O Paul Revere, Where Art Thou?

The Red Coats have come and gone. We here at BYU could have been well served today by a Reverian warning of "THE ESTROGEN IS COMING! THE ESTROGEN IS COMING!"

Today and tomorrow comprise two of the most mayhem-filled days at BYU. Yes, it's Women's Conference. You think the Battle of Bunker Hill was bad? You obviously haven't seen the Battle for Mint Brownies at the Cougareat.

During the next two days, 14,000 women will flood campus for inspirational lectures, service opportunities, and spiritual nourishment. While all that's fine and dandy, it brings up one issue of minor concern: ME BEING INCONVENIENCED.

As a 20-something member of Generation Y, I can't help but feel a little put off by the fact that for two days, campus does not revolve around me--A STUDENT. That in order to buy a book for my class, I have to battle hoards of OUT-OF-TOWNERS who don't know their way around the BYU Bookstore. That I actually have to WAIT IN A LINE to use the little girls' room in the Wilk. That I am surrounded by OLD PEOPLE who probably voted for JOHN MCCAIN. Gross.

Today in the BYU Bookstore, I saw a woman handing out York Peppermint Patties. Feeling sad that my importance was being overshadowed by a forest of mom-pants and lanyards, I felt deserving of chocolately respite. However, as "May I please have a . . . " came out of my mouth, I saw that this woman was not handing out YPPs pro bono. Of course, there was a gimmick.

"Sure, you can have a peppermint patty! Here, take a card! Magic Chores: Help your kids do their chores refreshingly fast!"

Refreshingly fast? YPPs = refreshing mint chocolate? The connection between gimmick and sale eluded me, but I could sense what was coming next . . .

" . . . do you have children, miss?"

My options:
(1) Say, "Nope! Bye!"
(2) Violate the ninth commandment.

Naturally, I chose the lesser infraction.

"Nope!"

But as I read "Then why the heck are you taking my peppermint patties??" on her face, I felt my knees buckle (it actually turned out to be my integrity).

"I mean uh . . . not yet . . . I'm pregnant!"

"Awww, really? That's great! Well keep Magic Chores in mind for when your little one starts doing chores a few years down the road. It's helped my three-year old so much!"

"What's his name?" I asked out of genuine curiosity.

"Seth."

I found myself digging myself deeper into the lie, just for fun . . . "Oh, that's great. I need to keep an ear out for good baby names. My husband and I can't agree on anything!"

She smiled. "I know what you mean. Do you know what you're having yet?"

"Um . . . no . . . I'm only . . . 10 weeks along."

"Oh, wow! No wonder you're not showing."

(Phew!)

"I know you're not supposed to tell anybody until you hit 12 weeks, but I'm just so excited!"

"That's great! Is this your first?"

"Mmm hmm. Except I don't know whether to enroll in fall semester, I'm due in October. It would be hard having a baby in the middle of the semester."

"Do it. Just get it done. It's so much easier just to have it done. I'm just starting school right now with a three-year old, and it's rough."

Lies are fun until people start sharing personal information with you. Then you go from zero to scumbag in about .3 seconds. Luckily, right as the guilt started seeping in, another interested woman (who's eggs looked like they'd dried out LONG ago . . . ) stopped by to see what this girl was selling. My exit had arrived.

"Oh, well, great talking to you! I won't keep you any longer and let you talk to this nice woman here. Thanks for the peppermint patty!"

Proverbs 31:10 is a popular scripture read at Women's Conference. It states: "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far beyond rubies."

I'm pretty sure that virtuous women don't lie in order to snag free chocolate.

Maybe next year I should go to Women's Conference.

Gum

I think my aversion to gum-chewing can be traced to a mere five minutes of TV-watching from my youth. I remember when I was about seven years old, I thought it would be pretty cool of me to stay up and watch ER with my parents (after all, if I could handle "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman," surely I was ready to graduate to the upper echelons of primetime medical programming). Unfortunately, this turned out to be a traumatic experience. The first (and last) episode of ER that I ever watched entailed the extraction of wads of gum from a boy's stomach. Apparently he was "addicted" to swallowing gum, and as soon as they pulled the gooey mess from his throat, he heading for the vending machine to buy more. For whatever reason, this five minutes of TV had an indelible impact on me, and I have always thought gum-chewing to be the most despicable of habits.

I will never understand gum chewers.

1. Gum chewing is gross. Why would anyone want to look like a cow chewing its cud? Disgusting. I mean, I can see the justification in popping in a Winterfresh for a couple minutes post-asiago bagel, but for goodness’ sake spit it out and be done with it once the halitosis is remedied.

2. Gum chewers are rude. I have never met (or rather, heard) a gum chewer who knows how to do so discreetly. They’re always popping it, chomping on it open-mouthed, or blowing bubbles. Even for the few who chew it closed-mouthed, you can still faintly hear their saliva sloshing around in there. With the exception of prepubescents (maybe), nobody wants to hear that.

3. Gum chewers look stupid. Sad, but true. When was the last time you saw a foreign dignitary chewing gum? Or a professor? By the same token, when last the last time you saw a directionless, brainless, 20-something meathead/bimbo chewing gum? Probably in your last class.

4. Gum chewers are inconsiderate. I open this with the caveat that not all gum chewers are careless in their disposal of said masticated product—indeed, some are kind enough to save the wrapper and dispose of it properly—but if I had a nickel for every time my hand grazed an insidious hardened lump underneath a table, or for every sticky mess I’ve stepped in or sat on, or for every nasty black splotch on the sidewalk I see, I would never have to work a day again in my life.

I think we can all agree that #1 is a fair statement to make. #2-4, however, seem like brazen generalizations, do they not? To illustrate these points specifically, allow me to point you to something I found on Yahoo Answers.

The question was “Why is gum chewing considered low class?” I will bracket the violations as they arise.

“Normal” Answer: “It’s not that chewing gum is considered "low class" but rather how it is chewed. "High class" individuals were often raised to eat very properly, mouths shut and silent. However, most people who chew gum tend to chew with their mouths open, blow bubbles, pop it, etc.”

Answer from a gum-chewer: “What the hell? [gratuitous profanity, #2 and #3] Where the hell did you ever hear that from. What idiot told you that? Chewing gum is not considered low class. Low class are people that say chewing gum is low class...[lack of support for this statement, #3] Oh, how I love chewing gum, in-fact [improper use of dash, #3], I'm chewing gum as we speak... For those of you that say chewing gum is low, why do you live a lame useless life? [#2 and #3] Get over your self... Or I'll chew my gum in your face and spit it out on your door step. [#4]”

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080806210218AAHRRP2

In Singapore, the fine for smuggling (yes, smuggling) gum is $10,000 and a year in prison. Now there’s an initiative I would like to see in 2012.

