What’s going on

Every Friday Mister Bubby’s teacher sends home the “Friday Folder,” which includes a sheet that tells me if MB is missing any assignments and has a note from MB about “one thing I learned or enjoyed doing this week.”  I give you this week’s note:

One thing I learned or enjoyed doing this week was…“doing the MVEMJSUN poem.  My poem was My very evil moose just sucked up nosehair.  It was tons of fun and laughter.”

He is both his father’s and mother’s son.  I’ll let you figure out which part is which.

Last week I met with a counselor in our bishopric.  He said they wanted to extend a new calling to me at church.  (A “calling” is a job.)  Now I’m going to bore all of my LDS readers by explaining to all of my not-LDS readers how Mormon congregations are organized into “wards” and a whole bunch of wards make up a “stake,” and recently our stake decided to take three wards and turn them into four wards, which resulted in a significant diminishing of the adult population in our ward.  The child (under 12) population remains very, very large.  The significance of this will be clear shortly.  Anyway, since Mormons have a lay ministry, for the last several weeks the leadership has been scrambling to fill the vacancies that the reorganization has left us with.

SO–going into this meeting, I knew a couple of things:  1)  Just about every vacancy had been filled, except for a few in the Primary (children’s Sunday School), where we have tons and tons of children (about 140 or so–which may be nothing for evangelical mega-churches, for all I know, but by Mormon ward standards it is pretty freaking huge), and the building library (where I used to work).  2)  Since I’d worked in the library before, they were unlikely to ask me to work there again.  You don’t usually get asked to work in the library more than once in your lifetime–mainly because that’s usually where they send people to die.  (Obviously, I survived the library.  But just barely.  They extracted me to put me in another job where I could do even less damage and interact with even fewer people.  But that’s another story.)  This could only mean one thing.  Well, technically two things.

1)  They were going to ask me to be a Primary teacher.

2)  They were probably going to ask me to teach Primary with my husband, who has been teaching the 6-year-olds for the last three or four years (in addition to directing the ward choir and being a part-time ward organist–he’s an overachiever).  Because…

You know, I was going to explain it, but it’s not worth it.  Suffice it to say that I was prescient because what I thought they were going to do was exactly what they did.

I want to tell you that in all my years of church service, there have been many callings that I was not remotely enthusiastic about, but I have never said no.  There have been a couple of jobs I’ve done so poorly that my leaders repented of ever asking me and expeditiously moved me to some other place in the organization where I could do less damage and interact with fewer people.  But historically speaking, when someone asks me to do a job, I do not refuse.  It is partly because I have a problem saying no–but it’s also because I realize that in our church, there is only so much competence to spread around, and the church relies on the willingness of warm bodies to do things they don’t enjoy and may even suck at, just so their programs can keep going.  There is a less cynical way to word this, but I forget what it is.  Anyway, that is the context I wanted to give you:  I never say no.

Until last week, when the bishopric counselor told me what they wanted me to do and asked me what I thought about that idea (or words to that effect).  And I said, “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you.  I don’t like the idea at all.”  And the poor counselor was like, “Wow.  Really.“    He had no idea what to do with this information.  I can only imagine what must have been going through his head.  Fortunately, being the sort of person I am, I immediately felt the need to explain myself.

It’s not that I don’t like Primary.  I have several (past) years of Primary service under my belt.  Mostly as a pianist, but also short stints as a music leader and a teacher.  I enjoy being in Primary inasmuch as I enjoy being around children.  I don’t particularly enjoy being responsible for children.  Music leader is okay because while there’s more interaction with the children than you have as a pianist (for obvious reasons), you only have to teach them to sing songs.  So you’re up in front of a group of 20-60 children, acting like a fool and trying to get their attention, but there are a bunch of other adults in the room who are responsible for making sure they don’t start fistfights with their neighbors or indecently expose themselves.  (You see a lot from the front of the room that you’d just as soon not see.  But that’s another story.)  All you have to do is put on the dog and pony show.

Being a Primary teacher means that for one hour you are in a big room where you have “sharing time” and “singing time” and you have to make sure your group of sweethearts aren’t acting up or indecently exposing themselves (note:  this latter one doesn’t really happen that often–it’s just not a thing one ever forgets), and then for another hour you are in a very small room where it’s just you and your group of kids and you’re expected not only to teach them something but also to make sure they don’t get so noisy that they disturb the class in the tiny room next door and that they don’t start fights with each other and they don’t try to leave the room unsupervised and hopefully no one starts crying, but if someone does, you should do something about it.  I’m no good at this stuff.

It’s not that I don’t like children.  Did I already say that?  I used to not like children, before I had children of my own.  Now I like children.  I like children even more  now that I know I’m not going to have any more of my own.  I can’t explain it, it’s just true!  But children don’t like me.  I can’t say I blame them.  Most adults aren’t that comfortable with me, either.  I used to not understand this, until I realized that I have a condition known as Chronic Bitch Face.  Historically people have told me that I don’t smile enough, i.e. at all.  It’s true, I’m not a smiler.  But I don’t know many people who smile all the time.  I’ve watched people on the streets and in stores and even at church, and I see very, very few people smiling at all times.  But apparently my “neutral” face is far more offensive to humans than the average “neutral” face.  (I’m not sure about its effect on animals, since I purposely avoid contact with animals if possible.)

But it’s not that I’m unwilling to teach Primary.  It’s not my favorite thing on earth, but as I said, I like children (as a casual observer), and I have taught Primary and I do teach Primary (as a substitute), and it isn’t horrible…except for that one time a bunch of five-year-old made me cry.  (In my defense, it was a long time ago, and there were ten of them.)  My feelings about teaching Primary weren’t the main reason I told the counselor I hated the idea.  I may be an awful Primary teacher, but I’m willing to be awful for the Kingdom’s sake.  I know how important a warm body is.

The problem is this:  My husband is a great Primary teacher.  He’s a great Primary teacher because he’s a great teacher period–he started out wanting to teach for a living, until the lure of Corporate America and its Salaries You Can Raise a Family On proved too difficult to resist[1]–and also because, for some strange reason, kids like him.  (Apparently he doesn’t have a bitch face.)  I am proud of my husband’s talents and skills.  I don’t think that I feel a sense of competition with him–but I think that is mainly because I don’t spend a lot of time sucking at stuff in the same room where he is being brilliant at it.  Am I out there running scientific experiments and developing processes for manufacturing superconductors?  No.  Am I out there earning a living?  No.  Do I move heavy furniture?  Only when he makes me.  So, yeah, maybe you can understand my hesitation to join a team with only two members where I’m destined to be the weakest link.

