Organization

Today we worked on organizing the office, which is always a daunting task. There were random bins and boxes of important papers mixed with cords, tools, nuts and bolts, and just about anything you can imagine. You never know what you are going to find in the office. It has gotten a lot better from when I was little and the office consisted of piles of things with a trail to walk through. It also had a primitive electrical heater from the seventies. Now we have indoor heat. Whoo-hoo.

Student Ward

I just went to a ward activity for a student ward that isn't my ward. My parents have both gotten called to be in a BYU-I student ward. My dad is the ward clerk, and my mom is the Relief Society specialist, so she helps the RS presidency in the ward.

The ward seemed okay, but it was weird to randomly go to an opening social when I was not even going to be in the ward. The home evening group I "joined" had two girls checking out the same guy. One said, "I'm gonna totally go after him this semester." The one next to her said, "Not if I get to him first." Another girl jokingly made it a race. The first girl to run up and touch him would win. Both girls frantically scrambled toward the unsespecting victim and one of them triumphantly slapped him on the back. He turned around, startled, and quite a few of us were laughing at the whole situation. Who knows, maybe I'll join the race.

Hannah Montana

I was just distracted from my other post at the sound of "Hannah Montana" in the other room. And, no, my nieces aren't over. That's my dad mindlessly turning on the TV to whatever was on, and dazedly watching, not knowing what it is. I need to get him some dinner before he fries his brain too much. He only watched "Hannah Montana" for about ten minutes, but you never know the effects on the adult brain. . .

The Job Search

Right now I'm looking for anything anywhere that has to do with editing. Of course, if anyone looks at this blog right now they will find many errors and probably not hire me. (I write many of these posts without proofreading what I have just written.) With the economy the way that it is, I'll probably spend the first few months out of college asking people, "Do you want fries with that?" I won't even need to buy any clothes because all I will be wearing is a work uniform.

My dad made an interesting observation: "If your name is on the door of the company, you are upper class. If your name is on your desk, you are middle class. If your name is on your shirt, you are lower class." Right now my name is on my shirt. I live at home out of the complete generosity of my parents, and I am anxiously awaiting my first paycheck so I can start to pay off my debt and possibly get a down payment for a lovely little lower-class-style apartment or homeless shelter.

I am aiming at one day owning a piece of crap that I don't have to pay rent on, but that's like a seven-year goal right now. My intermediate goal is to find a place that has minimal cockroaches and a sane roommate, along with a job where I get a shiny name badge. I'll be living the good life.

My secret fear is renting one of those places that gets foreclosed because my landlord doesn't make his or her payments. While the person who buys the foreclosed property will probably still want me paying rent, there is the slight possibility that I could get kicked out, and that scares me. Also, the lack of jobs right now is pretty frightening. Hence the coin machine adventures I get to have every day. Gotta love 'em.

Armed with a pen and some classified ads, I made the rounds on the Sunday paper. I found a few job possibilities and a few apartment possibilities. . .

Art Festival

I went to the art festival in Swan Valley, and there was a lot of great art. The vendors there were all local artists, and I especially enjoyed the oil paintings and watercolors of the Tetons and other landmarks in the area that I could recognize, like the Snake River. It was fun to visit with the quirky artists about their work and find out how they got started. One lady started when her neighbor got a divorce. His wife left behind a kiln that sat in his garage for a while. The lady I met bought the kiln from him for a few hundred dollars, and they are worth a few thousand. She then started melting glass together and experimenting with it. She now does quite well selling glass pendants as jewlery.

It was nice to have a Saturday off to just enjoy the art festival and unpack my things. I had packed in such a hurry that I didn't discover that I had thrown in my container of flour with all of my dishes. As I opened the box to unpack, a white cloud billowed from the top, revealing the spilled flour. I had to rewash all of my dishes, and in the process discovered that my mom had packed appliances I didn't even know I had or that were even in the apartment. Apparently, the people who lived there before me left some stuff in the dark corners of the cabinets were I didn't ever look. These items included a broken electric can-opener that was covered with food and what-not, and a pan with the teflon scraped off of it. I threw these items away.

Pennies

Today was entirely devoted to pennies. It's amazing what you can learn about people from the money that they leave behind:

Favorite gum to stick on the back of pennies: spearmint. We have dental tools in the coin room that we have adapted to clean the gunk off of coins and also for picking out coins that got stuck in the machine. I spent a good amount of time scraping blackened globs off of the backs of pennies, and as I scrape, a fresh, minty smell fills the air, reminding me that my job isn't so bad, after all.

Favorite glue to stick pennies together with: super glue. Yes, there are ways to pry coins apart, but as a good chef does not reveal his secret recipe, I will not reveal my secret. It's all I have.

Favorite drink of the bank tellers: Pepsi. I discovered this because I found a bag of pennies that had a sticky, dried substance on the bag's surface. I dumped in the pennies, and at the end of the order, I could hear coins rolling around that would not go through the machine. I leaned over and could smell the distinct smell of Pepsi. The coins were all stuck together by a gooey layer of completely dried-on Pepsi. I could have taken these coins and stuck them in a glass of water. The Pepsi would have replenished its moisture, and I could have had a nice little drink. I didn't do this for sanitary reasons, but it gave me a great idea to market to Pepsi: dehydrated Pepsi-to-go tablets. They could be an evervescent tablet, just like Alka Seltzer, and they would still have all the fizz of real Pepsi. Pepsi-lovers could take these on road trips, camping trips, and they could even put them in 72-hour kits.

The Coin-rolling Machine: Life After College

By the grace of my parents, I have been living with them and working for the company that they own. A couple of years ago my dad bought a coin-rolling machine, an industrial-sized apparatus that works something like this: I put a large bag of quarters, dimes, nickels, or pennies in the top part, called the hopper. After a shudder and a squeal, the machine produces a roll of quarters, dimes, nickels, or pennies. The machine produces a roll about every second or faster. Then I box up the money, tape it up, and eventually it goes into a safe. We then sell the money back to the bank for $5.25 a box, including delivery. The bank gives us loose coin, we roll it and box it up, and we sell it back to them for a generous profit. It's quite a lovely job.

So this is what I did this week:

Wednesday: Quarters. That's all I did. My family went on vacation in Island Park, and I had a lovely surprise for me when I returned--a room full of coin. The entire floor was covered with bags of every kind of coin. The only problem was that the exit chute did not open wide enough to let the rolls of quarters through, so every other roll of quarters, I had to bend down, fish out the offending roll, and clear the machine, hearing the coins clink in the rejection bin and knowing that I would have to dig them out of there, too. That day, I learned that each roll of quarters is a gift from God. I also developed a deep loathing for Canadian currency. Not Canadians, mind you, just their quarters. They are slightly thinner than our quarters, and they clog the coin machine.

Thursday (today): I turned on the coin machine, and it greeted me the same way it greets me every morning--with the initials P.O.S. At least it doesn't lie about what it is. Today was entirely devoted to dimes. While they are small enough to get through the exit chute, they are also small enough to tumble through every other part of the machine and clog it up. They are also, in my opinion, the second-dirtiest coin, the first being the penny. In the dimes, I found what I usually find in filthy money: bobby pins, nails, fingernails and toenails, and the occaisional stray pubic hair, of which I have no idea how it got mixed in with peoples' money, and if you have any idea, don't tell me, because I don't want to know.

Tomorrow: I have nickels and pennies to look forward to.

Stories from President Thomas S. Monson

For a class project, I gathered stories told by President Thomas S. Monson of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I have posted them on my blog:

Youth Gets Life
Communication

YOUTH GETS LIFE Las Vegas (AP)
A sixteen-year-old youth was sentenced to three consecutive life sentences Monday after he pleaded guilty to murder charges in the deaths of three bank employees.

