. Makeup party
9. Children's book party
10. Guns & Ammo party
What is with all these parties? I feel badly for her because when she does attend, she never buys anything and she feels guilty about it. It is sometimes difficult living on a teacher's budget and given the fact that she is already naturally very thrifty, things become even more tricky. Now she has decided rather than feel guilty at the party, she will stay home and feel guilty for not going to the party.
I'd like to see someone combine all of these parties! Think of the ease and convenience; one party where you cold buy tupperware, books, candles, makeup, purses and even sporting goods. I've even got the perfect name for this party place: "Super Target".
Finally, since the cat is out of the bag and you all know I am no longer a closet Democrat, I shall provide a list of famous Mormons Democrats. However before I do so, as a concerned citizen I would like to ask that anyone that currently has a cat in a bag, release it A.S.A.P.. I am concerned because I care about our country's cats. They don't deserve to be in bags, especially plastic, ziplock bags. Those should actually be the cats that you let out first. However, I have read that cats with a nervous twitch enjoy dark, quiet places. These cats should be allowed to stay in bags, as long as there is ample room, air and comfort. You may want to whisper encouragements into your nervous cat's bag, just to let them know you care.
And now, my list of other famous Mormon Democrats.
1. Berkley Bunker - US Senator, Nevada
2. Dr. Martha Hughes Cannon - Physician and first American female state senator.
3. Harry Reid - Current US Senate majority leader.
4. Jared Hess* - Napoleon Dynamite and then in a bunch of crappy movies.
5. President James E. Faust - Former member of the First Presidency
6. Brook White* - American Idol has-been.
7. Ken Jennings - Former Alex Trebek annoyer and national nerd.
8. George Clooney** - Member of ER staff and Vegas thief multiple times over.
9. Steve Martin*** - Jerk, amigo and father of the bride.
10. Roseanne Barr** - Destroyer of National Anthem and very large.
11. Gladys Knight* - You don't really think she could be Republican do you? Wait, I guess Thurl Bailey is.
12. Carrot Top*** - A great man.
* - I am not sure if they are Democrat
** - I am not sure if they are Mormon
*** - I am not sure if they are Mormon or Democrat.
I am up a bit late considering that I have just contracted what feels like is going to be a pretty nasty cold. Nevertheless, I feel like I need to suck it up and post about my 7-0 Utes.
7-0 feels pretty good, in spite of the fact that there are plenty of areas that this team needs to work on. I feel that there were a lot of positives to come out of today's game: the first blocked punt in years, zero turnovers, barely a sign of a penalty flag and the amazing defense. Yet I feel a bit nervous about the Ute's inconsistencies on offense and horrible pass game.
But how could anyone really complain about being 7-0? Regardless of their deficiencies, this team seems to always find a way to win. Everyone would love to see a reincarnation of the 04' Utes, but I am not sure I will ever see a team that good in my lifetime again. This team, however, shows a lot of heart and the games have undoubtedly been more exciting this year than in 04.
One final note, any Ute fan that is still intimidated and/or scared of BYU needs to visit the U's famed mental health hospital and have their head looked at. This group of Utes have the ability, talent and motivation to win - and I believe they will.
By the way, I still need a ticket to Saturday's game.
My son, Calder loves to take showers. Well today was no exception and after I got in, he soon joined me, as he often does. He loves when I hold him up to the shower head so that he can put his head directly under the water...
Well, today I was holding up, one hand under his bottom, one hand on his back, when I felt something warm and gooey enter my palm. I looked down and realized that Calder had given me a three inch log as a kindhearted gift. I screamed for Cathi as I held it in my hand like it was a baby bird. I was just going to hand it to Cathi when she came in, but I was kind and told her to get some toilet paper. Her eyes watered with laughter and she giggled uncontrollably as she wrapped the load in toilet paper and threw it in the toilet. Thus, my new name, "Pooh-In-Hand".
Calder has made best friends with our across the street neighbor, Ty. He gives Calder treats during church and he has recently taken up the habit of giving him treats at home as well. Now whenever Calder sees Ty, he gets a huge smile on his face and says, “TY, TREAT? TY, TREAT?”
