A short play by yours truly.
We open on an office, in which I am working. It's 11:00 in the morning.
STOMACH: Psst! Hey, Alex!
ME: What?
STOMACH: Remember that sandwich that you have in the fridge?
ME: Yeah.
STOMACH: Can I have it now?
ME: No. Lunch is at noon.
STOMACH: But I'm hungry!
ME: Deal with it.
STOMACH: But you haven't fed me since breakfast, and that was five hours ago!
ME: I gave you a Nutri-Grain bar at nine.
STOMACH: That is nothing. A Nutri-Grain bar crumbles and withers against my amazing digestive powers.
ME: You're just going to have to wait.
STOMACH: I'll scream.
ME: Don't you dare.
STOMACH: RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!
In conclusion, we ate lunch at 11:00 today.
I realize this is the second post I've ever written about my growling stomach. At least I switched writing styles, and at least it's twice as many posts as I've written about phlegm.
Monday, June 30, 2014
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Kind of a Funny Story...
So remember a few months ago when I went "Speed Mingling?" Take a moment to read about it here. It's okay; I'll wait.
Ready?
Remember the part about the cute, bespectacled redhead? I saw him last night at a big YSA activity on the beach. I didn't even recognize him at first, but then when I recalled who he was, I was like, "oh yeah, we actually met at speed mingling."
And then he was like, "Yeah, you wrote about me on your blog!"
Apparently a mutual friend who reads my blog saw my post and showed it to him. Now, if this had happened ten years ago, I would have been like this:
But now, I'm basically like,
It was hilarious. So much so that it doesn't even matter that bespectacled redhead and I are not soul mates. I wouldn't trade this ending to the story for all the happily-ever-afters and nearsighted ginger babies in the world.
Ready?
Remember the part about the cute, bespectacled redhead? I saw him last night at a big YSA activity on the beach. I didn't even recognize him at first, but then when I recalled who he was, I was like, "oh yeah, we actually met at speed mingling."
And then he was like, "Yeah, you wrote about me on your blog!"
Apparently a mutual friend who reads my blog saw my post and showed it to him. Now, if this had happened ten years ago, I would have been like this:
 |
| Right before crawling in a hole to die. |
 |
| People know me...or at least they know my blog |
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
The Importance of a Good Eight Hours
I like to go to bed early, because the early sunrises and chirping birds make sleeping in a non-option. It's not so much that I really need all that much sleep, but I enjoy getting it nonetheless. Here is last night's dream, as proof that my sleep life is far more exciting than my awake life.
My neighborhood in Pennsylvania was being slowly invaded by a gang of vampires, led by Lestat, who was portrayed by Arsenio Hall. They made their mark by digging little holes in the ground in the borders of the neighborhood. It was so serious that I insisted that nobody leave the house anytime when it was remotely dark outside. Now is probably a good time to mention that I was a vampire slayer in this dream.* Even though I wasn't Buffy, I was acquainted with the Scooby Gang, and I decided that I needed Spike as backup.** So from the couch in my family room, Mrs. Weston (née Poor Miss Taylor) sent Spike a lengthy text message asking him to come and help, and also possibly to marry me--I didn't read the message that thoroughly, but you know how Mrs. Weston can be.
The next part was pretty cool. I was in this school or possibly abandoned shopping center building fighting the gang of vampires, who were dressed in some very crude armor. I made my way through by sliding on the floors for great distances, presumably as a result of my own innate slayer strength. I found Lestat's "right hand man" vampire and was trying to beat some information out of him to no avail. I was nearly about to chop his head off when he pleaded "you can't kill me--I'm the Elders Quorum President!" Apparently the reason nobody was killing the vampires (the male ones, at least) was because they were attending the local singles' ward and really bumping up the male population.
We all made our way into a grocery store after that, and one other male vampire was mulling over the pre-decorated cakes. His dilemma was that he had forgotten to get a cake for Elders Quorum, but it was Sunday and he wasn't sure if he should break the Sabbath to buy a cake. I was like, "you drink the blood of the innocent...I'm pretty sure buying a cake on Sunday isn't going to tip any scales." Over in fresh produce, Spike and Lestat (aka Arsenio Hall) were getting into it because Spike thought he told Lestat never to show his face in these parts again and also how can you tell whether a mango is ripe?
That dream left me with so many unanswered questions, but unfortunately, my kidneys hadn't left me with any more unfiltered blood, so I had to wake up.
*I have a complex, probably.
**This part was probably prompted by the fact that I'm thinking about going to Comic Con this year and James Marsters will be there.
My neighborhood in Pennsylvania was being slowly invaded by a gang of vampires, led by Lestat, who was portrayed by Arsenio Hall. They made their mark by digging little holes in the ground in the borders of the neighborhood. It was so serious that I insisted that nobody leave the house anytime when it was remotely dark outside. Now is probably a good time to mention that I was a vampire slayer in this dream.* Even though I wasn't Buffy, I was acquainted with the Scooby Gang, and I decided that I needed Spike as backup.** So from the couch in my family room, Mrs. Weston (née Poor Miss Taylor) sent Spike a lengthy text message asking him to come and help, and also possibly to marry me--I didn't read the message that thoroughly, but you know how Mrs. Weston can be.
