Re-inventing the wheel

I am not what you'd call an "early adopter." Those are the people who have to have the latest experimental plasma TV and the cell phone that can open their garage doors. I'm more of a late adopter; I want all the bugs worked out and the price to come way down.

This is why I'm considering upgrading my current Nintendo 64 to a Playstation 2. Now, before you confusedly check the date stamp at the end of this post: yes, it is 2007, and yes, I still have a Nintendo 64.

Despite having been born right in the middle the video game generation, I've never been much of a gamer. This is also despite my parents buying several of the early video game platforms (if you knew my parents, you'd know how weird that is. They were young once, apparently.) I remember my family having a Texas Intruments computer when I was very young (the TI-99/4A)), and the only game simple enough for me to play was called Hunt the Wumpus. We then upgraded to an Atari 5200. My mom was a fanatic of the game Megamania, which again is totally out of character for her. Megamania is basically Space Invaders but instead of alien ships, you shoot at flying hamburgers and bowties. What can I say? It seemed really clever at the time. I still remember a hearing the adults talking about a friend who reached the vaunted 45,000 points and took a picture of the screen to send to the company.

None of this really rubbed off on me, and despite becoming very skilled at Pole Position, I remained indifferent to video games. Like everyone else in America, we got a Nintendo system sometime during the late 80s. Even after playing Super Mario Brothers for hours upon hours, I was probably the only kid in America not to beat the game. A few years later, when I was still in my teens, we moved overseas and we couldn't make the Nintendo work with our foreign television.

(A funny side note on that: When we moved, we had to ship all our stuff months before we left. The mission president that my father replaced was a local and he had a son about my age. Apparently, the son and his friends heard that we had a Nintendo, so they opened all our stuff when it arrived and got the Nintendo out, but they couldn’t get it to work. A real class act, that family.)

During the first few years of college, I was too poor to even have a TV, let alone a Playstation. Finally in February 2000, Maude, who I was dating at the time, convinced me to buy a Nintendo 64 as a Valentine’s Day present for both of us. The price had finally gone down to $99 and she wanted to play MarioKart. And that’s where we stand today.

Since I don’t spend a lot of time gaming, I can’t imagine spending $400 for an Xbox or $600 for a PS3. Plus, all the games cost 50 bucks on top of that. But now you can get a Playstation 2 for just $130 and there are hundreds of cheap games now. Still, 130 bucks could buy a lot of books, instead of just time wasted sitting in front of the television.

On the other hand, if I get the system, at my current rate, I’ll be set until 2014. That’s a lot of time to try to beat Metal Gear Solid.

Do NOT Go In There

There are certain things that are so simple that it boggles my mind that our society can't implement them. I know it's an old cliche to say "We can put a man on the moon, but we can't do______." The blank usually involving something really important like inventing squeezable peanut butter or eliminating check-out lines.

However, I really don't understand why we continue to build millions of public bathrooms in this country that have doors that swing in, instead of out. What's the point of washing your hands if you're just going to have to touch the same surface as the guy straight from the stall?

The bathroom at my work is a perfect example. It has two doors, with a short hallway in between (for privacy); however, the first door swings in and the second swings out. After washing my hands, I can nudge the first door open with my foot, but the second door traps me. There is no wastebasket in the small hall, so I can't even use a paper towel to open the second door. This wouldn't be so disconcerting if I hadn't had to follow the same guy out of the bathroom two days in a row now.

Beardy McBearderson, as I'll refer to him, belongs to that school of hand-washers known as the Splashers. In today's corporate environment, few people will simply walk out the door unwashed in front of witnesses (also known as the Poppie School of Hand-Washing). When a Splasher spies you standing there, they'll walk over to the faucet and turn it on and off so fast that only a few molecules of water actually touch their hands. Having made this sacrifice to communal norms, they'll then dry themselves and act like this spritz of moisture had some sort of antiseptic effect. It is almost certain that Splashers wouldn't bother with the pretense of turning on the water if you weren't there. Like an electron, the simple act of observation changes their behaviour. Once, I caught a co-worker leaving the bathroom while the urinal was still flushing, making it mathematically impossible that he washed his hands. You can never look a person the same after.

I don't think we need a surgical scrub station in the bathroom, but it would be nice if we could escape without having to resort to pinkie fingers, wadded up paper towels, and elbows. I mean, after all, we did put a man on the moon.