The last time this occurred, Ty ventured into his home and excavated each cupboard in search of a treat. Finally, in a last gasp of desperation, he pulled from his shelf some sort of old pastry. Calder squealed with delight as I pulled off the plastic wrap and handed it to his grimy hands. Apparently Ty’s year old, rotting pastry (No offense Ty. You usually have delightful treats.) was much more delicious than the Oreo cookies or the brownies he had only partially eaten at the kitchen table moments earlier. I am waiting for the day that Ty pulls out a couple of bullion cubes and hands them to Calder.
A couple weeks ago Ty brought Pop Rocks to sacrament meeting. When Calder noticed him sitting down the row from us, he immediately ran to him calling, “TY, TREAT? TY, TREAT?”
As Calder pulled the pop rocks from the package, I was readying myself to hold in the fits of laughter that would soon want to explode from my belly. But as Calder held the strange, crusted candy in his tiny fingers, he was put off by their texture. He was simply not going to eat them. He handed them back to Ty who flicked them into his mouth. My belly explosion came soon enough and our entire row was engulfed in a bad case of the giggles. The sound was much louder than anticipated and it echoed like he was making our entire aisle bacon slices to celebrate the start of sacrament meeting.
Ty is a pretty cool guy. When I was going through my scooter crisis, he gave me a lift in his truck to return it. On the way home, we stopped to get gas for his truck. A couple of 17-year-old girls approached us and asked us for a few bucks. They said that they had run out of gas and their car was just down the street. Of course I never have any cash on hand, but Ty was kind enough to ask them to wait while he went and got some change. The girls excitedly agreed and one went into the service station with him while the waited outside.
Soon, Ty appeared with a smile on his face and a kick in his step. He energetically informed the girl that he didn’t need to give them any money because the girl inside had just received twenty bucks from some old guy inside. The chipper, obnoxious girl jumped with glee and ran inside to celebrate with her friend. Ty simply laughed as we climbed into the car and drove away. The old man was a figment of his imagination.
I know what you are thinking, “What a cruel joke to play on those poor, unsuspecting girls.” Well, the truth is that they were clearly fibbing for dollars; they did not have a car in sight and their demeanors said as much. Ty, being the cool customer that he is, read right through them.
1. Where is that putrid smell coming from? Somewhere within the friendly confines of the Cheeseboy household there is a wee bit of something sour that is polluting the air. We have searched and searched to no avail. The odor hovers over our front room and leisurely snickers at us, making a mockery of our muzzle. Stupid muzzle mocker, mocking our muzzle to no end!
2. Why was it that on the Ghostbusters movie Slimer was an enemy, but on the cartoon, “Slimer and the Real Ghostbusters”, Slimer was a member of the Ghostbusting team?
3. Where have all the cowboys gone?
4. Why is it that in every movie that there is an angry mob, they are always carrying torches? Even in modern movies, in which flashlights have clearly been invented, the mob continues to carry torches. Is it purely because torches allow them to burn things, or is there a deeper seeded reason? And why is it that torches never go out in the movies unless the person holding the torch is about to die?
5. How do they make it rain inside the Tikki Room? One second it’s raining, but you leave and there’s sunshine. It’s insane!
6. How and why did Kim Kardasian become famous?
QUESTIONS I HAVE RECENTLY FOUND ANSWERS TO.
1. Q: How do you know which kids are the most naughty in the school within seconds? A: Visit any assembly and look for the 2-3 kids that are sitting closest to the teachers.
2. Q: Where is the best place to take your child when they are acting up in sacrament meeting? A: The ward kitchen.
3. Q: On average, how many men leave right after President Monson’s talk instead of waiting through the closing hymn and prayer at Priesthood meeting? A: 38
4. Q: How often should you lubricate chafed thighs? A: Every single time they get chafed. No exceptions.
5. Q: What should be the very first step of mowing your lawn? A: Removing plastic toy guns that might be hiding in the grass.