The counselor didn’t really understand–or rather, he thought I was just being modest–or rather, having a self-esteem problem.  He may have been right–well, of course he was–but sometimes self-esteem problems are based on fact.  I rather pride myself on basing my poor self-image on facts.  (It is one of the things I do well–how dare he try to take that away from me?)  But whatever.  Long story attempted to make short but failed, I ended up feeling so guilty (another thing I’m good at) about saying no that I finally told him I’d think about it.  And I did think about it.  I thought about it a lot.  I thought about it more than I wanted to.  And the more I thought about it, the more it became like my decision to have a fourth child–I got so tired of thinking about it that I decided to just go ahead and do it, even if it was wrong, just so I could stop thinking about it.

So now I’m team-teaching a bunch of 6-year-olds at church with my husband.  At least six-year-olds have never made me cry.  (Except for the ones who were related to me.)

.

[1] Also, he discovered that he doesn’t like grading papers.

Problems at the tail end of 2010

First of all, I trust all you gentle readers had a good Christmas, or, if you do not celebrate Christmas, that you had a good December 25 anyway.  Maybe it wasn’t so good if you wanted to go out to dinner or buy something at the grocery store and had to make do with whatever was available at the Rite Aid or the 7-Eleven, but hopefully that was not the case.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh, the niceties.  Yes, I hope your Christmas was as enjoyable as mine was.  Heck, I hope it was even more enjoyable, because it costs me nothing to wish you better fortune than I myself receive, though I myself received plenty.  Of good fortune.  So I can afford not to be bitter over how much better your life is than mine because I have nothing to complain about in the first place.* *Except what I might complain about over the course of this blog post, but even those complaints are relatively trivial and not to be taken seriously.

Now that manners and boilerplate are out of the way, let me tell you what’s rendering me perturbed at the moment.

1.  I’m beginning to think that it would be worth the $15,000-30,000 to have our windows replaced just to get the window salesmen to stop coming around here.  I’m not a fan of the door-to-door sales thing.  I’m especially not a fan of the door-to-door sales thing that poses as a non-sales thing.  “First of all, I’m not here to sell you anything.”  Well, if you’re not here to sell me something, why are you bothering me?  What’s in it for you?  Can’t we just be adults about this?  But that’s neither here nor there.  The main reason I don’t like the door-to-door sales thing is not because it’s irritating but because I hate saying “no.”  Not to kids.  No, I love saying “no” to my kids.  But to perfect strangers who never did me any harm and are only trying to make a living?  Gosh, that just breaks my freaking heart.  But I resent the heartbreak, gentle readers.  I resent feeling obligated to buy stuff I don’t need, and I resent feeling guilty about not buying it, so there’s no way I can win in this scenario.  I resent innocent people coming to my door and forcing me into a no-win situation.  And during the Christmas season, too.  Bastards.

And that is why I don’t like door-to-door sales.

It’s an embarrassing position to be in, incidentally–a Mormon who opposes door-to-door sales.  Don’t think I don’t grasp the irony.  But personally, I would much rather see Jehovah’s Witnesses on my porch than window salespersons.  I don’t feel guilty telling the Jehovah’s Witnesses that I’m not interested.  It’s not like their livelihood depends on me becoming a Jehovah’s Witness.  They’re not going to walk away sad about anything except that I’m going to hell.  I can handle that.  Not that I’ve ever had to tell a Jehovah’s Witness I wasn’t interested.  I’ve never had a Jehovah’s Witness be that direct with me.  Maybe it’s the region of the country I live in.  Maybe they’re just grateful when you don’t yell at them.  All I’m saying is I get the sense they’re not really in it to win it.  One of the important differences between Mormon missionaries and Jehovah’s Witnesses, incidentally.

The question is whether window salespersons are more like Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses.  Mormons tend to travel by bike, whereas the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the window salespersons tend to travel by foot.  Mormons and window salespersons have little name tags.  Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t have name tags.  Mormons travel in single-sex pairs.  Jehovah’s Witnesses and window salespersons can travel in mixed-gender groups.  But the most important things that they all have in common are that they show up on your doorstep unwanted and none of them are real Christians.* *According to the pamphlets I’ve read.

2.  It’s time for my annual angst over a holiday bonus/tip for the housekeepers.  I will have to tell it in novel form.

I hired a cleaning service in 2007.  When they started, it was always the same team that came.  If it wasn’t the exact same set of ladies each time, at least one of them was consistently there each visit.  They did a great job.  In September of that year the house caught on fire and since we weren’t living in the house anymore, we stopped the cleaning service.  We opted not to use it at our rental and just clean it our damn selves, since we were hemorrhaging cash at the time.

We did hire the same service to do a move-out clean of said rental in December–specifically December 31.  I’m pretty sure I blogged an angry blog about that experience at the time.  How may I put it succinctly?  We hired them to clean the rental.  Someone put in the wrong code and the housekeeping team (a different one, not the old one) showed up at our real house, which we were in the process of moving back into and which was therefore filled with boxes and all manner of other crap.  Finding the house in this condition, the housekeepers did not clean it (though they were nice enough to leave a note about getting the house ready for cleaning and re-scheduling for another time).  I will leave out the part where I was livid whilst spending several hours trying to get hold of a supervisor who would take my call and believe that they had sent the team to the wrong house.  At 4:30 p.m. I (miraculously, still don’t know how it happened, in retrospect) got a supervisor to understand that an error had been made.  Not that she admitted it was an error.  I’m leaving out the part where she was a bitch, pardon my francais. Anyway, she sent a team over to clean the (correct) house, which they did, albeit not very carefully, for which I can’t completely blame them, for they were being asked unexpectedly to do a move-out clean at the last minute on a major holiday eve.  Whatever.  None of what made me really angry was the fault of the housekeepers themselves, but that’s just the background you need for the following.

When we resumed the housekeeping service in January 2008, a new team started coming to the house.  They weren’t quite as good as the old housekeepers, and frankly, they were a bit surly–which was fine, actually, because it’s not like I’m a big box of giggles myself.  At any rate, they lasted three or four visits, and then a different team started coming, and that is pretty much how it’s been ever since.  I have never had the same people cleaning my house for more than a couple visits in a row.  Often it’s a different team from visit to visit; generally, they do a fine job, but some are better than others.  In any case, they’re all doing a job I don’t like to do myself, so I can’t bring myself to complain.

This is all very nouveau riche and gauche of me, but I’ve had conflicting advice about whether or not I should be tipping/bonusing the housekeepers at the holidays.  As of now, I have had the same team cleaning my house for the last five or six cleans.  That is a record for the post-fire era.  They do a very good job.  I would like to give them a holiday thank-you.  However, historically, there has been no guarantee that I will have the same housekeepers from one visit to the next, especially not around the holidays, so if I leave something extra for the cleaning crew, it may very well go to some strangers I’ve never seen before who may or may not do a great job.  Some people say if you have a service that doesn’t send the same people every time, such niceties as holiday bonuses and tips are unnecessary.  Other people (I suspect former housekeepers) say that you should especially tip people who work for a service and you should do it every time, not just at Christmas.