Eat, drink, and be merry (because tomorrow's kind of iffy)

Every once in a while I remember how improbable our existence is in this cold, dead universe. I suppose that mathematically, there has to be life somewhere else too, but who knows what it looks like or how far it's advanced. Not just that I exist, but that I'm alive now, and not at any point in the previous 200,000 years when we were clubbing each other with rocks and lived a short, nightmarish existence of insecurity, disease, and discomfort. Obviously, my unique combination of (mostly faulty) genes couldn't have existed at any point previous to this one, so it's a moot point, but these are the kind of things I think about when I have too much time on my hands.

I'm currently reading a history of the Punic Wars that I picked up at random in the local library while waiting for my wife. It's amazing that we know the names and stories of these people who lived more than two thousand years ago, but it can be depressing. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers died fighting for a country that wasn't even theirs and was, in any case, doomed to be destroyed. What's the point for any of us? We're trapped on a rock that's fated to be reabsorbed into the sun and ultimately have its atoms strewn across the universe.

That sucks. The fact that I will die sooner rather than later sucks. Some people think that when you stop believing in God, you lose all inhibitions and decency, because there is no final reckoning looming over you. I disagree. I find that losing my faith in God has made me want to be happier and help others more, precisely because there is no balancing of the scales afterward, there is no divine justice.

You can't fight annihilation, because it's coming for all of us. The only thing we can do is make this improbable miracle of existence less painful and more enjoyable for everyone in the meantime. No trace of my existence will remain in a hundred years or so, but at least I had a chance to live.

New Year's irResolutions

I've always hated New Year's resolutions because they seem pointless. Either you're going to do something, or (more likely) you're not. So the following are not resolutions, but rather things I would really like to happen, and soon.

1. I need to find a real job. I've been temping for 9 months now, and at my current assignment for over 7 months. It's time to start getting paid more than 14 dollars an hour. I'm turning thirty in a couple weeks and I'm on the verge on a mid-life crisis (mid-life because I eat a lot of bacon). I can't be happy if I don't enjoy what I do for forty hours a week for the rest of my bacon-truncated life.

2. I'd like to go to Europe or South America. Last week, I discovered that I've let my passport expire. Yep, I'm now one of those statistics that make Europeans cluck their tongues and feel superior to us. Really, I love travelling, but for the last couple years my wife and I have been going to Hawaii on vacation, which she enjoyed more than me. I'd love to go back to Buenos Aires, but even though everything is very cheap there, the flights are still expensive ($1000 per person).

3. I need to get my house in some sort of order. Right now, even though we moved here over a year ago, it still looks like an episode of Cops. All I need to do is get arrested shirtless on my couch and the look will be complete. My wife works 60-75 hours a week, so I really can't (and shouldn't) expect any help from her. Plus, she's half of the reason it looks like it does.

That's it. If I could just accomplish just these three things, my life would be incomparably improved. So, in other words, don't count on it.

The Brick Testament

There's always one person in the office who is about five years behind on Internet fads. You know, the one who forwards you the recipe for Neiman Marcus cookies or a link to SaveToby.com and thinks it is the first time you've ever seen it.

So at the risk of being that guy, I give you The Brick Testament. Thousands of Bible scenes (3,048 to be exact) illustrated exclusively with Legos. Now before you start making plans to buy the book for your nieces and nephews, you should be aware that the artist's interest lies almost exclusively in the most salacious and violent Bible stories, that is to say, most of the Old Testament. Murder, rape, incest, genocide, prostitution: it's all here.

My favorites (WARNING! EXPLICIT LEGO IMAGES!): Samson and the Prostitute, The Second Circumcision, and definitely the dirtiest picture you can make out of just Legos and the Bible, Onan. Wow. I really don't know whether that is safe for work or not, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Dark at 4:30 pm

There is no more depressing day than the first Monday after Daylight Savings Time ends.

It shouldn't be dark when you leave work. Isn't there some way we can adopt Daylight Savings Time permanently? Just say, from now on, 4 is 5. Or better yet, just let me out of work at 4.

I'm getting depressed working my crappy temp job from 8-5 every day. The job isn't that bad, but it's depressing to be nearing 30-years-old and only making $24,000 a year. A year ago I was making 10 grand more and having considerably more fun.

I'm not complaining, I have a house and a wife and a car, all things that at one point seemed out of reach for me, but I like to at least have the illusion that my life isn't slipping away from me. And it's hard when it's already dark before you even leave work.

God hates the Mets: Tales from Game 7

I stumbled into work this morning a half hour late, unshaven, bleary-eyed and with a voice two octaves lower than normal. I blame Carlos Beltran. Had he been able to get a base hit last night, I might have been able to stumble into work triumphantly, still waving my "Let's Go Mets" towel above my head, and having no voice left at all.