The youth was charged in the shooting deaths of the bank manager and two bank tellers. The three were slain during a $35,000 robbery at a bank in Las Vegas.

The youth who was charged was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church when eight years of age. He attended Sunday School and Primary and held the Aaronic Priesthood. Upon reading of the murders, his bishop declared sadly, “Where did we fail to communicate with him?”
Improvement Era, Feb 1969, 4

Will Arthur Live Again?
Death

The flight from Brisbane, Australia, to San Francisco is a long one. There is time to read, time to sleep, and time to ponder and think. As a passenger on this flight, I was awakened by the calm, resonant sound of the pilot’s voice as he announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now passing over the Coral Sea, scene of the great sea battle of World War II.”

Through the cabin window I could see billowy, white clouds and far below the azure blue of the vast Pacific. My thoughts turned to the events of that fateful eighth day of May in 1942 when the mammoth aircraft carrier Lexington slipped to its final resting place on the ocean floor. Twenty-seven hundred thirty-five sailors scrambled to safety. Others were not so fortunate. One who went down with his ship was my boyhood friend Arthur Patton.

May I tell you about Arthur? He had blond, curly hair and a smile as big as all outdoors. Arthur stood taller than any boy in the class. I suppose this is how he was able to fool the recruiting officers and enlist in the navy at the tender age of 15. To Arthur and most of the boys, the war was a great adventure. I remember how striking he appeared in his navy uniform. How we wished we were older, or at least taller, so we too could enlist.

Arthur’s mother was so proud of the blue star which graced her living room window. It represented to every passerby that her son wore the uniform of his country. When I would pass the house she often opened the door and invited me in to read the latest letter from Arthur. Her eyes would fill with tears, and I would then be asked to read aloud. Arthur meant everything to his widowed mother. I can still picture Mrs. Patton’s coarse hands as she would carefully replace the letter in its envelope. These were honest hands which bore the worker’s seal. Mrs. Patton was a cleaning woman—a janitress for a downtown office building. Each day of her life except Sundays, she could be seen walking up the sidewalk, pail and brush in hand, her gray hair combed in a tight bob, her shoulders weary from work and stooped with age.

Then came the Battle of the Coral Sea, the sinking of the Lexington, and the death of Arthur Patton. The blue star was taken from its hallowed spot in the front window. It was replaced by one of gold. A light went out in the life of Mrs. Patton. She groped in utter darkness and deep despair.

With a prayer in my heart, I approached the familiar walkway to the Patton home, wondering what words of comfort could come from the lips of a mere boy. The door opened and Mrs. Patton embraced me as she would her own son. Home became a chapel as a grief-stricken mother and a less-than-adequate boy knelt in prayer.

Arising from our knees, Mrs. Patton gazed into my eyes and spoke: “Tom, I belong to no church, but you do. Tell me, will Arthur live again?” Time dims the memory of that conversation. The present whereabouts of Mrs. Patton is not known to me; but, Mrs. Patton, wherever you are, from the backdrop of my personal experience, I should like to once more answer your question, “Will Arthur live again?”

I suppose we could say that this is a universal question, for who has not at a time of bereavement pondered the same thought?

Death leaves in its cruel wake shattered dreams, unfulfilled ambitions, crushed hopes. In our helplessness, we turn to others for assurance. Men of letters and leaders of renown can express their beliefs, but they cannot provide definitive answers.

The dim light of belief must yield to the noonday sun of revelation. We turn backward in time, that we might go forward with hope. Back to Him who walked the dusty paths of villages we now reverently call the Holy Land, to Him who caused the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to walk and the dead to live. To Him who tenderly and lovingly assured us, “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6).
Improvement Era, Jun 1969, 102

Peace
Death

Arthur Patton died quickly. Others linger. Not long ago I held the thin hand of a youth as he approached the brink of eternity. “I know I am dying,” he said touchingly. “What follows death?” I turned to the scriptures and read to him: “Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it” (Eccl. 12:7). “There is a time appointed unto men that they shall rise from the dead; and there is a space between the time of death and the resurrection. … Now, concerning the state of the soul between death and the resurrection—Behold … the spirits of all men, as soon as they are departed from this mortal body, … are taken home to that God who gave them life” (Alma 40:9, 11).

To me, the lad said, “Thank you.” To my Heavenly Father I said silently, “Thank thee, O God, for truth.”
Improvement Era, Jun 1969, 102

Toronto Missionary
Missionary Work

I reflect upon several of the young and inexperienced missionaries who came to the mission where I had the privilege to preside. I shall ever remember the bewilderment of one boy from down on the farm when he first gazed at the skyscrapers of Toronto. He inquired of me: “President, how many people in this here town?” I answered: “Oh, about a million and a half.” To which he responded, “Goll-ee! There are only eighty in my home town.”

That evening in our traditional get-acquainted testimony meeting, some of the veteran missionaries expressed themselves regarding the difficulty of the work. “Doors will slam in your face, abusive language will be hurled toward you, you’ll get discouraged and downhearted; but when it’s all over, you will say, “These have been the happiest two years of my life.’”
My missionary from the small town was more hesitant than ever as he spoke falteringly; “I’ll be glad when the happiest two years of my life are over.”

At best, missionary work necessitates drastic adjustment to one’s pattern of living. No other labor requires longer hours or greater devotion, nor such sacrifice and fervent prayer. As a result, dedicated missionary service returns a dividend of eternal joy that extends throughout life and into eternity.
Improvement Era, Dec 1969, 90

Dear Dad
Fatherhood

A mission is a family affair. Though the expanse of oceans may separate, hearts are as one, as evidenced by this letter from a missionary son to his father:

Dear Dad:
This is my first Christmas away from my home and family. I wish that I could be home to share the joy, good cheer, and the love that come with this season; but I am grateful to be here in Sweden as a missionary.

I’m grateful for my father; I do so love, admire, and respect him. His life had always been a wonderful example to me and has helped countless times to make the right decisions.
I’m grateful for his wisdom, which has counseled me; his love, which has disciplined me; and his testimony, which has inspired me.

How can a son show his love for his father? How can he fully express what he feels? How can he demonstrate his gratitude? I wish I could answer these questions. There is, however, one way that I know I can show my gratitude, and that is by patterning my life after that of my father.
This, then, is my task—to live a live equal to that of my father’s, That I may spend eternity together with him.

Merry Christmas and God bless you,
Paul
Improvement Era, Dec 1969, 90

I Know It
Testimony

Remember our boy from the rural community who marveled at the size of Toronto? He was short in stature, but tall in testimony. Together with his companion, he called at the home of Elmer Pollard in Oshawa, [Ontario,] Canada. Felling sorry for the young men who, during a blinding blizzard, were going from house to house, Mr. Pollard invited the missionaries into his home. They presented to him their message. He did not catch the spirit. In due time he asked that they leave and not return. His last words to the elders as they departed his front porch were spoken in derision: “You can’t tell me you actually believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God!”

The door was shut. The elders walked down the path. Our country boy spoke to his companion: “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard’s question. He said we didn’t believe Joseph Smith was a true prophet. Let’s return and bear our testimonies to him.” At first the more experienced missionary hesitated, but finally he agreed to accompany his companion. Fear struck their hearts as they approached the door from which they had been turned away. A knock, the confrontation with Mr. Pollard, an agonizing moment, then with power, a testimony borne by the Spirit: “Mr. Pollard, you said we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Mr. Pollard, I testify that Joseph was a prophet. He did translate the Book of Mormon. He saw God the Father and Jesus the Son. I know it.”