Well, half the time I don’t even see my housekeepers, so I don’t know if they’re going to be the usual people until after they’ve been here and leave the receipt that says, “Your house was professionally cleaned by Team #Whatever aka Lexi and America (or Whoever),” and I certainly don’t know in advance if the new team is going to do as good a job as the last team did.  However, I suppose that if I’m going to get all philosophical about it, everyone could use a bonus at the end of the year and why should I be so concerned about whether it’s Team #Last5or6Times or Team #WhoKnows?  Hence, the angst.

3.  There’s a lot of fudge lying around here that lends itself very well to being eaten by yours truly.  I felt so guilty about the amount of fudge I ate yesterday that I went out to the (freezing cold) garage last night and rode the exercise bike and worked off nearly three-quarters of a piece worth of fudge.  Whee.  That’s serious.  Fudge has a lot of calories.  I would probably have to ride the exercise bike continuously between now and next February to come out ahead, but that’s neither here nor there.  The point is that there’s a lot of fudge-eating going on by one particular human being in the house, and it bodes ill for the coming year.  That’s all.

A face you can trust

Now there’s really nothing to talk about.  The Oregon gubernatorial election is finally over.  We were trending red right up until they started counting Multnomah County–you know, where all the people live.  Then the world turned rightside-up again and here we are, staring at John Kitzhaber’s creepy mustache for the next four years.  Well, let’s face it, the next eight.  Then he can take a seven-year sabbatical and run for governor again in 2025.  He’ll only be 78 years old.  I just realized he’s the same age as my dad.  My dad doesn’t have a creepy mustache, though.

Not anymore, anyway.  Do you know that when I was a young child, my father did have a creepy mustache?  Of course you didn’t know that because I’ve never told you.  (Of course, if you are related to me and, say, have the same dad I do, of course you knew that because you have pictures to prove it.  But that’s neither here nor there.  I’m telling a story, and you’re spoiling my folsky-yet-incoherent introduction.)  When I was born, my father was in the military (not on purpose–they drafted him), so he had to keep his hair short and be clean-shaven.  My father hated the military and he hated all the rules associated therewith, so as soon as he was discharged, he grew his hair long and also grew a mustache and beard.  I’ve seen pictures of that era.  He looked like a damn hippy.  Actually, the most famous picture of him during that era had him wearing his sister’s wig, but that’s another story–one that I, unfortunately, don’t have all the details on.  So just forget I said anything.

Anyway.  Eventually my father shaved off his beard, but he kept his mustache.  Not sure why.  Probably just because it was the ’70s.  (Shrug.)  It was a big bushy red mustache.  My father is a natural brunette like me–or was, before his hair turned gray and I started dying mine–but his facial hair, for some reason, was reddish.  If you want to consult this chart, it most closely resembled the Jose Bove.  So when I was a young girl, my dad had a mustache.  UNTIL one fateful day, when I was, I dunno, five? he got called to serve as a counselor in the bishopric at church, and he had to shave it off.

Mormons have this thing about facial hair–or at least they have since, I dunno, that era of the damn hippy.  We started out a bunch of beard-wearing polygamists–well, the men were; not much documentation of women wearing beards, much less taking spare wives, but that’s not my point–but in the twentieth century we were mainstreaming, so to set ourselves apart from the counterculture, we decided the righteous thing to do would be to have everyone shave.  (Except for the womenfolk, who bleached.  Ha ha.  Well, they did!)  Sure, some people still kept their facial hair, but men in leadership positions were almost always clean-shaven.  They still are, actually.  You can’t have a beard or mustache at BYU, unless you have a medical condition that prohibits you from shaving and have applied for a “beard card.”  Or unless you are a woman, but again, that’s off my point.  What is my point?  Oh, yeah, I’m telling a story.

So my dad gets called to the bishopric and he has to shave off his mustache.  As my mother told the story, it was Saturday night and they were talking and paying bills or some such thing, and my dad left the room at one point, and when he walked back in, the mustache was gone.  She was very surprised.  I think she knew he had to shave it, but she wasn’t expecting him to just do it right then.  Anyway, the next morning he had to go to church early because that’s what bishopric guys do, so he left way before the rest of the family and none of the rest of us knew that he’d shaved off his mustache.

So we’re at church and they announce the new bishopric, and there’s my dad up on the stand behind the pulpit–or at least the cat they say is my dad.  I’m not quite sure I believe it because my dad has a mustache, and this is some smooth-faced freak I’ve never met.  Seriously, I couldn’t stand to look at him the whole time we were at church.  He just looked WEIRD.  I don’t remember when I started looking at him again, but the good news is that it didn’t really take me that long to get used to it (kids are resilient, you know), and my father has never worn a mustache since.  Not because he thinks it’s unrighteous, but…actually, I have no idea why he’s never grown one again.  I think my mother might have preferred him without the mustache, since she said he was always getting food in it and crap.  And I have to say, he does look much better without one.

Generally, I prefer my men clean-shaven.  It may be a cultural bias, but whatever.  That’s me.  I think most men look better without facial hair than with facial hair, but I acknowledge that there are certain men who do look better with a mustache.  Arsenio Hall, for one.  Um…I’m trying to think of another.  Michael Gross–way better looking with the beard and mustache.  Let’s see…goodness, who else?  NOT Joaquin Phoenix.  NOT Brad Pitt.  But the list of NOTS is so long, I should probably not start.  Plenty of people I know in real life but you have no idea who they are, so it doesn’t merit discussion in this venue.  Anyway, it doesn’t matter.  I think whether or not a man wears a beard and/or mustache is between him and his wife (or husband, as the case may be).  As for me and my house, I’ve threatened to divorce Sugar Daddy if he ever grows a mustache because, dude, NO.  Just no.  (Unless he develops a medical condition, in which case he can apply for a beard card.  But I gotta tell you, I’m pretty stingy with those.)

What was the point of this story?  Well, I’m still waiting for that to reveal itself.  John Kitzhaber is the new (old) governor of Oregon, he’s got a creepy mustache, my dad used to have a creepy mustache but was never governor of Oregon–you see how everything is interrelated; I just can’t quite make sense out of it.  I’ll have to get back to you on that.  Meanwhile, I have to make a list for grocery shopping.  That has nothing to do with mustaches, so I will bid you gentle readers adieu and let you get back to your regular scheduled programming.

The violence of summer

I’ve decided to become a stealth blogger, posting only on the weekends, when no one will see me.

It has been an eventful summer thusfar.  Elvis has been in day camp for the last three weeks.  I’ve pulled him out of camp for this week because Mister Bubby has Cub Scout day camp and Princess Zurg has drama day camp, and I figured there wasn’t any way I could possibly pick up all three of them from their respective camps on time, so I wouldn’t even try.  Sugar Daddy fell ill on Friday afternoon, and after 48 hours of having Elvis all to myself (or nearly all to myself), I am beginning to think that I should have made more of an attempt to bend time and space or hire an additional driver or something because the next five days of non-stop Elvis is looking more than a little daunting.