Maude and I were able to get tickets to game 7 to watch our beloved Mets take on the St. Louis Cardinals. Unfortunately, it didn't turn out quite the way we had hoped. We left for the game at 3:30 pm and didn't get home until 3:10 am, a sacrifice that would have seemed trifling had the Mets won, but turned out to be grueling in defeat.

We decided to park at the train station and take the train in to the game, having learned the hard way during the season that driving to and from Shea Stadium on game night is best left to sociopaths and masochists. In the train station parking lot, we rode on the elevator with a young couple. The man, noticing our Mets shirts, asked if we were going to the game. Then he said, "We're going to a Broadway play; want to switch tickets?"

"Hey!" his date objected. "What about me?"

Two hours and two trains later, we filed off the subway and walked towards the ballpark, as spontaneous chants of "Let's go Mets" erupted along with deep-throated growls. We neared the stadium in an electric stream of orange and blue, walking behind two red dots: man with his five-year old son, holding hands and wearing matching Pujols jerseys. I imagine that at some point in the game the kid looked up at his father and asked, "Daddy, why do all these people hate us?"

Shortly after we had taken our seats, the game began. I have never seen a more keyed-up crowd in my life. The entire first inning, not a single person sat down, and every strike pitched by Oliver Perez was greeted with a roar that sounded like a touchdown had been scored. 55,000 people screaming in unison and whipping the air with our complimentary white towels for a 1-1 pitch. It was incredible.

Our seats, of course, were not. It didn't bother us as we were just happy to be part of that crowd, but the Mets should really be ashamed to sell the seats we occupied. We were so far under the overhang that any fly ball was instantly out of view; we had to read the body language of the outfielders to tell if it was a pop-up or a homerun. To add insult to injury, there was bedraggled bunting hanging from the upper-deck that blocked our view even more. These seats only cost $20 during the season (which is fairly reasonable) but it's a bit harder to swallow when you're paying 80 bucks a pop for this at a playoff game. Hopefully, our $160 went directly into the new stadium fund to ensure only great sightlines.

As the game progressed, social barriers came down. After great defensive plays by the Mets, the crowd would yell in elation and high-five any stranger in slapping distance. It was like a Catholic mass when the priest invites you to shake the hands of people sitting around you. I didn't know any of the people in my section, but I slapped all of their hands. There is something oddly satisfying about this, especially in a city like New York.

Ultimately, though, it was not to be. The combined voice of 50,000 people cannot make a bat hit a ball. We were dejected because we had come so close. Sure, the Mets and the Cardinals were just playing for the honor of getting thumped by the Tigers in the World Series, but it would have been nice just to be invited. The entire trip home, strangers would ask if we had been at the game and commiserate with us.

Sitting on a commuter train at two in the morning is not most fun place to be when you're thinking about how you have to be at work the next morning. I was deflated. However, as we drove towards the exit of the train station parking garage, we saw the same couple from earlier in the evening. They must have been in a different car on the same train, returning from their Broadway play. I imagined that they were glad they hadn't traded tickets with us after all, but, despite it all, so was I.

There is camaraderie even in defeat.

Commuting with Krakauer

Before moving last year, I had always commuted to work via public transportation. It wasn't always fun having to check the subway seat for urine, but it did have certain advantages. Leaving the driving to someone else, I could read books. In fact, the majority of my reading time came during my morning and evening hour on the train.

Now I live in the land of cars, and I have to drive 40 minutes to get to work and sometimes as long as an hour to get home. Sitting in gridlock for an hour and a half each day can get pretty old, but it's even worse when you feel like you're just wasting the time. In the beginning, I listened to NPR obsessively, but there are only so many stories I can listen to about Hurricane Katrina, the Bush White House, and the fascinating subject of porches. I had to find a more productive use of my commute.

Finally, about a month ago, I had an epiphany: I could check out audiobooks from the library and listen to them while I drove. There are so many books that I want to read, and I know I'll never get to them all. This is the perfect way to be able to get some "reading" done while sitting behind the wheel.

Audiobooks aren't perfect. You are at the mercy of the narrator's voice, which all too often is inflected with obnoxious mannerisms or over-the-top accents. Also, it's a lot easier to follow a complex thought on the page than to listen to it read aloud. Sometimes, when someone cuts me off in traffic and I'm cursing at them through my windshield, I'll completely tune out and have to rewind the CD to get my bearings again.

