Sometimes I get asked if I like a person. Like at work. Or a friend group. Or a scout group. Or whatever. And honestly, sometimes the answer eludes me. Because I really have no strong opinion either way about said person, even after having worked with them, friended with them, or scouted with them for months and months.

It's sort of like being asked, "Dude. Do you like napkins?"

"Um...well, I don't dislike napkins. Although I wouldn't say I'm particularly fond of them either. So I really don't know."

When I was asked today whether I liked a specific employee, that was the feeling I got. That feeling I get every time someone asks me whether I like napkins or not. I was really at a loss for precicely what to say. The napkin feeling.

"Well, I guess so. Wait. not really. I don't know. He's...whatever."

I wonder if people ever deem me a napkin?


So confused

I am always baffled when I see a person who has been married for less than a week on facebook chat at 11 pm. Why are you effbooking instead of effing?

Don't get it.


How many rats

Could nest in this?

Thank you for leading me here.

Ever have I wondered just how these FLDS goddesses were able to craft such intricate, mind blowing braids. I wonder no longer.

From the site: "Beginning with long hair care and advancing through basic waves and braids, these instructional videos will teach you some of the most intricate hairstyles you have ever seen.

Soon you will be styling your own hair in French braids, Dutch braids, Twists, and more!

The talented hairstylists will take you step-by-step through each of the featured braid styles."

I'd have sure been interested in the "wave" portion around this point in my life:

While 6:02 minutes of this marvelous video have been set aside to cover "basic braids," a paltry 3:34 are dedicated to "french braids." And I'll be damned straight to hell if a proper "dutch braid" can be learned in under 5 minutes.

A comment from a pleased customer: "Hi ladies:-)

I got my DVD's today, safe and sound as promised, (delivered by coach, and a man brandishing a colt 44) and watched them both. I learned a lot of things I never knew before! (Perhaps there is an unmentioned section on ways to spice up sex while fully clothed in a prairie dress)

I must comment on how calming and peaceful watching these DVD's was for me: it was like a trip to a spa, with the relaxing music and the clear, gentle speaking voices of the presenters. (Um. Please direct me to the spa where, while receiving a massage and a cucumber mask, I might also have my hair braided by a professional braid tech, hopefully wearing this:

The production values were just incredible and I cannot begin to say how pleased I am with this product:-) (Pleased enough, apparently, to include a smiley faced emoticon with an elongated nose. Twice.)

Please do keep me on your mailing list should you come out with more of these types of DVD's. I truly enjoyed mine!"

Won't we all?

The other thing I have always wondered, is what the hell polygamist kids play with. You know they aren't allowed Nintendos, or action figures. I always assumed they probably just ran around naked, playing in the dirt until they were old enough to sell magazine subscriptions.

It would appear, that the wooden mini van is a popular item amongst the polyglits. And with the subtle, hearty design, how couldn't it be?

"A Baby Bus? A Van? An SUV?

This vehicle looked like a minivan to us, but it may be just the kindergarten bus you were looking for! (???) Or maybe you needed an SUV?

Ours is 6" long, 3" wide, and 4" tall. (????) It has three window holes so those chubby little fingers can get a good grip. (That all children are assumed to have chubby fingers is a hasty generalization. Unfair, at best. Tsk tsk, pligs.)

Like all our wooden vehicles, this one comes unfinished, ready for you to decorate it just the way you'd like!"

My, but a more thrilled child I have never seen.

Perhaps he was forced to wear one of these "helmets" throughout the younger years of his life, and the sweltering summer heat cooked his brain, forever plastering that incorrigible, empty, slack jawed look upon the poor child's face. The only sensible explanation, since any other child would be more than overjoyed to be surrounded by wooden minivans/kindergarten buses.

"This soft fleece helmet will keep your little one nice and warm. On sale now for a special introductory price of only $5.00!"

At least 7 more reasons to join a polygamous sect, other than the obvious; eventual ownership of a home with 2 garages and 2 front doors.

Decided to google myself

And was pretty disappointed when there just wasn't much there.



One of my favorite, most baffling things to see/hear, occurs when some swarthy, testosterone engorged male has conquered a female in some forum. Particularly a sporting or action forum.

And the female says, pursuant the consequential boasting, "Ohhh, WOW. You beat a GIRL."

This, to me, seems a little counter intuitive. Like when the United States kicks Russia's ass in some Olympic forum, and Russia says, "Oh WOW. Real cool America. You beat RUSSIA. Bfd."


Fake life

Last week I was gone living fake life. For a week. Gosh, I miss fake life. Fake life was at some million dollar home on Bear Lake. Fake life is great. Food never runs out, and you get to put goat cheese on EVERYTHING.

Here are some reasons why I didn't want fake life to end:

Ate half a cinnamon apple coffee cake muffin in the morning. Put the other half back in the box, and came back later that afternoon, and the muffin had regenerated itself, back into its whole, unblemished, muffiny delicious form.