The Epiphany

This past week, I've had several friends announce baby news. Apparently Christmas Break 2009 was a very loving time. But it got me thinking about babies and parenting (no, Mom, don't get excited), and as I did so, I recalled the the following story . . .

I remember when I was young--okay,younger,--I was with my family driving in the car when my father was asked the most dreaded question in all of parentdom:

"Daddy, who's your favorite?"

Himself being the driver of the vehicle, Ford Excursion, bus, aircraft carrier, it's not like my dad could have just walked away from the topic right then and there. He was pinned. He deftly tried to avert the conversation, but we were no fools! Yes, my friends, we, his posterity, had a right to know. Unfortunately, our efforts were met with a stock answer: "I love you all equally, but in different ways."

Psch. Yeah right. We were young, but we weren't stupid. The conversation continued as we exerted, with all the logical capacities our sub-14-year old minds could muster, the fallacy of our father's statement. Rebuttal after rebuttal, we tried to ensnare our father in his own words, waiting for the one slip-up, the one loophole that we could exploit . . .

that's when I saw it.

Could it be true? Did mine eyes deceive me? I doubted myself. But there it had been! Yes! I had seen it! There, in the rearview mirror, surely as the stars at night, I had seen my father look me in the eyes and mouth "you are."

For years I believed this. For years I kept that secret near and dear to my heart. Never once mentioning it again with my father, never once gloating to the other children. Being the oldest, I did, after all, possess the birthright--did my siblings really need to know that that was not all I had won from them?

Several months ago this, topic came up again in family conversation. My father replied with the same stock answer, but I knew the truth. Later, in private, I approached him.

"Don't worry, Dad. I still know."

My father furrowed his brow. " . . . Still know what?"

"You know . . . that I'm your favorite kid."

"HA! What? You think--what? HA! Where did you hear that?"

Not the response I was expecting. At all. I recounted the story of years past to my father, who vehemently denied it (a cover-up? maybe). Regardless, I left the conversation confused, once again having to revisit the question of "how can a parent not have a favorite kid?"

Today, as I was eating Starburst, I received my answer.

Some days I like pink, some days I like red. I like them both for different reasons, and on some days I definitely prefer one to the other. But I could never choose a favorite.

Ergo, children are like Starbust.

And if I have a yellow kid, I will be pissed.

I Should Have Known Better

Brock and I are spending a few days with my family in FoCo before heading back to Provo for school. Seeing as how both of us are jobless (and, since our departures from Tucanos, sane) we've had to get creative with the whole making-enough-money-to-pay-rent thing. Being the go-getters that we are, we decided to take advantage of our time in Colorado and ask my mom if she had any odd jobs for us to do around the house.

I should have known better.

When we made this request to my darling mother, some of the "odd jobs" we had in mind were maybe, oh I dunno...babysitting, mowing the lawn, filing bills for my dad's Medicare patients, cleaning, etc.

But my mom is a smart woman. She recognizes cheap labor when she sees it, and, after all, beggars can't be choosers. So she decided that this week--the one week when Brock and I happen to be in town--would be deliciously opportune for her to undertake the most drastic landscaping endeavor the Thomas home has seen in years.

My mother decided that she doesn't much care for mulch; that she prefers river rock, and would love to line our retaining wall with said product. Enter Brock and Kristi. This job required us to remove all the mulch that was already lining the retaining wall, lay down tarp where the rocks would go (to prevent weeds and sinkage), and then transport 10 tons of river rock via wheelbarrow to the mulch's previous residence.

Yes, folks, 10 tons. I am not exaggerating.
(For those of you with arithmetic impediments, that 20,000 pounds.)

Did I mention that this is only one of the jobs assigned to us!? My mom also decided to build a new wooden entry deck to a door on the side of the house (have fun with that one, Brock!), suddenly became aware that our driveway was in dire need of caulking, and that it was time to harvest an entire ravine's worth of chokecherries to make chokecherry jam. Amazing how all this back-breaking work percolated and festered for years, but then suddenly erupted into the Perfect Storm of Labor rightwhen we arrive into town! Coincidence? I think not!

A word to the wise: the next time you're wanting to make a quick, easy buck, do not approach Holly Kern Thomas. You should know better.

Proof That My Little Bros Are Cuter Than Yours

So, in case you were unaware, I am the oldest of six kids. The two youngest ones, Caden and Connor, are five and four, respectively. Brock and I are currently babysitting all my siblings (minus Caleb, who's on a mission in NYC) while my parents celebrate their 20-some-odd anniversary in Aspen (cue the "bow chicka wow wow").

This morning, Brock took our lovely little dog Mojo out for a run on the beautiful Cathy Fromme Prairie trail. He came back and was idyllicly perusing the newspaper, dog in lap, on our deck that overlooks the prairie. Life couldn't have gotten much better...except Brock was in for a rude awakening.

[Connor walks on to the deck.]

"Hey Brooock, whacha doin?"
"I'm reading the paper."
"Why?"
"Because I like to know what going on in the world."
"Oh. But none of it's true."
Brock cocks an eyebrow. "What?"
"The newspaper. It's just all lies."
"Where did you hear that?"
"Um...on a TV show. Called...things that aren't true."
"Ooooh I see."

[enter Caden]

"Yeah Brock," he adds. "It's all just old stuff."
"It's stuff that happened a long time ago," says Connor. "Like, to the pioneers."
Caden nods in solemn agreement. "It doesn't even talk about Jesus."

An Ode to Peanut Butter Twix

It's beckoned me.

At every gas station, at every 7-11, at every vending machine. I've done quite well at resisting thus far, knowing full well that "just once" would open the flood gates for a new generation of junk food cravings, but yesterday--in a moment of weakness--I succumbed.

I walked into a 7-11. Why? I don't know. I went in for no reason in particular, although I do recall a strange, magnetic sensation propelling me through the revolving door. And there it was before me: the veritable apogee of all that is scrumptious. Chocolate. Peanut butter. Cookie. Crunchy, yet smooth. Rich, yet airy.

After weeks of denying myself, the temptation got to be too much. I'm not a nun, for Pete's sake! I eagerly paid for my wares and hurried outside to savor what was sure to be a glorious mistake.

I delicately opened the wrapper and beheld the apex of human existence: two four-inch long dark chocolate wafers, lightly glossed with peanut butter, enveloped in milk chocolate ecstasy. 

Indulgence.

Cherubim fluttered around me as seraphim sang heavenly praises to the God of All That is Tasty and Delicious: Mars, Inc. 