Since I don't get as much out of books on tape, I keep to strictly non-fiction. I figure it's kind of like attending a lecture in college. It doesn't matter if I don't absorb every word as long as I get the gist. So far, I've already listened to three books on CD: Stephen Greenblatt's Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare, Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, and most recently, Jon Krakauer's Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith.

I had never actually sat down and read Under the Banner of Heaven, though I had skimmed through it extensively when it came out in 2003. What surprised me most while listening to the audiobook version is the change in my reaction from then to now. When it came out I was full of righteous indignation even though I hadn't been to church once in the previous five years. I didn't really believe in Mormonism, but I still wasn't certain that it wasn't true either. I had unwittingly retained a vestigial belief and with it a great deal of defensiveness.

My objections at the time were that Krakauer: (a) didn't do enough to distinguish LDS from FLDS, (b) blamed on mainstream Mormonism the actions of a few madmen, and (c) delivered a particularly low blow on Elizabeth Smart. I didn't read the book all the way through (Maude had bought a copy and read it already) because it made me so mad.

Three years on, after losing all of my belief, the book didn't upset me at all. I still think non-Mormons could be confused between the FLDS and LDS, since Krakauer shifts from talking about one to the other frequently. However, I hadn't realized at the time how many of the FLDS in question were born mainstream Mormon and only became FLDS later in life. The Lafferty brothers and Brian David Mitchell were regular Mormons who somehow morphed into violent fundamentalists; this is not something that is acknowledged in most church circles. Because they had been excommunicated by the time they committed their crimes, they are seen as completely unconnected to Mormonism. This despite the fact that these heinous acts were overtly religious in nature and specifically tied to Mormonism and polygamy.

I still think Krakauer missteps badly in his almost casual assertion that Mormonism helped victimize Elizabeth Smart by making her conditioned to accept authority. It's certainly a plausible theory, but it seems unseemly and unnecessary to me to speculate on the mental condition of a sex abuse victim. There is plenty to focus on in the perpetrator and his religious motives for the crime.

Apart from these objections, I thought it was a very compelling book that did a good job of condensing 200 years of church history and highlighting the dangerous fringes of faith. I think a lot of my earlier hostility towards the book stemmed from my assumption that Krakauer was digging through the dirty laundry to try to discredit the church and imply that all of us Mormons were dangerous fanatics. Now I can see that he is simply trying to explain how extremism (in this case Mormon Fundamentalism) can appeal to some people and cause them to justify frighteningly inhumane acts.

There were a lot of things that I simply didn't want to hear or believe about the church three years ago, so it's probably a good thing that I didn't force my way through this book back then. I had to figure these things out for myself first, before I was willing to accept the word of an outsider.

The most important thing is that I learned a lot more in the week or so it took to listen to Under the Banner of Heaven than I would have learned listening to NPR. I think I'll take my pledge drive money and donate it to the library instead. Take that, Terry Gross.

Gratitude Group

A couple of us recovery-type bloggers have a little e-mail "Gratitude Group." The incomparable annegb got it started, and it's really small and kind of erratic.

It provides such a lift to my day when I get an e-mail with the subject "gratitude." One of the things that I really like about it is how personal it is. I would like to expand it a little bit, but I don't know how we could do that without losing its intimacy.

Is this something that could work as a blog? Why or why not?

Dear DKL: I love LDSelect.org, but...

I love the LDSElect aggregator. I will probably put a link here soon, if Ned says it's OK. I love being able to customize the boxes so I see VNF in Box 1. Yay VNF! I know it's in box 4 as a default, but self-delusion is highly underrated.

I have one teensy problem though. I tried to create a login, and I never was sent a password. I tried to create the login again, and it won't let me, because it says I'm already signed up. This may be true, but a login without a password is entirely useless.

I wouldn't mind so much, because my savings are "remembered" on my main computer, but I use other computers, too. I don't want to have to recustomize them all. Plus, my shameless self-promotion (VNF in Box 1! Huzzah!) has no effect if I'm not logged in when I set it up.

So, dear D., if you would be so kind as to let me know what to do to get my password, I would be pickled tink, as Ned would say.

What Mormonism Left Me

It's tough on those of us who don't believe. I know, I know, we get to sleep in on Sundays and spend our extra 10% with abandon, but it's hard to turn your back on something that helped mold who you are.

Ambivalent is the word. I feel pulled in two directions. On the one hand, I can't imagine my life without the overpowering architecture of Mormonism looming over it. On the other, I don't like a lot of the shadows that it cast over my life.

Like a lot of Utah Mormons, my family was organized around the church almost exclusively. Almost all our friends were from the church, and almost all our free time was spent there or at other church activities. Between Scouts, Young Women, Relief Society and my parents' callings, church occupied more time than anything besides school for me or work for my parents.