Got some bananas. Forgot to eat them for a couple of days. When I finally decided that a banana shake would was pertinent to my happiness, I found that the bananas were too spotty for my taste. So I rummaged around the fridge, in search of other sundry fruit items. By the time I turned around, the bananas weren't even spotty anymore.

Thought that since it was fake life, doing some coke might be cool. Woke up the next morning with 3 lines awaiting me on the toilet seat. Decided to just eat the regenerated muffin instead. When I checked back later, I guess fake life got pist and cracked the toilet in half. Watch what you wish for in fake life.

I only got 2 mosquito bites the whole week. But I also found that when I licked them, they tasted like Cherry Clan candy treats, which I had apparently been subconsciously craving for a day or 2.

Hot dogs actually tasted good, even sans goat cheese.


Now I'm back in real life. Where I have action bills. And a job. And a mouth to feed. I started eating only half of things, forgetting that in real life, food doesn't just regenerate like a severed worm. Eating half an apple, and then putting it in the fridge is just a mistake. It oxidizes and turns brown, and fake life isn't even there to make it right again. Not to mention, all of the various mystery flavors infesting the fridge permeate the apple, rendering it the taste of some fantastic concoction of withered fruit, old left over food, and fridge stains.

Perhaps I should find an online fake life community, create an avatar, and enjoy all of the regenerating muffins, goat cheese, and good tasting hot dogs that my little avatar can digitally gobble, not to mention meaningful, proxy relationships.

See ya, real life.


A modern viking

I kicked a spiders ass last night.

For the first time in my life, after the racing heart, the spine gripping panic, and the girlish squealing, I felt like a man.

I was in Bluffdale. Bluffdale is at least the second most unappealing populated city name in Utah, the first possibly being Magna. Just thinking about living in Bluffdale (albeit a nice area) gives me a lonely, bleak feeling. You go to Bluffdale to go to Jail. Or IKEA. Or to watch Seinfeld in Claire's basement, as it was previously condemned on the upper level due to sexual content. Which I found strange, until I realized the most racy thing typically played in the upstairs region of the house is Little Bear. Which can get pre--tty racy. "Mama Bear? What were you and Papa Bear doing last night? Why were you attacking Mama Bear, Papa Bear?" "Just eat your muffins, Little Bear. (In hushed tones,) Dammit Papa Bear! I told you, 'not tonight, Papa Bear. Little Bear hasn't been sleeping too soundly.' But did Papa Bear listen to Mama Bear? Of Course not! Papa Bear just listened to the same thing he ALWAYS LISTENS TO."

Shocking really, that show.

Anyway, I was minding my own business, when suddenly Claire implored me to grab her arm and drag her into an upright sitting position. Something about not being able to sit up on her own because of like...an appendectomy or something silly. Not sure, I was pretty engrossed in Seinfeld. As I pulled her arm, she suddenly yelped a cry of, what I thought was terrible pain, and violently jerked away from me. "Oh gosh, I pulled to hard and made her guts fall out," thought I, in a mild panic.

Suddenly, the yelpish cries began morphing into coherent words which, to my horror, ended up being something like "spider," and "huge." I am not really one to appreciate even a tiny spider, let alone one the size of a premature baby. And making a b-line for my feet, no less.

A lot raced through my mind at that particular moment. Chiefly, "God help me, its finally happening. I'm going to die by spidering." And secondly, "Radical. I'm going to get to look really manly here, as I deftly leap up upon the couch suchions, wildly flailing a yellow shoe in the general direction of said spawn of Lucifer, while trying really hard not to scream some guttural mixture of 'run for your life' and the f word."

Before my spine melted, I jerked my legs away and desperately lurched for a shoe, at which point I slammed said shoe at the spider with all of my might.

And missed.

The devilish creature then scurried beneath the couch. I was then commanded to "get it." Which is a real big problem for me. Because the second to last thing I wanted to do in all the world right then, was move that couch, and urinate in my skinnies when that thing shot out and latched onto my foot with its, at the very least, 3 inch long fangs. I tell you, this spider was the size of a kitten, if he was a centimeter. The last thing, being sit on that couch and pretend arachnozilla wasn't hanging out under there just waiting for his chance to melt my nervous system with his filthy venom.

After considering briefly the line, "you deal with this, I'm outta here," I decided that maybe I could be a man for once in my life. A real life, spider slaying hero. Everyone in the house would then gather round me, laud me for my brave heroism, and bestow lavish gifts of exotic cheeses and ice creams upon me. With that in mind, I molted away my cowardice, gave the couch a mighty shove, and out popped that spider, in a last ditch effort to ruin my life. With a deafening mental squeal, I leapt upon the fireplace bricks and let that scary bastard have it with the yellow shoe. What a manly killing tool, that shoe.

Even though I wasn't showered with gifts, praise, and love, I did feel like a man. The kind of man that keeps his cool in the face of mortal danger.

Like the Karate Kid. Or a Viking.