Mr. Pollard, now Brother Pollard, stood in a priesthood meeting some time later and declared: “That night I could not sleep. Resounding in my ears I heard the words: ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. I know it. I know it’ The next day I telephoned the missionaries. Their message coupled with their testimonies, changed my life and the lives of my family.”
Improvement Era, Dec 1969, 92

Mrs. E.R.M. (quoted from an Ann Landers column)
Sanctity of Motherhood

The weakness of our will and the confusion of our choices are illustrated in a letter that was written by a mother to the popular columnist and human relations adviser Ann Landers:
“Dear Ann Landers: A year ago our two-year-old son, Earl, had difficulty breathing, so we took him to a doctor. We learned that Earl is allergic to cigarette smoke. My husband said we both had to quit smoking right then and there. He hasn’t touched a cigarette since. I went back to smoking that same night.
“My husband doesn’t know I smoke. I have to sneak around and smoke in the basement. And it is making a nervous wreck of me.
“Do you think it would be wrong if we let a nice couple adopt little Earl—a nice couple who don’t smoke? The only problem is that my husband is crazy about the boy. I love him, too, but I am more the practical type.
“What do you think, Ann? Mrs. E. R. M.”
“Dear Mrs. I think a lot of people who read this letter are going to say I made it up. It’s utterly fantastic that a mother would put cigarettes ahead of her own child. Don’t present your wild idea to your husband. I wouldn’t blame him if he decided to keep little Earl and unload YOU.”
Ensign, Jan 1971, 17

Junior High Question
Sanctity of Motherhood

I recognize that there are times when mother’s nerves are frayed, her patience exhausted, and her energies consumed; when she says, “My children don’t appreciate a single thing I do.” I think they do appreciate you. One of the questions after a study of magnets at one junior high school was: “What begins with ‘M’ and picks things up?” The obvious answer was “magnet.” However, more than a third of the students answered “mother.”
Ensign, Jan 1971, 17

Lost Batallions
Charity

This past November I stood on a very old bridge which spans the River Somme as it makes its steady but unhurried way through the heartland of France. Suddenly I realized that fifty-two years had come—then gone—since the signing of the Armistice of 1918 and the termination of the Great War. I tried to imagine what the River Somme looked like fifty-two years before. How many thousands of soldiers had crossed this same bridge? Some came back. For others, the Somme was truly a river of no return. For the battlefields of Vimy Ridge, Armentieres, and Nueve Chappelle took a hideous toll of human life. Acres of neat, white crosses serve as an unforgettable reminder.

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
“We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.” —John McCrae

I found myself saying softly, “How strange that war brings forth the savagery of conflict, yet inspires brave deeds of courage—some prompted by love.”

As a boy, I enjoyed reading the account of the “lost battalion.” The “lost battalion” was a unit of the 77th Infantry Division in World War I. During the Meuse-Argonne offensive, a major led this battalion through a gap in the enemy lines, but the troops on the flanks were unable to advance. An entire battalion was surrounded. Food and water were short; casualties could not be evacuated. Hurled back were repeated attacks. Ignored were notes from the enemy requesting the battalion to surrender. Newspapers heralded the battalion’s tenacity. Men of vision pondered its fate. After a brief but desperate period of total isolation, other units of the 77th Division advanced and relieved the “lost battalion.” Correspondents noted in their dispatches that the relieving forces seemed bent on a crusade of love to rescue their comrades in arms. Men volunteered more readily, fought more gallantly, and died more bravely. A fitting tribute echoed from that ageless sermon preached on the Mount of Olives: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13.)

Forgotten is the plight of the “lost battalion.” Unremembered is the terrible price paid for its rescue. But let us turn from the past and survey the present. Are there “lost battalions” even today? If so, what is our responsibility to rescue them? Their members may not wear clothes of khaki brown nor march to the sound of drums. But they share the same doubt, feel the same despair, and know the same disillusionment that isolation brings.

There are the “lost battalions” of the handicapped, even the lame, the speechless, and the sightless. Have you experienced the frustration of wanting but not knowing how to help the individual who walks stiffly behind his Seeing Eye canine companion, or moves with measured step to the tap, tap, tap of a white cane? There are many who are lost in this trackless desert of darkness.

If you desire to see a rescue operation of a “lost battalion,” visit your city’s center for the blind and witness the selfless service of those who read to those who can’t. Observe the skills that are taught the handicapped. Be inspired by the efforts put forth in their behalf to enable them to secure meaningful employment.

Those who labor so willingly and give so generously to those who have lost so tragically find ample reward in the light that they bring into the lives of the sightless.

Do we appreciate the joy of a blind person as his nimble fingers pass quickly over the pages of the Braille edition of the New Testament? He pauses at the twelfth chapter of John and contemplates the depth of meaning in the promise of the Prince of Peace: “I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness.” (John 12:46.)
Consider the “lost battalions” of the aged, the widowed, the sick. All too often they are found in the parched and desolate wilderness of isolation called loneliness. When youth departs, when health declines, when vigor wanes, when the light of hope flickers ever so dimly, the members of these vast “lost battalions” can be succored and sustained by the hand that helps and the heart that knows compassion.

While the rivers of France witnessed the advance of those who rescued the “lost battalion” in World War I, so did yet another river witness the commencement of the formal ministry of a universal rescuer, even a divine redeemer. The scripture records, “And there came a voice from heaven, saying, Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” (Mark 1:11.)
Ensign, Jun 1975,95

Christmas Feast
Charity

In Brooklyn, New York, there presides today in a branch of the Church a young man who, as a boy of thirteen, led a successful rescue of such persons in Salt Lake City. He and his companions lived in a neighborhood in which resided many elderly widows of limited means. All the year long, the boys had saved and planned for a glorious Christmas party. They were thinking of themselves, until the Christmas spirit prompted them to think of others. Frank, as their leader, suggested to his companions that the funds they had accumulated so carefully be used not for the planned party, but rather for the benefit of three elderly widows who resided together. The boys made their plans. As their bishop, I needed but to follow.

With the enthusiasm of a new adventure, the boys purchased a giant roasting chicken, the potatoes, the vegetables, the cranberries, and all that comprises the traditional Christmas feast. To the widows’ home they went carrying their gifts of treasure. Through the snow and up the path to the tumbledown porch they came. A knock at the door, the sound of slow footsteps, and then they met.

In the unmelodic voices characteristic of thirteen-year-olds, the boys sang “Silent night, holy night; all is calm, all is bright.” They then presented their gifts. Angels on that glorious night of long ago sang no more beautifully, nor did wise men present gifts of greater meaning.
I gazed at the faces of those wonderful women and thought to myself: “Somebody’s mother.” I then looked on the countenances of those noble boys and reflected: “Somebody’s son.” There then passed through my mind the words of the immortal poem by Mary Dow Brine:

“The woman was old and ragged and gray And bent with the chill of the Winter’s day. The street was wet with a recent snow, And the woman’s feet were aged and slow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng Of human beings who passed her by Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

“Down the street, with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of ‘school let out,’ Came the boys like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep. … [One] paused beside her and whispered low, ‘I’ll help you cross, if you wish to go? … ‘She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know, For all she’s aged and poor and slow.

“ ‘And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand, If ever she’s poor and old and gray, When her own dear boy is far away.’ And ‘somebody’s mother’ bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said Was, ‘God be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody’s son, and pride and joy.’ ”

What was the message of the Master? “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)
Ensign, Jun 1971, 95

Jack
Forgiveness

There are other “lost battalions” comprised of mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, who have, through thoughtless comment, isolated themselves from one another. An account of how such a tragedy was narrowly averted is this occurrence in the life of a lad we shall call Jack.
Throughout Jack’s life, he and his father had many serious arguments. One day, when Jack was seventeen, they had a particularly violent one. Jack said to his father: “This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m leaving home, and I shall never return.” So saying, he went to the house and packed a bag. His mother begged him to stay, but he was too angry to listen. He left her crying at the doorway.