I’m pretty sure he misses school.  If he isn’t insisting on doing his Math Minutes, he’s insisting on doing his Phonics workbook.  For your information, there are 100 Math Minutes, and he has already been through them once and is doing them over again.  I suppose the good news is that at his rate of repetition, he ought to be mostly up to grade level by the time September rolls around.  The bad news is that he can’t do any of this on his own–where he doesn’t need actual assistance, he needs moral support, or an audience, or whatever.  And for every second you let him wait, he starts in with the screeching.  He threw some balls over the roof for a little while last night, so that was a good sign.  His speech therapist recommended I force him to do heavy labor, but not being a heavy-labor sort of gal myself, I’m not sure what I’d have him do.  I’m afraid I’m going to have to start chasing him around the park or something.  I’m not much of a runner, either.

Today I had to teach SD’s Primary class (6-7-year-olds).  Fortunately, most of the children were on vacation.  There were only four of them in class, which is almost a manageable size for me.  Children dislike me without fearing me, which is not a good combination for an authority figure.  So, actually, officially, I hate teaching Primary.  But I do enjoy being in Primary because other people’s children are amusing when they’re not bugging the living crap out of me.  Not unlike my own children.  Anyway.

During “sharing time” (large group meeting, before we split into classes) they were asking the kids how they could “follow in Jesus’s footsteps.”  The kids were saying stuff like, “I can pray,” “I can help people,” “I can be nice to people,” and so on and so on.  Then they got to this one kid who said, “I can make people alive after they’re dead.”  I don’t know who that kid was, but I like him.

In class the lesson was supposed to be “I Can Be Kind.”  It’s a pretty straightforward lesson, in theory.  First we talked about the story of the Good Samaritan.  We talked about how the thieves stole the poor guy’s money and his clothes, and one of the kids said, “Did they even take his underwear?”  And they all had a good naughty chuckle over that.  Then later I had them act out the story, and the kid playing the man set upon by thieves turned into a zombie and attacked all the passersby, including the Good Samaritan.  He even attacked the innkeeper.  After a brisk walk around the church building, I had them draw some pictures.  The one girl in the class drew some flowers and “I love you.”  Two of the boys drew guys with guns killing other guys.  The third boy drew a bunch of squares whilst singing opera.

This is why I’m glad I’m only in Primary occasionally.  I couldn’t possibly enjoy any of this if I felt that I was responsible for teaching anyone anything.

The title of this blog is taken from an old Duran Duran song.  Do you remember it?  Why would you?  But that’s what was on my mind this evening.

And now I’m being recruited to assist Elvis with his Math Minutes.  It may be a while before you hear from me again.

7 Habits of Highly Effective Stealth-Mormons

Cross-posted at By Common Consent.

So I was just about to swear off any resolutions for 2010 when I read this story about radio host Delilah pulling her kids out of Crosspoint Academy because the school adopted a book by Stephen Covey as part of its curriculum.

“I would like to say that I am merely ‘deeply concerned’ about a recent addition to the school’s teaching philosophy, but instead, I am forced to admit I am actually HORRIFIED by the recent addition of a book by Mormon author Steven (sic) Covey,” she wrote in a Nov. 24 open letter to Crosspoint parents.

Further, she wrote that she believes in freedom of religion and does not object to Mormon beliefs or the yoga-type, Eastern religion activities Covey advocates. She said in a recent interview, however, that the materials don’t belong in a Christian school.

“It’s not about being intolerant. It’s about being true to my faith,” she said. “I don’t have a problem with Stephen Covey and businesses that use it. I don’t have any problem with people who want to sign up for yoga classes or attend the church of Satan if they want to. That’s their right. But I can’t imagine someone paying money to send their kids to Brigham Young University so they can get a good basis in Mormon faith and then having their kid come home and saying his new teacher was a Catholic priest teaching the Apocrypha.”

Some commentators have said this shows Delilah is anti-Mormon. I really don’t care if she is or not. I don’t blame Delilah for trying to maintain the purity of her children’s Christian education, and where she sends them to school is none of my concern, deep or otherwise. (She could send them to a Satanic school, for all I care!) Her BYU analogy is a little off, though. Surely most Mormon parents would be confused if their kids’ Sunday School teacher turned out to be a Catholic priest teaching the Apocrypha as though it were canonical Mormon scripture, but I don’t think any would object to their kids studying the Apocrypha in a university setting; if nothing else, having a non-Mormon professor would be a missionary opportunity, but more on that later.

I admit that I have never read any Stephen R. Covey books. I think I may have once read a Reader’s Digest article authored by him–something about parenting–but I don’t really remember anything that was in it. I have glanced over Covey’s “seven principles of highly effective people,” and I can only make heads or tails out of the first five. Once he gets to “synergize,” he loses me. But apparently Delilah “is concerned [wait--would that be "merely" concerned?] that the leadership materials [based on Covey's books] introduce Mormon tenets in a way that is palatable to non-Mormons.”

So look here: I’ve been a Mormon all my life, and despite my lack of BYU degree, I know quite a bit about Mormon theology. I don’t think Brother Covey would be nearly as successful as he is if he’d based his Seven Principles business on something as esoteric and wackado as that. I don’t doubt that Covey’s Mormonism has strongly influenced his personal philosophy–Mormonism is a pervasive corrupting agent–but I suspect that reading one of his books and coming out of it with a greater tendency toward believing in Joseph Smith’s prophetic calling would require more work than most grade-schoolers are willing to perform. (Not that Delilah asked for my reassurances, but there they are.)

However, I am curious about how “Mormon” Covey’s work really is. Delilah says it is “veiled Mormonism.” (Really, is there any other kind?) I don’t think she has any basis for saying this, as pinpointing the distinctly Mormon qualities in something would require a thorough knowledge of Mormon theology and tradition, and anyone who goes to the trouble of acquiring that would probably not be “HORRIFIED” when her children are tangentially exposed to it. But I’m open to the possibility that she has inadvertently hit on some truth here.

Actually, I’m particularly hopeful that she has inadvertently hit on some truth because while the Church strongly encourages its members to share the gospel with all the world, I myself have never been inclined in this direction. Religion is just so, you know, personal, and I hate to make other people feel uncomfortable. I hate it almost as much as making myself uncomfortable. Inviting someone to church or giving them a Book of Mormon is so hard-core. If I could get away with just handing them a Stephen R. Covey book and thereby introducing them to Mormonism in a way that is palatable to them, that would a) relieve some of my guilt over not evangelizing as I ought, b) not make anyone uncomfortable, and c) seduce some unsuspecting innocents into joining the Mormon Love Train. Win-win-win.