I always thought it was kind of lame how the Fall of Man happened over fruit and not like Belgian chocolate or anything. Or at least a Hershey bar, for crying out loud. I always thought that, had I been Eve, Adam and I would still be living in paradise surrounded by cute snow leopards or something. But yesterday, as I partook of myForbidden Fruit, I understood where Eve must have been coming from. I guess indulgence is relative.

Is there a more perfect junction of palatable pleasure? Nay. The food industry has reached its zenith, for all future developments will most certainly pale in comparison to the Herculean achievement that is the peanut butter Twix.

A pregnant woman's dream.

One of the Perks of Being a Political Science Major

Sometimes when you're studying for finals, it feels more like you're reading a Dan Brown novel...

He was so close he could taste it.

Dr. Bruce Ivins was a breath away from discovering a vaccine for the anthrax virus. Dollar signs flashed before his eyes. The government would pay millions for it. Perhaps a Noble prize was in his future? The possibilities were both endless and alluring for a man with humble Ohio beginnings.

Unfortunately, the government placed strict regulations on testing anthrax drugs on animals. His research hit a dead end. This news did not bode well for Ivins who was, in fact, deeply mentally disturbed. He personally admitted to having severe issues with depression and paranoia...

I'm a little dream-self, short and stout.
I'm the other half of Bruce — when he lets me out.
When I get all steamed up, I don't pout. 
I push Bruce aside, then I'm free to run about.

Suddenly, in 2001, people around the United States started receiving anthrax in their mail. U.S. Senator Tom Daschle. Patrick Leahy. The news stations at ABC, CBS, NBC. People were dying.

Initially, Ivins was invited to be an investigator on the case, having himself obtained a PhD. in microbiology. For some time, the FBI focused its investigation on Steven Hatfill, considering him to be the chief suspect in the attacks. In March 2008, however, authorities exonerated him. 

After Hatfill was no longer considered a suspect, Ivins began "showing signs of serious strain". As a result of his changed behavior, he lost access to sensitive areas at his job. Ivins began submitting false anthrax samples to the FBI (to throw investigators off his trail?) and was unable to provide "an adequate explanation for his late laboratory work hours" around the time of the attacks, according to the government documents.

Late in July 2008, investigators informed Ivins of his impending prosecution for his alleged involvement in the 2001 anthrax attacks that Ivins himself had previously assisted authorities in investigating.

On the morning of July 27, 2008, police found Dr. Bruce Edwards Ivins unconscious in his home. He had overdosed on prescription Tylenol with codeine. Suicide. Two days later, on a bed in Fredericks Memorial Hospital, he took his secrets to the grave.

My Top 10 Facebook Grievances

Mmmkay. Full disclosure: I enjoy Facebook as much as anybody, but there are certain things people do on it, The Shining Beacon of TMI, that irk me beyond belief.

Under the banner of social decency, I have decided to list (in no particular order) my top 10 Facebook grievances (hey, Martin Luther must have gotten his start somewhere too, right?). If you have committed one of the following offenses: fear not. It doesn't make you a bad person. I just groan when you pop up (AGAIN) on my newsfeed.

1. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Woodstock was soooo 40 years ago. "Peace and love" are NOT religious views. Nor is "karma" a political view. If you're not a religious person, then just say so. If you really don't know what's going on in politics, there's handy little option for you: "moderate."

2. Needlessly taking quizzes. Now, don't get me wrong. I think some of the quizzes on here are fun. But when people take quizzes like "What temple will you get married in?" when they're ALREADY MARRIED, it gets a little ridiculous. Do you really need to take the "How well do you know so-and-so?" quiz when so-and-so is your mom? Nothing is more annoying then when your newsfeed is clogged up with one person taking 20 random quizzes. C'mon people.

3. Posting song lyrics as your status. I don't know why this bugs me so much. Maybe I'm just not up-to-date with all the new-age emo lyrics that people are into these days. But in my opinion, unless those song lyrics truly describe your life in that moment (e.g. you write "won't you pleeeease pleeeease help me!" as a burglar is about to stab you in the face) then say something else. 

4. Do you seriously have 100 favorite musical artists? You honestly couldn't whittle it down to say, ten-ish? If not, then kudos. You're more musically literate than I (which admittedly isn't hard to be). But I will always harbor a sneaking suspicion that you were really just bored on some idle Saturday with nothing better to do than update your profile.

5. "Deep" statuses (stati?). "Jane is: gazing heavenward...but sees only blackness." Hmm. There are probably more appropriate venues for you to express the metaphysical ramblings of your inner soul other than...a FB status. Just sayin'.

6. Stop taking pictures of yourself. Really. No amount of picture-taking will make you hotter than you actually are. And the whole taking-a-picture-of-yourself-standing-in-front-of-a-mirror: sooo passe. Oh, and you're not the first person to own a Macbook either, trust me. I don't need to see a full album of all you having fun with PhotoBooth. I've seen hundreds of bug-eyed fish faces. They're not funny anymore.

7. Girls: slutty pictures of you acting lesbian with all your friends. I don't wanna see pictures of you squeezing your friend's boob, or like having your tongues jutting out towards each other, or giving each other lap dances. It's not sexy. It's nasty. 

8. Updating your status every five hours. If the only person showing up on your wall is YOU, consider easing up a bit . . .

9. Getting invited to events when I don't live ANYWHERE NEAR YOU. It would be great to celebrate your 21st birthday at the Drunken Monkey, but I don't live in Fort Collins anymore. And I don't drink. And if you're unaware of both those facts...then why are you inviting me to your birthday party??

10. When people's random box is waaay too random. "I would pay to see a life size animatronic dinosaur show. I really would." Yes, I'm talking to you Sierra Robinson :)


The end.

What Dante Omitted: PTSD (The Eighth Level of Hell)

Most of you have probably heard of “posttraumatic stress disorder.” For those of you who are unfamiliar with this or whose only exposure to it has been via the glowing rays of color emitted from your television during an episode of CSI:Miami, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can occur after you have been through a traumatic event. A traumatic event is something horrible and scary that you see or that happens to you. During this type of event, you think that your life or others' lives are in danger. You may feel powerless over your circumstances. Feeble. Afraid.

What you may not know is that PTSD is actually a generalized term that originated from a more specific type of disorder. My friends, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder was actually once known as “Posttucanos Stress Disorder,” but the term has since been broadened for the sake of the general public.

Posttucanos Stress Disorder is a debilitating disease that regularly affects more than 200 people worldwide. Symptoms include intense irritability, frustration and manic rage. These symptoms are often taken out on the spouses of those who suffer, leading to marital distress and—in extreme cases—lack of libido.

