Like Two Ships, Passing in the Night

I hope that if there's one thing you've learned from faithfully reading my blog, it's that the only way to go grocery shopping is in an unkempt, unshowered state of disarray. You do this, of course, because you have raced out the door as early in the morning as you can to avoid seeing anyone you know at the store. This guarantees that you will see someone you know at the store. Now, if the person you see is a good friend, you can feel free to mock that person openly and perhaps start taking things from their cart and surreptitiously moving them into your own to lessen your walk-around time at the store. However, if you barely know this person--say, an acquaintance from church who you've only had normal, polite, and very brief conversations with, and half the time you can't even remember her name, this is the person you will run into in your unshowered and hair-sticking-out-one-side state. Because of this, she will be dressed perfectly with nary a hair out of place. When you get home, you will also note with despair that you've been walking around with mascara flakes on your cheeks all morning. Perfect! Now let's shop!

I will now outline how to deal with this type of person whilst in the store:

1) Aisle the first: since she will see you first and alarm you with her presence, you will be caught off-guard to the point of being unable to recall her name until long after you've left the store. So a politely awkward "Oh! Hello...there!" will do just fine. Smile brightly as you quickly move on from one another to continue your shopping.

2) Aisle the Second: you run into Lady X yet again, and you realize with growing horror that you both are at the beginning of your shopping experience, you both move at an equal pace, and you're both shopping in the same aisles at the store. You now know that you will be seeing her in every aisle for the rest of your shopping day.

3) Skip aisles three and four in an attempt to get in a different pattern from your new shopping mate, only to note later that she's had the same brilliant idea.

4) Race through the dairy section to get ahead of her, only to nearly run over her offspring upon exiting at the yogurt wall.

5) Aisle the Fifth: Quickly formulate a reason to speak to her since it's becoming obvious you cannot avoid her to save your life, i.e., think of something to say to her, stupid. Again smile brightly, act normal for once, and say, "Soooooo...is your husband in the Army?" She seems delighted that you've saved the day, however briefly, by stabbing at the engulfing awkwardness with some attempt at regular conversation. "No, Air Force." "Oh, I see." 30 seconds of silence ensue while you realize that you failed to think of any follow-up questions to your newly invented conversation. You ask a few more fool questions before both of you tire of the made-up attempt at being friendly and you just sort of aimlessly walk away from her as she gratefully runs in the other direction.

6) See her scoot down Aisle Six, and slyly move to Aisle Seven, hoping to backtrack after she's left. When you go to turn against traffic to go to Aisle Six, be sure to ram into her cart going in the opposite direction. Apologize profusely while she assures you she's fine. Be half grateful you managed to find another excuse to say something a normal person would say, despite the fact it's becoming increasingly obvious to this woman that you're anything but normal.

7) Run to Meats, turn to see her coming, and grab as many random packaged beef products you can before she overtakes you. Run away.

8) Confident that you're now ahead of her, take your merry time down the bread aisle and make for your getaway at check-out, but not before yet again, nearly running into her on your way out. Smile ever so briefly while making as little eye-contact as possible. Her own motivation to fake a smile has vanished, and she pretends she no longer knows you. Totally fine with you.

9) Check out and run to your car. Pray for death before next Sunday.

It's the Little Things

I've been talking about this recently with friends and I decided I simply had to share it here. One of my favorite things in the world to do is yell at children. I am not kidding. It actually puts a smile on my face. I'm smiling just thinking about all the kids I've gotten to yell at within the past week. Does this make me a bad person? What are the odds I care?

Let me be more specific: I enjoy yelling at older children. I don't yell at young children. For one, it doesn't phase them, and when it does, all they do is bawl. And then I feel bad, which is the opposite personal reaction I'm going for. After all, the goal is to brighten MY day. I honestly am quite nice to the little ones (unless they're related to me, in which case all bets are off). I even politely and sweetly ask them to be kind to each other so Jesus will be happy and we can all feel happy warm thoughts and blah blah blah. See? I'm nice to little kids.