Just so we’re clear, I don’t want to debate the question of whether or not Delilah is some kind of religious bigot. Bigot is such an ugly word; I myself would go with “hysterical” and/or “ignorant.” But none of that interests me. I’m sure she’s a very nice person, anyway. No, I want those of you who have read The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People or are otherwise familiar with Covey’s work and leadership programs to tell me more about this “veiled Mormonism.” I’d read the books myself, but, you know, I didn’t drop out of graduate school so I could do research on “synergy,” dig? What’s the point of having a blog if you can’t exploit your readership for free information?

Your cooperation is appreciated in advance.

Monday check-in

This morning Mister Bubby informed me that he needs a new coat.  He would like a green coat “with not a stupid hood.”  He has previously informed me that hoods make him look “like a jerk.”  He doesn’t want a red coat because red coats make you look “like a girl.”  (Eventually they fade and turn pink.)  “And blue coats are…creepy.”  Okay, then.

Today Girlfriend walked out the front door and said, “Oh, no, Mom–we need more leaves!  We need to get them out of our yard and back onto our green tree!”  I guess autumn is kind of freaking her out this year.

And what do you think happened this weekend?  Yesterday I substitute-taught Elvis’s Primary (children’s Sunday School) class.  Elvis was a little thrown off by me being his teacher for the day, but all he said was, “Where’s Dad?” and “I want snack.”  I didn’t know anyone’s name (except, you know, my own son’s); even though I recognized a couple of the kids, I couldn’t remember what they were called, for the life of me, or who their parents were.  So I asked everyone to tell me their name, but this one kid wouldn’t do it.  I asked if I could call him Steve.  He said he didn’t like that name.  I said, “That’s not my problem, Steve.”  Then one of the other kids betrayed him and told me his real name, so I just used that.

I didn’t hate teaching Primary yesterday.  This differentiates yesterday’s experience from all my previous experiences with teaching Primary, including the time I taught it for six months.  (Or was it four months?  It seemed like eight.  Anyway.)  I think the secret was low expectations.  I didn’t particularly prepare a lesson because my observation has been that there isn’t time but to get about sixteen words in between them telling you about their new puppy or their dead grandpas or how much they like Scooby Doo, and only three of those sixteen words will they actually hear, but they won’t remember them anyway, so whatever.

Yesterday they all asked for their snack first thing, which I also wasn’t particularly prepared for.  The teacher told me they usually started off with a snack, but for some reason I just sort of ignored that.  Ordinarily I am a big believer in plying kids with food just to get them to be quiet for a few minutes, so I think I just must have been in serious denial that I was actually teaching a Primary class.  Anyway, the lesson was supposed to be on fasting, and what better way to teach a bunch of six-year-olds about fasting than by denying them their snack?  Eh?  It was like Providence had a hand in my lack of foresight.

Except that I quickly realized that I really wasn’t going to get by without feeding them, so I rummaged in my church bag for any snacks left over from when I was shoveling food in my own kids’ mouths to keep them quiet during sacrament meeting.  I found some, too.  Fruit snacks.  Quality.  Everyone was impressed.

So they ate their fruit snacks.  I tried to talk a little about fasting and fast offerings, and we all discussed how old everyone was and how many dead grandpas we had (I won that game, as all my grandpas are dead), and then we took a walk around the church building and stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water and disturbed the class that was meeting in the room next door.  When we left the kitchen, we ran into the ward’s new scoutmaster in the hall, and he tried to convince the kids that their teacher was really cool and/or smart, but none of them believed him.  Then we went back to the classroom and did coloring sheets.  One boy painted everyone’s skin green, except for Jesus, whom he painted blue.  And that was my day teaching Primary.

This morning I am so sleepy I could cry.  I don’t remember what I dreamed last night, but apparently it wasn’t conducive to restfulness.  What will Monday bring?

What happened in Vegas?

I don’t think I even announced on the blog that I was going to Vegas.  I think I didn’t have time.  Or I was lazy.  Yeah, lazy.  Well, whatever–I was going to go to Vegas, and in fact I did follow through and actually go to Vegas, and now I’m back.  That’s why I was driving around in the middle of nowhere at 1 a.m. the other day.  (I was going to say “Monday night,” but technically it was Tuesday morning, but who thinks of 1 a.m. as “morning”?  It’s just too confusing to assign an actual day, which is why I decided to go with “the other.”  Clever of me, huh?  This helpful writing tip is complimentary to you, courtesy Madhousewife.  You’re welcome.)  I was driving home from the airport–which, I can assure you, I’ve done plenty of times, even in the dark, without complications.  I was just really tired on the other day, so I got confused and consequently lost.  Getting confused and consequently lost is a regular occurrence with me, especially when driving.  It just doesn’t usually happen on the way home from the airport.  Driving home from the airport has historically been a consistent “winner” for me, which is why my self-confidence has really been hurt by this recent incident.  I don’t think I’ll be flying for a while (which is good because my husband already informed me that I’m not allowed to leave home for the rest of 2009).

As I was saying, though, I was in Vegas, but now I’m home.  You might be wondering why I went to Vegas in the first place.  That is, you might be wondering, if you weren’t in Vegas with me–for that is why I went to Vegas, gentle reader:  to meet some sister bloggers, including my (actual) sister, Cheryl, Alison Wonderland, Susan M, flip flop mama, Janelle, and Shantae (invitation-only, sorry suckahs! well, don’t feel bad, I don’t have one either).  Yes, that makes eight Mormon ladies in Las Vegas for the weekend.  I know what you’re thinking now:  “Still confused.”  What is there for eight Mormon ladies to do in Las Vegas, anyway?  Well, I’ll tell you:  not much.  Fortunately, our people are an industrious lot, and we can find stuff to do anywhere–even in a city that was made especially not for us.

It’s interesting that as many years as I’ve been blogging, I have only just started meeting any fellow/sister bloggers in real life in the last couple of months.  That’s probably because I’ve only really started interacting with other Mormon bloggers in the last year.  That’s the thing about Mormons:  wherever two or more of us are gathered, someone starts craving refreshments, and you can only serve refreshments in real life–hence, you must meet one another in real life!  Mormons are very good about organizing and throwing parties.  It’s one of the things I appreciate most about our culture.

I, for one, started eating Cheetos mere seconds after getting into Cheryl’s car.  (She and Allison picked me up at the airport.)  And thus was our friendship sealed.  FOREVER.

What Do Mormons Do in Sin City?

We commit sins of omission.  For example, we did not see any shows.  No, not even Donny and Marie.  Yes, I know, “how do Mormons go to Las Vegas and not see Donny and Marie?”  Well, it’s easy. Donny and Marie were, like, $100 a ticket.  Dude, no one loves Donny and Marie that much.  Correction:  Nobody I know loves Donny and Marie that much.  We also missed Siegfried and Roy’s last show, apparently.  Also, the NASCAR convention, or whatever it was.  A bunch of NASCAR people converging on Las Vegas.  A NASCAR convergence?  Whatever.  We didn’t do any of that stuff.