Leaving the yard, he was about to pass through the gate when he heard his father call to him: “Jack, I know that a large share of the blame for your leaving rests with me. For this I am truly sorry. I want you to know that if you should ever wish to return home, you’ll always be welcome. And I’ll try to be a better father to you. I want you to know that I’ll always love you.”
Jack said nothing but went to the bus station and bought a ticket to a distant point. As he sat in the bus watching the miles go by, he commenced to think about the words of his father. He began to realize how much love it had required for him to do what he had done. Dad had apologized. He had invited him back and had left the words ringing in the summer air, “I love you.”

It was then that Jack realized that the next move was up to him. He knew that the only way he could ever find peace with himself was to demonstrate to his father the same kind of maturity, goodness, and love that dad had shown toward him. Jack got off the bus. He bought a return ticket to home and went back.

He arrived shortly after midnight, entered the house, and turned on the light. There in the rocking chair sat his father, his head in his hands. As he looked up and saw Jack, he rose from the chair and they rushed into each other’s arms. Jack often said, “Those last years that I was home were among the happiest of my life.”

We could say here was a boy who overnight became a man. Here was a father who, suppressing passion and bridling pride, rescued his son before he became one of that vast “lost battalion” resulting from fractured families and shattered homes. Love was the binding band, the healing balm. Love—so often felt; so seldom expressed.

From Mt. Sinai there thunders in our ears, “Honour thy father and thy mother.” (Ex. 20:12.) And later, from that same God, the injunction, “… live together in love.” (D&C 42: 45.)
Ensign, Jun 1971, 95

Scrooge
Charity

One who lived much of his life ignoring his fellowmen and living for self alone was Dickens’ immortal character, Ebenezer Scrooge. But there came that wintry night when the ghost of Jacob Marley appeared to Scrooge and lamented:

“Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life’s opportunities misused! Yet such was I! Oh! Such was I!
“Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to which its light would conduct me!”

In an effort to comfort Marley, Scrooge proffered, “But you were always a good man of business, Jacob.”

Lamented Marley, “Business! … Mankind was my business!” (A Christmas Carol.)
The change that then occurred in the life of Scrooge was miraculous indeed. He became overnight the most generous, the most lovable, the most kindhearted Christian soul. In his own words he described his condition: “I am not the man I was.” So it ever is when one inclines his heart to the example of the Christ.

“… he that loveth not his brother abideth in death,” wrote the apostle John 1900 years ago. (1 Jn. 3:14.)

Some point the accusing finger at the sinner or the unfortunate and in derision say, “He has brought his condition upon himself.” Others exclaim, “Oh, he will never change. He has always been a bad one.” A few see beyond the outward appearance and recognize the true worth of a human soul. When they do, miracles occur. The downtrodden, the discouraged, the helpless become “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.” (Eph. 2:19.) True love can alter human lives and change human nature.
Ensign, Dec 1971, 131

My Fair Lady
Kindness

This truth was stated so beautifully on the stage in My Fair Lady. Eliza Doolittle, the flower girl, spoke to one for whom she cared and who later was to lift her from such mediocre status: “You see, really and truly, apart from the things anyone can pick up (the dressing and the proper way of speaking, and so on), the difference between a lady and a flower girl is not how she behaves, but how she’s treated. I shall always be a flower girl to Professor Higgins, because he always treats me as a flower girl, and always will; but I know I can be a lady to you, because you always treat me as a lady, and always will.” (Adapted from Pygmalion, in The Complete Plays of Bernard Shaw, p. 260.)

Eliza Doolittle was but expressing the profound truth: When we treat people merely as they are, they will remain as they are. When we treat them as if they were what they should be, they will become what they should be. (Adapted from a quotation by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe.)
In reality, it was the Redeemer who best taught this principle. Jesus changed men. He changed their habits and opinions and ambitions. He changed their tempers, dispositions, and natures. He changed their hearts. He lifted! He loved! He forgave! He redeemed! Do we have the will to follow?
Ensign, Dec 1971, 131

White Ribbons
Forgiveness

Prison warden Kenyon J. Scudder has related this experience: A friend of his happened to be sitting in a railroad coach next to a young man who was obviously depressed. Finally the man revealed that he was a paroled convict returning from a distant prison. His imprisonment had brought shame to his family, and they had neither visited him nor written often. He hoped, however, that this was only because they were too poor to travel and too uneducated to write. He hoped, despite the evidence, that they had forgiven him.

To make it easy for them, however, he had written them to put up a signal for him when the train passed their little farm on the outskirts of town. If his family had forgiven him, they were to put a white ribbon in the big apple tree which stood near the tracks. If they didn’t want him to return, they were to do nothing, and he would remain on the train as it traveled west.

As the train neared his home town, the suspense became so great he couldn’t bear to look out of his window. He exclaimed, “In just five minutes the engineer will sound the whistle, indicating our approach to the long bend which opens into the valley I know as home. Will you watch for the apple tree at the side of the track?” His companion changed places with him and said he would. The minutes seemed like hours, but then there came the shrill sound of the train whistle. The young man asked, “Can you see the tree? Is there a white ribbon?”

Came the reply: “I see the tree. I see not one white ribbon, but many. There must be a white ribbon on every branch. Son, someone surely does love you.”

In that instant he stood cleansed by Christ.

His friend said, “I felt as if I had witnessed a miracle.”

Indeed, he had witnessed a miracle appropriately described by the third verse of a favorite Christmas carol, “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:

“How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of his heaven. “No ear may hear his coming; But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive him still, The dear Christ enters in.” —Hymns, no. 165

We, too, can experience this same miracle when we, with hand and heart, as did the Savior, lift and love our neighbor to a newness of life.

May we succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees, thereby inheriting that eternal life promised by the Redeemer, I pray, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.
Ensign, Dec 1971, 131

Master’s Degree
Service

Thomas Huxley advised: “The end of life is not knowledge, but action.” When our testimonies are reflected by our service, they shine with unequaled brilliance. Unfortunately, there are those among your group who, turning to their academic pursuits, turn their back on God. You have heard their comment: “I will serve the Lord later—now I must study.” To such a one I would answer, “Thou fool.”

I am reminded of a highly successful business executive in Salt Lake City who served as a counselor in his ward bishopric while at the same time earning his master’s degree. During the hectic period preceding finals, the bishop asked him, “Lynn, I know you are facing a crisis in your schooling. Let us relieve you of your meeting schedule and some of the details of your assignments during the next two weeks.” Lynn answered, “Bishop, I would ask that rather than relieving me of responsibility, let me assume additional duties. I want to go to the Lord and ask his help by right, not by grace.” He never slackened. He graduated among the highest in his class.
New Era, May 1971, 2

Letter of Gratitude
Gratitude

Do you think to thank your mother, your father, who have given you life and who rejoice in your accomplishments? Your gratitude should be expressed personally, but, in addition, it should be mirrored by your life.

An appropriate tribute of gratitude was made by a young Latter-day Saint girl attending a Denver, Colorado, high school. The students in her class had been asked to prepare a letter to be written to a great man of their choice. Many addressed their letters to sports heroes, some to the leaders of their nation, while others addressed their letters to persons of reknown. This young lady, however, addressed her letter to her father, and in the letter she stated: “I have decided to write this letter to you, Dad, because you are the greatest man that I have ever known. The overwhelming desire of my heart is that I will so live that I might have the privilege of being beside you and Mother and other members of the family in the celestial kingdom.” That father has never received a more cherished letter.
New Era, May 1971, 2

Monson Giving His First Priesthood Blessing
Priesthood

Many of you will be entering military service and will have special need to be close to God. I testify as one who knows that he will not forsake you.

