Wooing Wayne

I surprised Wayne with a picnic to the Santa Monica pier a couple of days ago. He seemed a bit shocked when I told him my plan was to woo him. As we headed out to begin our beautiful day in the sun, he asked, "What inspired you?" The answer took him by surprise...

I had just been on a website listing some of the most novel approaches to popping the question. One dude tattooed "Will you marry me?" on his bicep. She responded, "Of course" in ink, just below his original query. (Good thing the answer was yes. Imagine the embarrassment if she had dissed him!) Another guy had a choreographed dance routine, with hundreds of participants, arranged in a busy New York park, while he proposed to the lovely bride-to-be from the center of the plaza/dance floor.

But my favorite was a candlelight proposal on the beach.

You see, Romeo had prepared an elegant picnic for his future fiance, to be enjoyed under the light of the moon. He had also set about a arrangement of votive candles, artfully displayed in the sand in the shape of an enormous heart.

Awwwww. So sweet.

What he didn't know was: that night the dunes would come alive with thousands of hatching, endangered, baby sea turtles. The little critters popped out of their leathery little shells, the wonder of new life in their newborn eyes... squinting to make out the reflection of the big full moon off the nearby lapping waves. The lunar marker would lead them directly towards the sea--their ultimate destination to begin the wondrous circle of life that was key to their species' survival.

So they instinctively followed the brightest glare on the horizon. Surely their inbred sensibilities could never lead them astray. But alas, thousands of baby sea turtles had never been equipped to handle the Darwinian dastardly deeds of Romeo and his candle display. Emerging from their protective eggs, they stumbled steadily, innocently, towards the blazing inferno of love, away from the safety of the ocean's welcome waves.

And lurking in the shadows of the fiery flames, an onslaught of voracious crabs lay in wait for the unsuspecting newborns: carnivorous, claw-wielding, and hungry. One by one, the baby sea turtles and their hopeful futures were snatched and devoured by the feasting crustaceans... effectively obliterating an entire generation of this protected, endangered species. Only one survived the sea turtle holocaust, only to perish days later.

So I figured, if Romeo can unwittingly obliterate an entire generation of reptiles in the name of love, why can't I pack up a nice picnic for my sweetheart?

The End.

List of Several People Whose Mouths I Can't Stand Looking At and How My Pet Peeve of Nasty Teeth Can Somehow Be Incorporated Into Politics

It's a hazard of my profession...
Once I started studying dentistry, I began to view the world through a completely different lens. Whenever I'm talking to someone, whenever I'm watching movies, whenever I look at photographs, the FIRST thing I notice is someone's mouth. So much so, that I have mentally composed a list of people whose mouths I can't stand. Here is that list so that I may pass on my dental OCD to all 12 of my regular blog readers:

1. Let's start with the obvious: Jon Heder. If anybody could be a poster child for what happens to your kids if they mouth breathe for too long, Napoleon Dynamite would be IT. The poor guy can't even close his lips together, he has had such a disfiguring amount of growth in his maxilla (top jaw). It doesn't help that he has largish, chicklet teeth on display as well.

2. And speaking of largish teeth, let's talk Jake Busey AKA Mr. Ed.
'Nuff said, Ed.













3. Another Mouth Breather: Michael Phelps. So here's your public service announcement folks... If you don't want you kids to have long narrow faces, wicked crooked teeth, and you want them to have the ability to close their lips together, take them to the doctor if they can't breath through their nose!!!!! They could still win Olympic gold, but they will look like this:

4. Kirsten Dunst is a lovely girl. But whenever I see her, I can't help but fixate on her lateral incisors. Class I, Division II is the exact name for this little orthodontic problem. That's where her two front teeth sit back a little while the eye teeth on either side flare out. Maybe Spiderman would've given you more sexy kisses in the rain if you had those fixed, Kirsten.
5. Matthew Fox has the same problem as Kirsten, but I couldn't find a good picture of his upper front teeth. This picture of him as "Racer X" shows one of my other problems watching his mouth when he speaks... He has one crooked lower incisor that sits waaaaay behind the others. Sometimes when Dr. Jack Shepherd is bossing people around on the "Lost" island, it looks like he's got a tooth missing and he suddenly transforms into a hillbilly. Come on! They've got a dentist trapped on that island for crying out loud! Too bad Bernard, DDS didn't get stranded with his high speed and Cerac machine, because there are several fellow survivors that could use his handiwork...
6. Here's another of the "Lost" causes: Evangeline Lilly and her super-white front rabbit teeth. This one was bugging me so much, I actually googled "Kate + Lost + Front Teeth" and learned that one of her front teeth was knocked out long ago. It appears they veneered the other front tooth to match the bad prosthetic, and voila... Bugs Bunny.
6. Dominic Monaghan's mouth bugged the crap out of me as a Hobbit and again on "Lost." It's not so much the teeth as it is the lower jaw shift to the right and the ginormous underbite. He's a great case for early orthodontics (For you dentists out there, let's talk functional shifts due to traumatic anterior occlusion).
7. And finally, we arrive at the Big Kahuna of teeth that annoy the h-e-double-hockey-sticks out of me... Tom Cruise, who has the WORST midline deviation known to man. It appears he is missing his left canine, hence all of his teeth wandered over into that direction, and now he has a tooth smack dab in the middle of his face. DRIVES ME NUTS!!! But not as nuts as he is.
8. Everybody British. Sorry, blokes... you are all doomed to appear in the "Big Book of British Smiles" a la Simpsons hilarity.




So I'll conclude with this post with one last bit of food for thought: As we consider Universal Health Care and examine England as our nation's model... Do we want to include dentistry in the package?

How's that working out for you, Amy Winehouse?

Summer Escapism

We have a friend in the movie biz down here. Despite the downturn in our economy and the huge unemployment phenomenon, his job is quite secure. In fact, he says he's never been busier. Why? Because when the chips are down, people like to escape. Your house is in foreclosure? What better way to avoid the stress than head to the movies! Lost your job? Grab a 1500 calorie bag of popcorn and enjoy the luxurious air conditioned, plush velvet seating of the multiplex.

So here are my recommendations for this summer's sure-fire hits at the box-office. There's something here for everyone.


Perhaps you are in the mood for a heartwarming romantic comedy...


...Or in the mood for an inspirational drama...




...Or, in the spirit of "Brokeback Mountain" and "Lord of the Rings," perhaps you wish to explore some emotions you are not sure what to make of...


...Maybe you are looking to escape the summer doldrums and head to the theater to be scared out of your mind. What could be scarier than the horror of Julie Andrews?


...If you're looking for a good drama with social commentary and some serious acting chops...


...See some of your favorite actors as you've never seen them before...


...Or, if you're looking for a good monster movie, this one is sure not to disappoint...


Have fun at the movies!

(Some people have WAAAAAY too much time on their hands.)

Got a Fever? The Only Prescription For This Whole Swine Flu Thing...

Create Your Own Caption

Sometimes, I just have no words for the stuff that goes on in our house. Please help me fill in the blanks...


We are heading out for a vacation for the next week or so and will not likely be blogging. Looks like I'm going to need the R & R while I can get it. Lots to do when I return to work.

Catch you on the flip side!

Another Day at the Office

Rarely do I get a reaction quite like this...
This is CLASSIC!!!


Be sure to watch the remix, too.

Wayne Is Sick...

Confessions of a Control Freak

There were always signs that I had some control issues.

I used to have an imaginary friend. His(?) name was Croovy. My mom used to watch me out the window as I played in our backyard with Croovy... And by playing, I mean wagging my finger at him and bossing him around. I don't remember Croovy, but he was apparently my means of asserting toddler power.

It seems I liked to boss imaginary pirates around too. I remember getting busted for writing a message to some particularly heinous bad guys on my basement door with pencil. It said simply, "NO, YOU!!!" as in, "No! You villainous scum! Get away from my ship or suffer unimaginable pain at my wrath!" I'm sure the bad guys complied, but my parents didn't think I was all that terrifying. They yelled at me and found it strangely easy to punish me, despite my alarming graffiti threats to all that stood in my way.