When I was an adolescent, my father was called to be a mission president in a foreign country. (Incidentally, I think it's insulting the way they ignore the spouses of Mission Presidents, but that's a rant for another day.) Instantly our whole life was changed.

This came as quite a shock. First of all, we were a solidly middle class family in a middle class Utah ward and my dad was fairly young. He was nowhere near retirement age, had no assets to speak of besides our house, and was a Young Men's advisor. The highest calling he had ever held was 1st counselor in the Bishopric.

Nevertheless, my parents both quit their jobs with no prospects of getting them back and sold our house at way below market value--talk about a motivated seller. I left my school and all the friends I had accumulated since kindergarten and moved to a foreign country, where a new house, a new language, and a new life awaited me.

Needless to say, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I was exposed to so many new people and places and experiences that I never could have had back in Utah. At the same time, being a Mormon and living in a different country always made me the outsider looking in. Adolescence isn't easy for most kids, but I think Mormon adolescents experience a special kind of hell. When you're just trying to figure out what's right and wrong, it doesn't help to have the constant pressure to be perfect weighing on your every decision. I wanted to be able to have fun, and not worry about whether I was procrastinating the day of my repentance.

It was hard fitting in as the outsider, and all the Mormon pressure weighed on me a lot; consequently or unrelatedly, I went through alternating cycles of depression and elation. I would be happy (due in large part to my new, exotic locale and friends) and then, suddenly, depressed that I was so unworthy and faithless. Like manic depression, Mormonism seemed to allow me to reach greater heights (by magically transforming my life through the move) but also reach new lows by drumming into me how unworthy and faithless I was.

I remember at one point casually asking my mom what would happen if I were to die accidentally. She said they'd almost certainly be released immediately and sent home. It sounds weird, but one of the factors that argued against suicide in my adolescent brain was not screwing up this sweet gig for my parents.

I hated going to Seminary and I disliked Church, but I loved hanging out with the office missionaries. My many friendships with the Elders passing through had no religious overtones; we were just normal friends who all happened to be in a foreign country for an overtly religious reason. Again, the Church brought all these great people into my orbit, but I didn't receive anything of value to me from the religious end of the Church, just the administrative end.

During one summer break during high school, my dad wanted me to do a mini-mission for a couple weeks. I had a blast doing typical missionary things, throwing rotten fruit off balconies, almost getting killed on my bicycle, constant practical joking living with three other guys, but I didn't enjoy the religious part. I fell asleep during scripture study, after lunch, and at church. I tried hard to follow the rules, but I didn't get anything out of it. I recently came across a letter one of the sister missionaries in my zone wrote me when I left after the two weeks. It said, joking of course, that I should be ashamed because I didn't give away a single Book of Mormon and that they all knew I was an apostate. (I know, she was very prescient.)

Similarly, I loved my real mission (a few years later) for all the friends I made on it, both Elders and families we met, and for all the places I would never have been able to visit without it. On the religious end, I struggled with faith and doubt and guilt, and ultimately, I came to hate the petty bureaucracy that seemed to dominate the Mission leadership. I had "spiritual experiences," but they seemed unrelated to the heavy-handed rules and dull lessons that the Church imposed.

So I find myself most deeply shaped by experiences that are uniquely Mormon, yet I am completely without faith in the positive influence of the very institution that made them possible. Mormonism turned out great for me--it let me live several years abroad and expanded my horizons--but it also made me more miserable than I can express. That is why I am ambivalent about my Mormonism; it made me who I am today, but it also made me an outsider. I'm too deeply marked by my upbringing and life experiences to fit in with others, but I can never be part of a believing Mormon community either.

I guess that's why I can't leave it alone, because it never leaves me.

Conversion Story, Part 2, in which I Figure Things Out

Baptism became the elephant in the living room very early in the How to Be a Mormon instructional process. It wasn’t a decision I took lightly. Joining the Mormons is not like joining Toastmasters.

My now ex-husband claimed neutrality on the matter. “Do what you want. But you really ought to just do it or not. Decide.” He had a point.

I had some serious reservations. Baptism would require me to make major lifestyle changes. Beer and pot would have to go.[1] I had quit smoking just before I got pregnant with the baby mentioned in Part 1, so tobacco cigarettes were no longer a concern. However, coffee and tea were problematic. At least nobody seriously expected me to only eat a little meat during the winter.

The Joseph Smith story was not one that sat well with me. Angels and gold plates that the angel took back when the translation was done. Riiiiiiiiiiiight. How convenient!