6. Q: What is the most controversial topic I have ever blogged about? A: A recent episode of Yo Gabba Gabba. Now, if I ever blog about the Yo Gabba Gabba crew going on a Mormon youth trek, the Blog O’ Cheese just might explode in bits of controversial sausages. Do they even make bonnets big enough to fit those furry Gabba characters? It’s also a good thing that the gang recently learned how to play the marching game.
Calder loves a show called “Yo Gabba Gabba.!” If you have not seen it, it is certainly the largest load of gobbledygook drivel you have ever seen. Upon your first viewing, you won’t be wondering if the creators were on drugs; you will be wondering just which drug they were on. You will then wish that you had a little bit of it to experiment with.
I actually sat down with Calder yesterday and watched an entire episode, just to see what the hype and keenness were all about. Below you will find my superb copious notes and then some post-show smart aleck comments. (Initial notes in BOLD.)
DJ Lance spins around. DJ Lance is a freaky African American dude that wears a funky hat and usually some sort of neon bodysuit. Today’s color of choice is a divine, dazzling shade of orange.
DJ Lance waves his arms. DJ Lance has some mind-boggling moves that I am sure would be popular with the ladies in all of the New York City nightclubs he is not able to get into.
DJ Lance likes games. Most likely because he has failed so miserably at the game of life and has become relegated to staying up late, making up silly, nonsensical children’s games in the spare bedroom of his two bedroom apartment. And he likely hates games because so many of his former girlfriends have played games with his repeatedly broken heart. This man is all about games.
Brobi, a black and green striped monster thing, is a poor sport, but not a quitter. He never gave up, just moped. However, he DID get the attention he was seeking as the gang all stopped what they were doing to focus on this jerk-faced loser. Yo Gabba Gabba teaches our children all of the important lessons of life.
A smiling cartoon pear, squash, boot and orange take a walk while singing a song. This was the only part of the show that made perfect sense to me, and I am still trying to figure out why. The only part of this clip I didn’t understand is why the boot happened to go on a walk with the food. I believe that the food items might have been just using him because he is friends with tin foil. Tin foil is so fresh and sparkly.
I don’t want to cause controversy here, but I believe that it is in the boot’s best interest to dump those fruity fruits and go out on his own. Perhaps the boot could become a crime fighting private investigator. Or better yet, the boot could move into an upper Manhattan apartment and be fanned by a couple of attractive divorced soccer moms with extra time on their hands. Just a thought.
Mark, an artist with a pencil mustache and a beret, draws some golf equipment on a pad of paper and then does a besotted dance. Mark – you are an embarrassment to your craft. Your golf club was abysmal, your ball a gag to good sense. Did you take art class from a monkey that has had half it’s brain removed for research on monkey brains and/or Maybeline makeup? Did the monkey attack you because he was missing half his brain and take your dignity? If so, I would completely understand. However, you should be ashamed that you are still a practicing artiste, even if it is on a crappy kid’s show on basic cable.
The talking yellow robot plays freeze tag with the gang. Freeze tag? Really, creepy jolly yellow robot? That’s what you came up with? Considering you are a robot and have a motherboard, circuits and other technology stuff that I can’t think of right now, I would hope that you would be able to come up with something better than Freeze tag.
Oh boy, Brobi is moping again because he does not have enough energy for freeze tag. Brobi, you’ve got to suck it up buddy. This isn’t Mr. Rogers or Blues Clues. This show is all about energy!
A talking glass of water and an apple invite Brobi to eat them to renew his energy. Normally, one would think that when you have a sit down conversation with an apple, you would be less likely to go ahead and gorge him into your abdomen and allow the tart stomach acid to decompose the conversing produce until it is nothing but green monster excrement. One would think.
I bet that green and black monster stool is mostly small, round pellets. It’s just a ton more than a deer. You see, I bet they leave like a 3 foot pile of pellets. Just my guess.
Brobi now has plenty of energy and wins the game! There is no greater gift than the laying down of one’s fruitfully hopeful life for that of green, striped monster.
A girl named Jada likes to dance. Yes, yes she does.
Cool tricks, cool tricks! – A girl plays a recorder through her nose. No, I did not make this up. She went too far when she pulled it out of her nose and then played it with her mouth. Just kidding, but I held out some hope.