But older kids? The ones who know better? The ones WHO HAVE IT COMING? The ones I never liked even when I WAS a kid? Oh my goodness, there is nothing in this beautiful world that gives me greater joy than to point out, VERY LOUDLY that they DO know better and they TOTALLY have it coming.

Take church for example. You'd think with the bishopric and God and everyone staring at me that I would not take joy in yelling at the older kids. Oh, but you'd be wrong. Lisa wasn't in church this week. For some reason she makes me feel guilty for yelling at them. That's why I wait until she's gone. I always have to do it lots to make up for all the times she is there, so the Senior Primary got several heapin' helpins of my Very Loud Voice this past Sunday. I know you don't believe me, but I am still absolutely giddy thinking about it. I have so few true not-so-guilty pleasures in this life that I revel in them when I can get a hold of them.

Did I ever tell you about the best job I ever had? While I was pregnant with Peawhistle I had a job at our apartment complex's swimming pool as a Pool Chick. I tested the water, I checked pool passes, I cleaned the bathrooms, I cleaned the pool each morning. All OK tasks. But the thing that made it all worthwhile? You guessed it. Yelling at all the children. And boy, was I given many an opportunity to do so. Shoot, I even got to yell at ADULTS! A rare treat indeed! Now those jerks REALLY should have known better! I gave those individuals a taste of swearing thrown in to show my disdain for their stupidity. But yelling at the kids was the best part. And better yet, I got to yell at them with their parents right there! Can you even imagine my utter bliss?? It's like getting to yell at kids AND their parents at the same time! I defy you to name a better job than that!

So Lisa, thank you for missing church this week. I missed your funny self indeed, but with you gone I was allowed to engage in my favorite past time. And to Greta's husband, many thanks to you for giving me an excuse to yell at the not-so-little tots. BEST SUNDAY EVER.

Ode to a Brat*

I'm sick as a dog. Someone please shoot me in the face. (I'd make a Dick Cheney joke here, but it's so passé. And if there's one thing you know I am, it's totally up to date on that crap.)

SO. I have this blog. But see, here's the thing:

1) I never have time to write on it.

2) That's a total lie. I have lots of time. What I don't have is hands-free time. And I really hate typing one-handed. Hence why I just stare at your blog for hours at a time waiting for you to update it.

3) My mind is a blank. And I don't just mean I have writer's block or something like that, I mean I have a completely empty skull, wind whistling through it Homer Simpson-style and everything, 24 hours a day. I don't think anything at all. Ever. Even now I'm staring at these words wondering what the hell I'm writing. I'm sure you and I have that in common at least. It's nice to have friends.

4) Cheese and crackers.

So I have nothing of worth to tell you, but I almost started to feel guilty the other day for not writing anything in nearly a month so I figured I'd better get rid of that feeling right-quick. Wouldn't want the ol' emotions to get in gear after all this time or anything.

Hey, speaking of food, I have a random story to tell you. So back in the church congregation the Husband and I attended when we first got married I was one of the folks in charge of making sure all the kids saw the light and got religion. I remember one of the kids that moved into the ward's boundaries was named Rusty. Rusty was maybe five or six, was very active, and had never been to any church before in his life. The concept of sitting still, without inflicting damage or harm, was completely foreign to him. Speaking of foreign, this kid was German, too. He was born in America and all, but his parents were flat-out German, accents and all (this is important, trust me). He was a big, sturdy, solid, German kid.

So anyway, little Rusty was a handful. The Sunday School class he was in had to have two teachers, despite the class's small number of students: one teacher taught the class, and the other teacher held Rusty down until he got learnded good. Or I'm assuming that's what happened; all I know is it took two of them. And frequently they needed more than that because Rusty was quite often brought to his mother rather than cause any further medical or emotional distress. So one Sunday a group of us gathered outside of Rusty's classroom door, waiting for him to be shoved out by his handler at any moment. He had already been talked to once that day and had been given his last warning, and wouldn't you know it, he didn't seem as if he was going to heed that warning any century soon. So it started with me (one of the counselors) and Bryn (the other counselor), and eventually grew to include, I believe, the secretary (who knows what her name was), and the entire bishopric. Normally, the only member of the bishopric who should have been there was [Kirk], but Rusty usually attracted a crowd and we got all of them. All of us standing in the hall, not two feet from his door, waiting for him to be shoved out, and all swapping Rusty stories in the mean time. [Kirk] told a great tale that day in the hallway. He said one day Rusty was acting up (of course) so he personally took him to the foyer and sat him down on the couch, sat next to him, and they sat there for the remainder of church together. He said their conversation soon turned to Rusty's very solid, German-like frame:

Rusty: I'm hungry.