The doctrine of baptism for the dead did not make the decision any easier. Why couldn’t I just forego baptism in this life and wait for the next one? It offered the best of both worlds: I could have eternal life later, without giving up my entrenched word of wisdom vices. The elders responded that my refusal to be baptized would inform my spirit in the post-mortal world; having refused the ordinance once, I would not be likely to accept later.

On the plus side, I liked church. I felt like I could be part of something bigger than myself. I liked the idea of making a commitment to a path that looked like a good one. Those plusses made me take the issue seriously. I didn't feel like the negatives made baptism an obvious non-starter.

By the time I brought up the subject of being baptized to the elders, I had been thinking about it for a couple of weeks, but I’d never really prayed about it. When they assured me I was ready, I decided to decide.

That night, after I went to bed, I prayed. I wasn’t really sure where to start, or what to ask, so I asked God about the issue that was MOST problematic for me - if the Book of Mormon was really a scripture like the Bible. I didn’t ask about anything else; asking that part was difficult enough. The words caught in my chest and pressed on it like a weight on the inside. It was hard to catch my breath. I choked them out anyway.

I heard a very clear “Yes.” Not audible, but the thought, fully formed, along with the very strong impression that baptism was the right thing to do. The weight lifted. I could breathe again. I felt relieved.

The elders came back a couple of days later. I asked them when we could schedule my baptism. They practically jumped out of their chairs to pull out their planners. We set the baptism for after the next missionary zone conference, in less than ten days, so Jake could be there to confirm me.

[1] Well, beer at least. There was that whole “useful herbs” part of the Word of Wisdom that might act as an escape clause for giving up pot.

Part 3: Nobody mentioned that I needed to bring a towel...

Conversion Story, Part 1, In which I meet some cute boys

According to missionary lore, circa 1985, you have to knock on a thousand doors to find one person who will join the church. I was one in a thousand. Elders Jacobson and Munsee, unbidden, unannounced, with no member missionaries to pave the way, knocked on the door.

Elder Jacobson was tall, handsome, and blond. Elder Munsee was taller, handsomer, and dark.

"We're from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we'd like to share a message with you."

It was late June, hotter than hell, and I was severely pregnant. I really wasn’t in the mood for visitors, even cute ones. I was uncomfortable, swollen, and didn't have air conditioning. I told them to come back next week, after I'd had the baby.

They came back the next week. The scheduled c-section had been cancelled in favor of a trial labor, so I still had not had the baby and still did not want to talk to them. I recommended mid- to late-August.

In mid-August, they came back. I have since learned that if you tell the missionaries to come back later, they always will. I showed them the baby. They admired the baby and my (now ex-) husband’s record collection. They asked if I had a Bible. I pulled it out and blew off the dust. The blond one coughed lightly, then read aloud the two sticks thing in Ezekial. He told me they had a great message about the purpose of life and asked if they could come back when my (now ex-) husband was around to teach us. They really were cute boys. Also, my six year-old daughter had expressed interest in attending a church. I said yes.

My (now ex-) husband was not interested in taking the discussions, but had no objections to me doing so. The elders and I had a lot of fun visits and some interesting conversations. I enjoyed learning about the church. I liked reading the highlighted/Cliff’s Notes edition of the Book of Mormon. I went to church a couple of times. I attended a convert baptism. Jake gave me a tape of a re-enactment of a talk by J. Golden Kimball. The Relief Society President was stunned when I told her so.

Sometime in September, Jake left, and was replaced by Elder Fox. He was also very cute.

Early in the teaching process, I had made comment about “no way I’m paying 10% of my income to a church.” Jake and Munsee coincidentally stopped teaching real discussions after #4, “The Law of Chastity.” When Fox came on board, he assessed the situation and pressed forward with Discusion #5 – “The Law of Tithing.” There were only six discussions, so we wrapped up pretty soon after Fox’s arrival.

I went to General Conference on TV on a Saturday. I had a nice conversation after the session I attended with my junior high school algebra teacher. The elders were impressed that I knew him. Seems he was in the stake presidency.

Within a few days I asked how I would know when I was ready to be baptized. The guys said, “You’re ready.”

I replied, “I dunno. I'll have to think about it. I’ll let you know.”

Coming in Part 2: Figuring it out.

Does Anybody Out there have a JOB?

Sometimes I think Ned and I are the only Mormon people who blog who also go to work for other people for money doing something other than lawyering or teaching.