We did go to the top of the Stratosphere, but we didn’t ride any rides.  I know, how lame is that?  Well, two of the three rides up there were closed for maintenance, and anyway, the Stratosphere is really, really high!  I was getting sick just looking out the window.  I wasn’t about to get inside some rickety something-or-other to fly around and get sick on other people and possibly wet myself out of pure terror.  I got enough of that on my last trip to Magic Mountain.  And apparently my traveling companions had similar feelings about the issue.  So we just looked out the window.

What were we doing in Las Vegas again?  You ask too many questions.  Just let me tell my story, will you?

We went out for Thai food and were serenaded by a very talented lounge singer we christened “Kenny” because he sounded a lot like Kenny Rogers and we were too shy to ask him for his real name.

We walked through a bunch of casinos and didn’t play any games because seriously, it’s so sad that people waste their lives that way.

If only the house we rented had such marvelous ceilings!

Some of us went to the temple (we have one in Las Vegas because for some reason, lots of Mormons live there).  However, while those good ladies were at the temple, Susan, Bythelbs and I went to the Liberace Museum.  The Liberace Museum is awesome because a) it’s freaking Liberace, dude, and b) it’s located in a strip mall.

It’s housed in two buildings, at opposite ends of the strip mall, and between the two buildings are an international market, a tailor, and a Hookah Smoke Shop, among other things.  The first building is devoted to Liberace’s personal and family history and his cars and pianos.  The second building houses his costumes and jewelry and other assorted artifacts, including the world’s biggest rhinestone.  Who knew there was such a thing as the world’s biggest rhinestone?  But where else would it be, besides the Liberace Museum?

The best part is the life-size cardboard Liberace wearing his red, white and blue “hot pants” outfit.  I didn’t get a picture of cardboard Liberace because I was too busy posing with him for someone else’s picture.  But this should give you an idea:

Helpful hint: Liberace had very hairy legs

On Sunday we went to the Valley of Fire national park.  (That was our requisite sin of commission:  we ditched church on Sunday.  I know.  We were wild, I tell you, wild!)  The Valley of Fire makes an interesting contrast to the city of Las Vegas.  Las Vegas is an amazing spectacle–everything done to excess, but ultimately a whole lot of nothing.  It is probably the most depressing place I have ever seen.  (Easy for me to say–I didn’t even take in a single naked vampire show!)  The Valley of Fire is truly spectacular.  My pictures don’t do it justice.  The rocks are very red.  The sky that day was very blue.  It was really a gorgeous day.  I took more pictures there than I’ve probably taken anywhere, but only a couple were really any good, and that was mostly on accident because I’m a terrible photographer.  Every so often, though, the natural world overcomes my incompetence.

Technically, that’s not entirely the natural world as the bright white lines were made by airplanes, but still–kind of cool, eh?

Anyway, that’s what I did on my Vegas vacation.  The best part was meeting all these wonderful ladies and enjoying their fine company.  Thank you, ladies!  You were better than naked vampires any day of the week.  (And you know I mean that.)

Holiday PAR-TAY-ing edition

Mormonfolk had a discussion recently on BCC about whether it was kosher (in the Mormon sense–hm, what would be a good Mormon word for “kosher”?  note to self:  think on that later, get back to the blog now) to have alcohol served in your home at a holiday party or in some other entertaining scenario.  Actually, the specific question was what you would do if a co-worker, knowing there would be no alcohol served at your party, asked you if it would be okay to bring his own adult beverages.  Last I checked, the responses were about 50-50, Cool vs. Not Cool.  Some said, “Of course I would have alcohol for my guests who want to enjoy it.  It’s only what a gracious host would do.”  And others said, “My house, my rules.”  Do you want to know what I said?  Of course you do, or you wouldn’t be reading!  My response was “Why would I have alcohol in my home when I don’t drink alcohol?”  I mean, if people want to be drinking alcohol that badly, I assume they would be someplace-not-the-Mormon’s-house.  I don’t think of it as “my house, my rules.”  I think of it as…”I don’t drink alcoholic beverages and never have drunk alcoholic beverages, and therefore I don’t think of alcoholic beverages as being an essential component of a holiday party or other entertaining scenario, and therefore if I am forced to think about it, I have to come down on the side of ‘If my company is so insufficient for these revelers’ needs, why would they want to come to my party in the first place?’  Harumph!”  (I threw that “Harumph!” in just for you, sis.)

I can’t say that I’ve hosted a lot of parties in my day, though.  Those parties that I have hosted have tended to be largely Mormon affairs because, well, I know a lot of Mormons.  I’m forced to interact with Mormons, so they tend to be the people I get to know.  I don’t have nearly as much occasion to interact with regular old people to the same extent, and therefore my circle of non-Mormon friends and acquaintances is limited to Sugar Daddy’s co-workers, parents of my kids’ friends, the next-door neighbors, and people I knew in high school and college.  (I suppose I also have non-Mormon friends in my tap class, but I haven’t invited any of them to parties yet.  Maybe I should.  Note to self.)  Anyway, I’ve never hosted some big holiday gala whereunto I would be inviting a significant number of potential social-drinkers.  The last big party we threw was for Mister Bubby’s baptism, and there were exactly four not-Mormons there, only two of whom were of legal drinking age, and I think they would have felt uncomfortable if I had offered them beer just to make them feel more comfortable.  And the more I think about it, the more I think I would feel uncomfortable having beer and wine in my house when beer and wine are taboo for everyone who lives in my house.  I can’t explain why.  I just would.

Let me tell you the extent of my experience with drinking and parties.

I remember going to my first (and last) college party.  It was the week before school started, and I was a freshman, and hardly any students had arrived yet.  Some townies were hosting a party, and someone invited my roommate and me to go, and me being away from home and uncharacteristically not feeling like being alone said, “Sure, I’ll go a party”–not realizing that there would be nothing for a Mormon girl to do at a party hosted by townies for college students.  And truly, there was nothing for me to do.  It was the most miserable, most boring two hours of my life, and you must remember that I had been going to church every week for twenty years, so I knew what boring was.  There was no food.  There was no one (sober) to talk to.  There was no television.  A couple people might have been playing Nintendo in the basement.  There was no fussball, but even if there were, I didn’t play fussball, so that would have been a dead end anyway.  But I don’t know.  I was pretty desperate, so I might have taken it up, but like I said, that’s neither here nor there.  I suppose if I’d wanted to make out with somebody, I could have gotten lucky–but I don’t think that thought ever crossed my mind.  Also, as the only sober person, I felt pretty invisible.  Actually, I eventually found another sober person; he was the designated driver and he drove me and some other (drunk) people back to the college.  (My roommate stayed and got plastered and threw up.)  So that was an experience.  I vividly recall thinking, “I totally understand why people drink at parties even if they might not particularly want to.  Because this is freaking depressing.”