The Marching Game – It’s easy, all you have to do is get in a line behind the blue dinosaur/cat thing and march. The only rule is that you have to like to march. Undoubtedly a brainchild of DJ Lance’s last Saturday night alone in his apartment, except of course for his GI Joe action figures which he has set up in a circle around his giant bean bag chair. A white blob thing with low self-esteem named Gooble is invited to march along. Gooble’s expression never changes. Gooble is a representation of the white light that evil people see when they die in their sleep.
A boy named Maxton likes to dance. Dance Maxton, dance!
The Super Music Friend Show –Mates of State play a song called “No one likes to be left out.” How in heaven’s name is this show getting these great bands to play their show? I have seen The Shins and now Mates of State?!?! At least some good comes from this show.
DJ Lance says, “Listening and dancing to music is awesooooooooome! (Calder says it in unison.) Oh no! Calder has now some of this twaddle memorized? I seriously need to recheck our DVR and make some adjustments!
I do not know what is sadder, the fact that I took notes on this show, or the fact that I just spent over an hour typing up my findings. They are both equally sad. I live a pathetically boring existence.
I gained quite an understanding of Amish life living amongst them for a couple of years. I really like to say that phrase – that I lived “amongst the Amish”. I was amongst them alright; they had me as their honored guest. It has such a nice ring to it. Kinda like how that lady lived "amongst" the gorillas or Kevin Costner lived "amongst" the indians.
I always felt really badly for the Amish brood. (Brood may or may not be what the Amish call their children, I can’t really remember. But it certainly sounds like an Amish word. Well, maybe they call them their “litter”. Is it an Amish litter? I’ll have to look it up.)
I have reflected quite a bit on the life of an Amish child during the holidays. If I were an Amish youngling and I had just discovered the concept of Santa Clause, my letter to the big man might look a little something like this:
Dear Santa Clause,
My name is Abraham Tripplehorn and I am all of 8 years of age. In my recent travels to the township, I saw in many of the shop windows your picture during my township travels. I inquired of yun’s Santa helpers and they bestowed upon me your address: 1 North Pole Lane, North Pole. I have walked this letter 6 miles to the nearest post and thus I hopest that it’s final resting place is now your wooly, Amish-made mittens that your niece purchased for a ridiculous amount of money on her recent visit to Paradise, PA .
I have filled my paper with the following list for yuns’ to consider for your first Christmas visit to my country abode:
1. Nintendo Wii with Wii sports. 2. A television. 3. Remote control car. 4. Scooter with off road tires. 5. Life sized submarine. 6. Electric Guitar 7. Pile of sticks
I showest the list to mine mother and she made me cross out the articles that were not allowed according to our way of life and our belief that modern convenience is Satan’s tool. You may cross off everything except for the pile of sticks. “Sony” is the name of Satan’s firstborn. His second born is named “Whirlpool”. I tallest my Pa that “Whirlpool is a strange name for a son, but he tells me that this is the way of Satan. He works in mysterious, evil ways.
I knowest what you are thinking: Do you always get the proverbial shaft when it comest to owning the best of the playthings? I mean, a pile of sticks? Let me ask you this Santa: Do you always skip the Amish on Christmas? Have you made it a point to fly by like we do not exist? I guess my point Santa is yes, yes I do.
Thank you Santa for your time. I look forward to meeting you on the Eve of the Yuletide. I will be waiting for you outside, next to Frankie the mule’s barn and behind the cabbage patch. (It is the patch that is full of cabbage. We have other “patches”, but my waiting area will be in the midst of the cabbage.) I will be the boy wearing the strange looking male bonnet. You may leave the pile of sticks next to my bed in the loft. If you could, could you please make the pile of sticks into a Nintendo Wii? Or at least have an elf do it for you?
First of all, I would like to apologize for actually missing a day of blogging yesterday. My Mac computer completely shut down on me and I could not get it to even turn on. Nevertheless, it is currently sitting in the Mac shop known as my Principal's office, waiting to be picked up by someone from the district Nerd Herd or the Geek Squad. I am left with this lovely loaner, which I gladly accept in efforts to keep my reading audience entertained. I do feel awful about missing a day though. I can just imagine the tears that were shed as folks from across the state sat down at their office desktops, flipped to my blog and sat in quiet desperation, wondering if I was alright, wishing that there was a current post to read. My sincerest apologies go out to you and your families.
