I got married almost three months ago. It was a huge day filled with lots of good friends, excellent food, and a really pretty girl that tagged along with me after it was over. I've known her for quite a long time, so part of it felt completely normal. I was in a car with my best friend after a long day, which wasn't out of the ordinary at all.
But then she didn't go away. She ate all of my food, stole the computer when I wanted to use it, and woke me up at 2 AM with complaints about headaches and an inability to fall asleep because my dang breathing was too loud. My breathing.
My free time became fair game. My evenings could plunge into some horrid social event at any moment. Socializing with people when it's unexpected is, for an introvert, a fate worse that death.
The house cluttered faster. The car got dirty really fast. Money disappeared from my bank account. This person then had the gall to tell me she needed me, even after I had jumped through tons of hoops for her.
Being married sucks.
In those moments, I can be angry and bitter about my needs and wants being subverted, or I can decide to throw myself under the bus and deal with it. Miraculously, my bitterness went away when I tried that, and I actually love my wife more when I defer myself.
Experimenting with this method of dealing with this person I married brought me to realize something: my life can be just as joyless as it was before I was married.
I'm not living on a higher plane of happiness or joy with her. I'm really not. My mood is entirely dependent on how willing I am to
1. Rely on God for my happiness and peace.
2. Sacrifice myself for my those around me.
If I rewind approximately three months, those two principles were just as true.
This has enormous implications.
The biggest one that comes to mind, for me, is that we glorify marriage far too much within our society, and the Christian church in general. I have plenty of single friends that now treat me like some kind of mystical creature that rarely appears.
That really makes me sad. Does God more richly love and bless people who are married? Of course not. Don't married people go and see Him at the end of this life just like everyone else, when all of our differences and sins and joys and loves and hates are all completely irrelevant? Is there anything in God's Word that claims that He is more or less pleased with people who decide to be married? As far as I know, there isn't. It'd be weird to read 1 Timothy 2:4 as "(God) wants all people to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth, but especially married people!" Love people. Love God. If you become married, look for ways to glorify God in your marriage. If you are single, look for ways to glorify God in your singleness. I can guarantee that you will experience the same amount of joy and purpose in your life.
The night I stayed up with her until 2 AM could have been awful. But it wasn't. I love her a lot, and I felt so sad and protective of her that I was happy in the midst of extreme exhaustion while dealing with some mild insomnia. Yes, she takes my money, and my stuff, and my time, but I give it willingly. As soon as I try to hold on to what Iwant above everything else, my joy goes out the window. She steals the computer when I want to use it and I smile and ask her if she'd like some tea while she does homework. When my evenings are sabotaged, I can be miserable in a corner while people chat all around me like chittering squirrels, or I can use the opportunity to meet more people that my wife knows to enrich my life and, by extension, get to know what kind of person she is a little bit better. The house gets cluttered faster, but let's be honest. I'm more at fault on that account than she is. She's been nothing but gracious to me, so I have no ground to stand on if I'm rude about that. I've been forgiven much by my wife! It's one of the reasons why I love much. (Luke 7:47) *NOTE: I just want to make it as clear as possible that I am still falling in love with my wife. Overall, we're doing extremely well, and I'm not just saying that! She's wonderful, and there has been so much patience and love between us. I just wanted to make the point that we should be careful how much we glorify marriage. It's a wonderful institution, and I seriously have no complaints, but the implication that single people are somehow living less joyful lives is so incredibly wrong, whether it's direct or implicit. The title was a shameless attention grabber. Marriage is awesome! But so is being a child of God, married or no.
It's been cooking for a while now, like an idea for a novel or a slow-cooked christmas ham.
In finding a decent job, looking for a new apartment, applying for credit cards, nagging companies I've worked for to send me my last check already, and generally just doing what adults normally do, I've encountered a large barrier. It's a product of massive amounts of technological and societal complexity in our culture.
For example, I have called/emailed/texted dozens of landlords, realtors, and owners about houses and apartments for rent over the last two months or so. Roughly half of them got back to me. The rest are slowly trickling in, but by now I already found a place to live. So I tell them politely (but in a slightly passive-aggressive fashion):
"I'm sorry, I found a place last week."
To which they respond:
"Oh. Ok." And then they hang up. Or something like this happens:
"Ohhh very nice! Tell me about it!"
Which naturally segways into an attempt to get me to switch. To which I finally reply:
"I'm sorry, but no. I'd rather not go through the hassle. And I'm fairly certain I'm getting a great deal. Good-bye!"
What exactly happened on their end? I envision something similar to this:
Because frankly, I don't understand why somebody would see an email that basically says
OH HAI IMMA GIVE YOU MONEYS IF YER PLACE IS GUD.
And then ignore it. That boggles my mind.
Of course, the job hunt process is much worse, but I do understand that they don't really have any obligation to get back to me (one of hundreds of applicants).
So this is where I began composing my theory. Over the last century the technology in our society has exploded. This is, for the most part, a really good thing. We are the most healthy we've ever been in the history of humanity. We can get places faster than we ever could. We can get more work done, share it with more people, and spread ideas faster than ever. And I can order nutella online and get it delivered to my front door. That's probably the best part.
That said, it's had a subtle side effect.
Let's rewind a hundred years. You went to the post office to send mail. You greeted the clerk who worked there who was probably your neighbor or something. If you wanted a job, you presented yourself to whoever was in charge and attempted to market yourself, to which they would be obliged to accept you or reject you on the spot. How bizarre would it be to approach a barista in a coffee shop, ask them for a mocha, and get this:
Would be vaguely unsettling, yes?
Then for the next three weeks you return to the coffee shop, ask for a mocha, and are met with the same stare. Finally the barista brightens up and says,
"Yes sir, I'll get that to you right away!" And you walk out of the coffee shop with 21 mochas back-ordered from your three weeks of consistent business.
The reason that never happens is because we have a general sense of propriety (most of us, at least) that obliges us to respond politely when we receive a direct, in-person communication from someone.
But with the advent of the internet, all of a sudden we don't have to look someone in the eye to speak to them anymore.
And it becomes very easy to completely ignore an email.
It won't change, definitely not because I've rambled about it online, but I think it should be reformed slightly.
If your business depends on electronic communication to function, every piece of email, text, or voice mail should be considered as viable and urgent as a face to face conversation. Because we still like to be recognized as human beings when we go out of our way to talk to someone, especially if it's waving a check for a security deposit on an apartment under their nose!