But then came my sister. She took the place of all things imaginary. I loved to make a living, breathing being do my bidding. "Hey Amy. Taste this and see if it's rotten." ...And dutifully, she would obey. "Amy, smell my feet! They smell like roses!" ...And curiously she would comply... again and again. When we would act out the Brady Bunch, I was always Marsha, and I insisted she be Cindy. She once tried to assert herself by requesting that she take the part of Jan for once. "Nope. You are the youngest and I am the oldest, so you will be Cindy and I will be Marsha." Jan never had the chance to appear in our little play sessions while "Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!" called the shots.
And then my Napoleonic complex took the form of fighting over boys. In nursery school, there was a boy named John that caught my eye. Unfortunately, he also caught Stephanie Mihele's eye, too. One day, she and John were sitting atop the wide, two-seater slide on the playground. They had no intention of sliding down. They just sat there, perched in position and talking to each other. So I pushed her down the slide and maneuvered my way into an easy conversation with John, the competition now staring incredulously from the base of the slide.
Maybe it's a big sister thing... Or maybe it's because I'm so short and I have felt I had to prove that I am to be taken seriously, despite my miniature appearance. Whatever the case may be, I am a frightening creature, indeed.

What are the Chances?

Let's talk probability here...

What are the chances that Jack Bauer of Fox TV's "24" fame would EVER be able to save the world? It's one of my favorite shows, and I'm sure I'll get sucked in for another nail biting seventh season, but I have some problems swallowing a few of the logistical details involved in a show that is supposed to kick terrorist butt in real time.

Seasons 1-6 have a cadence that typically plays out like this. Bear in mind, every character is shouting these lines:

"Jack! You are so rogue! Thank you for saving our bureaucratic butts again by doing something so NOT by the book!"

"Agent Sharp! THERE'S NO TIME! It's 5:00 pm and I have to get to the Port of Los Angeles from our downtown headquarters by 5:22 or a nuke-u-lar bomb is going to explode in one of the 20,000 containers being stored there! I'll take the SUV, while you head to Beverly Hills in the chopper to protect the President from the assassin that is plotting to take him out at the gala this evening! Hurry! You only have five minutes!"

[End scene with a *beep* *boop* *beep* and the layout of various vantage points of relevant characters would include a shot of the president in his tuxedo at the gala in one box, somebody sinister checking out the site on his sniper rifle in another box, Jack Bauer rushing into a black armored vehicle, and somebody arabic-looking shutting a massive shipping container holding a nuclear war head with 22 minutes on the clock.]

...And then there would be a bunch of fighting, and a bunch of bad guys would get their butts kicked, but in the end Jack would save the day, and the President would be just peachy. And everybody would finally learn how to pronounce nuclear properly...Whew!!! That was close!

---

Here's how I think it would really play out, again with a lot of shouting...

"Jack! How come we keep letting you back in here? Weren't you arrested, like, 12 times by our agency last year?"

"Agent Sharp! THERE'S NO TIME!!! I need to pee really bad! I've been trying to escape terrorists for the last 6 hours with no bathroom breaks, and I finally escaped when I bit through one of their necks and he bled out... Come to think of it, I sure hope the terrorist I bit didn't have AIDS or Hepatitis or anything...

[Jack trails off in thought and then shudders visibly]

"Plus, I'm dying of thirst because I haven't had any thing to eat or drink since yesterday, so I thought I'd stop at a 7-11 and pick something up on the way to the Port of Los Angeles to deactivate the nuke that's about to go off in 20 minutes! So you can see... THERE IS NO TIME!"

"Jack, do you really think you can get through traffic in 20 minutes during rush hour? Seriously?!? And then, once you get there, you have to rifle through about 20,000 containers that all look the same! Not to mention, with the government cut backs, we don't have enough in the budget for the fuel costs of maintaining all the SUV's and helicopters, so we only have the Smart Car! You'll have to take that! The bathroom is down the hall to the left, but you have to jiggle the handle a little, or the water keeps running!"

[End scene with the *beep* *boop* *beep* as Jack does the pee pee dance down the hall, the arabic looking bad guy is licking mustard out of his grizzly looking beard as he shuts the shipping container, the President is assuring the First Lady that, "No. That gown doesn't make your butt look big," and the sniper is singing "99 bottles of beer on the wall..." as he waits for the sniping.]

After the commercial break, all of Los Angeles gets nuked. The End.

---

Here's what's coming this season...




Great. Looks like I'll lose another 24 hours of my life watching that!