That reminds me, the strangest job I ever held was answering emails for Ann Taylor. I worked at this job for about a month, until I was hired back to answer emails for Microsoft. I would sit at a shared computer for two hours and answer emails about V-necks to scoop necks to plunging necklines. What troubled me the most, however, were the constant barrage of emails we would receive from animal activists that were angry about Ann Taylor's use of animal fur in her clothing line. We had a canned email response to send these freaks explaining that the clothing lines were all faux fur and nothing was taken directly from animals. However, we were instructed to add the following sentence to the end of the canned response if the people seemed overly insane or angry:
Please accept our sincerest apologies to you and your family for this misunderstanding.
I guess that they didn't want to be bombed or publicly ridiculed by these fanatical maniacs. I also wondered if their family members really needed our apologies.
I may have been the only straight man working on that call center floor. I recall that they had a "show room" in which we were held much of the season's line. If you had questions about a specific woman's garment, you would have to ask a "manager" to unlock the showroom and wait while you looked at an item. He or she would then escort you out, lock the door and reset the password. I recall more than once tearing through a rack of dresses to see what material a specific one was made of while one of the many managers waited at the door, his hands on his hips while he glanced at his watch. He would wipe his forehead with his pink neck scarf and sigh as if I were taking him his precious time. Ann Taylor herself would have been proud.
Ah. Conference weekend. It hits you like a warm stream of water. It's church's version of a football "bye week". Laziness, napping and occasional listening are the call to order this weekend. I can finally catch up on that "doing of nothing" I have missed out since school began.
Sylvan even called and told me that the kids I was supposed to tutor didn't show up and I don't have to go in. I can't even go out in the yard and work today because of the weather. The ultimate day of laziness! I may not even shave. I may not even brush my teeth. Okay, I will probably brush my teeth but let the facial hair growing, lying on the couch, eating loads of sour patch kids, switching the channel occasionally to see a football score - day begin.
Of course, I will be attending Priesthood meeting tonight. I have every intention not to put up folding chairs for this event. (I believe it is not our ward's turn. At least that is what I tell myself.) Nevertheless, I will not be going to an ice cream establishment afterward. Call me a maverick, call me apostate, call me an anti-post-priesthood-icecream-apostate, but I just can't handle the 20 deep line of white shirts at the local arctic circle to get a twist cone, just because a Saturday night meeting has ended.
When I was a kid growing up in Sugarhouse, my dad would take me to Snellgrove after every Priesthood meeting. We would wait over an hour, but undoubtably would see a couple General Authorities. Often, as we would be leaving, President Monson would show up to get his usual malt. Fond memories, but Snellgroves is gone and I now attend priesthood by myself.
When Lincoln becomes 12 and is able to attend Priesthood meeting with me, I will have to think of a new tradition to uphold. Perhaps we could go shopping for scrapbook supplies or get a post meeting, father-son massage. Maybe a good cock fight or two would be appropriate or hitting the tanning salon. Nothing brings a father and son together like laying side by side under 1,000 watt lamps to artificially darken their skin. At least that is the way I picture this potential bonding moment in my mind. Thirty years from now, instead of Snellgrove, Lincoln will be telling his son about the times he and his dad went tanning after priesthood meeting. Making memories is fun.
**I now realize that I spelled Snelgrove wrong in this post, but in the spirit of day of laziness, I refuse to correct it. I realize now, however, that in the time I have spent typing this postscript, that I could have made the necessary corrections. Oh well, still too lazy to do it.
**UPDATE - I realize Jordan and many of the general church population are ecstatic about the Rome temple. But I, and I'm sure my sister in law- Heather, are equally thrilled with the announced temple in Philadelphia; the first in Pennsylvania. The people in my mission just went from a 6-8 hour drive to White Plains or Washington to a 30 min - 3 hour ride to Phili. I was very proud when I heard the news and I like to think about the celebration all of those friends I made in PA are having right now.