Sort of relevant (not really), but funny:
“We've all heard that a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters will eventually reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true.” ― Robert Wilensky
So, I proposed yesterday, and it was awesome. There are two things I'd like this post to accomplish. The first is to tell you how I did it (to let anyone know that wants to know that's too shy to ask, that's too far away to ask in person, or whatever. And for the record, if you want to know any more details, feel free to chat with me) Here begins the saga of frustrated attempts: I had planned to do it over a weekend when Maeve was coming to Logan for a retreat at bear lake with a Christian Club on USU campus called Cru. This was two weeks ago. The plan was to have her carpool up with somebody else (since I had to be there early), then whoever was in the middle seat would have a sudden urge to use the bathroom at the overlook above the lake. Maeve would get out to let the person go, then they'd shut the door and just drive off. A trail of mason jars with candles would be leading off into the woods next to a pair of snowshoes with me on the other end, and a fantastic view of the valley and the frozen lake behind me. Good, yeah? But then we didn't get enough people for the retreat and we couldn't afford to use the facility on friday AND saturday night, so we were forced to drop the first night of the retreat. Following this news, of course, Maeve was all like: "So I can just ride up with you!" And I was all, "YeeEeeEAah! That's...great!" And then it was snowing like the inside of a snow cone maker on the drive up so it would have been miserable anyway.
NARRATOR INTERJECTION: I have a slight fixation on candles in mason jars. Yay pinterest. Or something. They look like this:
Don't you make fun of my interest in pinterest. It's like facebook without all of the useless drivel and more interesting/funny things.
On with the story. So, of course, I was frustrated. The ring, unfortunately, had not yet come in the mail, so I was planning on using an heirloom ring that Maeve's family graciously offered for temporary use, or a plain silver band to stand in the place of the real one. The following weekend rolled around and I was itching to go ask this crazy, beautiful girl to be my wife. I figured I could ambush her after work on friday night, with candles in mason jars (duh) surrounding her car, and me in her truck bed playing this song: (on Oswald, mah guitar)
The timing was wrong, however. I called Maeve's mom before each of these attempts, and she was marvelously patient and helpful as I sorted everything out. That weekend her family wanted to go skiing, and she wanted to have friends from Salt Lake over the following day. One of the things Maeve has been frustrated about has been the fact that school, work, and I have to admit, me, is crowding out time with her family. The sense I got was to wait, and to give that time to her family since it was a rare opportunity in this stage of life. So I did.
'NUTHER NARRATOR INTERJECTION: "What gives, man! You had the opportunity, so why didn't you just do it? Who cares if everything is perfect?"
I'm glad you asked.
The engagement, as you will soon see, consisted of a few withdrawals from my checking account, an evening spent with someone I love to be around, and a purdy ring. From a worldly stance, if that is all that an engagement consists of, then it's just a nice date that sets a marker for happy marriage times when it's more socially acceptable to move in together (which we aren't right now, just to clarify).
Being a Christian, I believe a marriage is a symbol of Christ's relationship with the Church. Thus an engagement is similar to the period when God "chose us before the foundation of the world" as stated many times in the letters of Paul. He pursues us, marks us as his own, then makes it so.
I have pursued her, and now have marked her as somebody that I would like to make my own. I have yet to make it so.
Thus, if she shares this view, I don't have to feel hard-pressed to grab her before she's gone. If she wants to be mine, she will say yes.
Thus, I can and should consider the lives of others into this thing, and look for a time that will cause the least stress possible.
That said, onward. Week three. Spring break was coming, so I figured this would be a good time to do it since neither of us had an agenda for the time off. I was feeling all depressed about it on Monday, when lo and behold, I got an email from the private metal smith I ordered the ring from saying she shipped it that morning. I hadn't been expecting it for another two weeks. So I started to get excited. The following day my boss offered to let me use a piece of property his father owned that was under his care while his dad was gone. It was really cool. There was a big open field, lots of trees, and a pond. The snow had recently melted and everything was still dead, but it looked rustic and calm. If you know Maeve, she loves that kind of thing. I started to get really excited. Then the ring didn't show up on the expected day. I started to panic. I checked the tracking number online probably thirty times over the next two days when bam, it showed up on Friday morning two hours after the tracking number displayed its arrival in Utah. So, of course, lots of mason jars with candles were everywhere. There was sushi, and it was good. There was hot chocolate and Stewart's Cream Soda (cuz, well, you know) and a variety of other snacks and s'mores beautifully arranged by my family. There was lovely tableware provided by my mother and grandmother. There was my sister hiding in a bush at precisely six o'clock, twenty-four minutes before sunset with a camera to catch the moment. There was a rock three stones from the top of a set of makeshift stairs where she'd be standing, with tree branches knocked out of the way to give my sister a clear shot, And there was a ring, and a lovely woman. Here's a fairly accurate script of what I said (I planned it quite carefully): "When a man proposes, oftentimes he'll start by saying something about how long they've been together. I think that's silly, because it betrays a lack of thought as to the significance of what he's preparing to do. I then thought of the symbolism of a man kneeling while he does it. I think the reasons for this are twofold. The first is that he is utterly smitten by how radiantly beautiful she is, and can do nothing but fall to his knees before her. The second is that he is offering up the most tender thing he can possibly give to another human being for the rest of his life. So, Maeve Buchanan, will you be my wife?" So there you have it.
I mentioned I had two reasons for writing this.
Here's the second, which I started to address earlier: The engagement is not about how "good" the proposal itself is.
This may be old hat to most of you; it's for me to explain to anyone who wants to know what my heart is behind all of this.
Neither of us are emotionally explosive people.
Yes, we're people, so we have our moments, but we don't freak out over things.
Maeve was smiling, and she squeezed the tar out of me afterward and laughed a bit, but she didn't start weeping or squealing or anything.
I'm NOT putting down anyone who reacts like that, I just want you to understand why that didn't happen here.
We already determined that we wanted to be married. That's something that I think needs to be talked about, because in his haste, a man may propose to somebody who is totally not ready for that step. Then she says yes because it seems like a good idea, when in fact most facets of what a marriage would look like between the two have not yet been discussed.
Marriage esplodes, people are sad.