The Difference Between B's and V's

I was brought up at the head of the class--Not because I was particularly brainy or gifted, but merely due to my alphabetical circumstance. You see, I was once named Shana Berger... as in second letter in the alphabet Berger... as in, "Sit at the front of the class," "Go to the front of the line" Berger. Due to my short stature, I was also shuffled forward whenever height was the determining factor in student placement. Bottom line: I took a front row seat everywhere I went.


Life placed perpetually at the front of the classroom does something to a person. Sitting in plain view of the teacher, unable to get away with passing notes, dozing off, or daydreaming; unable to mutter anything under one's breath without being heard... It all adds up to a very tightly wound student. Being a B makes one type-A by means of simple classroom logistics.


Enter Wayne Van Cleave: My V-man. I took his name almost sixteen years ago as a matter of fact and didn't have any clue how different life would ever be at this end of the alphabet.

I learned the difference between B's and V's quite plainly in dental school. Our class was set up according to alphabetical order. We spent most of our first year of dental school toiling away in the sim-lab, arranged (of course) alphabetically. The sim-lab was a gigantic room wherein we would work on little rubber heads with plastic teeth to learn the fundamentals of restorative dentistry before they would let us loose on real teeth. The room was so large, I barely got to interact with the B's during the day. I was relegated to the side of the room housed by the students at the END of the alphabet: The V's.


What I learned from my carpool that year (Ballew and Bevens, who sat at the B end of the sim-lab, but remained outliers in the following statements about said B personalities), is that the B end was quite studious and very tightly wound. They took everything super seriously, would haggle over grades, talked endlessly about dentistry, sat silently doing their work, would freak out if something went awry... You get the picture. Many of them sat at the front of the class in lecture, too, and got quite a reputation for shouting out answers and asking endless questions. Bottom line, had I remained a Berger, I would have sat around a number of stress-cases and my perception of dental school may have been completely different.

As for my experiences with the V side of the room: All I can say is PARTAY!!! Our side of the sim-lab was MUCH more relaxed. We blasted "The Final Countdown" before every practical exam, we had weekly potlucks, decorated the walls with Christmas lights, drew faces on our rubber-headed patients, and basically lived in levity and fun (That's right folks. Despite the intense pressures inherent in dental school, I liked it! It was fun!). I thanked Wayne every day for showing me life with the V's.


But tonight I sadly learned I am still a B at heart.



Hayden recently chunked it on a Social Studies exam: 25 out of a possible 100. "Dang it!" I thought. "I'm raising a V! He's living in the end-of-the-alphabet-partay, and now his grades are starting to suck!"


Today, however, he received notification from his teacher that (aside from a smattering of A's and B's) the whole class had sucked it up on that exam. Therefore, he would omit those grades for everyone in the class. He acknowledged that it was kind of a bummer for the kids that had done so well--far above and beyond the rest of the class, but thought it better for all involved to drop the test scores.

For a brief moment, my heart stopped. I stopped chewing my dinner. I tensed up, barely able to breathe. My autonomic nervous system had reverted to my B mentality, which screamed, "NO FAIR! Those kids who got A's deserved them! They worked harder than the rest of those little slackers! Reward them for their efforts!"

The rest of the V slackers at my dinner table laughed at me, and I found myself feeling guilty for dredging up emotions directly related to my front-of-the-classroom-upbringing; emotions that stood in direct opposition to the success of my child on this particular exam. But there I was in all of my raw, type-A, competitive, stress-case B-ness. I guess you could say something along the lines of, "You can take the B out of the front of the classroom, but you can't take the front of the classroom out of the B."

I'll conclude my saga from one end of the alphabet to the other with a simple footnote: Our class valedictorian's name was Yetzer. How do you like them apples, B side?!

That's What She Said

Today we had a very informative lunch meeting with an electric toothbrush company. I've never really seen toothbrushes in this light before... EVER.

It all began innocently enough. The company rep (a very attractive woman in her late twenties) realized she had forgotten her laptop, which had her entire spiel on its hard drive. She excused herself to run to her car while we got situated and began to eat our lunches. A few moments later, she reentered the room, huffing and puffing.