Obviously, I have since been to more interesting parties that just happened to have alcohol at them, rather than parties that existed solely for the purpose of alcohol consumption.  And those parties didn’t depress me.  Nor did I notice anyone getting drunk at them.  But those parties also had plenty of food and sober-enough-to-talk-to people.  To me that is what’s essential to a party.  Of course I can see why others think differently.  Lots of people enjoy drinking wine (or whatever), not to get drunk but to, you know, relax and loosen up or whatever.  I guess for a lot of folks, having a couple drinks makes them more sociable.  I’ve never had a couple drinks, so I don’t know for sure, but knowing the extent of my social anxiety versus my tolerance for alcohol, I reckon that there is a very fine line between what would make me more sociable and what would make me fall asleep.

When I was eighteen my office had a little cake-eating party for a co-worker whose birthday it was, and the cake was a rum cake.  So I had this little sliver of cake soaked in rum, and I thought it was, eh, whatever.  Then I spent the next few hours feeling a tad…off.  I kept thinking, “What on earth is the matter with me today?” and then I realized it must have been the rum cake.  Maybe I ate it on an empty stomach.  (The idea of me having an empty stomach is somewhat laughable these days, but when I was eighteen, ‘twould not have been that unusual.)  Anyway, I didn’t enjoy the experience.  Not only was the cake not very good, but I didn’t like this “off” feeling.  I guess you could call it a “buzz.”  It was very annoying.  Perhaps I would have felt differently about it if I had been in a social situation instead of at work, but then again, if I’d not been at work, I would have been sorely tempted to go to sleep.  The sleep would have been nice for me, but I doubt anyone else would have found me more sociable.

Anyway, I like to know what I’m thinking and feel what I’m feeling.  Well, listen to me.  I opted against anesthesia during childbirth, so why would I enjoy a good buzz?  It just doesn’t stand to reason.

(Look, I know there are plenty of folks who enjoy the occasional drink as well as the occasional natural birth, so don’t hassle me here.  Lighten up.  Maybe you should have a couple drinks before you read my blog.  Or don’t drink.  Whatever’s preventing you from taking a joke, remedy it.)

So here’s the thing.  I don’t connect drinking with anything in my life, either for good or ill, because I don’t drink.  Therefore, I don’t connect it with the ability to enjoy oneself at a party.  It just wouldn’t occur to me that a lack of alcoholic beverage would correlate to a lack of social enjoyment because my brain just doesn’t work that way.  To me, any situation which proffers the opportunity for conversation with people not my children (no offense to them) is a party.  And if you throw in food, ta da!  You have achieved Super-Party.  So the standards are low, I’ll admit.  But that’s how my brain works.  If you came up to me and said, “Um, would it be okay if I brought my own beer/wine/Mike’s Hard Lemonade/gin/vodka/whiskey/etc. to the party, since you won’t be serving any?” I would be taken totally off guard and think it was a weird thing to ask.  And I would probably end up saying, “Um…really?  No.  Not really, no.”  And then our friendship might become strained, and that would be uncomfortable too.  But truth be told, I’d rather you just didn’t come than come and feel like you were being deprived of an essential partying factor.  That would be uncomfortable for me, too.

So now I sincerely and with some trepidation ask the following question:  Is it normal behavior to bring your own alcohol to a party where you know alcohol isn’t going to be served because your host doesn’t drink alcohol?  Because to me that seems a little weird.  I don’t bring my own roast beef to my vegan friend’s dinner party, even though she’s perfectly fine with me consuming meat in front of her.  Am I remiss in my social propriety?  Discuss.

And here’s a poll.  (Stupid PollDaddy isn’t working.  Harumph!)

Mormon missionary-beefcake calendar man gets emergency transfer…to Hell!

You might recall the blog I did a million years ago about the cat who made a calendar of young, attractive Mormon males, all returned missionaries for the church–only sans their white shirts, ties and black name tags, if you catch my drift, wink wink, nudge nudge.  Okay, I just grossed myself out.  So this dude, Chad Hardy (such a Mormon name), was excommunicated yesterday after a disciplinary meeting with his local church leaders.  I thought you would want to know.  Okay, I thought you would probably not care, but I needed something to blog about, and this story seemed to have potential.  Also, I’m too lazy to look up more relevant current events.

Some people–a lot of people, actually–probably think this punishment was a little bit of overkill.  I mean, it’s not like it was a naked calendar, just a shirtless one.  Also, they included pictures of the young men in their missionary attire, along with their personal testimonies of the Gospel.  It was, like, an alternative missionary effort, if you will.  Plus, part of the proceeds went to charity.  So what’s the big deal?

I don’t know what the big deal is.  I’d bet dollars to doughnuts, though, that it was more than just the calendar.  According to media accounts, some of the 12 calendar models were also called in for disciplinary meetings, but none was punished.  Prior to his church court, Hardy said, “You see more in a JCPenney catalog.  I just feel like my right to free speech is being violated.”

I always find it odd when Mormons get upset with the Church interfering with their right to free speech.  Not that I think people should just sit there and like it when the Church disciplines them for something as innocuous as a pretty boy calendar, but I just think it’s a strange way to characterize what is happening to them.  They can’t just say, “The church is way too uptight about x, and they shouldn’t be punishing me for this.”  No, it has to be something glamorous and earth-shattering, like their free speech is being violated–despite the fact that this isn’t a breach of the first amendment unless you’re just really confused about what the first amendment means.

I also notice that people will get all huffy about their rights being violated, but will say very little regarding their feelings about being formally separated from the body of Christ.  One would think that relevant, if they were upset about the possibility of excommunication.  But maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, after his church court, Hardy didn’t seem real torn up about the results.

“I have no ill feelings toward any of those people,” Hardy said of the church council. “They did what they believed was right and I really do feel it was the best decision for both of us.”

Which is convenient, since he doesn’t have a choice.  Just kidding.  I believe that Hardy is just fine with the decision, as he hasn’t been active in the church for several years, and hence he isn’t missing out on much by being excommunicated.  (Not in this life, anyway.)

I have about a dozen cynical takes on this, but none of them is very funny.  I was hoping for some funny to come out of this.

The 2009 calendar has sold about 10,000 copies.  On a totally unrelated note, does anyone happen to know how many gay men live in the Rocky Mountain region?  Just curious.

(And no, I’m not poaching TheTheologiansCafe‘s blog.  #1, it’s impossible to poach Dan’s blog.  #2, Mormons have the inalienable right to blog about Mormon-related stories before all other bloggers, even Theologians.)

(#2 “And no”–I don’t think Chad Hardy is really going to hell.  I don’t know where he’s going.  I don’t even know where I’m going.)