A lovely engagement (as I hope I made it to be with the help of my awesome family) is most likely the other person at their best.
There needs to be a time when you have to deal with the other person at their worst.
Lots of people within the church talk about being "ready" for marriage, then they don't tell you what that means, so all you're left with is a nagging feeling that you have to be more morally stable than you are for God to grant you a spouse. And then you feel guilty that you aren't good enough, and then you become bitter if God never gives you a girlfriend, and then you leave the church because clearly, you were not ready for it and God doesn't love you enough to change you.
I hope you know that this cannot be and is not the way things are.
I can tell you that when Maeve and I started dating, I had just come out of a big video game addiction, and I was dealing with anger, patience issues, and disrespect for authority. I am by no means perfect, but God deemed it necessary for Maeve to come into my life right then. Surprisingly, she loved me through all of that, and was used by God to continue to make me into the man He had in mind for me to be. I am still a very very flawed human being. That's the only kind of human being there is. But I have certainly changed.
Being ready for marriage is not a certain level of good person-ness (not a word. Deal with it). It's being willing to look at someone in the depth of their sin and saying "I will love you anyway through this." Again. And again. And again.
If you have more baggage, it will be harder. But the same principle applies, and it always applies, because it's the same thing God does for you. Again. And again. And again.
Yes I'm engaged. No nothing is certain. But God is good, and Maeve is proof of that. He gets all the credit, and my goal is to reflect his love for me into the way I love Maeve today, the days between now and when we are married, and all of the days after that.
I think I can say with almost absolute certainty that anyone reading this has had to set up "security questions" for an account online somewhere. They're usually pretty terrible. When you go back to that myspace page 4 years later just to check it out, you'll inevitably have lost your password, and a question will pop up like this:
What is the name of the third animal you owned?
For me, that could be: a goldfish, one of four dogs, one of two ferrets, one of three hamsters, one of 6 chinchillas, or maybe I was trying to be clever when I made it to prevent any hackers from seeing pictures of my greasy 13 year old self by saying "hair lice."
Here's what my brain does with a set of your generic security questions online.
What elementary school did you attend?
-That could be either Monte Vista, Jordan Ridge, or my house. You pick.
What is the name of your favorite pet?
-What do you think? Do you honestly think that I had trusty Rover by my side as I wandered through the fields with my bb gun, making rafts and forts and mud castles and stealing veggies from the grumpy next door neighbor? As previously mentioned, a veritable horde of animals has entered and exited my house. And I was fond of lots of them.
Where did your parents meet?
-A wedding. Somewhere. I know that.
Where did you go for your honeymoon?
-Not applicable. I can think of lots of places I would LIKE to go, however. That would still not be a good question, though.
What street did you grow up on?
-Jarred Road or Greasewood Drive.
What was the name of your third-grade teacher?
-I actually do remember this one! Her name was Mrs. A-------. I know this because I only went to public school for two years. Good. I can use this one. But what if I need two more?
What was your first job?
-Well, I've been mowing the lawn for years now. My other jobbish skills include weeding gardens, cleaning bathrooms, using fabled devices like brooms and mops, and spraying febreeze. I volunteered at a kids camp as a counselor, maintenance crew member, and program coordinator. My first "salaried" job was as a soccer ref for little kids. Depending on how "sneaky" I want to be it could be any one of those things.
What was the name of your childhood best friend?
-Again. Not stereotypical farmboy childhood with best friend Jeb and trusty dog Rover. Here's what my life looked like with accompanying social circles until I was 13:
Age 1-4: I was born in Utah and spent my first years drooling on the floor and crapping my pants. My best friends were the foodmom and the beardface. Until my little brother came flying into my life. According to my parents, I slapped him in the face the first time I saw him (cuz, you know, somebody else was getting attention instead of me for several days. And when I found out who it was, I took action. The attempt failed, and I've been trying to complete my vengeance ever since...)
Age 5-8: Still living in Kearns. I had a friend down the road named Trevor who I liked because he had a Nintendo 64. Those babies were hot items when I was a kid. I had other friends at my church in Salt Lake too. So picking one is kind of not possible.
Age 9-13: Moved to Riverton. Not a huge move, but enough to be away from the people I knew in Kearns. The first day we moved there Ben and I went to the nearby park and found a group of kids our age playing. We had to go back shortly for dinner, and we asked them if they'd still be around when we got back. They said they would....but we never saw any of them again. I had a smattering of homeschool friends, but a bestie never really emerged.
So there you have it. I could just pick Ben to make things less complicated, but then when I get to the point when I need to remember my bestest friend in the whole wide world, I wouldn't remember who on earth I thought he was when I made the account.
-What was your dream job as a kid?
So, you're telling me every kid wants to do one thing, and one thing only for several years? So incredibly long, in fact, that it's imprinted on their minds until the day they die and realize with the very last breath they take that they never got to be a botanist in a cute little shop in Florida? Give me a break. Yes, I wanted to be an astronaut, but I also wanted to be a marine biologist, spiderman, a jedi, a nuclear physicist, a marine, and a writer. Would you dare to insinuate that I was so narrow-minded as to only want one thing in life?
I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know if you have any particular pet peeve security questions.
Who takes the opportunity to open their minds?
I cannot answer that question, but I feel compelled to ask it, because even though I reside in a university for the time being, I feel that many here have not done so yet.
In fact, I think the opposite has happened. Instead of "expanding my horizons" or some other American Dream bullcrap, I feel as though I'm actually being encouraged to enter a box. The only time my horizons are open is when I'm born. Anything is possible, but the possibility of change decreases with age. You become somebody in particular. You enter adulthood with a set amount of likes and dislikes, passions and pet peeves, loves and hates. And you become more easy to categorize.
It's easy to call children loud, annoying, and playful, but that's because they are just beginning to learn to emulate us. They enjoy a far greater range of things because they don't have a slew of expectations and fears and "personality traits" screaming in the back of their minds.
And for some reason, we tell them they can be "anything they want to be" on Sesame Street, and when they get to college, they need to get a job, keep the job, and retire at 65 with a beach-front house in Florida. Don't miss Parcheesi on Fridays.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is: Why on earth is the world hell-bent on lying to me?
