That's just so wrong!

Tonight in my comment box I said, "That's just so wrong!" about the 20 year old girl who had never been to the post office.

And the more I think about it, the louder I want to say it. In a judgmental tone of voice.

THAT'S JUST SO WRONG!

But what's even more wrong is that she didn't know where to write the address or put the stamp.

COME ON! Is this what email and texting has done to our young people? Never going to the post office is bad enough, but have you really lived if you've never written a letter with your own two hands? Or licked a stamp with your tongue?


You know what else is just so wrong? Exercising and reading The Ensign at the same time. There should be a warning label on the back of the magazine that says WARNING: Reading religious material while working out may be hazardous to your health.

I am living proof that it may be hazardous to your health because the next time I see someone at the rec center skimming messages from the prophet while they're frantically pedaling the elliptical, I'm going to poke their eyes out.

SERIOUSLY!

I don't think it's right for people to do crossword puzzles or study chemistry while they're working out either, but there's something almost, for lack of a better word, pernicious about trying to progress physically and spiritually at the same time.

Might as well wear a t-shirt that says Don't hate me because I'm faster AND more spiritual than YOU!


That's just. soooooo. wrong!


The only thing you should be doing while you're running in place or spinning your wheels is sweating and looking at your watch and cursing under your breath.

And the only thing you should be doing while you're reading religious material is sweating and looking at your watch and cursing under your breath.


Otherwise you're not living in the now.


LIVE in the NOW, peoples! Live! in! the! now!

I'm being punked, right?

Do you ever wonder if you're being punked?

I do too.

Sometimes I even catch myself looking around for the hidden cameras or listening for the Twilight Zone theme song. Like last week when my car was stolen from Target parking lot.

I KNOW! Hard to fathom in Happy Valley, right? Luckily my thief was kind enough to return it, except he parked it near Office Max, which threw me off. I thought the cop would be more concerned that my car thief hadn't been taught to put things back where he found them, but he just wanted to know if I had been taught to put things back where I found them.

RED FLAG, right!

Overall the cops in Utah are a little too nice. They really go out of their way for you. In fact, today my sons and I got lost looking for Hillcrest high and a cop stopped me to give me directions. How sweet is that? And then he asked to see my drivers license and gave me a pop quiz on the speed limit in a residential area.

"Ooh, ooh, ooh," I said. "I just graduated magna cum laude from Traffic School so I know this one! YAY!"

Missed it by 5 mph, but he gave me his autograph anyway.

Sometimes I wonder if my hub is in on the punk. Either that or he's just trying to annoy me by shoveling the driveway in his snowman PJ's and his Sunday shoes. And then shoveling the neighbors driveway in his snowman PJ's and his Sunday shoes.

For the record, I did buy him snow boots and jeans to go along with the shovel.

Yesterday I suspected that the whole state of Utah might be in on the punk because I went to the post office and you'll never believe who I stood in line behind . . .

Some lady.

Who had never been to the post office in her life!

ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME?

She kept asking me questions like, "Is this where I put the address? Is this where I put the stamp?" And then she would giggle and shrug and say "I've never done this before."

I finally said "How old are you that you've never been to a post office?"

She was twenty! years! old!


I'm being punked, right?

Unneccesary Sins

Last night I attended a fantastic musical fireside. I seriously had the most intense chicken skin through at least half of it.

And the other half? Well, let's just say I wanted to poke my eyes out.

In Hawaii they sing at musical firesides.

In Utah they sing too, but they also talk. A lot.

Is it just me, or do white people love to talk? Or maybe talking is a Mormon thing. (Not judging, just saying). It ain't our fault that we have a lot of explaining to do. Or that we feel responsible for enlightening the world and making them blind all at the same time.

In Utah they do powerful slide shows and videos at their musical firesides. Last night the powerful music accompanied powerful images of powerful pioneers pulling handcarts. The musical metaphor was something about how we are modern pioneers pulling heavy handcarts full of unnecessary sins which keep us from progressing.

Just as I was making the connection, the screen SUDDENLY lit up with subliminal messages popping out and racing across the screen--big words and little words coming at us in 3D. Words like texting and t.v. and sports.

Then there was a REALLY gigantic word that zoomed out at us, exploded onto the screen and, like aerial fireworks, hung there for a moment before it faded away.

BLOGGING

Not just once, mind you. I subliminally saw it twice.

Honestly it didn't bother me--probably because I understand the value of unnecessary sinning to keep my head from spinning around and popping off. The only thing that bothered me was the power of suggestion. With great power comes great responsibility. That's what Spiderman always says. In one fowl/foul swoop, slide shows like that put ammunition in the hands of those who place more value on the necessary sins, like journaling and scrapbooking and family history.

But doesn't a rose by any other name smell the same?

Am I right? Or am I right?

Oh wells, when the necessary sinners brand me with a scarlet letter B, I can always stick my tongue out and say "At least I don't text!"

In all fairness, the slide show did provide equal ammunition. If my hub or kids try to cast stones at me for blogging I can always poke their eyes out for playing sports.

Then once we're all sufficiently blind, we can sit down together and watch t.v. without any guilt.

Unsolved Mysteries (Sknnnnnnnx!)

Would you like to know which google search words hit my blog the most? 

How do you spell a snore?  

There are hundreds of people out there who want to know how to spell a stinkin' snore and they google it everyday.  

Whodathought?

Wikipedia attempts to answer the question by plagiarizing Dagwood Bumstead.  

When he snores it sounds like this:

 "Sknnnnnx!" (Don't forget the exclamation point - it's an important part!) If it's a really loooooong snore, simply add more n's.

Is it just me, or is anyone else not fully satisfied with this spelling? I mean, when you read my title, did you think of an old man snoring or did you think of a skinny mynx? 

Or maybe you thought I was going to jinx your skin?

I personally think this will forever remain one of life's unsolved mysteries, but I'm going to pose the question again by sharing my famous how-do-you-spell-a-snore post from way back in the day before I was discovered.   

.............................................................................................................

first published on August 22, 2008: 

HOW DO YOU SPELL A SNORE?

If a peaceful dozing sleep is spelled Zzzzzzz, then how do you spell a snore?

I only ask because I've been laying in bed, wide-eyed, for the past 30 minutes trying to figure it out and I got nothin'. I know how it sounds, and I now know how it feels. Or should I say I now know you don't just hear a snore, you feeeeeeel it too. 

It's hard to believe after 20 years of marriage I'm just now realizing this. Other people who have stayed with us, or by us, or near us have mentioned the volume of my husband's snoring, but I've always shrugged it off with a "hmmm, I never noticed." 

I'm gifted. When I drop off to sleep you could run a mac truck over my face and I wouldn't stir.

But tonight I noticed!

I realize there are many of you out there right now saying, "I told you so!" and to you I concede that I understand now. I understand that snoring is much more than a sound--it's an experience. It's a ride that you can't get off once it begins. And you feeeeeel it begin. First in your nose as a tingle that builds into a steady vibration up through your nasal passages before it spreads across your cheeks and crescendos in your brain, making it twitch. 

I kid you not, my brain literally twitched. It was tweaking out. It could have been the poster child for This is Your Brain on Drugs!

But how do you spell that?