During the final phases of World War II, I turned eighteen and was ordained an elder one week before I departed for active duty with the navy. A member of my ward bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed two books into my hands. One was a popular satire in which I took interest. The other was entitled The Missionary Handbook.

I laughed and commented, “I’m not going on a mission.”

He answered, “Take it anyway—it may come in handy.”

It did. In basic training the company commander instructed us concerning how we might best pack our clothing in a large sea bag. He advised: “If you have some hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom, your clothes will stay more firm.”

I suddenly remembered just the right rectangular object—The Missionary Handbook. Thus it served for sixteen weeks.

The night before our Christmas leave, our thoughts were, as always, on home. The quarters were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk, a Mormon boy, Leland Merrill, was moaning in pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”

He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick!”

I advised him to go to the base dispensary, but he knowingly answered that such a course would prevent him from being home for Christmas.

The hours lengthened. His groans grew louder. Suddenly he whispered, “Monson, Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so, whereupon he asked, “Give me a blessing.”
Suddenly I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing, I had never received such a blessing, and I had never witnessed a blessing being given. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the sea bag.” Thus, at two o’clock in the morning I spilled the contents of the bag on the deck, took the book to the night light, and read how one blesses the sick. With about seventy curious sailors looking on, I gave the shakiest blessing I’ve ever given. Before I could stow my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping like a child.
The next morning Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood.” His gladness was surpassed only by my joy.
New Era, May 1971, 2

Dare to be a Mormon
Comradery

University entrance for me began in the midst of World War II. Girls on campus outnumbered men by a ratio of nine to one. Those were golorious days until there approached my own responsibility to serve. I was no hero. I enlisted in the U.S. Navy just ten days before I would have been drafted into the U.S. Army.

Navy boot camp was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. For the first three weeks I was convinced my very life was in jeopardy. The navy was not trying to train, but rather kill me. Finally came Sunday and the welcome news that all recruits would go to church. Standing at tattention in a brisk California breeze, I heard the wors of the chief petty officer: “Today, everybody goes to church. Those of you who are Catholics, you meet in Camp Decatur. Forward, march!” A rather sizeable contingent moved out. “Those of you who are Jews, forward, march!” A somewhat smaller group marched on. “The rest of you Protestancs, you meet in Camp Farragut. Forward, march!” Instantly there flashed throutgh my mind the thought: “Monson, you aren’t a Catholic; Monson, you aren’t a Jew; Monson, you aren’t a Protestant. You are a Mormon.” I stood fast. Then came the perplexed comment of the petty officer. Sweeter words I have not heard. “Just what do you guys call yourselves” You see, this was the first time I knew there were others standing behind me on that drill grinder. In uniskon we replied: “We’re Mormons.” He queried, “Mormons? Well, go find somewhere to meet.” We marched proudly by, almost to the cadence of the primary rhyme you remember:

Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone:
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.
Devotional Address, Jan 19, 1971 “Return with Honor”

Return with Honor
Courage

Our company had no particular slogan or symbol. One fighting unit in the war was known as The Fighting Irish, another as Uncle Sam’s Hellcats. Some Naval Air Corps squadrons painted on their planes the words, Remember Pearl Harbor or Back from Bataan. The motto I remmember best was that adopted by an air wigstationed in Britain and involved almost daily with bombing and strafing runs over theContinent. The words were simple, yet packed with pride and power: Return with Honor.

These words connoted courage to fight fear and meet death. They reminded each man to do his duty without flinching . They implied, “Better to die a man than return a coward.”

Then, as now, there were those who would “cop out,” fake mechanical trouble, pull up too suddenly from a dive, or skip drop a bombload to avoid heavily concentrated antiaircraft fire.
To most, that motto Return with Honor became a way of life. I wonder if it may not be a most desirable motto for each of us.

Most of you have left your homes, your families, your friends, and your communities to attenc BYU. You have set sail on the sea of education. One day you will return to that port called home. Have you determined to Return with Honor? Unfortunately, some tdo not. There are those who return cheaters, loafers, procrastinators—even sinners.
Devotional Address, Jan 19, 1971 “Return with Honor”

Just a Phony
Cheating

I shall never forget such a one with whom I studied business law. On the football field he was the Saturday afternoon hero; in the classroom, just a phony. Oh, he was clever, all right. Perhaps too much so. During the final examination all books were to be closed. Now was the moment of truth. My friend came to class that morning barefooted in sandals, As the examination began, he removed his feet from the sandals and, with toes saturated with glycerin, he opened his textbook and skillfully, with those educated toes, turned the pages, that he might read the answers to the questions asked. He received an A grade, as he did in other classes. Nominated for honors, praised for his intellectual acumen, he passed the examinations of school but failed the test of manhood. Do not be a cheater.

In a similar class is the loafer or procrastinator. Content with mediocrity, he becomes an underachiever and loses, perhaps forever, that reward of excellence which, with concentrated effort, would have become his precious prize.

Even more to be pitied is the student who comes to college to learn but instead succumbs to sin.
Devotional Address, Jan 19, 1971 “Return with Honor”

Three Examples
Courage

It is true today; it has ever been so. Consider if you will two of Lehi’s sons who were asked to go forth to the house of Laban on a perilous, yet vital mission. They saw the danger; they feared for their safety. They doubted their ability. They murmured. They failed. How could they return with honor when they failed to depart with faith.

In contrast, who can help but be filled with admiration for their brother Nephi and his clarion call:

I will go and do the things which the Lord has commanded. (1 Nephi 3:7.)

Three capsule illustrations may be helpful.

First, from a serviceman, this letter:

Dear Brother Monson:
Today I arrived in Vietnam. It is raining, dull and frustrating. Yet I am happy, for I know this experience can be a great missionary opportunity. Already I have participated in gospel discussions with six interested persons not yet members of the Church. This assignment is called a tour of duty, but to me it is a missionary privilege.

Dear Brother Monson:
Today is the greatest day in my life. I am the happiest man in the world. You remember I spend much of my time in a wheelchair and have done since a bout with polio long years ago. At 7: 00 p.m., in this glorious state of California, my companions wheeled me to the edge of the baptism font. I lifted myself from the wheelchair and, with effort, lowered my weak legs and crippled body into the font. I took the hand of one who had found the truth and pledged to live it and repeated the baptism prayer, then immersed him in those waters which cleanse soiled and troubled lives. He thanked me. I thanked God.

Third, from a cold—even an old—city of Eastern Canada. The missionaries called it stony Kingston. There had been but one convert in six years, even though missionaries had been continuously assigned during that entire interval. No one baptized in Kingston. Just ask any missionary who labored there. Days in Kingston were marked on the calendar like days in prison. A missionary transfer to another place—anyplace—would be uppermost in thoughts, even in dreams.

While I was praying and pondering this sad dilemma, for my responsibility as a mission president required that I pray and ponder about such things, my wife called to my attention an excerpt from A Child’s Story of the Life of Brigham Young by Deta Petersen Neeley. She read:
Brigham Young entered Kingston, Ontario on a cold and snow-filled day. He labored there thirty days and baptized forty-five souls.

Here was the answer. If the missionary Brigham young could accomplish this harvest, so could the missionary of today.

Without explanation I withdrew the missionaries from Kingston, that the continuity of defeat might be broken. Then the carefully circulated word: “Soon a new city will be opened for missionary work, even the city where Brigham Young proselyted an d baptized forty-five persons in thirty days,” The missionaries speculated as to the location. Their weekly letters pleaded for the assignment to this Shangri la. More time passed. Then four carefully selected missionaries—two of them new; two of them experienced—were chosen for this high adventure. The members of the small branch pledged their support. The missionaries pledged their lives. The Lord honored both. In the space of three months, Kingston became the most productive city of the Canadian Mission. The city was the same, the population constant. The change was one of attitude.