Why can't it just tell me right off the bat that I should seek a nice, steady job, a nice, safe house, and two and a half nice children? And why would I want a kid with a severe genetic defect? All joking aside, I guess it's because we all want to feel like we have some degree of freedom in what we choose, yet so many of the things we want to choose are frowned upon once we reach our twenties. It's literally taking metaphorical candy from a baby.
Thus, you should tell me that if I do want a stable, easy life, I should pursue an engineering degree, find a nice, happy wife that's good at cooking, and have two kids plus a one-legged one. And a golden retriever.
And then tell me the things I should be worrying about. Once I'm dead, no one will remember what degree I got, how much money I made, or what I told my teacher I wanted to be in sixth grade. Maybe they'll remember my kid with one eye, but that's irrelevant.
But they will remember the impact I had on them as people. So, maybe, we need to encourage our kids to be for somebody else, instead of being for themselves.
Stop telling me to be what I want to be. It's a lie, and you know it.
I work part-time in a cafe funded by the university.
For the most part, it's a pretty good job. I'm on my feet the whole time, I don't smell like fast food when I'm done, and the students are nice.
Mostly.
Here's a few ways to really make your local cashier really happy.
-DON'T IGNORE THEM.
Whenever people come in to buy something, I ask them how they're doing. Most of the time people will respond. Sometimes they'll engage me in a short, lively conversation that makes us both feel better. But sometimes they do this:
How rude.
I honestly try to invest in every person that comes in, even if they're only getting some ice water. If you don't want to talk much, just give a couple of terse answers and I'll leave you alone. But for some reason a cashier is an alien or something that can't be associated with. It bums me out, and it makes you look like a jerk, so even if you're just super shy you could at least say:
I'm good.
And pay me, and walk out.
-Don't shoot the messenger!
Things happen. Prices change, managers switch regular daily deals, equipment breaks down. It's up to me to notify management of any problems, but beyond that I can't magically fix the soda machine. I don't have the qualifications, the tools, or the permission to fix it. I'm sorry, I truly am, but please just go talk to management if you're really that upset about your diet coke being gone.
-Use your brain.
I don't know why this is an issue, but sometimes people blatantly ignore signs that say something isn't ready. I've had people come in, see the sign that says CORN DOGS ARE NOT READY.
And they reach around the sign and grab a corn dog.
They buy it, leave, and come back later complaining that it's frozen. With several teeth marks in it that make it look like they let a beaver go at it.
So we have a new procedure.
We ask them where they got it.
If they say:
"Behind the not ready sign."
Then it's their own dang fault and NO REFUND.
I can't magically un-freeze things either. I'm just a 20 year old college student working at minimum wage to pay rent and sell you corn dogs
-Unfold your money.
This should be a no-brainer, but it really ruins my day to have somebody grab a soggy dollar bill that's been smashed in his back pocket all day to pay for his corn dog.
Here's why:
1. It's disgusting.
2. I have to unfold it and put it away, which can take a while depending on how rumpled it is.
3. If it's soggy...and it's been in your back pocket...then, well, butt-sweat.
I don't want to touch your butt-sweat. I might put on a latex glove to handle your butt-sweat. I am well within company policy to wear gloves while handling money, and if it teaches you something in the process, then good. I won't be snarky about it, because it's never my job to be rude or annoyed with a customer, but hopefully you'll catch the hint. Hopefully.
I hope this has been food for thought. Like I said, 90% of the people I see everyday are really nice to talk to and serve. There's just a few bad eggs that kind of make working miserable sometimes. Please don't be that guy.
There's a man sitting in the Merrill-Cazier Library at Utah State University. Dark clouds roll outside, and the temperature is dropping to forty degrees. Snow graces the peaks of the mountains, a dark omen for a cold winter since it's arriving at the end of September, and not at least a month later when it's expected.
This man is clothed in polished earth-colored leather shoes, strikingly ironed black slacks and a pinstriped sky blue shirt, the collar creased just so precisely halfway along its length. A pair of round, direct spectacles sit on his parrot nose as he stares intently at, well,
The Statesman. Scourge of proper grammar, disdain of the English major, and harbinger of insignificant drivel. The
campus
paper.
This image is so strikingly awful in his well-measured hands with trimmed fingernails that I can't help but writhe silently in disgust.
Because, you see, he's sitting three feet to my right.
And I'm fairly certain he has no idea I'm writing about him. He's too absorbed in
"What Sally Ate For Breakfast, and Why You Should Eat It Too Because You're A Fat College Student"
or
"Yet Another Article About Young Mormon Couples"
or
"How Frikkin' Awesome Our Football Team Is"
to notice my prose on the gross irony of his apparel and his reading material. He needs to pick up a copy of a Charles Dickens novel and find himself a good brick fireplace to read next to with a hound dog slumbering at his feet. Have some class, bro.
It's right below the state border, which means that I work with lots of people from Idaho.
Lots of these fine fellers have grown up working on a farm or a dairy. This combined with a childhood in North Cache Valley has made this certain brand of hick especially quirky.
They say some funny stuff from time to time. I thought most of it was hilarious, and tried to keep my laughter contained. Some of my bathroom breaks have really been laughing breaks.
I've been collecting things that people have said all summer long that I found amusing. Like using "Godfrey" as an exclamation. I will explain the context when necessary.
**WARNING: CONTAINS LANGUAGE. It has been censored, but given the nature of the men at my job, there is definitely some profanity. I thought it made it more funny at times, so judge me if you will, but there it is.
Enjoy.
"I'm slower at this than a one-legged man in an a**-kickin' contest."
-A coworker, in reference to his speed at bagging feed.
"Use your brain for something besides keeping your ears from flapping together."
-In reference to the idiot sheep tourists at Lava Hot Springs.
"I hope that sum-b**ch blows up on him."
-In reference to another employee shooting out of the door in a 32 year old forklift.
"You buncha yahoos gonna get off yer biscuits and start workin'?"
-'Yahoo' is pronounced 'Yayhoo.'
"You lived in Salt Lake? You must be one of them rich kids, huh?"
-A supervisor, to me, upon learning that I had lived in Riverton.
"So, you married?"
"What's your wife's name?"
-These are interchangeable and are used shortly after meeting you by any given employee or trucker on the mill. Usually the second question asked, following directly after "What's yer name?"
"You weren't at the rodeo?"
-Anytime there is a rodeo anywhere near the mill.
"It's a wonder he's still alive, as dumb as he is."
-Yep.