"Whew! That seemed like it was long! ... That was a LONG, LONG run," she panted. "Does anybody mind if I take my coat off while I recover?"

A few enthusiastic nods from the males in the room... To which she responded in a manner that did not disappoint. Off came the grey pinstripe business suit coat. Beneath: a flesh colored cami and a pair of very perky high beams... BRALESS high beams. "Wow! I just cannot cool off! I am so hot right now!"

The tongues lolling out of their heads could have been mistaken for enthusiasm over their sandwiches, but it was pretty obvious that it was NOT the turkey cold cuts that were directing the guys' attention in the room.

The attending doctor turns to our chief resident and says, "I need to come to these lunch-and-learns more often! They're great! When did we start getting strippers for these things?"

As the presentation went on, her sales pitch was met with rapt attention from her many admirers. To finish things off, she informed us of one of the new features of the improved electric toothbrush she was pedaling. "Notice how nicely this one vibrates compared to the old one? See how this one is so much more vigorous than the other." Now she is holding up the twelve inch long vigorously vibrating hardware to give us an adequate visual. It continues to vigorously vibrate as she exclaims, "OH! And I almost forgot! These things are hermetically sealed! If you need to save yourself some time, you can just take this in the shower with you and do your thing in there!"

Super.

To My Female Readers Only... Seriously! Chad, Dan, Jason, Bryce, etc. Do NOT Proceed or Things Will Get Awkward Between Us.

Husbands are funny creatures. For some reason I can't figure out, they do not understand buying feminine hygiene supplies. When Wayne and I first married, I discovered this Y chromosomal handicap that prevented him from being able to procure the proper accoutrements when Aunt Flo was coming to town. So, in our newlywed wisdom, we developed a system involving football team names:

• For those very heavy flow days, only Super will do. Super tampons = St. Louis RAMS.
• For moderate flow, Regular tampons. Regular = Washington REDSKINS.
• When the last vestiges of the week remain, I just need some pantyliners or Lite tampons. These = Cleveland BROWNS.

It's never failed.

Usually, though, I buy for myself and spare Wayne the disgrace of purchasing what is OBVIOUSLY for a female loved one. I never understood the shame men feel, but ...Whatever, you wusses! (I mean, it's not like I'm asking him to buy Queen Size Panty Hose, for crying out loud!).

I've learned that the humiliation is not isolated to male consumers purchasing for their desperate housewives. Bag Boys are not immune to the embarrassment. One time when I was very much in need of monthly supplies, while checking out at the grocery store late at night, a squeaky clean young man about 16 years old was bagging my groceries. On the conveyor belt lay four items: Super Tampax, Maxi Pads, Midol, and a value-pak of chocolate confections. The innocent young man (prior to looking at my purchases) addressed me in an oh-so-polite and cheerful manner and said, "How are you doing tonight, Ma'am?". Before I could reply, he glanced down at my supplies, turned beet red, stared blankly at my necessities, and walked away... Without even bagging them.

Someday, in another life, he'll be making those emergency runs for his wife.

Hope she likes football.

Just Because I Haven't Laughed Very Much

The past few days have been emotional, and I've been wavering between feelings of grief and numbness. I need to laugh a little. This little ditty has been like a year of therapy all wrapped up into one little You-Tube Clip.

Wayne's cousin (and one of my best friends... That's right! I LIKE my inlaws!) Kelly posted this on her blog with the warning "You'll laugh until snot runs out of your nose." And HOW!

So, Kelly thanks for the "Little Help From My Friends." I needed that.

The Man of My Dreams

While I was managing apartments, I would often wake up to random noises outside: car alarms, acts of domestic violence, possums attacking escaped house cats, gunshots...
You know. The usual.

One night, I woke with a start to the sound of a fight right outside of our window. Wayne would often help me with security on the grounds at night, so I shook him awake.

"Wayne! There's a fight outside!"

To which he responds though groggy, half-closed eyes sounding something like THIS:



And then he promptly rolled over and attempted to return to sleep, undaunted by my frantic plea for help.

Now, baffled and frustrated, I try to rouse him again, this time with more urgency. "WAYNE! There's a FIGHT! Please HELP!"

Again, my response from Wayne is this garbled, cryptic language I cannot decipher.