Kirk: Sorry to hear that.

Rusty: I'm really hungry!

Kirk: No, Rusty.

Rusty: But I'm REALLY HUNGRY.

Kirk: Well, you can't eat right now. You'll just have to wait.

Rusty: But I wanna talk about sausages!

Kirk said it was all he could do to not crack up laughing. It wasn't even that Rusty wanted to EAT sausages, he just wanted to TALK about them.

Kirk, thinking to himself: Geez, kid, how German can you get?

I'm fairly certain that Bryn and I said, "But I wanna talk about sausages!" to each other for months afterwards, busting up laughing each and every time. I still laugh just thinking about it. See, now you're in on the joke, too.

So there you have it. My Rusty story for the day. I'm pretty sure either he'll wind up on America's Most Wanted or wind up speaking to us at General Conference. Either way, I wouldn't be surprised in the least.

*Get it? Brat? 'Cause "brat" is short for bratwurst? Man, I'm brilliant even on my stupidest day.

Get Yer Handbaskets Here

Being a terribly Sunday-appropriate topic I mean to post this yesterday, but yesterday wasn't computer-friendly for me. So you're getting it now. The following, by the way, was related by Peawhistle's Sunday School teacher to Peter's mother, Jenny, and to Greta, both of whom told me; I then received personal confirmation by PW's teacher herself this past Sunday.

Last week in Peawhistle's Sunday School class for the 4 and 5-year-old kids they were learning about baptism. Actually, they've been learning about it for quite some time if PW's church art projects have been any indication, but those lessons continued through to last Sunday as well. One of her classmates (who also happens to go to preschool with her) apparently wasn't terribly excited about being baptised when he was older because, like most kids, they think the adult folks in charge of this momentous event are nimrods and are going to drop them in the drink and just let them drown. So this boy told his class that he didn't want to be baptised. And Peawhistle said, "Well, then you'll go to hell."

Let us rank this response using World Olympic Game scoring, shall we?

Accuracy: 10.0

Tactfulness: 0.0

Concern for Her Fellow Man: 2.5

Timing: 10.0

Delivery: 11.15

Overall Score: AWESOME

As both her teacher and Jenny pointed out, they were surprised that PW could come up with such a response. I mean, never mind it's the funniest thing anyone has heard in at least a month's time, her response was actually correct according to our religion. And the most amazing part of this is I didn't teach her that, her father certainly didn't teach her that, and her teacher swears she didn't teach ANY of them that. The only teacher left would be SpongeBob himself, but I honestly don't recall any episodes featuring the link between less baptism = more hell. And believe you me, I've seen every episode ever made as any person who has watched at least a week's worth of Nickelodeon reruns can also claim. Sure, she's heard the word "hell" before (she lives with me if you recall), but to know what it means? And what it'll take to get you there? My goodness, my child is a gospel child prodigy.

Lesson learned: don't screw with Peawhistle. Not only will you get a tongue-lashing, but you'll also likely be told where to go and how to get there. That's my girl.

Gettin' Jiggy Wit It

No, I haven't decided to post more. My life is just that much more exciting this week. Quit inviting me to stuff.

So our church had a dance last Saturday night with a it's-not-a-valentine's-dance-despite-all-the-hearts-and-crap-you-see-everywhere theme. Greta and I decorated for the event and were quite pleased to receive so many positive comments. And by "so many" I mean two grade school kids said it looked awesome. Hey, we're here to please.