"This stuff reeks."
"Yep, smells like pig s**t."
-I said the first one, the guy I was working with said the second.
Me: "Who's this for?"
Coworker: "BIG D**K."
Me: "Who?"
CW: "BIG D**K HARRIS. He's about four hundred pounds and he walks like a penguin."
-When reading this, imagine a five foot four man that weighs about two hundred pounds in his seventies with huge bug eyes growling through tobacco-stained teeth. It was hilarious.
"Ya wanna be in the airborne infantry? I don't think they've got a parachute big enough to keep your fat a** from splattin' into the ground"
-One employee, to another, when he said he wanted to join the army.
Hope you had a good laugh. I sometimes wish it was possible to sneak in a spy camera thingy, but then I remember that I'm working a crappy summer job.
Thanks for reading!
Girls, this one's for you.
This is my take on the things you do that
drive
guys
nuts.
Also, the things you do that are sooper awesome.
And make us stare. And stuff.
Basically, what you should and should not do if you want to communicate with the fellas.
I'm going to start with the things that are annoying, because complaining is fun.
These sunglasses:
make you look like a deranged insect.
Wearing perfume.
Speaking of perfume, don't wear too much. Just a dab to make you smell like God's flower garden is plenty. If you're not sure if you put on too much, take a look behind you after you pass a group of people every once in a while. If they're crawling on the ground with disheveled skin, gasping for air with bone dry lips and rasping lungs, you're doing it wrong.
Not all guys agree on this, so don't take my word for it, but I think it's awesome when a girl's comfortable with not wearing makeup every once in a while. To me, that speaks volumes of her character, which, quite honestly, is waaay hotter than 5 pounds of Maybelline's Fake Tan Foundation.
The duck face, for the last time, is not cute. It makes your attractiveness degenerate in the Honey Boo Boo direction.
Being exceptionally giggly and ditzy isn't cute. Some guys think so, but I don't. The general population seems to agree with me. Again, my word isn't law. Just watch the spazzy hyena level.
Not all girls are like this, but the gals who don't like getting their picture taken because she says she's "ugly" confuses me to no end. Nobody, I guarantee you, is going to look at that picture and go "Ig. She's ugly. She needs to fix her makeup and make sure that stray hair is tucked behind her ear. And that fleck of dust, my word, she looks like a hobo."
Now for the good.
There's something about the way a girl thinks, the range of people she notices and takes time to care for, that is really intriguing and fascinating to a guy. A girl, in general, absorbs more than the average guy, and the things it does mixed with a selfless character is very, very attractive.
When a girl takes the time to ask a guy a question, or smile at him, or give him a hug, it's like hitting him with a ton of bricks. It'll tell him a lot. Ladies, we're simple creatures, and we respond to direct attention. If you play hard to get, we'll assume you're giving us the cold shoulder. You don't have to initiate everything, but if you show some interest in a guy he will assume that you like him. Refusing to talk to a guy because you don't want to draw him in too much can sometimes be a rational measure, but not if you want to catch his attention.
We like smiles. Lots. Even if they're not directed at us.
Willingness to try new things is really attractive. Why? It reveals a sense of adventure. It's okay to let us know you're scared, and if something's really scary we don't think you're lame by backing out, but if you partake in things we know you're uncomfortable with on occasion it's really really awesome. It tells us that you're confident, spontaneous, and willing to do new things. Which means, probably, that you're better at working through hard stuff.
It's nice when girls don't whine too much about their problems. Sharing them with a male confidante for comfort is one thing, whining is another. What's nice and really cool is when a girl shares her problems openly and honestly (within reason) and sincerely asks for prayer.
If you're a Christian, I urge you to be transparent. Silence is better than fake holiness. Speak when you are led, and act out of a desire to honor God and not yourself (isn't that the point of being a Christian, anyway?) A woman on fire for God is super attractive to a guy on fire for God.
Playing with little kids (and liking it) is pretty dang attractive.
To cap the list (I hate to use a cliche), but be yourself. Ick. I'm pulling out the thesaurus.
Exist in uniqueness.
March to the beat of your own djembe.
Exude your own chi.
Ignore external pressures to alter your personality for the sake of the moment.
You get the idea. If you think guys go for a different kind of personality than yours so you change your behavior, you're doing it wrong. If you do that, and end up marrying a guy that dated you for a person that didn't exist, either he is going to be surprised when you aren't who you acted as before, or you're going to be miserable with your mask for the rest of your life. Wait for the guy that loves the good in you, and is willing to crunch through the bad. Not the one you think you can reel in with the right behavior.
Hopefully this has been helpful. Questions and comments are welcome. :)
If you're in college or about to go to college, this one's for you. Here's a few shining pearls of advice to getting in and out of school alive.
-Potatoes and eggs are wonderful things. Cheap, yummy, filling, and easy. Heck, I even found a recipe involving both of them at the same time, and it was reeeally good.
-Ramen is a last resort measure. On the underside of a sheet of notes crammed in the margin kind of last resort measure. Just don't do it.
-Sleep is great. But if you have an opportunity to chill with folks instead, I'd chill with folks. I'll sleep when I'm dead.
-Don't play Slender. It's a creepy game involving you as a little kid running around in the woods with a flashlight while being stalked by the slender man, a tall, pale white dude in a suit that follows you around and eventually catches you. There's no way to win. It's pretty messed up.
-Couches become more and more awesome the older you get.
-Accept the fact that you're gonna be wrong as early as possible. You'll get hucked around by so many evil professors, weird people, and general stress that you can't afford to live under the illusion that you have it all under control.
-Ultimate frisbee is the best. Dodgeball is the best. Movie nights are the best. Free food is the best. It's all out there. Go do it. I know people who have contests for the first week of school with all of the open houses/opening socials and stuff to see how long you can go without eating any of your own food. If you play it right, you'll be stuffed all week, and you'll get several new t-shirts.
-Find somebody to talk to about stuff that's generally not fun to talk about. It helps a lot to have friends to emotional-dump with when you need it.
-Try new things. Within reason, (see the fourth item on the list) obviously, but don't be a stickler that doesn't want to do a pickle-eating contest because you think it's too weird.
-Get a good bike if you don't already have one. Cheap, calorie-burner, and easy to take care of. USU has a bike shop that you can take your bike to, and they'll show you how to fix it for free. It also lets you borrow a bike for free.