At this point, I am downright MAD! My blood is pumping, adrenalin coursing through my veins, huffing and puffing. "What good are you, anyway?!?" I say in one final, desperate attempt at ticking him off enough that he might finally emerge from his beauty sleep and kick some a** (or, preferably, call the cops and let them kick all the booty.)

It didn't work. Wayne snoozed on.

Maybe there is something to be said about being deaf. At least you can be assured of getting a good night's sleep...

Even when your wife is dreaming that there is a brutal fight ensuing beneath your bedroom window...

And especially when you are happily slumbering in the magical dream scape known as "Backwards Land," where you have apparently been learning the local dialect.

My Greatest Fear Realized

Most of you know my feelings of absolute horror when it comes to feet. I hate 'em! I realize I need them to walk. I realize everyone else does too, but I hate them, nonetheless. Particularly if I have to touch them or if they ever wind up near my face. I HATE commercials where they show cartoon fungi nestling under people's toenails. There's even one that depicts a foot with a face on it, bursting into flames from the agony of athlete's foot. *shudder* Who thought up that piece of advertising genius?

I can certainly keep it together if I see someone in flip flops. I wear flip flops, myself. I touch my own feet. But if anyone's feet touch me, or if I have to touch someone elses' feet, I get pretty grossed out. The nastiest scenario is someone else's feet touching my own. If Wayne tries to play footsie with me, he is summarily rejected. Sorry, Babe. Ain't gonna happen... Not today. Not ever.

So I've been pretty pleased with my decision to go into dentistry. That's about as far away from feet as you can get. No problem, right?

Wrong!

A ten year old little girl came into the clinic the other day with a bone disease of unknown origin. Her x-rays showed she had absolutely no enamel formation on both her baby teeth and her permanent teeth. The teeth she had in her mouth were orange and lumpy. They looked like chewed up, half-eaten cheese. She was disproportionately built and very short for her age. She had problems with her joints, such that she was about to have knee replacements , was hard of hearing, and the whites of her eyes were blue. All of her joints were really loose. She could bend her wrists back like one of those Cirque du Soleil performers that can squeeze their entire body into a shampoo bottle.

So the Craniofacial specialist, Dr. S, and I were working her up to see if we could crack this case. The lack of enamel pointed toward one diagnosis. The blue eyeball thing pointed to another. All told, this case was weird. So Dr. S turns to me and says. "Look between her fingers." ...and I know what he's getting at, because one of the diagnoses we were grappling with is sometimes associated with webbed digits. It's called syndactyly.

So I look between her fingers, and sure enough: Webbed fingers. Not like the creature from the Black Lagoon, mind you, but up to about the 1st knuckle. So we tick that little factoid off on the list and start digging a little further. Then Dr. S turns to me and says, "Check her toes."

*Deafening silence*

"What?"

"Check her toes to see if they are also affected."

"Uuuummmmm. She has the finger thing. Why does it matter if the toes are webbed, too?"

"We need to assess everything."

"Seriously?"

Then he starts taking off her shoes. ...and I am trying not to puke, because this poor little girl is sitting there, mortified, that there are all these people staring at her and musing, "Look she has this wrong with her" and "Oh! She has that wrong with her." So I didn't think puking because I had to look at her potentially webbed feet would work any wonders for her self-esteem.

"Go ahead and look," he says nonchalantly.

So there I am (in my latex gloves, thank goodness) prying the kid's dirty little downtown digits apart and checking for w.e.b.b.e.d f.e.e.t.!!!!!! And NO she didn't have them! And NO, I never puked. And NO, we STILL don't know what she has. But maybe she has a friend in Ashton Kutcher.

T-Minus Eight Days...

Summer vacation comes to an end on September 2nd.

There's no way you can dig your way out of this one, boys. Your return to school is imminent...The fun and games will soon cease...
The art of wasting time will be abolished for another nine months...No more fresh air to breathe ad lib...
Relaxation: a thing of the past...
Goofing off will be but a distant memory...

Books will actually fill your heads with useful information, rather than inspire scenes of Storm trooper carnage... Teachers will give you assignments to use your creativity, and suddenly it will become a chore...Time to ride off into the summer sunset, for the day is near...

Nathan and Hayden, while we've enjoyed watching the plethora of ways you can keep yourselves entertained this summer...