Consider the serviceman in Vietnam, the crippled elder in California, the missionaries in Kingston. Like a silver thread running through the fabric of their lives is the spirit of, “I will go and do the things which the Lord has commanded.” Such will indeed Return with Honor.
Devotional Address, Jan 19, 1971 “Return with Honor”

God’s Cathedral
Perspective

After the big London fire of long ago, the great English architect, Sir Christopher Wren, volunteered his services to plan and superintend the building of one of the world’s greatest cathedrals. Unknown to most of the workmen, he passed among them often, watching the construction.

To three stonecutters one day he put the same questions: “What are you doing?” One of them answered, “I am cutting this stone.” Another answered, “I am earning my three shillings per day.” But the third stood up, squared his shoulders and proudly said, “I am helping Sir Christopher Wren build this magnificent cathedral to our God.”
Devotional Address, Jan 19, 1971 “Return with Honor”

Plant

My mom has had this plant for twenty years, and this is the first time it has produced flowers.

Robo Dwarf Hampsters

My roommate, Valerie, has hampsters that are very tiny, and move very, very fast! Here is a picture of them sleeping in their nest. I also made a video of them running on their wheel. Their legs are just blurs as they go around as fast as they can!

Physical Science lab

I spent two hours in the physical science lab, and I now know what an ion is. This class is bothering me even more just because it is the one of the last things keeping me from graduating. There is a test on Monday, and I need to know the difference between ionic, metallic, and covalent bonds. As I read the textbook and tests, all I want to do is edit them. The writing is terrible.

Physical Science

One of the courses I have been taking during the summer is Physical Science 100. It teaches beginning chemistry, physics, and the periodic table of elements. In other words, it is the last general education class I have to take, and it sucks. At the end of the semester, I will have learned to hate ions, pulleys, and water, as well as other things. After my last test, I have grown a hatred for gravity, frictionless surfaces, and kilograms. I loathe oxygen, even though I need it to live. I now hate every element with a passion, and I can name each one that I hate. Over the week, I will increasingly loathe the concept of covalent bonds.

I've been working on a book for my last editing class. The class is the capstone of the minor, and I work with a group to write, compile, and edit a book of essays and get it formatted and printed in a concise book. It's a useful thing to learn and put in a portfolio, but I'm a bit daunted by the qualifications listed for editing jobs. Most places ask for two to three years experience editing, and my only advantage is that I attend a school that offers an editing minor, which is unheard of. I just ended that sentence with a preposition, and if any future employer reads this blog, I'm afraid it will be very embarrassing; however, I think that it is good for me to write something just for fun and not have to reread it and edit it a million times. I write too many things that I have to worry about the exact language and how I'm going to hook the reader in and write a fantastic conclusion. It's nice to just write short blurbs with atrocious spelling and grammar that I know that not that many people are going to be interested in.

As much as I love this website for allowing me to write somewhat carefree, I am disappointed that it does not provide me with my favorite seriff typeface, Garamond. Yes, I have a favorite typeface. I always had trouble writing the "get to know you" sheets in different settings because they ask for things like my favorite color or my favorite food, or even my favorite rock band. With these things, I have no favorites. I don't listen to music, I like a variety of foods and colors, and my personality does not seem to be dictated by all the normal "get to know you" questions. I have provided a list of my favorites:

Favorite typefaces: Garamond, Arial, Lithos Pro. Garamond is a plain seriff font that looks so much better than Times New Roman, Arial is my favorite sans seriff font, and Lithos Pro is my favorite accent font.
Favorite laundry detergent: Tide lavender and vanilla scent
Favorite insult: queer sardonic rat (taken from a poem I read, and now I think of it every time I see a person I don't like; I just imagine them as a rat with beady eyes that glisten).
Favorite accessory: glasses (Too bad my eyesight is too good for them. When I was little, I even wore a pair of pink sunglasses with the lenses poked out so that they looked like real glasses).

I haven't written on this blog in so long—mostly because I've been busy trying to graduate this August. After that, I don't know what I'm doing. I'll probably apply every place that I can and take the best job offer. I'm going to bed; I'll write more later.

Blog # whatever

I'm not even going to bother with an interesting title this time. It's that wonderful time of the year when other colleges are on spring break or just getting back into the swing of things, and BYU doesn't even give us a three-day weekend for Easter.

Everyone on campus looks bleak and stressed-out, and I'm no exception. It's everything I've got to show up to class looking slightly less than disheveled. I don't know when I'll be blogging next; I've got to get through my classes.

Legs

I wrote the following a while ago, but did not get it posted until now:

One of the classic scenes in A Christmas Story is when the father opens his package, revealing the famous leg lamp. This morning a package came to my door. Excited to see what my parents got me, I opened the box to reveal two legs in high heel shoes. It immediately reminded me of A Christmas Story. My mom told me that she and my dad had found it at Fred Meyer and thought of me. She asked my dad if they should fill it with candy or tacky flowers, and he suggested candy. My parents ended up eating the candy and giving me flowers instead. I can't complain. I love the legs!

PIBB

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Not So Gross Commercials

In accordance with my blog on gross commercials, I would like to pay a tribute to a tasteful and funny commercial for Trojan Condoms. This commercial features an attractive blonde in a bar surrounded by sweaty, dirty pigs snorting at her. One of the pigs pulls a single condum out of a dispenser and comes back to the woman, changing from a pig into an attractive man. The company's slogan is to evolve.

I thought that this was a clever ad because it put a positive light on the use of protection. Kudos to Trojan for advertising their product without being gross.

The Grammys: Amy Winehouse

I just watched Amy Winehouse's performance for the Grammys. Apparently, she asked the rehab center if she could leave just for the Grammys, and they said "No, no, no." She was allowed to be broadcast by sattelite from wherever she was at.

Her legs were extremely skinny in that skirt, and she seemed to be putting her hands by her crotch a lot. Her movements were awkward, showing her apparent distraction. She seemed a little bit scared, and I wondered what the withdrawals must have been doing to her.

However, I was excited when she wone Record of the Year. She had stiff competition, but I really like "Rehab." I was confused when Winehouse thanked "Blake, incarcerated" in her speech. Was that her significant other? Who knows.

Gross Commercials

Commercials for Personal Lubricant

Yesterday I saw a commercial for a personal lubricant. It had a split screen with a hand on either side, each hand representing the compeditors' brands. The narrator spoke about the other brands and how messy they were. Copius amounts of lubricant was then poured into each hand as the hands pulled their fingers apart in the sticky goo, demonstrating that these were poor brands, indeed. The advertised product was then lightly dabbed on a forefinger, and the narrator explained that the product was less messy than the others because it came out in a sensuous foam.

A Commercial for Denture Adhesive that Should Never Have Aired

Another commercial I hate is a commercial for denture adhesive. The commercial features an old couple making out in the back of a taxi cab and poses the question that only one of them is wearing dentures, but which one?

Male Enhancement Commercials

Need I say more? Also, I do not appreciate getting spam that offers to make my penis larger. I do not have a penis; please stop spamming me.

Feminine Protection

I will buy these products whether they are advertised or not. However, I do not want to see a demonstration of how a pad with a high absorbancy can soak up the equivilent of a large mud puddle. That's gross.

My Blog Will Now Be Advertising the Following Products...

I host Adsense on my blog, and no doubt the program will immediately scan my latest blog for relevant products to advertise. I will not block the scan of this article because I think that these are products that should be advertised and purchased. There is no better place to adverise these products than in a discreet line of text at the left of someone's webpage, and there is no better place to buy these products than in the privacy of your own home, on the internet. Or, if you are more brazen, like me, you can just purchase your feminine hygiene in the grocery store. But I am providing a way to purchase these somewhat embarrassing products that everyone needs without you having to watch those dreadful commercials.