-Having fun does not equal spending money.
-If you want to pick something up, just go for it. I started playing guitar a year ago. I'm not a pro by any means, but I'm really glad I decided to do it. It's a great time-killer.
-Make a good resume as early as possible. It's like ripping off a band-aid, but worth it once you have it.
-Farts are funny.
-Don't freak out too badly about your first C on a paper or test. It'll happen.
-If you're going to school at USU, just know that half of the people you meet will be married already.
-On campus food is expensive. Buy only when necessary.
And finally, ladies and gents, there will be those that don't leave high school drama behind. Be gracious to them, but don't think you have to grovel to everyone. Find more friends that don't post pictures of their two-ton mayonnaise beef-wich on Facebook.
Discussions about controversial subjects usually don't bug me.
Not in real life, at least.
But if I happen to be engaged in a discussion on the internet about gun control with someone, the rules for civil conversation suddenly vanish for no reason.
People seem to be under the impression that once you get behind a keyboard and a computer screen, you can be as big of a doodoo head as you want to be.
You can avoid answering questions, blurt outrageous statements with no source, and call people doodoo heads. And lots of other nasty things.
Question. If you were actually face to face with the person you're flaming on facebook, would you say half of the things you're barfing onto some poor soul's page? You would? Quite a wonder your nose is as straight as it is in the two hundred selfies you've got on your profile.
'Nuther question. Wouldn't it be more enjoyable for everyone if you only posted things you would actually say in real life? Wouldn't it make intellectual conversations, erm, actually productive? Calling each other doodoo heads whilst attempting figure out if Obama is a doodoo head or not doesn't accomplish anything at all.
Be nice.
Don't fling doodoo.
Fling chill pills. And hugs. But not facebook pokes. I will kill you. Doodoo head.
I got a haircut today.
It was very nice.
I can see now!
And the lovely frigid Logan air is hitting my head full-force, since the unruly mop is no longer there to deflect it.
Favorite part: When they use the buzzer on the back of my neck. I might have to buy a buzzer just for that.
The ladies in salons/barber shops are often, well, interesting.
Mostly in a bad way.
For the most part, I've had bad experiences with hairdressers.
They look at me, a hairy teenager, and figure that I'm just going to settle for some of my shaggy head-material all over the floor and itching my ears for a few hours until the next time it gets long enough to bug me.
Some of them have been good, yes, but I don't skip into the hair salon and plunk myself into the nearest chair, quivering with excitement for the hair particles I get to pick out of my shirt afterward.
Here's a few interesting types of hair dressers I (and probably you) have encountered.
The Mouse
This is a really quiet type, usually short-haired but not excessively so, who hardly says a word. I'm not one to want to chat with every person that comes near me 100% of the time, but I feel a little bit awkward if someone who's suddenly taken an immense interest in my head doesn't say a word to me. Am I doing something wrong? Do I intimidate you? Doth my hair offend you, oh mighty barberess? More often than not, this poor lady won't seem to be too sure of herself, and will mess up slightly here and there. Just ask me what I want, and if I'm happy with what you did, so you don't act like you're afraid that I'm going to whirl around and yell: "THIS HAIRCUT IS THE MOSTEST AWFULLEST HAIRCUT EVER. A RABID HEDGEHOG COULD DO BETTER THAN THIS! I'M GOING TO STICK MY HEAD IN A BLENDER TO GET RID OF YOUR AWFUL HAIRCUT."
The Sorority Girl
This type. Ohhhh this type. The 20 something type with really short hair, lightning quick hands, and a mouth that won't quit moving. Quite honestly, I've received my best haircuts from the younger ladies (maybe they sympathize with me a bit more or something) but please, for the love of everything tranquil and sane, could you give me a break? I don't know why you find such an interest in the scent of my dog's breath, the trees in my front yard, or the shape of my professors' noses, but do you see anyone else in any social setting asking these kinds of questions? Then, to make matters worse, do you have to interrupt me and compose a Hamlet-worthy monologue about your own dog's breath and how it killed 37 cats last year? I came for a haircut, not a counseling session. No, I won't tell you how often I clip my fingernails. That's just weird.
The Cookie Cutter
You walk in, some scissors and a buzzer get rid of some hair, and you leave. Regardless of what you asked for or what you suggested during the haircut, this gum-smacking gal just out of a training program will give you a machine-pressed haircut that quite honestly only looks good on five year old boys. Most of these are found in Great Clips.
The Nosy Housewife
Do you ever sit down in a restaurant or at a bus stop and hear on-going gossip about sensitive topics on a regular basis? Not usually, but it does happen sometimes. Apparently, though I'm not sure why, hair salons create a privacy invasion sphere where it's okay to talk about whatever the heck you want. Husbands, other ladies at church, husbands' annoying habits, other peoples' kids, things they wish their husbands would do but don't, how often celebrities pick their nose, and more of the shortcomings of husbands. Some rather invasive and sharp things are traded back and forth by some of these ladies, who all seem to be under the impression that it's perfectly acceptable to discuss how annoying it is when their significant others leave a pair of stinky boxers on the floor. I once was stuck with two of these gals talking over my head, whilst I and the other unfortunate gentleman getting his hair cut had a silent pity party with each other. Thank you Lord for sending that man. I doubt I would have made it out alive if I had to suffer alone.
The Gargoyle
The worst of the worst. The most horrible and inconsiderate of them all. The one who asks you what you want, then ignores you completely. She proceeds to give you what she thinks would look better instead of what you asked for. From the moment you sit in the chair to the moment you leave you are simply a bag of meat with a wig on for the gargoyle to cackle over and mutilate however she wishes. Then you leave with Lord knows what artistic abomination on your head. And weep softly in front of a mirror.
A piece of advice: get a haircut at a local hair salon, not some big commercialized outfit like Super Cuts. If you really don't care, well, go ahead. May your flowing locks rest in peace.