...we will all enjoy watching as you, once again, become productive members of society.

Goodbye, and Good Luck!!!

Oh My Heck!!! ...part deux

I make my case further against jello:
a) What is yellow jello really made of? (Not sure I really want to know the answer, but I can't think of any color of jello less appealing.)

b) Is it really food if it can perform feats like this? (below) "He put my stuff in Jell-O again! [to Jim] That’s real professional, thanks. That’s the third time and it wasn’t funny the first two times either! " --Dwight K. Shrute

Oh My Heck!!!

Mormons have their own flippin' language: Cryptic little phrases that we assume everybody knows, but most people who have never been to one of our wards never would. ...See! Case in point: What the frick is "the ward?" Are all Mormons institutionalized at some point? ...and why on earth does she keep using F-words that aren't really F-words?

We may all sound crazy when we speak the Mormon vernacular, but perhaps this (very abbreviated) glossary of terms and guide to Mormon culture will aid you in your future conversations with Mormons deeply entrenched in our crazy lingo.

Let's start with Sundays: We go to church at a regular church meetinghouse, NOT the temples that you see gleaming conspicuously here and there. Temples are for special ceremonies and occasions like weddings, and are considered particularly sacred. (This is a picture of the L.A. Temple, which is conveniently located only a few minutes away from our home. When I lived in Georgia, however, we would have to drive three hours to get to the nearest temple in Atlanta.)

On Sundays, we go for three hours to our regular buildings for our edification and learning. "3 HOURS?!?" you say? "How much edification does one need on any given week?!?" Well, time flies when you're having fun. We all go to a meeting together for the first hour, and then we ditch the kids in Primary for the last two hours and get to converse with grown-ups. Primary is the corral for children ages 3-11.

You'll frequently hear us talking about Wards and Stakes... No. We're not all escaped mental patients from the hospital ward with the padded walls. A "Ward" is a group of Mormons divided geographically, akin to a school's boundaries, and a "Stake" is a collection of those wards, much like a school district has jurisdiction over several school boundaries. There are local leaders that volunteer their time to each ward and stake. They are called Bishops and Stake Presidents.

You will hear us call ourselves LDS. We are not dyslexically referring to psychedelic drugs. LDS stands for "Latter-Day Saints" as in "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints." This is the actual name of the Mormon church, but we would all sound pretty verbose if we went around saying that mouthful all the time. So, we often go with the slang: Mormon.

Mormons have potluck functions as often as possible. Sometimes there will be a big pot-luck after the 3 hours of church, and this is called a "Linger-Longer." And since we're on the subject of potlucks, you must also learn the term "Funeral Potatoes." I suppose they got their name because Mormon funerals are always potluck, and this is a staple at all such functions. It is the quintessential comfort food...ooey, gooey, cheesy goodness that is sure to make you forget your sorrows, if but for a moment. Another Mormon staple: Jello Molds (*shudder*). Frankly, jello kind of creeps me out. And when you dump a bunch of stuff in it, only to allow it to float around in a gelatinous suspension for all time, I don't find it very appealing! Not to mention, when it jiggles, it reminds me of some sort of weird amorphous food-colored internal organ or something. In my humble culinary opinion, food should never jiggle.

Relief Society is the women's organization. We meet on Sundays, and look for any excuse to get together to do crafty things and have more food: usually something involving chocolate.

When Mormon women go through menopause, they all start wearing long skirts and cutting their hair like this (Right): These ladies are phenomenal women, so if you are Mormon, and you recognize these three women as the General Relief Society Presidency, please don't leave me nasty comments about ridiculing our leaders... I'm merely using their picture as a fashion plate for the majority of Relief Society Baby Boomers. It's almost requisite to cut your hair in a short, heavily layered bob once all of your kids have gone away to BYU.

And finally, what's with the weird phrases like "Oh my heck!" Or "What the frick?" For the most part, Mormons live fairly squeaky-clean lifestyles. But when frustration kicks in, we all still have the primal urge to let loose a string of profanities that would make a sailor blush. ( ... Wait. Is that just me? ... ) To avoid this oh-so-offensive practice, Mormons have developed a lame habit of cussing in non-profanities that start with the first letter of the replaced cuss word. So, "Flip," "Fetch," "Frick" is in lieu of ... well, you know... Everybody wins: cathartic release of strong-sounding verbiage + no blushing sailors.