Saturdays

Today is Saturday, and I am working on homework. I couldn't think of anything more to write on an assignment that has proven difficult to me, so I decided to write on my blog. No one gives me a grade for the trash I write here, and all is good in the universe. However, I have plans tonight, so I only have a short time to write. I am going to an on-campus dancing event, and I have a potato heating in the microwave. The timer has just beeped on the microwave, and my Saturday evening is off to a great start.

Genie Magic

For Valentine's Day, I purchased a box of Bratz Genie Magic valentines. I decided that nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" like a bunch of seductively dressed pre-teen cartoons. Now I can celebrate my holiday in style with girls looking seductively at me through their eyelashes. Their faces are covered with veils, and they have gold chains glinting around their tiny waists. For that special man in my life, I can send a valentine that says "I hope your Valentine's Day is a magical adventure!" This valentine features a blonde in a short skirt kneeling with her legs apart and a brunette standing profile, sticking out both her butt and her chest. That's enough to make any man break out into a cold sweat.

Forget the lovey-dovey cards from the relationship section of the store. These cost about $5.00 each, and they are oftentimes heavy and sickeningly sweet. Send your love something sexy in the guise of a children's card! The message is subliminal and will surely be remembered. Besides, you can get 32 cards for only $0.50.

The Superbowl

So I had a superbowl with my roommates. One is an Eagles fan, and the other is a Steelers fan. They were both rooting for the Giants because they were "the lesser of the two evils." I'll have to admit that this was the most excited I've ever been for a game. The last four minutes really surprised me. Still, the party for me was all about the food: chips and dip, bratworst and saurkraut, and potato salad.

Joining the Circus

That's it; I'm joining the circus. After I graduate, I am not getting a 9-5 job, I am not working in retail, and I am not painting caricatures at a booth. I am joining the circus!

Disney Songs

Facebook is a social network that I use to connect with friends from high school and college that I would have trouble contacting otherwise. Lately, Facebook has gotten a little weird. Now, I get daily invitations to join random causes, such as being a ninja or a vampire. I have just gotten another invitation on Facebook for "Which Disney Song Describes Your Life Right Now?"

I would like to respond to that invitation via my blog: No, I do not think that BYU is "A Whole New World." I do not want to "Kiss the Girl;" I don't like girls. I would just love for a shirtless man to pop out of a lamp and sing, "Never Had a Friend Like Me" because that's all we would ever be: just friends. Of course, the only man to pop out of my lamp would be the actual Robin Williams, old enough to be my father and having a full pasture of chest hair. All in all, I am taking eighteen credits, and, until I am done with my last final, things are not "Akuna Matata."

Superbowl Sunday

Tomarrow is Superbowl Sunday, and I am actually living with football fans. Last time I had a Superbowl party at my house, it was only because my brother-in-law insisted that we have one. We had never had a Superbowl party, and my mother made appetizers appropriate for the occaision. We didn't actually turn on the TV until my brother-in-law came and insisted that we turn on the Superbowl for our party. The rest of the evening was filled with shouts from my dad: "Home run! Home run!" and me: "Are the commercials on yet?"

The Soup

A couple of days ago, I was watching Joel McHale's The Soup. At the end of his usual banter of celebrity gossip, McHale paid a short tribute to Heath Leger and told people to stop trying to dig up dirt after his death. I thought that it was a very good statement, and I appreciated it.

Job Search

After having my third job interview this week, I got an email back that said they had chosen someone else. So, out of all three jobs I've applied for, no one hired me. Yes, it has been a very busy and interesting week.

SAG awards

I noticed that none of the female actors in the Screen Actor Guild Awards were wearing necklaces. Has this commonplace piece of jewelry instantaneously found its way out of the wardrobe? The most-sported look was a strapless gown with earrings and a bare upper-chest with no necklace at all. The men sported moppy hair with shaggy beards. You think that because all they have to worry about is a suit, they would at least shave.

President Gordon B. Hinckley

Yesterday, the president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints died 7 p.m. in his home. I had never met the man, but he has taught me wonderful things about how to manage my life through correct, smart choices and taking the time to listen to intuition. My personal life has been continually blessed by the man who simply told me to pray and listen to my Heavenly Father. My heart goes out to his family; he was a great man.

Jobs

I just got two job offers in the same week! (Two companies contacted me back after seeing my resume.) I also had a call for papers in one of my classes to be considered for publication. Other than my monstrous load of homework, this weekend should be fun. (And I hope I hear back from some people.)

Plasma Misconception

I was donating plasma and thinking about when I first heard about plasma donation. I was about ten and heard about someone who was donating plasma. Immediately interested in the topic, I asked what plasma was. The adult who explained it to me asked if I had ever gotten a rug burn, and I said yes. She said that the clear or yellowish fluid that comes to the top of a rug burn is plasma.

I pondered this for a moment, and wondered how plasma would be extracted from the donor. I figured that there would be a sand-paper person to rub the donor down with sandpaper until their was a rug-burn-type injury, then scrape off the plasma that collected at the top of the wound and collect it in a small dish.

Luckily, this is not the process that I have to go through to donate plasma. I leave the donation center with only a small puncture in one arm. Besides that, I get $30, juice, and crackers. Life is good.

Feminism

I was thinking about something I heard in a feminist seminar: "Women will not truly become women as their own entity unless they cease to be women of men." In the dating world, women are dependent on men for compliments and reassurances about their appearence, their decisions, et cetera. It is almost as if a women needs a man to wave his magic wand and say "I noticed that you were pretty, now you are pretty." A woman who has a sparkle in her eyes does not notice her radiance until a man points it out. It is almost as if the sparkle wasn't there until he came along.

But what about the women who do not date? Are they simply not pretty, smart, or funny? Are they destined to be the duds until a man comes along and declairs them the fairest in the land? I know many such women that are beautiful, radiant, and smart who go unoticed by men. I believe that personal qualities are arbitrary to whether anyone notices them or not.

Technical Support for Wireless Internet Service

I've been tryting to set up a high-speed internet conection today, and finally I have it set up. It took three hours on the phone with people who all sounded like they were from India, and my brain was thouroughly fried before I even got to my homework, but I now have an internet connection. I have never been so happy to have wireless internet.

Forgetting Something? Walk into Another Room.

Do you ever walk into a room and forget what it is that you needed to get? I have that with school assignments. Every time I look at a blank page my mind shuts off, then I look away from the page and the thought I was having comes right back. As soon as my eyes return to the page, I forget what it was that I was going to write about.

A lot of life is staring at blank pages and thinking about what to do. Researchers figure out how much time in our entire lifetime we spend going to the bathroom, kissing, playing tenis, you name it, but I wonder how much time is spent walking into rooms to get things that we don't remember what it was we needed to get.

The Nerd Complex: Hierarchies of Nerds

Introduction

One day I was speaking with one of my friends and asked her what her major was. “I’m a bio major,” she replied. “I’m in there with all the nerds.” I began to think about her statement. Doesn’t every major have nerds? I began to see what had happened historically to the population of nerds throughout the ages. In grade school they were the ones that we excluded because they were different from us. In middle school, they helped us with our homework, so they were okay friends, as long as they weren’t friends with us in public. In high school, the nerds found strength lumping into one group, but in college, they slowly evolved into hierarchies of different types of nerds. They specialized in different aspects of the humanities and the sciences and became more and more eccentric in their obsessions. Now they are everywhere, formulating equations, writing reports for fun, and claiming that they invented the internet and the concept of global warming.

