FUNNY THING: How my husband's ringtone compels all the nearby men between the ages of 25 and 45 to burst into song simultaneously.


The Pressure! The Pressure!

As of noon on June 30, 2006, my husband and I handed our souls over to a certain mortgage company in exchange for a teensy weensy house in the south part of the city with a leaky basement and no range hood, bathroom fan, or washing machine drainpipe. Or, at least the mortgage company THINKS they have our souls; the fact is that we gave them away to the College Foundation years ago. *Sigh*.

Last week my friends and I were mourning the impending doom of our 30th birthdays, and I thought about how we all still thought of ourselves as being closer in age to 20 than to 30. It's as though a rubber band or bungee cord had kept us all attached to age 20, but as we get farther away from that year, our rubber band stretches tauter. For most of us, when we do turn 30, that rubber band will finally break and pop us all right in our asses. For some people, that rubber band will stretch on well into their 30s.

In my case, I'm fairly certain that the added weight of an entire house to my rubber band has ensured its imminent demise.


Update and Advice.

Update from my last post: Here They Come by Yannick Murphy is an excellent read. So go get it immediately. I've since moved on to Paul Park's A Princess of Roumania, which has proven to be loads of fun to read, especially since I enjoy:

  1. Fantasy
  2. History
  3. Eastern Europe

In those 3 characteristics A Princess of Roumania is very similar to Orson Scott Card's Enchanted, but Princess' main conceit is a great deal more creative. But, then, Card's prose is better and his understanding of Ukrainian mythology is deeper. Who cares? They're both great fun.

Now for some advice to any man facing a midlife crisis. You're thinking to yourself: "It's okay for me to buy that convertible sports car. Lots of guys my age have them. I've embraced my baldness, so there's no risk of a toupee blowing off, and I'm careful about putting sunscreen on my scalp. Plus, lots of chicks dig older guys, lots of chicks think baldness is hot, and almost all chicks go crazy for sexy cars. How can I lose?"

Let me tell you how you can lose. By not checking out your earlobes when you test drive the car. Did you know that some men's earlobes will flap quite dramatically when they are driven in a convertible at high speeds? Well, they do. And it's hilarious, not hot.

This post is dedicated to the bald guy that passed me in the Mustang two nights ago.



If anyone actually reads this post, it will be a miracle. I've been away for a long time, and I'm not sure when I'll be back on a regular basis. I'm terribly sorry.

The fact is that, while house-buying hasn't quite driven me insane (which is what I've been doing instead of blogging), a new situation may very well push me over the edge. It's rather complicated:

Last Friday, I was reminded by a trivia book that Monkee Mike Nesmith's mother invented Liquid Paper, which I already knew but had forgotten. This caused me to reminisce a bit on how much I enjoyed the old Monkees TV series as a child. Then, on Saturday, I began reading a new novel by Yannick Murphy called Here They Come, which has been a lovely read so far. Unfortunately, the book's title sounds remarkably like the first line of the theme song to the Monkees TV show.

As a result, every time I pick up this book to read it, for the past 5 days, I've immediately gotten "Hey, Hey, We're the Monkees" stuck in my head. For hours.

The irritation caused by this coincidence has actually led me to think about returning the book to the library, and to never read it again, because now the book and the song are permanently linked in my warped little head. But it's such a good book! Aaaargh!

So I figure it's going to take me two more days to finish the novel. Until then, if you hear me humming, you can be confident that it's:

Here we come, walking down the street.
We get the funniest looks from everyone we meet.
Hey, hey, we're the Monkees!
And people say we monkey around.
But we're too busy singing to put anybody down...


Ave Bono Vox

(I know that "Ave" probably needed to end in a different letter, for you Latin sticklers out there.)

Is it wrong that I want to worship U2 as the gods of rock-n-roll that they are? Is this considered idolatry?

Because what we're talking about here is the job position of "designated deity" for a specific genre of popular music. That doesn't even begin to compete with the status of Most High God, after all. Surely God wouldn't begrudge U2 such a tiny corner of the god market, would He?