The road to PTSD is winding and varied. Listen to what the following PTSD sufferers have to say about their journey into the abyss:

It was a Monday night. Slow, as usual. I was in the pit. Suck. I had come to grips with the fact that I was going to make no money, but then—a glimmer of hope. My manager told me he was going to put an 8-top in my section. Yes! I thought. An 8-top meant an automatic 18% gratuity…it wouldn’t save my night by any means, but it would lessen the sting. Little did I know that this 8-top was comprised of two adults with their six young children (all under the age of six). Everyone got waters. And they had a birthday card.
-Anonymous

It was a Saturday night. Busy, as usual. I was in the 40s. Sweet. My managers told me to brace myself—a 30-top was coming in at 5:30, and they were saving my whole section for it. Big money!! 5:30 came. 5:30 went. 6:00 came. 6:00 went. 6:30 came. 6:30 went. They finally waltzed into the lobby at 7:00, and the entire party sat down all at once. I was prepared for this. Boom, boom, boom I got their drink orders and went back to the bar to get everything. That’s when I realized that nobody had been stocking. We were out of ice. Out of carafes. Out of sours. Out of tumblers. To make matters worse, the 30-top was NuSkin. We only had 3 wine glasses. And they all wanted separate checks.
-Anonymous

I knew I was in trouble when my table didn’t speak English. To add insult to injury, it was a 5-top and therefore ungratable. I watched in agony as they ordered lobster, a shrimp skewer, and gallons of booze. Their check was over $300. They left me $5.
-Anonymous

I was stoked when I got phased at 8:30. Little did I know that we still had mountains of sidework. I figured there’d be people there to help me soon enough, but at 8:30 we got a huge rush. Everybody’s sections were full. I peeled two 50-lb bags of potatoes and rolled three crates of silverware. At 10:00 I went to get my print-out, but the bar was behind on closing checks. I figured it would give me some time to do my closing sidework, so I looked up at the chart to see what I had to do. The drain. A half-hour later I finally got my print-out and gave it to a manger so he could change my numbers. He told me “just a minute.” It’s now been three weeks. I’m still at Tucanos waiting for my numbers to be changed. I think they’ve forgotten that I work here.
-Anonymous

Situations like these happen every day at Tucanos and, as you can imagine, PTSD is rampant amongst employees. Fortunately, there is a cure. It’s called Getanewjobyrll. This FDA-approved medication is covered by most insurers and can drastically alleviate the symptoms of PTSD. As with any medication, there are side effects to Getanewjobyrll. These include restlessness, insomnia, headache, tremor, dry mouth, confusion, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, nausea, constipation, menstrual complaints, rash, dry mouth, urinary retention, blurred vision, weight gain, weight loss, diarrhea and inability to achieve an erection. If you are unwilling to accept the risk of these side effects, PTSD has only one other known solution: faking your own death.

If you would like to personally donate to the cause of PTSD, please call 801-224-4774 and make a reservation at Tucanos. Be kind and courteous to your server, as they will most certainly be the same to you. Have class and show appreciation by tipping them 20% of the original amount of the check (i.e. pre-coupons). To make this easy for you, follow this rule: look at the first two digits of the bill, stick a decimal point between them, and double that number.

Your check is $45.67. Pay attention only to the 4 and 5. Stick a decimal point between them—4.5. Double that number. That means you should leave a $9 tip.

If your check skyrockets into the triple-digit range ($100 and up) follow the same rule, but instead look at the first three numbers and stick a decimal point after the first two. Then double that number.

Your check is $175.23. Pay attention only to the 1, 7 and 5. Stick a decimal point between after the first two numbers—17.5. Double that number. That means you should leave a $35 tip.

If your check exceeds the triple-digit range and is over $1000, then you are really freaking rich and probably have a black American Express card and already know how to tip. Therefore, no advice is needed.

If the makers of Getanewjobyrll and the general public work together, the sufferers of PTSD will be sufferers no more. As a victim of PTSD myself, I thank you for educating yourself on this incapacitating disease and hope that you will do your part in the future to prevent it.

How to Know if You've Married a Dork

Ladies of the World,

It's a Wednesday night. But not just ANY Wednesday night, mind you. It's April 15th, 2009. Yes, yes, yes, it's El Dia de Taxos, but it ALSO marks the official end of classes for BYU students. Nothing's due today! Unforeseen hours lay unscheduled before you! And what will you do with this time, Ladies of the World? You there, in the back. What would you do? What's that? A night out on the town with your husband? Your amazingly good-looking, funny, charismatic husband? Well, naturally!

What shall you do? Dinner? (Don't worry--you've gift cards aplenty!) A movie? (Dollar theater!) Perhaps a candlelit rendezvous in your sleeping quarters mmmmm??

No.

If you're married to MY husband, your school-free Wednesday evening will include idling away the hours at Barnes and Noble.

His idea. I swear.

Quote: "Hey! If we're lucky those comfy chairs in the business section will be open!!!"- Brock Boyce 4/15/2009

Why, exactly, is my husband so bent on going to Barnes and Noble, you ask? Get this: he wants to "brush up on his calculus." Yes, my friends. He wants to go to Barnes and Noble with his rented-from-the-Provo-City-Library-old-edition calculus textbook and READ IT.

?!?!?!?!?!?!

April 15th, 2009. I had my suspicions about Brock before, but today they were confirmed: I'm married to a dorkasaurus.

HAHAHAHA!!!
(Brock probably thinks this is the funniest picture ever.)

First in Battle

He was turning 88.

His wife—an elegant, poised, seemingly majestic woman—sat across from him. Surrounding the rest of the table were their children and their spouses. One of his birthday gifts sat directly in front of him: a huge carton of RedVines. (I guess the man was known for his sweet tooth.)

Some co-workers and I came out to sing the Brazilian “happy birthday” song to him. His eyes glimmered and an infectious smile crept across his crinkly face as we butchered the Portuguese we were singing in. My mind was elsewhere. Refills to table 13, bring check to table 25, dessert tray to 15, ring in lemonades for 24 . . .

The song ended. I said a quick, customary “Happy birthday, sir” and went off to take care of the rest of my tables. But as I turned to leave, the old man caught me by the arm.

“Young lady,” he said.

My heart quickened as he pulled me closer.

“You go home and tell all your friends that this was the day you were kissed on the hand by a Marine! “

He gingerly lifted my hand to his lips, as if he was about to sip from a cup made of fine China. Looking directly into my eyes, he softly kissed the front of my hand and then slowly brought it back down to my side.

“And that’s how you do it!” he beamed. There was that smile again. “Would you like to hear a poem?”

“Of course I would!”(As if I was going to say “no” to that!)