I've always worked. I get up when I'd rather sleep and then commute (or not) to the office. I clock in and put on my headset to start the day. I write reports and SQL stored procedures and install software for customers over the internet and solve the tough technical problems that other people can't and occasionally, if I'm not going to be on the phone, listen to Live365. I need to get in my 40 hours a week, and I'm not allowed to work overtime, and I always have too much work to do and then, when I'm done, I clock out and start a different kind of work.

In my free time, I try to do some writing and I play stupid computer games to relax.

Do all the Mormon blogging university professors already have tenure? Have all the blogging Mormon lawyers already made partner? How do you invest any time in your own spiritual growth when there's no time to even BREATHE? Is the reason nobody writes about work/life balance because nobody is actually working?

I HATE NED.... Lamont

I don't usually post about politics, because I have political views that are shared with precisely one other person in the world. But this post isn't about politics, it's about HATE.

I hate Ned Lamont. And not just for ruining the name Ned for an entire generation (or at least a news cycle). I hate Ned Lamont because he's a beady-eyed, trust-fund-baby, Joe-smearing, Senate seat-buying, know-nothing selectman. Seriously people, he's a selectman. That means he'll go from considering whether to grant TGI Friday's a liquor license to solving our nation's most pressing problems. God forbid he ends up on a Senate intelligence committee. We might as well appoint the City Manager as head of the CIA.

I feel I can say these things about Ned because I am a Connecticut resident, and I've put up with his beady stare for lo these many months. At first it was amusing, as the gist of his campaign ads was that Joe Lieberman personally helped George Bush drown people in New Orleans. In all seriousness, his ads opened with images of people on the roofs of their flooded Louisiana homes, and then segued somehow into "Joe Lieberman won't stand up to George Bush."

It was funny for a while, but there was no response from our man Joe. I dislike probably 90% of United States senators, but I like a few: McCain when he's not crazy, liberal Republicans, conservative Democrats. I like Joe. But he didn't respond to the negative advertising. Then Lamont started up the radio ads. The Lite FM station that my racist cubicle-mate listens to featured Ned Lamont's voice more than the actual DJ.

Joe started falling in the polls. People said it was because of anger about Iraq, or the infamous State of the Union makeout session, but from my perspective as a potential Connecticut voter, it was clear that it was because Joe had ceded TV and radio to his opponent. Every day was a relentless "Joe won't stand up to George Bush" mantra repeated in as many media as possible. There was no Lieberman response.

The week before the election, polls showed Lamont up 13 points on Joe. Finally, with just days to go before election day, I heard the first pro-Lieberman radio ad on Lite FM. Bill Clinton came to campaign for Joe. There might have even been an ad during the local news. It was too little, too late. Even so, Joe closed a large gap in just a week.

In the ten days leading up to the primary, Maude, a registered Democrat, received a different piece of direct mail from Lamont EVERY DAY. One featured Lieberman's scowling face and another showed flood victims in New Orleans (a favorite Lamont motif, it seems). Total direct mail received from Lieberman? Zero.

I have no idea why Joe ran such an anemic primary campaign. According to news reports, he still had 2 million dollars in the bank afterward, which is crazy. Had he defeated Lamont in the primary, he could have campaigned in drag and still defeated the Republican challenger in November. Why save your money for an expensive independent run without any party support, when you could crush your only serious competition in August? I think Lieberman was one serious campaign ad away from a primary victory, and he blew it.

So as for my despised doppel-namer Lamont, he is still trailing an independent Lieberman in the polls, 41% to 46% (with Republican Alan "I Do Not Have a Gambling Problem" Schlesinger at just 6%), but I am not optimistic about much more Joe-mentum picking up. Lamont now has the support of the entire Democratic party and can always dip into his large personal wealth to help close the deal.

But don't worry, if any zoning disputes come up in the Senate, Ned has the necessary experience to handle it.

Googled!

Thanks to the sharp eye of Jeff Milner over at Our Thoughts, I found out that VivaNedFlanders was mentioned, inexplicably, in this Google Current clip. For those of you who don't want to watch all three minutes of the video, they basically talk about various things that are popular searches on Google, like Simpsons references. Then they highlight a site where you can shoot Ned Flanders and his family. From that, they segue to:

But Flanders gets his share of love too, especially from Christians. For instance, VivaNedFlanders is the name of a Mormon blog with some very un-Ned-like postings.

I think the orthodox Bloggernacle, at least, will be relieved to find out the Google considers Mormons to be Christian. Onward Nedward Soldiers!

Hit by an Unlicensed Driver: Advice Needed

About an hour ago on my way home from work, I was rear-ended on the freeway. Earlier, I had noticed the car in back of me weaving aggressively, and I made a mental note to be careful. Unfortunately, there was a slow-down on a curve and BOOM, I got hit in the rear bumper.