The truck
bounced along a very poorly maintained dirt road, bound for a small village in
the Gog region. Trees, bushes, and plants of a billion varieties lined the
road, impenetrable to the human eye. Short, leafy bushes covered the ground,
the gaps between them filled with elephant grass that reached six or seven
feet, sometimes ten or more. Tall, wiry trees filled the rest of the view
upward. The entire scene seemed composed of the same brilliant, shimmering, almost
glowing shade of green, as if the wellspring of the world was beneath our feet
and the plants were constantly inebriated by it. Most interesting and amazing
to me were massive trees spaced hundreds of feet apart, as if each one guarded
a separate realm. These behemoths stretched (from what I could tell) one or two
hundred feet into the air, the crests of their bulky, wooded heads spreading a
fan of the same vivid viridescence to the sky. A massive ‘thud’ shook the
entire truck, throwing my head against the window and jerking my attention away
from the trees.
Ethiopia didn’t have a parks and
rec program to maintain it’s roads. Hence the massive potholes that sent my
butt flying into my skull every few seconds if the driver couldn’t dodge them.
He was driving at a ridiculous speed, as if a horde of eight-year-old vendors
at the merkata in Addis Abeba were
chasing him down to sell him “banana gum! Five birr! Just five birr!” This
hell-bent speed combined with an attempt to dodge the worst of the potholes
sent the dusty white truck careening across the road like a cockroach that just
took a swim in a pot of coffee. Six or seven hitchhikers sat in the truck bed;
any vehicle moving along this road was rare and easy prey for swarms of people
wanting quick passage.
We shot
past several groups of people, who all scrambled for their lives to get off the
road as our impatient Amharic driver, his brighter skin contrasting heavily
with the sable skin of the Anuaks, relentlessly laid his foot on the gas. On
several occasions, a small, turkey-like bird would be in the middle of the
road, its long neck and small head swaying as it surveyed the white hunk of
steel hurtling toward it. Clueless to its impending doom, we simply plowed
straight over it. I never saw the pulverized feathery remains of our many
victims, due to the people crammed in the back.
We soon
arrived at our destination, a trail of feathers and panicked Anuaks stretching
miles behind us. The hitchhikers simply gathered their meager belongings and
went about their business as if tailbone-cracking flights through the jungle
happened every day. At least I was safe in the cab; somehow they had managed to
avoid flying into a tree full of baboons.
We had
brought several hundred dollars worth of medication with us along with some
medical equipment, and were planning to run an all-day clinic for the locals. A
doctor’s station (built by the British) was there, but there hadn’t been a
doctor or nurse in it for years.
Hence the
huge line of people wanting help. Most of them just had an infection of some
kind, which a simple antibiotic could fix, but some of them had sores,
parasites, and tumors. My job was simply to take each person’s blood pressure
and pulse, which I didn’t resent at all since I was there to help in whatever
way I could. Some of these folks, however, didn’t take kindly to a foreign
piece of velcro and plastic strapped to their arm. Which, of course, meant
their heart rate was astronomically high.
One wiry woman, probably around
forty years of age, sat down in the chair in front of me with eyes the size of golf
balls as she eyed the small device I held in my hands, her thin, hollow face a
mask of fear. A heavy set man with soft features and kind eyes had his hand on
her shoulder to reassure her as I attached the device to her arm. Her heart
rate instantly jumped to over 160 beats per minute, and she began visibly
panting. She gripped my arm with her right hand in a vise-like grip, which in
turn caused my heart rate to skyrocket. We eyed each other, both afraid of what
one might do to the other, our hearts mutually running pell-mell until Omot
(our nurse) leaned over and told me to just take it off. I gladly complied.
Occasionally I got the feeling that
I really wasn’t doing anything of value, then shrugged my shoulders and
continued since Omot was making a point of scribbling down all the numbers I
relayed to him.
A group of
ladies behind the building, who all spent their days cooking and sewing and
spanking children, began preparations for our lunch. One of them hunted down a
little boy who couldn’t have been much older than four years old and jabbered
at him in machine gun Anuak. He nodded his head deferentially and rounded up a
posse of little Ethiopian terrors, and they promptly took off running after a
chicken that was wandering the grounds.
For about ten
minutes the chase continued. I found it terribly difficult to focus on my task
and observe this frantic chase at the same time. I began to lose hope that the
squad of chicken hunters would succeed in their quest, since the chicken
clearly outstripped them all in speed on its absurd chunky legs, its beady
black eyes wide with unadulterated terror.
The chicken
then made its fatal mistake.
It ran into
the old doctor’s station.
The
yelling, chattering horde of little boys went in hot on its heels. A horrendous
squawk sounded within the building. The gang soon sauntered out of the cement
block structure, smug grins on their faces, their leader dragging the
unfortunate chicken by the legs, frantically squirming and clucking.
Aragorn plunges his scarred hands into the sink, searching for a plate. Leathery, tan, and roped with bulging veins, his left fumbles with a sponge, while his right grips a plate.
The bubbles swirl around his hairy, muscled forearms, calloused and rough from spending years among the trees and beasts and earth. A shimmering globe of suds drifts near a long, pale, ropy scar, caressing and lingering on the old wound.
He grits his teeth, face pale and cold despite the rising vapor from the steaming, foamy sink. His hands tremble, adrenaline beginning to pump through them.
Screams of men and roars of hellish beasts echo, mingling with the laughter of his children and his wife.
He lifts the plate, seemingly attempting to bore a hole in it with his gaze. A laughing orc's face fills it.
He snarls and scrubs away at the grime on the plate, porcelain squealing from the pressure.
His knees begin to shake.
He calmly set the scratched plate to the side and strode to an old chest, locked and covered in dust, hidden among various other items in his chambers.
Bounding off into the night, clothed in filthy, earth-tinged, blood-stained, wind-whipped cloth and leather, tonight he is not Aragorn the Father, Husband, or King. He is Aragorn, flitting from tree to rock in silence.
Jesus told a lot of stories when he was here, all of them with some kind of underlying message. I read one the other day found in the beginning of the book of Mark chapter 12, and it hit me like a train.
Here's the scenario:
A guy plants a vineyard. You know, to grow grapes to make wine. He then rented this vineyard out to some local farmers, maybe friends of his, and moved somewhere else like the respectable, successful gentleman the story seems to make him out to be.
Eventually he needs to send some workers to get some fruit from his vineyard, so he does. The people he rented it out to, however, respond in a very vicious manner. They "seized him, beat him, and sent him away shamefully." No doubt the owner was in shock, since he left his land with people he thought he could trust. So he sends another servant, since maybe there was some kind of freak misunderstanding. It happened again. They beat him up and kicked him out.