It was a love poem. Not an overused classic like Sonnet #18 or a soliloquy from Romeo and Juliet—it had a different tambour to it. It sounded like something a soldier would write to his wife waiting back home. Or lyrics to an old Sam Cook song. I glanced over at his wife. She’d heard it before.

So there I was, standing face-to-face with a member of the greatest generation our country has ever seen. Having a love poem recited to me, no less! Had Brad Pitt sat down at one of my tables I couldn’t have cared less.

 The poem ended, but I didn’t want to leave. I searched for a conversation-starter:

 “My grandpa was a Marine, too. He fought in WWII and Korea. Which wars did you fight in?”

 “Really, now? I was in WWII y’see. I was at Iwo Jima. You know what Iwo Jima is?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Got shot right through here,” he pointed to his left thigh, “and still got shrapnel floating around in here,” he patted his right shoulder. “Y’know what they say. Once a Marine, always a Marine! Them Navy guys are always out on the water, them Air Force guys are always out flying around, and then you got them Army guys on land doin’ who knows what. But we Marines are always first in battle, y’see. Just like our song says.”

 

From the Halls of Montezuma
To the Shores of Tripoli;
We fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom 
And to keep our honor clean; 
We are proud to claim the title 
of United States Marine.

 

This man was part of a diminishing generation of great patriots. It’s a shame I only knew him for five minutes. Unfortunately, patriotism like his is often frowned upon these days. It seems to be in vogue to criticize, belittle and even feel ashamed of our country. Just ask Sean Penn, Gwenyth Paltrow, or a host of other high-profile celebrities. For those of you who wonder why I’m stuck in the old-fogey traditional mindset of years past: this Marine is the reason.

 He didn’t step on the battleground of Iwo Jima so that moral relativism could pervade our society

He didn’t get shot in the thigh with the hopes that future progressive thinkers would have the “freedom” to hate America. I recently saw one of these progressive thinkers, the leader of an anti-war activist group call Code Pink, on a news show. This group desperately protests for the removal of U.S. troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. Instead, they call for “diplomacy” and “peacemaking.”

With the Taliban. Interesting. I hope that works out for them.

Such people are so jaded by their idealism that there becomes a gray line between good and evil. That way, everyone can do what they want and be happy, right? We all deserve the opportunity to exercise our freedoms! Our rights! It’s what the Founding Fathers wanted! (If a Utopian free-for-all is what you think the Founding Fathers wanted, then you’re in dire need of a history lesson.) If there truly is a gray line between good and evil, the Marine who serenaded me wouldn’t have war scars all over his body. If there truly is a gray line between good and evil, 3000 people would still being going home to their families tonight after their workday at the World Trade Center.

 My point is that you can’t be “first in battle” if there’s nothing to fight for. I know it. This Marine knew it. And the 144,000 troops deployed in Iraq know it too. If America is to remain a beacon of democracy, her citizens need to be proud of their heritage and fight for the good.

Semper fidelis.

 

Babies, Babies, Everywhere

Wassup Nadya! Or should I say Angelina? How are those octoplets treating you? Oh, they're still in the hospital? Some of them are in the ICU? Wow, that must be expensive. $1 million and counting? Dang. Hopefully your husband has a a good job! What's that you say? No father in the home? Oh. Great. California tax-payers are footing the hospital bills and welfare? Hmmm. How are the other six kids? What's that? You don't know? Your mother is their primary caregiver?

Alfie! Wow. When I was thirteen I wanted to go see A Goofy Movie at the dollar theatre, not be a parent. Where were your parents the night you impregnated your girlfriend? Well, nevermind. I guess that doesn't matter anymore. 13. Shoot. I didn't know little boys' whistles even worked at that age. But I guess they work enough. How does it feel knowing that you'll be just 31 years old when your kid graduates high school? That is, if he DOES graduate high school. Having a 13-year old dad and 15-year old mom could really mess someone up, you know. But I'm sure you guys know what you're doing. After all, you're in LOVE right? And parenting is nothin'.

To quote Marvin Gaye: what's goin on???

Has everyone taken crazy pills lately? The 10 o'clock news has turned into a circus! Babies here, babies there. Nadya Suleman, Alfie Patten, Bristol Palin, Jamie Lynn Spears, on and on and on. For those of you who are unaware: parenting is a HUGE deal. It is NOT a trend. It is NOT something that just anyone can do at any time. Having a child and knowing how to care for one are two ENTIRELY different things.

To all my friends who are sexually active: if you're not looking to have a kid, you better be practicing safe sex or else I will find you and kick you in the face. If you ARE looking to have a kid, I pray to God that you know what you're getting yourself into.

To all my friends who aren't sexually active: if you're smart, you'll stay that way until marriage.

If you're in the difficult position of going through an unplanned (unwanted?) pregnancy--panicked by the daunting responsibilites that will soon be upon you--I congratulate you. At least you have some idea of what parenthood entails. I also invite you to watch a commercial the NBC rejected to air during this year's past SuperBowl: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2CaBR3z85c

We're currently in a war with Iraq, the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression, and our educational system is in need of dire reform. Yet none of these dilemmas hold a candle to the effects of the degeneration of the traditional familiy unit. You want REAL problems? Then watch what happens when families deterioate. $787 billion won't do you jack.

Husband-wife-child.

Not boyfriend-girlfriend-child.

Not fiancee-fiancee-child.

Not mother-child.

Not father-child.

Please, people. Let's get it right.

The Christmas Coat

"Where is your coat, young lady?"

He looked to be about 60 years old and was sitting on a bench outside of the testing center. I was walking there from the JSB to grab a vending machine snack halfway through Religion 351.

"You know, I brought one but it looked nice outside so I left it in the car. It's much colder than it looks!"

"That it is!"

"I know. I think just because I'm from Colorado I can handle these things, but I really can't!"

The girl sitting next to him chimed in, "Well I'm from Canada, and trust me--this is cold!" She looked to be about 25--a granddaughter? Student? Was he a professor?

"Here," he said. "I'm wearing a vest under this coat. Take it!"

"Oh no, sir, I'm okay, really. I'm just popping into the testing center to grab a snack."

"No no no no, I insist!"

He then proceeded to take off his coat, turn me around and then fed my arms through the sleeves. Just like they did in the olden days! It was a thick, cozy, fleece-lined jacket from Zergatt Resort in Midway, UT. It's a really fancy-schmancy place, in case you haven't heard about it. A coat from their gift shop would probably cost at least $50.

"There! Much better, isn't it?"

I was laughing. So was the girl sitting next time him. Was he serious? His actions were so completely unexpected, so entirely out-of-the-ordinary that we just couldn't help it.