For more information about Mormon fashion and terminology, please watch "Napoleon Dynamite." It was filmed in Idaho, which is second only to Utah in its per capita Mormon membership. Pay particular attention to the poofy sleeves and side ponytail. Fashion iconology, I tell ya!

A Long Time Ago, Dr. Laura Could Have Saved the Galaxy Far, Far, Away

After dinner tonight, the boys and I gathered together to watch (for the bazillionth time) Star Wars Episode III. We were all in a pretty silly mood however, and ended up watching it with more commentary than Mystery Science Theater. It was quite fun. Nathan wants to make a post about some of our musings, so I'll save the good stuff for him.

But there has always been a part of the Star Wars saga that has forever perplexed me. Why the HECK did Padme Amidalla ever fall for the dude she nicknamed "Annie?" We'll put aside the fact that she emasculated him from the get-go by that annoying term of endearment she gave to him when he was on Tatooine (Oh, and by the way, about NINE YEARS OLD!!!) Let's also put aside that she was a queen and he was a slave WHO WAS NINE YEARS OLD when they first met! One of her elaborate outfits was probably worth more than Slave-Boy could have provided in his whole lifetime. But I digress... Their whole relationship was a bit odd. Let's take, for instance, the following scene in Episode II:

Anakin has just disclosed to Padme that he has spent the evening avenging his mother's death by killing a village of sandpeople. "And not just the men!" he grunts... "but the women and the children! I slaughtered them all!"

His dim-witted girlfriend's response? "You're my kind of guy! Let's get married, Stud!"

What was she thinking? I'm pretty sure any guy who admits mass murder is not going to be much of a keeper. Maybe that little character flaw was a bit lost on the Queen of Naboo, but I hope, were I ever put in that position, that a little red flag might go up in my mind somewhere in that conversation.

Who knows? If Padme had told the psycho to take a hike, perhaps then he wouldn't have feared loss so much... No fear... No anger... No hate... No Dark Side... Yadda yadda yadda... Galaxy saved. Where's Dr. Laura when you need her?

DUUUUUDE!

So, like, we've totally lived in La La land for, like, a whole month! It's been bodatious! So the bras were, like, so stoked to get their paws on some excellent new boogie boards. They're, like, "Whoa! Let's totally go to Costco and plunk down some change, Madre!" And I was totally amped, too, so I was, like, "Way cool, little dudes! Let's go!" So we cruised to Venice, got us some sweet boards and headed for the surf.

Whoa! Check out the form on big bra, Nathan. He was, like feelin' it, dude! And we're not talkin' wussy little ankle busters, here. This was big surf! The life guards were totally callin' people in when the curls were gettin' out of control. I mean, this IS where "Baywatch" was filmed. We were careful cuz we didn't wanna have to pull a Hasselhoff or anything. That would WAY suck! And here's little bra in the soup. He was totally chillin' in the tubes... So chillin' he had to thaw on the sand and wait out a few sets before he froze to death. That would have been sooooo bogus!

Dude! Nate was so stoked, he totally lost his head!

He was, like, "Whoa!" And I was, like, "WHOA!" and then he was, like, "whoa."
But we totally found it and everything.

Dude, can you see my shoulders are, like, wasted? Cuz I totally didn't... and they were WAY fried! Muy Rojo! It was soooo heinous!

Lil' Dude was totally recreating the scene from Star Wars Episode III in this picture. Ya know? Where Hayden Christiansen was, like, frying in the lava and was a total a gimp cuz Obi Wan totally cut his arms and legs off, and he was all, "I HATE YOU!" to Obi Wan, and he looked WAY nasty, and then the Emperor totally hooked him up with that sick black helmet dealy and he was all, "Rise!" and then Darth Vader was, like, doing this lame Frankenstein walk out of his bed, and then that was IT! That was, like, how Darth Vader was born, Dude! Anyways, that's what lil' bra was doing in this Kodak.
When they were all nice and toasty, the lil' spongers were soooo ready to shred again! We had a WAY primo day! It was off the Richter!