By now, I'm sure this has the owner really confused and hurt. Let's take this parable by the horns and figure out what on earth Jesus is saying.
For a good long while now, the Israelites had been God's people. His folks. The people group that he promised would generate a savior, a king that would redeem the Israelites and establish his kingdom on earth. His name was going to be Emmanuel, which literally means "God with us." He sent several prophets to tell them this, many of whom were not received very well. Ringing any bells? The beaten, disgraced servants? There you go. God could have given up at that point, but he persisted. Let's continue with the story...
The owner of the vineyard had only his son left to send. His son, "whom he loved." Could he have held on to him? Of course. Did he? No. He sent him anyway, saying "They will respect my son."
You think God hoped we would respect his son when he sent him to this planet? I'm sure he would rather not have to watch him die. Here's the kicker: did he know Jesus was going to die? Yes, he's God. But he sent him anyway.
My gut reaction is to look up and yell "WHY??" If you love him, why the heck did you do that? Why did you send him to a rebellious, straight up evil people, knowing that he would die a horrific death? This is described in my earlier posts, so it should come as no surprise if you've read my other stuff: It's because he loves us so much that we have no concept of the depth of it.
You probably guessed by now that the son is murdered. Betrayed by friends. The implication for those listening is worse, since it's not just a patron that will be betrayed, it's the all-powerful God who made everything. That's scary. Men beating their breasts and screaming defiance to the sky. We are such a lost and depraved people, yet despite our rebellion, he still accepts us. In the story, the owner kills the people he left the vineyard with. That's the only discrepancy, since the owner is still human. God, however, took those people who killed his son, and redeemed them. That's like hugging a cactus with all your might.
I pour the coffee beans into the grinder, individual beans clinking against the sides. Just like every morning. The scent hits my nostrils: pungent, thrumming, bold. It’s the smell of morning, at least to me. My brain slightly twitches, the tingle from my nose reaching my sluggish head.
Chugga chugga. The grinder crunches, whines, smashes. The smell becomes a little bit stronger, shooting into my nose in waves. I pour the grinds into the machine, and turn it on. The coffee machine grumbles and gurgles, shooting hot water through the dark brown grinds. The whole room is now filled with an earthy, bright aroma, one that makes me want to sit down with a good book. So, once the coffee is ready, I pour it in a mug and add some cream and sugar. I pick up a book and curl up on the couch, holding my steaming cup of morning. All hell will break loose in about a half hour, but this is peace. I plunge myself into the story. A hero, of course, fighting frighteningly colossal powers levied against him. A girl, of course, beautiful, blue eyed, madly in love with the hero and strongly committed to his cause. A wizened old man, guiding the hero and teaching him. An antagonist. Huge, demonic, powerful. Evil; blatantly disregarding any moral boundaries; preying on those unable to protect themselves. A world hanging on the edge of a knife. My phone rings.
I fold the corner of the page and close the book.
The coffee is cold, and the smell is now mixed with roommates’ burnt toast, eggs, and various shower products as bodies dry from just having used them.
My ears are filled with shuffling chairs, grunting and chattering men, the girl above us who thinks she’s Demi Lovato, and one voice fretting over his charred piece of bread.
I hold the phone in my hand, frantically beeping and buzzing to get my attention. I sigh, and answer it. Let the day begin.
There's a few folks out there that talk about being "christians."
What's with these guys?
Why on earth do they do it? Are they just following a norm set by their parents and close friends?
Unfortunately, yeah, a lot of them are.
What about the ones who tell homosexuals they're going to hell?
What about the ones who try to hold Koran burnings?
What about the ones who talk about Jesus, but live in sin without caring one whit about it?
With all of these preconceptions in the minds of lots of Americans, it isn't surprising that to some people the whole prospect of being a christian is pretty unappealing.
If it doesn't do anything to you to change you, why be one anyway?
If it just gets you a label and maybe getting to heaven (who knows what happens after we die anyway? No one. That's right.) but life here stays the same, is it even worth it?
Dunno about you, but my answer is no.
So. Is there anything else? Or is it really just something to assuage our consciences until we get put in a box to decompose a few feet underground and fertilize a tree? An aspen would be nice. Bury me by an aspen. I don't want my body feeding a russian olive tree. They smell funny.
Let's rewind. Past aspen trees (and russian olives, thank goodness) and the earth itself. Boom. God makes the universe (just humor me, even if you disagree). He didn't need to, but He did. And on just one planet, he placed a whole bunch of stuff. Water, air, dirt, hyenas, manatees, more dirt, fish, birds, trees (even russian olives), and everything we see on it today.
Then he did something interesting. He said "let us make man in our own image." He made a dude. In HIS image. Whhaaaat??? Why? I don't claim to know His mind, but it pleased Him to make this dude.
Then He made a woman (from this dude) to be the dude's companion, because He said it wasn't good for the dude to be alone. But that's another subject.
He gave the dude and the woman ONE command. They couldn't eat fruit from a specific tree.
You guessed it, they did. Just like a 5 year old kid will eat a lump of cookie dough thirty seconds after mom tells him to stay away from it. They rebelled. From that moment, we were all toast. Sin became a part of every human being from then on.
Kind of a depressing story, yeah? According to God's Word, his manual for us clueless sacks of meat, the punishment for sin is death. Since God is perfect, sin cannot be near Him, so basically, with only this part of the story, we'd all be frying (christians too, along with the people they condemn).
BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! He sent himself as a dude to this planet to mingle with us, teach us a lot of cool stuff, (read the book of John. It's pretty interesting.) and ultimately die a horrific death on a cross for us. For us. To pay that penalty, to take our place.
That's crazy. Why on earth would a perfect God die for a rebellious, filthy lot like us?
The only answer that makes sense is that He loves us. Like crazy.
So basically, with that piece of the story, all ya gotta do is take it. Let Him know that you're fully aware that you're a dirtbag, and need Him and Him alone to take away your dirtbagginess. That's all there is to it.
So why be a christian?
Because the promise is that it doesn't stop there.
Ohhhh no.
You become a totally different person. Over and over and over and over again the new testament talks about "new life", "being transformed", and referring to sin being dead. Dead. Not even twitching. Does it mean that christians are perfect? Nah, of course not. It does mean, however, that sin does not rule them any more. Ever feel like you can't get out of all the garbage you're in? Like you're being engulfed by the world and your own dirtbagginess?