You all know my thoughts on dancing, as I've expressed them in the past here. Bonny and I were comparing our various thoughts on the subject later in the evening and I told her what I'm going to tell you now: watching me dance is a terribly unsettling experience. I recall enjoying dancing at one point in my life. I danced at a wedding once as a young teenager, later saw the video, decided it was the most disturbing thing I'd ever seen in my life, and vowed to never subject another to such a sight ever again, including myself. I am not a good dancer. If I honestly can't resist the beat of a great song, I'll bob my head. Otherwise...no. So I sat at a table and instead enjoyed myself immensely watching other people who are far more talented than I dance for my personal pleasure. I was especially impressed with Jody and her husband getting their groove on, because they are wonderful dancers. I was also fascinated to learn that neither Stephanie nor Kristen have any shame at all whatsoever. Good for them, I say! Let it all hang out!

Towards the end, our DJ, Ryan (who happens to be Bonny's husband), played one of the songs I'd requested earlier: The Hustle by Van McCoy. You can't go wrong with The Hustle. The Husband was at one time quite the bar-hopping dancer in his day and when I mentioned the song earlier he treated me to a move or two. As always, I was delighted. As I sat next to a friend at the table at the dance, she leaned over and said, "Hey, wasn't there a dance that went with this song?" I said, "Yeah, the Husband said it went something like this..." and I proceeded to do a jerking arm motion or two to prove to her I wasn't lying. Two seconds later, Ryan stopped the music mid-song and inquired, "OK, does anyone actually know how to do the Hustle? I mean, besides Abby who's doing it at the table there at the back?" I was horrified that the entire dance floor of people then turned to stare at me, and even more so when he suggested I get up and teach them how to do the Hustle, which as I've explained, I only know like, two moves from. Personally, I was impressed that Ryan guessed what I was attempting to do at the time, let alone that he noticed I was doing it at all, given the quick and amateurish performance I had displayed to my table partner. I waved him and the whole fricking group off (really, for their own good) and they proceeded to dance however they wanted to, which is how it should have been anyway. I still like the song. Gets my head a-bobbin'.

Finally, DJ Ryan came to the end of the evening with his final as-yet unannounced song, and commanded everyone that this would be a full participation song. And I shivered to myself as I realized that there was only one song that had not been played yet, would be reserved to the end of a dance full up with white people, and that requires "full participation." Ryan said, "And that includes you, too, Abby." I responded, "IT BETTER NOT BE YMCA." And he said, "It IS YMCA." And the dance ended on a low note. I was curious to note that Kristen, who I mentioned was completely devoid of any self-consciousness as far as I could detect, also refused to dance to YMCA because she hates that song. So she has my approval, both for that and the fact that she clearly doesn't care what people think of her.

And in case you all were curious:

A Dose of Humility

I know it'll shock you, but I've been known to make fun of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on occasion, mostly for their classical renditions of popular, decidedly non-classical music. But there's no denying it when they get a song absolutely perfect.

A Quick Plea

Overheard in Primary yesterday:

Primary President: Do any of you kids have any experiences with praying?
Senior Primary Girl: I do! I once prayed to Heavenly Father that I would get a Wii for Christmas and I DID!

Small request to parents: is there any possible way that you can teach your children the difference between God and Santa Claus? Thank you so very much.

[Fun times warning! I love this video. "I can see Russia from my house!"]

Sweaty, Sweaty Sunday

So the air conditioning wasn't working in church yesterday, resulting in a very moist experience for everyone. For some inexplicable reason I offered to play the organ in church a long time ago and was finally asked to do so yesterday. Apparently I had forgotten how much torture and personal distress is involved in such a commitment, much like how I forget why I don't swill Tabasco sauce more often. Anyway, not only was the experience uncomfortable per my usual experiences with it, but the heat in the building made my fingers so slippery that they kept sliding across the keyboard and hitting several wrong notes. Fortunately, I wisely chose every wrong stop setting I could manage, making it impossible for me to hear my own playing and to know exactly when I was making these mistakes. So it all worked out in the end.