Besides, if God wanted to rule the rock-n-roll, He should have done better than this:

It's like He didn't even try.

Rant Update

Just got out of a meeting with the seminary's dean of students, and I think it went pretty well. At no time did he accuse me of being an ingrate, nor did he pat me on the head at any point in the conversation. He even said he appreciated my input, and I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe that he meant what he said.

And, believe me, my tone with him was much milder than it was in my last post. My presentation was completely profanity-free, and I only cried once.

So we'll see what happens, I guess--it feels good to have brought my concerns to someone who may actually have the authority, influence, & willingness to do something about them. It's too late for this year's crop of senior wives, but maybe some of my friends will get to experience a benefit. Who knows.


It's rantin' time!

It's been super-long since my last post, so I apologize to anyone out there who's been hanging on breathlessly to my every word.

Today I find myself using my blog for its original, time-honored purpose: the rant.

For the past three years my primary role in this drama we call life has been the "seminary wife." To the director of this play (the entire seminary faculty & staff), the "seminary wife" is a bit part in the production, an extra who occasionally appears beside the "seminary student" as a silent supporter. Her motivation is to make the "seminary student" look good and perform his studently duties well, so that the director can take pride in what he sees as his creation: the "seminary graduate."

Sound bitter? Maybe just a wee tiny bit.

What makes me see the seminary experience this way? A number of issues, throughout our time here, have brought the aforementioned image to mind: for example, though the spouses are allowed to attend classes for free, the low academic quality of the seminary's night classes (which were my only option, since I was working to put my husband through school) kept me from using the spouse scholarship at all. The catalyst for this rant, though, was this year's Senior Wives Dinner (or rather, the lack thereof.)

As with every other function put on for the students' wives, this dinner was to be hosted by the wives of seminary faculty and staff. None of the men who teach our spouses were going to be present, even though this event was supposed to be a token of the seminary's appreciation for their students' spouses. For those of you who were invited to this dinner, you now know that the dinner itself has been cancelled and replaced with coffee & dessert. I admit that I just gave up when I found out it had been changed--it just didn't seem worth it to drive all the way out to the seminary for just coffee & dessert.

Sadly, I am having a hard time giving the seminary faculty the benefit of the doubt, and I hope that someone will be able to throw my words back in my face by providing a good example of the faculty's interest in their students' spouses. Because I don't want to leave my husband's graduation ceremony with a bad taste in my mouth.

Perhaps I should have just considered the past three years as an opportunity to practice true, Christian service, with no expectation of acknowledgment. I am willing to do that, but the thought that I have a lifetime of the same to look forward to fills me with dread. My negative response probably just proves that I am being selfish, childish, and arrogant in my desires here.

But the injustice of ignoring the contributions of my friends is what really kills me. Why should the seminary be so quick to acknowledge the gifts of financial donors, while being so slow to acknowledge the efforts of my friends who take care of their children single-handedly so that Dad can finish his paper? Not to mention the financial contributions that we working spouses make towards our husbands' tuitions? Perhaps I'm just showing my ignorance of the seminary's finances.

Feel free to dispute me, because I don't necessarily enjoy being angry at The Man.

DISCLAIMER: This rant has nothing to do with the quality of my husband's appreciation for me, which he has no trouble expressing freely and often. (Thanks, baby!)


More blog irony.


How do you know you're crazy?

Brain-function- & mood-altering conditions make self-assessment even more difficult than normal. Honest self-assessment is already difficult enough; but when your assessment tool is rendered utterly untrustworthy, how well can you know you?

This wouldn't be such a big deal if modern psychiatry and psychology weren't so dependent upon the patient's ability to communicate his or her condition to another person. I was 24 when I finally realized that the way I view the world is wrong enough to warrant a battery of assorted medications; and I came to this realization with the help of several other people over a period of some months. Beforehand, I could have told you that different people think differently; I didn't presume that the world saw itself as I did. But it took some time and effort to see that other people weren't as bent on destroying themselves as I was.

So, if I've never been "okay" in my mind, how am I supposed to recognize whether or not my current mental state is "okay" now? What ought to be my frame of reference?