Some Nerds Out There

Todd Wilbur is a nerd notorious for using cooking and chemistry to find the secret recipes of restaurants around the nation. He has researched the Coca Cola Company and has found that only three or four top executives, including the Coca Cola chemist, know the secret formula for Coca Cola. They never travel together, and undisclosed precautionary measures have been taken for their utmost safety. When one member of the secret group dies, all others must agree to elect a new individual. The secret yellowing paper with the Coca Cola recipe is deep in a vault in Atlanta, Georgia.
Do you ever think of being a secret agent, but the FBI is too hard to get into? You can work for the Coca Cola Company! You can protect the secret recipe vault, travel with top executives, and carry a gun. Stop being a nerd and do something cool! Your title would be “secret agent protector of the executives that know the Coca Cola secret recipe,” and you can say that every time you pull out your special badge. Make yo mama proud!

Bill Gates

I checked out the official website of Microsoft and found a biography on Bill Gates. Gate’s biography reads much like an obituary when it talks about his past life and reads like a resume for the beginning and end. It is a true testimony to the fact that Bill Gates has been a nerd his entire life, from the time he was thirteen and programming computers to the time he was a student at Harvard. In this biography, I found a passage that filled my soul with glee: “Gates was married on Jan. 1, 1994, to Melinda French Gates.” The writer of this biography had written the sentence using Melinda’s married name, making the writing vague to the point that you can’t tell whether or not Bill Gates married a relative. Unfortunately for me, it was just a vague sentence, and Bill Gates did not marry his relative. But to comfort those who do marry their cousins, Teddy Roosevelt married his fifth cousin. So if you’re looking misty-eyed across the threshold of your family reunion, you are not alone in the world.

You may be a nerd if…

Do you ever wonder about the water that splashes you when you flush a public toilet? Of course everyone wonders about random things, but do you actually research the dangers of secondhand toilet-water splashing? If so, you are a bio nerd. You are one of those people who researches the germs on door handles for fun. Your weekends are filled with mathematical equations and Petri dishes. You have a full life.
Have you ever written a sonnet for someone on Valentine’s Day? Do you recite Shakespeare to prove your point? Do you have wild fantasies about members of the opposite sex that only appear in novels, poems, and other literature? You are an English nerd. You are sadistic and enjoy unhappy endings. You love to argue, and you believe that true love only exists in Jane Austin novels. If you encounter an English nerd, beware. Never get into a discussion involving your favorite movie, for it will soon be reduced to the thematic reproduction of the modernist existential angst of the movie’s putrid producer. If you have no idea what this means, consult the English nerd nearest you.

Thanksgiving Point Wedding Expo

Today I went with my friends to a wedding expo. Yes, kind of a weird thing to do on a Saturday, but we mainly went for the freebies and labeled one of my friends as the "bride to be." She had her boyfriend with her so they could sign up for more prizes. I hope I get the free spa facial. Yes, we are weird.

News Stories

For one of my classes I was asked to write a 50-100 word blurb about something that was going on around campus or the community. I had always made fun of the local newscasters because they seemed corny when they ran out of ideas for the news. They would talk about the weather or some boy who completed his eagle scout project, and I would point my finger in scorn.

Of course, I was asked to do this assignment within the first week of school, and there was nothing really going on. I was faced with the same situation as a local newscaster of a small town. The theatre department is preparing for things clear in spring, the biology department's triumphs were already covered in December issues of on-campus magazines, and the humanities department has such a lack of funding that nothing is ever going on. So what did I write about? The weather.

Jamie Lynn Spears

I am writing about a topic of grave seriousness: the Spears family. You have to pay attention to anyone who takes an interest in Brittney Spears and her kin. It's like the train wreck you just can't stop watching.

I have read the exclusive interview of her pregnant sister in OK!. It was after the hollidays when fridges are full and no one even wants to step foot into a grocery store when I had all my closing duties finished. One of the magazines was out of place and I was interrupted by a customer as I was putting it back. The smiling face of Jamie Lynn stared up at me. She was posing in a hip top with facial expressions in her "exclusive photos" that seemed disturbing because it was such a carefree smile. I had to read the article.

So at 11 p.m. in an empty grocery store I flipped the pages to discover an empty life. She had been staying at a friend's house when she became suspicious and bought a pregnancy test. She decided to give herself about two weeks to tell no one and decide for herself what to do. She told her mother that she had something to tell her but that she couldn't tell her in person and she would have to read the note. Her mother read the note and asked her daughter's boyfriend if it was true. He confirmed. Jamie Lynn has decided to keep the baby and wants to be the best mom that she can be. I disagree. I think the best thing for that baby is to be raised by a family other than the Spears. It takes a better mom to admit she may not be the best thing for her baby.

National Geographic Geography Bee

I just took an online geography bee test. I did not know that there was such a thing, but it sparked my interest, and I thought it was a neat idea to feature contestants on the subject of geography. The questions ranged from which country Germany invaded in World War II to which country Buddhism was founded in. It helped me just for a second to brush up on my geography and to increase my interest in geography. It is sad every time someone says where they are from or what happened in the news and I have to look at a map with my forefinger outstretched, saying, "Where was that, again?"

Editing Internships

I have been looking at editing internships and am amazed at the different variety of internships and jobs that are available to people who edit. I have seen everything from editing instructional pamphlets to internet sites to newspapers, magazines, and novels. Fiction editing is a competitive market, largely because people have visions of becoming the first person to ever read the next bestseller. As of now, I have applied to a few editing internships, one of which had funding cut for the program (needless to say, no one was hired for the position) and a couple that I applied for just after they hired someone. My job search has been a frustrating one, but hopefully it will turn out well.

The First of the Last

Today is one of the last times that I will experience the first day of a semester. I am graduating soon, and I am glad I will never have to experience the first day of school again. The first day of school is a ritual that reminds me of high school. Everyone wears nice clothes and makes sure to make a good first impression.

Some classrooms full of people do not talk to each other at all and nervously look around and quickly find other things to do: texting, reading the newspaper, becoming fascinated by the buttons on their shirts, etc. Occaisionally, someone in the classroom will pipe up with small talk to the person next to them about their major or where they are from, and sometimes a few people will have had a class together before and their chatter will echo in the empty classroom until the professor arrives.

The arrival of the professor is very important. He or she will make sure to arrive exactly on time, and not a second early or late. That increases the anticipation of the students as they wonder whether the professor will ever show up and wonder how long they will be cooped up with strangers while they pretend to read the dull commentary of a crappy school newspaper trying to be fresh and edgy. The professor arrives, makes a few well-rehearsed jokes about the course that they have been reciting for so many decades that the jokes are sorely outdated, and hands out a syllabus that was made in the fifties and reused ever since. Thus commences the first day of school.

Writers

My friend gave me a book about query letters for Christmas, and it has been incredibly useful to my knowledge about writing and submitting one's writing. I knew about query letters, which are business letters that one writes to a publisher to express interest in the publication and to advertise the particular enclosed (or not enclosed) poem, short story, article, et cetera. What was new to me was that the vast majority of article writers advertise their articles to the publisher before they even write the article. This allows the publisher to have a say in what is said and how long the article will be. This also cuts down on the writer's frustration in having to change everything after putting so much work into an article.

What's That Smell?

A couple of days ago, a coworker was scanning groceries and came across something uncanny. Someone had picked up a jar of alfredo sauce who knows how long ago, screwed off the lid and put it on the shelf. Over time, the contents of the jar congealed in the form of chunky mold. As my coworker was running the jar over the scanner, the lid came off, spilling a small amount of the contents. A smell enveloped the front end of the store for a while, and the mess was quickly cleaned up, but an hour later a customer asked me what the smell was and put her coat over her nose. Today, I checked in that checkstand and could occaisionally make out The Smell, which was lurking in no particular place.