After we pulled off the freeway, the driver came up and asked if I was all right. She was very agitated, and kept looking at the damage on her car. Fortunately, there wasn't a lot of damage to my car, but the back bumper piece had a huge dent in it and was hanging off the car.

"I don't have a license," she told me. She told me that she had to go before the police came. She said that it wasn't her car, and gave me the name and phone number of the owner. "Call him right now," she said. Then she got in her car and peeled out of there like a bat out of hell.

I've never been in an accident before, so I called my insurance company to make sure I didn't have to call the police to come to the scene. They said I didn't, and I started to file a report. I wanted to get off the side of the freeway, so I told the insurance company I'd finish the report later, but I haven't told them the name of the owner or license plate number of the car yet.

My question is what should I do when I call the owner? I don't know if he even has insurance, and I imagine he'll want to take care of it off the books (assuming he actually exists). Judging from the appearance of the woman who hit me, they might not even have enough money to pay for the repairs.

Should I just go through my insurance company? I can't imagine that she could get in trouble for driving without a license from just my report. Should I decline any offers by him to take care of it himself, since he probably doesn't have the resources or the intention to pay me?

Why oh why couldn't I have been hit by a Lexus?

A Persistent Idea

I had a persistent idea the other evening, and I couldn't make it go away.

Over on my other blog, I mentioned that my husband and I had exchanged memorized religious texts. I recited the Nicene creed, from my long ago time as a Catholic. He recited the first concept of the first missionary discussion, from his long ago time as an LDS missionary.

It was an interesting experience, listening to him talk to "Mr. Brown." He ripped through it pretty quickly, as if he was reading "The Cat in the Hat" for the 8,000th time. He didn't seem to stumble or hesitate anywhere. We exchanged pleasantries during the process a time or two, then he picked up right where he left off. Sort of like how Joseph was said to have translated the Book of Mormon.

The experience brought an idea to mind. It was a weird idea, and I had very mixed feelings about it. I tried to ignore it. But it wouldn't go away. All the next day, while I was working, it kept popping up. I decided to just go with it. Worst case scenario, I spend a couple of hours with my family doing something I wouldn't ordinarily do.

My husband is going to teach me the missionary discussions.

Washing Machine Blues

Frankly, there are only two good things about owning a house. The first is that you don't have to share any walls with noisy neighbors. I didn't really appreciate this aspect until a few years ago when an extremely amorous couple moved in to the apartment next door and installed a home theater with a sub-woofer that shook the entire building.

The other good thing is finally having a place for your own washer and dryer. No more trips to the laundromat, washing your pillowcases and sheets in the machine right after the family with the potty-training problems.

These two advantages may not sound like much, but they almost make up for a lifetime of grass mowing, wall painting, and snow shoveling. Almost.

Maude and I were fortunate enough to be able to buy a new washer and dryer when we moved into our new house last summer. The Monkish side of my personality was thrilled: I could drool on my pillowcase without reservation now. Only Ned and Maude germs would be present.

Our Kenmore washer and dryer have worked great for the past 11 months. On Sunday, after several days of procrastinating the day of my laundry, I finally decided to do a couple loads so I would have something clean to wear to work on Monday.

Thunk! That's the sound the dial makes when you pull it out and nothing happens. The hot water is flowing fine, but there is no cold water. Though I am not very mechanically inclined, I was able to disconnect the cold water hose from the washer and test the valve. The cold water shoots out of the hose without any problem once you've disconnected it from the washing machine. I even cleaned out the filter that's inside the washer next to the hose. Thunk!

I was out of ideas, so I scheduled an appointment for Sears to come look at it. I did it on their website on Monday night. I was disappointed that they didn't have any openings for Tuesday, but I scheduled a repairman to visit on Wednesday between 8 am and 12 pm. I took this morning off work and proceeded to wait. At about 10:10 am, I was getting restless, so I double-checked the email I had received from Sears. Sure enough, it said: "Your appointment is on Wednesday, August 2nd." Thunk!

Several swear words later, I called up Sears and confirmed that a week from today is the soonest they can get out here. It's rough; I had to wear a long-sleeved shirt to work today. I'm wearing clothes that I had put away for the winter, and now I find out that I have to wait another week?

I guess it's back to the laundromat for Maude and me. As for Sears, makers of the 11-month wonder machine, I think the least you can do is give me an Extreme Home Makeover. Just make sure you put in a Whirlpool. Thanks.