"Yes sir, thank you very much! It's quite toasty! I'll enjoy it for the next forty steps to the testing center!"

"Well you're welcome! Christmas has come early for you!"

I smiled all the rest of the way to the testing center and bought some carrot sticks and a FiberOne bar. I took off the jacket as I walked out the door, fully expecting to return it the kind stranger.

But the bench was empty.

The process of getting my snacks from the vending machine had taken me less than a minute, and he was gone. Could old men walk that fast? Was he hiding somewhere? My eyes scanned every inch and corner of the quad, but to no avail.

I couldn't believe it! A complete stranger has literally given me the shirt (er, coat) off his back. I didn't know if the warm fuzzies I was getting were from the fleece lining or from the mere thought that someone would actually do that.

I plan on keeping this coat forever. To me, it's a symbol of the goodness in others and represents what Christmas is all about--Christ. Christ was the ultimate example of goodness and charity. He always gave willingly to the needy, and that's what this stranger did for me.

In a world where politicians accept bribes to fill senate seats, where governors hire call-girls and presidents cheat on their wives, it's nice to know that true goodness still exists. It's out there. You can choose to either be a part of it, or to pretend that it's not there and focus on yourself. One of these options is easy. The other isn't.

So to the man who gave me the coat that I am currently wearing: thank you (even though I highly doubt you will ever read this). Although it pains me that I have no method by which to personally thank you, perhaps the best way I could express my gratitude would be to pay it forward and bless the life of another.

Merry Christmas everybody.

Le Mystere de Cuisson

To my dear friend, Dawn Edgerton:

For ten years, it has been an unsolved mystery. But not anymore.

When I was in fourth or fifth grade, one of my best friends—Dawn Edgerton—moved to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Well, we weren’t really best friends, but pretty good ones. At least before third grade.

In third grade, Dawn became best friends with Brooke Bontz because she was really good at soccer. Naturally, being the insecure, acceptance-seeking third-grader that I was, I did everything I could to ensure that both Dawn and Brooke would like me.

I read every Roald Dahl book I could get my hands on (because THEY thought Roald Dahl was cool) and had my mom buy me nylon athletic pants so I could look like all the other girls who played on Arsenal Soccer. Offense #1: the pants were pink—not black—much to Dawn’s disgust. Oh, and they weren’t Adidas either. I think we got them at SteinMart. Offense #2.

Predictably, these attempts merely succeeded at annoying both Brooke and Dawn and making them reject me all the more vehemently.

Despite all of my pathetic efforts for peer acceptance, somehow, some way, when Dawn moved out of town we became friends again (looking back, I think I should have been insulted by that). Since my dad worked up in Cheyenne every Monday during the summer, he would take me up with him, drop me off at Dawn’s, and we would play till he picked me up again later in the afternoon. Thus was the beginning of the FOBFFC—the Far-Off But Forever Friends Club. We vowed to write each other a letter once a week, and if you didn’t, you owed the other person fifty cents.

It was in her bedroom on those summer Mondays that I was introduced to the Backstreet Boys, Kid Rock and Boyz II Men. And shaving my legs. My mom said I was too young to start, so I always did it at Dawn’s house with her Sensor Excel. It was pink.

We painted fingernails and talked about boys. Sometimes we went to the park. But mostly, we played Crash Bandicoot: Warped.

Crash Bandicoot: Warped! On the FIRST Playstation. Not II. Not III. Not PSP. I remember the glory days when we would win 30 lives on the Oriental Express, and then use them all to beat Dingodile. One time we got SO close to beating the final boss. Lasers were involved . . . hop over one, duck under another, etc. When we were about to run out of lives, back to the Oriental Express we went. That day, we played Crash Bandicoot for EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT. I’m not kidding. We sat our little 10-year old butts down on her living room carpet as soon as I got dropped off, and didn’t get up till my dad picked me up at 5:00. That, my friends, is stamina. Our thumbs were arthritic. Our eyeballs burned. Our backs, in their primate-esque arches, ached like never before. But on we played.

The next time we got together, Dawn and I decided to swear off CB for that day. This oath, of course, lasted a mere two hours, but what we did with that time I’ll never forget: we baked chocolate chip cookies together. Erm, excuse me, TRIED to bake chocolate chip cookies. Each batch we made came out looking a little, oh, how you say, abnormal? Bizarre? Grotesque? The batter oozed out all across the cookie sheet in a flat plane with the chocolate chips poking up like tiny mountains. We tried the recipe multiple times—reading and re-reading every line, measuring with accuracy that would put to shame those people at amusement parks who write your name on a grain of rice—yet our results remained constant. To this day, we don’t know what went wrong.

But it was okay. Crash Bandicoot awaited.

Fast forward ten years.

The other day, I bought vinyl lettering to place on a wall in my kitchen: a cute little quote that reads “Cooking is love made visible.” Tender, I know. After putting it up above my oven, I decided to "make some love" and bake cookies as a thank-you for a friend. Given the message of the quote, I figured my first baking attempt under it would be a blessed one.

I turn on the iPod and begin mixing, stirring, and beating to the sounds of the Huey Lewis and Madeleine Peyroux. In the past, I’ve had mouthwatering results with this particular recipe for chocolate peanut butter chip cookies.

Pop ‘em in the oven. 350° for eight minutes. After four minutes, I take a peek inside . . .

Wait, they didn’t look like this the last time I made them, did they? The “cookies” have oozed out in goopy blobs. With the peanut butter chips poking up like tiny mountains. Hmmm.

Not to worry! I try again. Double-check the recipe . . . did I do everything right? Yes. Oh! There it is! I greased the cookie sheet when I wasn’t supposed to. That must be the reason why they’re spreading so much.

I grab another (ungreased) cookie sheet and throw in another batch.
Same oozing batter. Same tiny peanut butter mountains.

A teaspoon of baking powder. Yes, THAT'S what they need. THAT's what will make them rise.
Nope.

After the third failed batch, I decided it was time to stop fighting and accept the truth: I am under the Ten-Year Cookie Curse.

There’s no other explicable reason as to why—especially under my new vinyl lettering!—this particular recipe for cookies failed so miserably. I've made them before with much success! Not only that, but these “cookies” looked eerily reminiscent of the “cookies” Dawn and I made ten years ago. Coincidence? I think not.

So Dawn: not to worry. It was not your baking skills that were lacking in that sweltering summer of 1998, but merely your choice of kitchen partner. However, I do have another decade before the Ten-Year Cookie Curse strikes again, so if you ever need a bakingmate, you know who to call.

Just steer clear of me in 2018.

Your Far-Off But Forever Friend,
Kristi

Failed batch #1. Sadly, the best looking out of all of them.