The next part was pretty cool. I was in this school or possibly abandoned shopping center building fighting the gang of vampires, who were dressed in some very crude armor. I made my way through by sliding on the floors for great distances, presumably as a result of my own innate slayer strength. I found Lestat's "right hand man" vampire and was trying to beat some information out of him to no avail. I was nearly about to chop his head off when he pleaded "you can't kill me--I'm the Elders Quorum President!" Apparently the reason nobody was killing the vampires (the male ones, at least) was because they were attending the local singles' ward and really bumping up the male population.
We all made our way into a grocery store after that, and one other male vampire was mulling over the pre-decorated cakes. His dilemma was that he had forgotten to get a cake for Elders Quorum, but it was Sunday and he wasn't sure if he should break the Sabbath to buy a cake. I was like, "you drink the blood of the innocent...I'm pretty sure buying a cake on Sunday isn't going to tip any scales." Over in fresh produce, Spike and Lestat (aka Arsenio Hall) were getting into it because Spike thought he told Lestat never to show his face in these parts again and also how can you tell whether a mango is ripe?
That dream left me with so many unanswered questions, but unfortunately, my kidneys hadn't left me with any more unfiltered blood, so I had to wake up.
*I have a complex, probably.
**This part was probably prompted by the fact that I'm thinking about going to Comic Con this year and James Marsters will be there.
Monday, June 23, 2014
With Those Who Mourn
This is probably the least obliquely I will ever write about a current and controversial event.
The news of Kate Kelly's excommunication made me realize something: I need to stop reading the "Comments" sections of news articles. Some people are just mean. But throughout the meanness I saw a common theme: that because of Sister* Kelly's behavior, she "had it coming." (Cue "Cell Block Tango.")
People are so quick to defend church leaders' shortcomings sometimes by saying "they're only human." Well guess what? Kate Kelly is human, too. She's not some Big Bad Apocalyptic Forerunner. She's a woman with a brain that understands things just as imperfectly as the rest of us and a heart that is now broken.
I don't follow Ordain Women or the Church Public Affairs Department closely enough to know everything that's going on, but I'd bet the box of Trader Joe's Yogurt Covered Raisins on my desk right now that a lot of things could have been handled differently and better. There were definitely some Church actions that were the target of some of my shade throwing** and probably OW could have taken a different approach to some things as well. People all make mistakes and errors in judgement and decisions that aren't super rational because of sadness and anger and confusion and frustration, and let's just face it, a lot of us are just kind of making our way through the darkness and doing the best we can.
But this isn't really my point.
The point is, we--all of us--lost one of our own today. That's sad. She is sad. And hundreds of other people just like her are sad and hurt and probably terrified that the same thing might happen to them or to a family member. So even if you're not sad that it happened, be sad that they are sad. Mourn with those who mourn, comfort those who stand in need of comfort.
*Because she is still my sister.
**A garbage truck, really?
I don't follow Ordain Women or the Church Public Affairs Department closely enough to know everything that's going on, but I'd bet the box of Trader Joe's Yogurt Covered Raisins on my desk right now that a lot of things could have been handled differently and better. There were definitely some Church actions that were the target of some of my shade throwing** and probably OW could have taken a different approach to some things as well. People all make mistakes and errors in judgement and decisions that aren't super rational because of sadness and anger and confusion and frustration, and let's just face it, a lot of us are just kind of making our way through the darkness and doing the best we can.
But this isn't really my point.
The point is, we--all of us--lost one of our own today. That's sad. She is sad. And hundreds of other people just like her are sad and hurt and probably terrified that the same thing might happen to them or to a family member. So even if you're not sad that it happened, be sad that they are sad. Mourn with those who mourn, comfort those who stand in need of comfort.
*Because she is still my sister.
**A garbage truck, really?
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Linger Longer is the Worst
Wearing a cute outfit to munch and mingle...
Expectation:
Reality:
This is one of those times when I miss having LT around because we would just stand in the corner and eat food and not have to worry about anyone talking to us.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Relationship Post #2: Bound and Rebound
(Listen to this song while you read.)
I was talking about old boyfriends with a friend once, and she asked me if one man I dated was a "rebound" relationship. It was then that I decided that I disliked the word "rebound." It sounded cheap, like this was just some rando that I was using to get over the previous boyfriend. The purpose of this post is to make us stop feeling guilty about rebounding (unless you're treating your rebound person like dirt, then by all means, wallow in shame).
Sometimes after a breakup, we're left with big, ex-shaped holes in our hearts. They're not the kind of holes that you dig in the dirt, though; they're through-and-through projectile wounds.
And then the next people come along and try to fill the hole, but like most bottomless holes, everything they put in just falls right out the other end. They can't fill the hole.
And this is frustrating and we feel guilty because, so often, those "next people" are wonderful and kind and far too patient with us. But they can't fill the hole.