Special page for special Mormons: Get over thyselves

I have not been motivated to do much of anything lately, not even blog. My medication is in limbo, and the Reese’s peanut butter cups are not performing their usual magic, so maybe I am just in a bad mood, but it’s a woman’s prerogative to get annoyed for no good reason, at least once a month during her era of fertility, so if you’re not in the mood for petty carping, look elsewhere. You know, that sentence makes me sound much angrier than I probably am. I must have a lot of suppressed rage or something. Well, let’s do this thing.

This is not a Mormon blog. It’s a blog written by a Mormon lady who occasionally goes all Mormony on you. I enjoy mocking my own culture sometimes–not to be all subversive and in your face, but because that’s just how I roll. I mock because I love. I love being a Mormon, and I love Mormondom in general. That doesn’t mean I’m blind to the church’s flaws and weaknesses, in its leadership and/or its membership. Some people wonder why, considering all my doubts and alleged square-peggishness, a sarcastic suckhead like me sticks with an institution that is  designed for cookie-cutter sheep-type people with great teeth and awesome hair. Well, the fact is I am not that special, I don’t like my boat rocked, and my teeth and hair are pretty great, if not outstanding. But it comes down to this: the church is my home. Mormons are my family. We’ve got our skeletons and our crazy Aunt Myrtles. I can take good-natured jokes about this stuff because I’m willing to own the kooks and the skeletons. And in turn I can joke about it because I have such deep affection for the community–an affection I think is obvious to anyone who reads me without prejudice.

It is not obvious to a certain subset of Mormons, people who think being Mormon means never having to be ironic. I’m sorry that you people are irony-deficient. I wish there were a supplement you could take, because then you wouldn’t leave random comments on my site telling me that I’m bigoted and have no manners. This happens from time to time, and I usually shrug it off because, whatever, they don’t know me and they don’t care, why waste the emotion. When somebody leaves a comment like, “Your a little retard, Mormons are great,” I don’t even feel compelled to correct their spelling, or to point out that “retard” is not a euphemism that charming people use. I definitely don’t see the point in explaining that I myself think that Mormons are great, because if they didn’t want to understand the first time, they’re usually not motivated to get it the second time either.

So sometime last year I wrote a verbose review of a Mormon movie called Church Ball–which is an awful movie, largely because it is supposed to be a wacky comedy but it is not a bit funny, but also because it tries too hard not to be Mormon–and recently I got this comment on that post:

I must say, I have seen some of the Halestorm movies for the first time recently and has really enjoyed it. So did quite a few of my friends and family. Personaly I did not like “Sons of Provo”. I did not see “Church Ball” and would like to recomend the few that I found to be quite hillarious. So it could just be a matter of taste. I should also just remind you that if you only find movies funny if it contans an age restriction, profanity, swearing, nudity, adultery, etc. you cannot expect good clean family fun to entertain you and should thus not try and review it. The movies me and my family found to be quite entertaining are the following: “Baptists at our barbeque”, “The R.M.”, “Take a chance”. Hope you find that a little more to your taste. There are also other “mormon” movies, not by Halestorm that are really good. As far as your blog goes, I find it a little tasteless as anyone would find any blog trying to demean an institution because of personal issues.

First of all, where to begin. I’m assuming that if you enjoy Halestorm movies, you must be Mormon. I’m not going to assume that you’re a bad person, but I do figure that we won’t be running into each other at the cinema anytime soon. If you enjoy Halestorm movies, along with your family, who I’m sure are all lovely people, then bully for you. I enjoy a good rerun of What’s Happenin’, and I hope people don’t judge me too harshly for that. I liked Sons of Provo, you did not. That’s fine. Unlike my husband and ten-year-old, I don’t think everyone has to like what I like. Sons of Provo doesn’t fry your burger, and that’s good enough for me. Live and be well. You have not offended me.

What does trip my where-do-you-get-off wire is this implication that my failure to be entertained by Halestorm must be a function of my obvious jadedness. Maybe I “only find movies funny if it contans an age restriction, profanity, swearing, nudity, adultery, etc.” and thus have no business trying to review wholesome entertainment for decent folk.

I’ll have you know, missy–or mister, whichever–that I don’t think profanity and nudity make a movie funny, and I haven’t seen a movie with an “R” rating in more than twelve years. But unlike some people, I don’t think a movie’s good just because it has no swearing in it, and I’m not so desperate to be entertained that I’ll just laugh randomly and hope that a joke shows up to meet me halfway. When you’re recommending a movie to me, I want to know why it’s good, not that it’s inoffensive. Technically, I suppose Church Ball is inoffensive, unless you think it’s sinful to be boring.

That was my problem with Church Ball: it was boring. You’ve never seen it; you’re lucky. I have seen it, and that makes me the expert. It was not funny. It would not have been funnier if they’d said the F-word a lot. It would not have been funnier if they’d used the word “ass” instead of “butt.” It would not have been funnier if any of them had been naked. It would not have been funnier if the entire cast had been naked. It would not have been funnier if there had been more sinning. What would have made it funnier was if there had been authentic characters and a coherent storyline. Perhaps with your limited cinematic experience, you believe that authentic characters and coherent storylines can only be achieved through obscenity. That has not been my observation.

As to the movies you recommended, I haven’t seen any of them but The R.M. I didn’t find The R.M. a very good movie, but it was funnier than Church Ball, by at least a hundred points. Its quality was uneven, but it did have an authentic main character and a semi-coherent storyline. It would have been even funnier if it had been less lame, but swearing probably wouldn’t have helped a bit.

Also, I have seen other non-Halestorm Mormon movies, and some of them are very good. They are not Oscar caliber, but Mormon cinema is in its infancy, and I judge low-budget films by a slightly different standard. Maybe that’s the soft bigotry of lower expectations, but it’s not the kind of bigotry you’re talking about.

Which brings me to your last sentence: “As far as your blog goes, I find it a little tasteless as anyone would find any blog trying to demean an institution because of personal issues.”

I confess I do not know what to do with this. Which institution am I demeaning? If I say that Halestorm tends to make low-quality movies (which it does) and that Mormon filmmakers have yet to produce a Citizen Kane (or whatever), I am not demeaning Mormon filmmaking in general. Actually, I’m doing it a favor by letting it know how it can improve, and I think I do it in a way that’s considerably nicer than Simon Cowell’s constructive criticism.  I am certainly not demeaning the Church or its people.  The Church and its people deserve better than Church Ball.  And The R.M., no offense to it or the lovely people who find it hilarious.  The only “personal issues” I have are with people who think it’s “tasteless” not to embrace mediocrity in the name of good, clean fun.

You know what I think is tasteless?  Chalking up your disagreements with someone to a personal grudge or a psychological problem because you are overly sensitive about your religion and your taste in movies.  Thank you for putting me in my place.  Now you can go get a life.