Failed batch #2 or #3. I forget. Noticeably flatter. Not happy.

In that case, my love is NASTY and completely undesirable. 

Sorry Brock.

A Word from Brock

Okay, this is sort of a breach in blogging protocol, but I'm posting something that's not my own. It's a little tidbit Brock wrote today that is amazing. Inflammatory, yes. But still. I think it's something people need to hear. The title of it is . . .

"I supported Prop 8...you got a problem with that?"

I'm going to be straight-forward. My wife is very articulate. She has a way with words. I do not. I write short, simple sentences. So bear with me.

I supported Prop 8--the amendment to the California State Constitution defining marriage as between a man and a woman. Why? Because gay marriage is wrong. Simply put.

I'm not going to sit here like some of my friends and say I supported the measure because of "what it would allow them to teach our children in schools," or that "it would force churches to marry same-sex couples." And I will NOT say, "I don't mind if they get married, but I worry about this and this..." To me, that's all a smoke screen. It's relativism. And it's wrong.

Gay marriage is wrong. It's immoral. It's disgusting. It's unnatural. And it's not what God, nor our founding fathers, had in mind when they created this wonderful nation.

But there is something sinking into our generation that will be the downfall of this country I love: Relativism.

I'm sick of relativism. You know, the new philosophy of "it's okay, as long as it is right for you...it's all relative." No. There is right and there is wrong. If you don't believe that, I suggest you wake up from the rosy-colored dream-state you're in. There are two sides. And same-sex marriage is wrong. It's all about values. Do we continue to let this country sink deeper and deeper into the pit of immorality? Do we hide our beliefs and let the minority of this country step on the majority simply because we are "afraid to offend?" What is happening to us?

The greatest generation of this country is dying. One by one, they are taking their experiences with the Great Depression, WWII, the Korean Way, and Vietnam with them. My wife's grandfather was one of them. He made us all look like snobs. When his country called him to WWII, he went dutifully. And when they called him again for Korea, he was there. No questions asked. There is not an ounce of his bravery in our generation, people. We are weak, conceited, self-centered, and narcissistic. We care so much about "fulfilling our desires" and "finding ourselves" that we forget about our duty to our family, religion, and country.

Duty. This is a word that brought pride to the souls of people like Kristi's grandpa, Reese Kern. They fulfilled their mission. They finished the task. The won the battles, and they went to work.

But let's not kid ourselves. They had passions like you and me. But they were tought to suppress them, bridle them, until the right time and conditions were met. And they were happy because of it.

My generation is a free-for-all. We don't care about our neighbor. We don't care that pre-marital sex leads to broken homes, orphaned children, and misery. We don't care that marrying same-sex couples is a slap in the face to all those who fought and died before us.

What's that you say? "But, Brock, they fought and died for our right to do it! Marrying gays is honoring them!"

You're wrong.

They fought for freedom--the freedom to live in a peaceful, moral, value-based society--not the right for you to do whatever indecent, immoral, ridiculous thing you want. They didn't fight for you to waste your time away watching porn, drinking booze, and satisfying every obscene passion you have. They fought for values. Family. Religion. God. Pride.

And what have you done with those values? You have insulted them, degraded them, made them the butt of your jokes. You spit on everything that's moral. If you ask me, my generation is a disgrace. Too much "me me me." Too much facebook. Too much talking back to professors. Too much texting. Too much atheism. Too much relativism.

The time has come for those of you who feel like I do to stand up. I will not be ruled by a shrewdly vocal minority. We will unite, and together we will give the greatest generation something to be proud of.

Farewell to a Cowboy

for my mother

I’ve heard people say a few times here and there
An old adage that maybe you know—
A piece of advice for cowpokes who step up
And face enemies toe-to-toe.

“It ain’t the size of the man in the fight,
It’s the size of the fight in the man.”
But no man can knock out the mortal result
Of our Heavenly Father’s plan.

You can battle and brawl till you’re red in the face,
You can holler and scream till you’re hoarse;
It’ll all be in vain, take a breath, let it be—
Don’t swim upstream of eternity’s course.

Sure, it ain’t fair and it’s rough and it’s mean
When a loved one is taken away;
You put your head in your hands as the tears start to fall
When you realize they’ve seen their last day.

There’s no more tomorrow’s or next time’s or later’s
No more hi’s or good bye’s or I loves you’s—
No more hoping for Death to forget his appointment
With the cowboy you can’t bear to lose.

But although your heart’s breakin’ and bleedin’ and sore
There’s a fact of which you can be certain:
Life doesn’t end after one’s final bow
When they vanish behind nature’s curtain.

You can bet that old wrangler of yours is still ridin’
Through heaven’s green pastures above—
Sittin’ high on his horse, smilin’ down on the earth,
Keepin’ watch over all those he loves.

Someday you’ll join him and pull on your boots
To embark on eternity’s trail ride.
Never again will you lack for a pardner,
Nor wander alone without guide.

But until that day comes, cowboy up! He’s alright—
And with time you’ll be alright, too.
Though your heart may be heavy, don’t you dare underrate
The size of the fight in you.

Reese S. Kern

1922-2008

My First Last Words

It was unusually gusty today.

The crisp winds of autumn mutated into the biting winds of winter, ripping droves of colorful leaves from their branches. I received a phone call from my mother:


"Kristi, Grandpa is dying. He probably has two or three days left."


The first sentence is not what caught me off guard. My grandpa has been "dying" of stomach cancer for the better part of two years. It was the second sentence that jerked the breath out of my lungs and words from my mouth.


I remember being in an airport a few years back. I don't recall where I was traveling to, but as I was standing in the security line, I remember seeing a sign with twenty-five faces on it. Five across, five down. Every third face was in black-and-white. The caption read "1 out of every 3 Americans develops cancer in their lifetime." I remember thinking "Wow, that's weird. I don't know anybody who has cancer."


Time changes things.


I knew my grandpa was in bad shape. Prior to this news, the most recent verdict given to us by doctors was three-to-six months. They've been saying that for two years now. They've been saying that through chemotherapy, radiation and surgery. You become numb to it after a while--hearing the same predictions again and again after the old ones are surpassed. But now; to have it cut down so drastically without warning. To have Death looking you straight in the eyes and saying "I'm taking him now whether you like it or not." To inhale and wonder if he's doing the same.


It's not like I thought my grandpa was invincible. I knew he would pass on eventually. Maybe I'd fooled myself into thinking that that cowboy spirit of his had a little more fight in it. I don't know.


Writing about him in past tense is macabre. Which makes sense, seeing as how he IS still alive. Yet I almost can't help doing it. Each "was," "had," and "did" pricks at my heart like a tweezer.