But then something remarkable happens: somehow, they mend the hole. They put the bottom back in, so that it can be filled. I know that kind of sounds lame. I mean, we can't be sending these people greeting cards that say "Thanks for being the guy that helped me be ready for the next guy," but that's what they did, and it was necessary.
Sometimes we need people to make us feel something other than despair. To help ourselves feel that the last person wasn't the "be all, end all" of love and romance. To help us end a chapter or close a book. To mend us and put our bottoms back (there is no way to make this not sound weird). So we can again bound and rebound.
*The perfect .gif for this would have been from the Buffy episode "Primeval" where First-Slayer-infused-Willow/Xander/Giles-hybrid-Buffy punches Adam through the chest and rips out his uranium power source,** but alas, that .gif could not be found, so I had to make do with Spiderman.
**Laura, this isn't a typical scene on Buffy, should this description happen to turn you off from trying out the series. Season 4 was just weird.
I was talking about old boyfriends with a friend once, and she asked me if one man I dated was a "rebound" relationship. It was then that I decided that I disliked the word "rebound." It sounded cheap, like this was just some rando that I was using to get over the previous boyfriend. The purpose of this post is to make us stop feeling guilty about rebounding (unless you're treating your rebound person like dirt, then by all means, wallow in shame).
Sometimes after a breakup, we're left with big, ex-shaped holes in our hearts. They're not the kind of holes that you dig in the dirt, though; they're through-and-through projectile wounds.
 |
| Just like this.* |
And this is frustrating and we feel guilty because, so often, those "next people" are wonderful and kind and far too patient with us. But they can't fill the hole.
But then something remarkable happens: somehow, they mend the hole. They put the bottom back in, so that it can be filled. I know that kind of sounds lame. I mean, we can't be sending these people greeting cards that say "Thanks for being the guy that helped me be ready for the next guy," but that's what they did, and it was necessary.
Sometimes we need people to make us feel something other than despair. To help ourselves feel that the last person wasn't the "be all, end all" of love and romance. To help us end a chapter or close a book. To mend us and put our bottoms back (there is no way to make this not sound weird). So we can again bound and rebound.
*The perfect .gif for this would have been from the Buffy episode "Primeval" where First-Slayer-infused-Willow/Xander/Giles-hybrid-Buffy punches Adam through the chest and rips out his uranium power source,** but alas, that .gif could not be found, so I had to make do with Spiderman.
**Laura, this isn't a typical scene on Buffy, should this description happen to turn you off from trying out the series. Season 4 was just weird.
Friday, June 13, 2014
The Body of Christ
Maybe it's because I'm an anatomist, but I really love the scriptures about the Body of Christ. The fact that I'm writing this post about this topic this week is not a coincidence.
Members of the LDS church--all members--are parts of the Body of Christ. In this body, sometimes we look at the hand, the beautiful, perfectly-manicured hand, and think that all is fine and healthy. Meanwhile, there's a big gaping wound in our thigh, but instead of wondering "what's going on here, and what can we do to fix this?" we just focus on how good the hand looks as we lose all of our blood.
I can't pretend to have my ear close enough to the ground (or to Heaven) to know exactly why this is happening, but here is one hypothesis: members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints are forgetting where the emphasis lies. Are we caring too much about "The Church" and taking our focus away from "Jesus Christ"?
| Those words are bigger than all the other words for a reason, guys. |
Despite my scientific, feminist, rainbow-flag-waving, Diet-Coke-swilling ways, I consider myself a pretty "non-controversial" Mormon, but there have been some things about "The Church" that have kind of freaked me out. I've had less-than-pleasant experiences in the Temple, some of the more political stuff doesn't quite jive with my personal convictions, and there has been many a General Conference address that has sent me into a big depression spiral. Come to think of it, I've had many experiences that could be anecdotes in my "why I'm leaving the LDS Church" story.
But I'm not leaving the LDS Church.
Why not? Sometimes I think it would make perfect sense, and I know that few people, even in the church, would blame me for it. The reason is this: I believe in Jesus Christ. Those two words that are bigger than all the other words in the church's logo are the reason I'm still here. He is my Savior and he died so that he could understand all of my doubts and struggles and crises of faith and that he could help me fix all of my weaknesses and shortcomings so that I can become a little more like Him. I know that no matter how weird or confusing or frustrating the LDS church can be, Jesus Christ is at the heart of it, and when we let all of the nitpicky, not-really-doctrine-but-its-been-a-cultural-tradition-for-so-long-that-we-assume-that-it-is stuff fall away and just focus on Jesus, we will find Him there.
Furthermore, I might like to add that the Body of Christ is not on a diet. We don't have to cut back or cut out to fit into some theological bathing suit. There's room for everyone.* Seriously. Everyone. That's kind of how the whole Jesus thing works: He died to heal me and you and my gay friends and my feminist friends and my atheist friends and even the people who aren't my friends whom I don't even like all that much. So let us be a little bit more like Jesus Christ, the Savior, the Healer. Let us heal the gaping wound in our body so that we can get back to sitting on the couch, eating Fritos, and becoming a morbidly obese Body of Christ.
*I really wanted to link to the song from Pete's Dragon, but I decided to keep it churchy.
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