From there I ran to Primary, dragging Peawhistle behind me. Fred and Ethel (you remember Fred and Ethel) had lovingly agreed to watch Peawhistle while I played the organ and they would get their chance once again since they were forced at gunpoint to teach the four-year-olds in Sunday School (or at least I only assumed they were threatened to do it as I cannot envision any other possibility in which they would do so willingly). Surprisingly and gratefully enough, the Primary room was not nearly as hot as the chapel was. That, or running between locations either cooled me off or miraculously caused me to shed several pounds of weight. Given my unchanged girth, I'll have to go with my first assumption.

Here's the thing about playing the piano for the Primary. It's easy to focus when you're forced to pay attention to the words in the verses you're singing. Playing the accompaniment, however, presents a slightly different situation. Sure, you have to pay attention to what you're playing or you'll play the wrong notes (more on that in a bit). However, the song never changes for you, the pianist. You play the same tune repeatedly, regardless of the verse. And when I say repeatedly, I mean repeatedly, because, you know, this is Primary. So I'm usually alert and ready to roll for the first few times through the song, but eventually my mind begins to wander a bit because I start to get a little too confident, having played the same song 16 times within the last 30 minutes. This is when I always make a mistake. I forget where I am on the page, where my fingers are on the keyboard, what key I'm playing in, what song we're singing, and why I'm playing in the first place. After several wrong notes, I catch up and pretend like I totally meant to do that. And two songs later I do the exact same thing. And what am I thinking about that makes my mind wander? If yesterday was any indication of the norm, which it absolutely was, probably Batman. The next time you hear me make a mistake that I hadn't made before? Batman.

Back to Fred and Ethel. Primary was proceeding fairly smoothly when my crime-fighting reverie was disrupted by a very familiar and grating sound: whining. If there is one child-related activity that I absolutely cannot abide, it is whining. And if there is one activity that Peawhistle excels at, it is precisely that. Peawhistle's whines typically start low, as most children's do I imagine. Low and unalarming. At the first hint of resistance, the sound gradually escalates to a full-blown siren's wail, ending finally with the Screaming and the Crying. Peawhistle's sound had begun low and had gradually taken on some volume by the time I recognized her voice. This will not do. I stood up from the piano to see over it so I could confirm that in fact my progeny was the one making that dispicable noise. Fred, the silly man, was attempting to reason with the child. (Such inexperience....) I caught Peawhistle's eye and, shaking my head, gave her the most powerfully disapproving look I could muster, indicating to her that The Whining Would Cease to Commence Immediately. She came up short and sat down, hopefully terrified. I certainly know Ethel was terrified, given the look on her face at that very moment. I can only equate her expression to the reaction you would expect if I had quietly stood and announced that I was the anti-christ foretold in the Bible and that the mass slaughter of innocents would begin momentarily. I ignored Ethel's horror and sat back down, satisfied that the hole in the dam had been plugged, if only temporarily. I think I heard more minor Peawhistle-related whining some time later, but it ended abruptly, possibly with Fred offering her cash if she'd shut up.

My time at church ended on a high note in the parking lot as I was preparing to depart in my vehicle. The bishop, who had been visiting Primary that day to hear his youngest son, Peter, give his first Primary talk (which was quite possibly the best, and definitely most exuberant, Primary talk I've ever heard, ending with a very decisive "AMEN" at its conclusion) stopped me before I could leave.

"That was a great Evil Eye you gave your daughter in Primary."
"Did you like that?"
"Yeah, I did. That was awesome."

While I detected the finest hint of sarcasm in his end of the conversation, I instead decided to take him, the Grand Poobah of Scowling himself, at his word and was instantly flattered.

And people act like parenting is so hard or something.