Upon hearing the news from my mother, my mind went ajumble. Should I drop everything and drive to Colorado or stay put? I asked advice. Mom was of the opinion that since my last indelible memory of Grandpa was of him healthy and happy, I should remain and Utah and let things run their course in Colorado.

There have been times when I visited my grandpa being certain that I would never see him again, but he always seemed to have one more life left in him (we joke that he's like a cat in that regard). The last time I saw Grandpa, he looked great and was full of vigor. Our goodbye was a happy one. A hug, a kiss, an "I'll-see-you-later" and shutting of the front door. I guess it's better to see a person for the last time not knowing it will be the last time.

Regardless of all this, I now had a very difficult task ahead of me. Since I would not be near my grandpa as the curtains fell on his life, my mother suggested I write a letter to him which she would read in the hospital at his bedside.


I would have to write my first last words.


Saying your last words and writing your last words are two entirely different things. When your words are spoken, you say whatever comes to mind at the moment and hope it's meaningful. If not, you may regret it, yes, but you always have the excuse of "How can you possibly know the right things to say in an emotional instant like that?"


When writing your last words, there's no such excuse. You have hours before you to collect your thoughts, create sentences and change words. Hours to weed out the unimportant and say what you truly feel. If you have regrets with what is said, the fault is yours and yours alone.

I sat down at the computer. How to even start? "Dear Grandpa?" Too generic. "To Grandpa?" Too sterile.


"Tick, tock. Tick, tock." That was it.


My fingers fluttered across the keyboard as I spent the next four hours condensing my most cherished memories into four pages. They were the most emotional four hours I've experienced in a long time, perhaps ever. To say that I was sent on a proverbial "roller coaster of emotions" is an understatement. My soul was rent from its bodily home and thrown into a drying machine; tumbling about in the heat of anguish, its buttons clanking in protest of my grandfather's passing.


This Letter to my grandpa wasn't an "I laughed, I cried" experience. I just cried. And cried and cried and cried some more. Every now and then my lips would curve into a slight smile upon the reminiscence of a fond memory, but the better part of the Letter was written in tears.


It came time to end the Letter. How can you possibly wrap up a lifetime of memories into a few meager sentences? How do you adequately express the extent of your love with several dozen intangible characters?


You can't write a kiss. You can't write a hug. You can't write a one-last-glance-over-your-shoulder.


I tried my best, and I'm satisfied with how it turned out. But that doesn't make things easy. Nothing does. I thought the fact that my grandpa has lived a long and happy life would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in heaven would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in eternal families would make this easy. It doesn't. Do all these things bring me some degree of comfort and relief? Absolutely. But even the best anesthesia wears off.


My grandpa is going home.

In my heart of hearts, I'm ready for it. Someday we'll see each other again, someday we'll laugh again (oh, Grandpa's laugh!), someday we'll do that little thingy where we

shake hands and

squeeze real hard and

try to outlast the other person but

I always give in because

he's about to break my metacarpals with

those crazy Marine hands of his

again.

Someday we'll talk again. Of this I have no doubt.

But for now, there can be silence. I'm done with my first last words.

A Halloween Nightmare

It's coming.

Halloween. The time for ghoulish fun, spooky antics and of course, dressing up like a slut with the excuse of “hey, it’s just a costume, okay?!” But who is it that deserves the coveted title of “all-around scariest person?” Who would you most not like to meet up with in a corn maze? Witches, warlocks, vampires (Edwin excluded of course, ladies!) goblins, zombies, ghosts, possessed demon children, escaped psych ward inmates, men with chainsaws? Ha! These folks might as well be the Easter bunny! For there is no doubt that the scariest, most chilling, bloodcurdling, send-shivers-down-your-spine, he-who-must-not-be-named person is . . .

BYU PARKING ENFORCEMENT.

Okay, okay. So it’s not really a “person” so to speak. It’s an entity . . . but the fact that there’s dozens of them working together makes them all the more terrifying! Driving around in their oh-so-tough Jeeps with “PARKING ENFORCEMENT” prominently displayed to instill terror into all those who dare park in an “A” lot! The grating chssssiicck sound that rattles the air as they tear off a page in their citation notepad! Those menacing neon green envelopes that have the power to suck every iota of joy from your soul!

Today, I did the unthinkable. I voluntarily visited the University Police and Campus Parking office. After a few minutes of deep breathing and a tranquilizer shot, I entered the lion’s den. I felt like a Roman gladiator stepping into the Coliseum: convinced of impending doom, but having the faintest hope that I might merely be ripped to bloody shreds and allowed to live a limbless life, begging in the gutters of the city for sustenance all the rest of my days.

I beheld my lion: a rather large girl sitting at the counter under a “PARKING” sign. I had come prepared for an epic battle: obtaining parking registration for my newly-acquired moped.

“Hi,” I said meekly, “I just got a moped, and I was wondering there’s any sort of registration I need for it.”

She looked at me with disdainful apathy, cocked an eyebrow and said, with the slightest “oh-no-you-di’nt!” head bob:

“To drive it legally in the state of Utah? Yes.”

I waited for a “Haha! Just kidding! I knew you weren’t ask me that! As a matter of fact you do need parking registration for a moped...” or something of the sort. But no. Apparently she thought I had the IQ of a brick and was coming to her to legally register my vehicle.

Hmmm don’t you think that if I needed to legally register my moped I would go to, oh, I don’t know...the DMV?? Hmmm I wonder what I type of registration I’m referring to when I’m standing in the University Police and Campus Parking office under the “PARKING” sign! Maybe PARKING REGISTRATION, perhaps?!

“Ummm no,” I replied, “ . . . I already have that . . . I meant parking registration. To park it on campus.”

“Ooooh.” (As if I should have had to clarify!) She rolled her eyes. “In that case, blah blah blah . . .”

Ahh just another example of the unhelpfulness that embodies BYU student employees! This case is an especially illustrative one because she gave me the classic I-work-for-BYU-and-know-
everything-and-you-don't attitude! And made a fool of herself in doing so! Love it! Perhaps though, as a minor suggestion, when BYU trains their student employees they might consider imbuing them with common sense and congeniality. Yes, yes. I believe that would prove beneficial to all parties involved.

I made it out of that office unscathed (save a slight insult to my intellect). It’s nice to know that I’ve officially survived the worst that Halloween has to offer. And the best part is that it didn’t cost me a cent! No ten-dollar corn mazes, haunted houses, creepy train rides, etc. Just a brief head-to-head with a BYU parking employee. Maybe next Halloween I’ll stand outside the office and charge admission? Then I could pay off my tickets for parking in the “A” lots.

Have mercy on my soul, I beg of you!!