Sundays Will Never Be the Same

So Stephanie and I were at a picnic yesterday. As I was leaving with my family I said my farewells and told her I would see her tomorrow (now today) at church. She said something to the effect of, "Expect big changes tomorrow. BIG changes." I took this to mean she would be getting a new calling, which she seemed to confirm. I spent the entire evening and following morning wracking my brain trying to think of what kind of calling adjustment would qualify as a "BIG change." The only logical result I could come up with is that she and several of her cohorts have conspired to stage a coup and will take over the ward with Stephanie leading the congregation Noriega-style. I must admit, I have never been so excited to attend church in all my church-going years! The idea of a religious dictator may prove emotionally unhealthy after some time, but until then I look forward to the New Order and perhaps fancy and outlandish uniforms.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Southern Food Sucks

Janie's post about questioning authority has made me think. My mother never questioned authority in front of me in the presence of the authority figure in question. When I was older she'd complain about certain people, but never, ever to their face. What she was trying to teach me it would seem, is that you do what an authority figure tells you to do no matter what.

I recall her telling me the following story. One time at church the women had gotten together and decided to have a cultural potluck. If I remember correctly, the subject of Southern cuisine came up and my mother commented that she didn't care for Southern food as she found it a little too greasy for her. Among this group of women was a newer woman to the ward who happened to have come from the South. This woman was incredibly offended by what my mother had said. Did she say so at the time? No. Did she say so to my mother in private afterwards? No. Instead, she went to the Relief Society president and told her that my mother had offended her with her remark. The R.S. pres. then went to my mother and told her how much her comment had offended this woman and that she needs to keep her opinions about such things to herself. My mother shut her mouth and has never expressed an opinion that could ever be controversial to anyone in the church ever again. And it's not even like she's bitter; she actually warned me not to express an opinion at church because she got in trouble for it and she was afraid I'd get into trouble, too.

I will now commence with The Rant. Let us get one thing straight right off the bat. What my mother said was perfectly acceptable. It was never meant to be offensive or to hurt anyone in any way. She was first relating an opinion ("I don't care for Southern food") and then a fact based upon personal experience ("because I find it too greasy for me"). She was well within her right to express such, especially since everyone else was obviously discussing various foods and what to bring or not to bring to this potluck. It would be much the same as saying, "I don't like to vacation in Siberia; I find it too cold for me." The first fault here lies with the Drama Queen sister who took offense at the remark. Firstly, she took offense where none was intended. Secondly, even if she had been uncontrollably offended, she ideally should have kept it to herself and worked it out on her own. Thirdly, if she felt compelled to complain about the offense, she went about it in the exact wrong manner. She should have pulled my mother aside and discussed it with her (between me and thee alone, am I right?). Instead, she decided to go up the chain of command, right to the top, and sick the R.S. pres. on her as punishment and out of revenge. That was stupid. Then comes the next problem with this story in that the R.S. president actually did what she wanted. Since when is that in her job description? She should have told her to either pray about it and see if she could look past it, or told her to discuss it with my mother in private. Instead, she pulled my mother aside and berated her for expressing her opinion in front of this whiny woman. And the final fault in this situation is my mother's: she actually stood there and took it. She took it because the R.S. president is in a position of authority and she didn't even question whether she was right about it or not. Now, when it comes to management and welfare of the R.S., I am all for listening to the counsel of the president. She is there, with her counselors, to care for us and see to our spiritual and temporal needs. When an issue does not fall within those bounds, she has no authority. And in this case, this situation fell outside of those bounds and she handled it very poorly when it was brought to her attention. My mother did not recognize that because she doesn't stand up to authority. Period.

I grew up differently. If you have a problem with what an authority figure is doing or saying, it is always best to approach the issue with politeness and tact. But you are within your full rights to approach the issue. Flat-out. Especially if the problem that you have with your authority figure is that he or she is doing/saying something wrong or immoral. Beyond that, you have a right to express your opinion, regardless of the situation. It's always kind to keep others' sensitivities in mind when expressing opinions. For example, it would be kindest to refrain from stating that all female basketball players are ugly morons, particularly if you are expressing it to the WNBA. You are free to have that opinion, but it would be nice if you kept it to yourself if you knew it would very likely hurt someone. In the case of an authority figure telling his or her charges to do something wrong, hurt feelings take a back burner to doing what's right. As I said, tact never hurts the first time around, but the point must be made regardless. And that is what we teach our children. Right comes first, authority second. No one--not the R.S. president, not the president of the United States--is above doing what's right and moral. No one, ever.