What is up with wait staff at restaurants that make you feel like you're putting them out by actually being there? Yesterday Margaret, my grandmother, and I went to a national restaurant chain that rhymes with "schmili's" (I have to do that in case their corporate lawyers try to hunt me down--I'm probably already on their "watch list" since I one time refilled my drink there 14 times! But who could blame me when they charge $2 for a glass of pop! If they're not ashamed of THAT, I'm not ashamed of risking my health to take home a gallon of Diet Coke in my bladder!) Anyway, when our server came up, she had that teenage I-know-I'm-better-than-you-but-due-to-circumstances-beyond-my-control--namely-my-stingy-parents-won't-buy-me-$125-jeans-AND-pay-my-cell-phone-bill--I'm-forced-to-work-here-but-don't-have-to-like-it-and-by-god-YOU'RE-not-going-to-like-it look. If you've ever been to that mall food court staple "Hot Dog on a Stick" you know the look I'm talking about. One thing she DID have going in her favor (and that eventually earned her her tip) was that we never had to go very long before getting our refills. In fact, she was so diligent in bringing us more pop that Margaret finally had to cut me off! All in all, it wasn't THAT bad, but it did remind me of awful high school jobs that were pretty mindless but served as an evil means to a necessary end.

Speaking of which, that reminds me of my only high school job; I worked in the Shopko electronics department for a few years and pretty much enjoyed it. (Except for the hideous orange smock we had to wear! That was wrong on TWO counts--one: the orange was a shade that would have made anyone look like they were in the late stages of liver failure, and two: how could you be taken seriously when wearing an article of clothing called a SMOCK?!?) One Christmas experience, however, was pretty memorable--it was the Christmas that the original Nintendo Entertainment System was THE must-have Christmas item. We had to field at least 50 calls a day asking if we had gotten any new shipments in and when they did come in, they were gone within the day. As Christmas approached, frantic parents were getting more and more desperate--resorting to disparaging and demeaning remarks to us clerks--since we were the ones responsible for ordering them and had a secret stash of them in the back storeroom for all our good-for-nothing pot-smoking buddies. Well one evening, it was really rushed and the service desk had a cart of returns that they had parked in my department but I hadn't had a chance to put in back yet. On the top was a returned Nintendo in its original box. Well, a woman who had come in almost every day to see if we had any in saw that sitting in the cart and just took it. Evidently she thought it was someone else's cart and not the return cart, because she went to the front and bought it. The day after Christmas, I was working again, and she storms in, absolutely fuming, accusing me of ruining her son's and her Christmas. She said that her son had opened up his present from Santa on Christmas morning and inside he didn't find his dream machine but a filthy, broken Nintendo. He had no idea why Santa would deliver something like that to him and she was forced to tell him there was no such thing as Santa. (Although it seems to me she passed up a golden opportunity to tell him he shouldn't have been so naughty that year) When pressed, I found out how she had gotten the machine in the first place, but I don't think that appealing to her sense of karma or divine justice would have been appropriate, so I had to play the good corporate hack and apologize--which if you know me was NOT easy--so I earned a lot of karma points for it that, which I promptly spent on judging the servers at Taco Time.

Margaret and I are at my grandmother's house in Logan for the week. Logan is a little college town in northern Utah that is even MORE dominated by Mormons than Salt Lake is (yes, that IS possible!). I love reading their local paper while we're here, not only for the obituaries (it's always amazing to read about someone's 50 children and 150 grandchildren and you realize that the guy was a polygamist) but for the crazy ideas and articles. This morning, there was one that took the cake, and I'm including it below in its unedited glory:

Bad Moon Rising
A 37-year-old Hyrum man was booked into the Cache County Jail on Sunday after he reportedly got into an argument with his wife and then exposed himself to her and their children.
According to sheriff's reports, the couple was fighting when the man dropped his pants and said to the woman, "Kiss my a--." (the censor is from the paper, I'm not one to limit free speech, and especially a word as benign as ass!)
When the man allegedly mooned his wife, his children were in the room.
Sheriff's deputies were called to the home and the man was arrested on two class-A misdemeanor charges of lewdness involving a child. The man was booked into the Cache County Jail.

Can you believe that? I can't imagine doing anything but laugh if Margaret did the same thing--it would have been the last thing on my mind to call 9-1-1 and report it to the police. Plus, knowing some of the uptight people around here, I don't know if the wife called the police because her husband mooned her or because he uttered the word "ass!"

I remember one time at BYU I was in a New Testament class and we were taking a fill in the blank quiz. One of the blanks should have had the answer, "hell," but when we traded the sheets to correct them, someone had written in "heck" instead. She was evidently too pure and innocent to even allow her pencil to scrawl that profanity! Geesh! If I was the one correcting it, I would have marked it wrong, and taken off a few more points for being holier-than-thou. Alas, I wasn't the one, so I have to make due by telling her story to the internets--which, I have to admit, IS surprisingly satisfying!

It always surprises me how you can take the boy out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the boy. Farm chores, stories, and even livestock killing techniques that I thought I had repressed all come flooding back when I'm talking with Margaret's sister and her husband who live on a farm in central Utah. Here I am, thinking I'm all modern and urban, then they come along and we start talking about the most effective way to kill and pluck a chicken, or how to keep a pig dewormed, or the benefits of raising guinea hens. Being so focused on graphic design and working with computers all day has really removed me from being so close to anything but prepackaged food from Costco. Going down to their farm is a lot of fun, too. The last time I was there, I had to fight a pack of aggressive chicken off from the pig's food or it would have gone hungry. I also got attacked by one of their rabbits and still have the scar on my hand to prove it.

One thing I never did get too into was horses--and I can pinpoint that to a single event that caused me and them to go our separate ways--literally! Our neighbor had a horse that was so gentle and easygoing. She encouraged me to hop on and take him for a ride, so I did--not really knowing what to do. I moseyed around our properties for a bit, thinking, "this isn't too bad." Just when I was getting to the point I thought I could try a few tricks--like make the horse go faster than a mosey or jump over a stream, the reins came off in my hand! The little buckle that held the bridle in place had fallen off and I was left holding a long strip of leather connect to nothing! Well instantly the horse realized what this meant--"I can do whatever I want to this sucker on my back and he can't do a THING about it"--and that's exactly what he DID. We wandered around the area and every fence, gate, post, and tree that he could rub me up against, he went for. The final straw was when he walked between a narrow gate that had a little wire sticking out of it that caught my pants (and I remember they were my first pair of real Levi's and I was so proud of them) and, starting at my hip, ripped them all the way to the leg opening. That was the final straw! As soon as the horse walked under the swingset in the neighbor's lawn--I reached up and grabbed the top beam and let the horse walk out from under me. I then went straight home, pant leg flapping in the wind. When I got there, the neighbor was still visiting with my mom and I told them what had happened; after getting a laugh out of it, the neighbor realized that her horse was still wandering around the area and she rushed back to find him. That was the least of my concern. I was humiliated, my new adult pants were ripped to shreds, and to add insult to injury, my uncle (who lived with us and forbade us to get into his things) saw that I was wearing his socks and cussed me out for THAT! What did I receive from my mother in the way of consolation? Her ordering me to stand still while she took my picture! She wanted to preserve that moment for all time--as if I could forgot it. All those horrible events swirl around and flood back to the surface whenever I think about getting on a horse--and I've never been back on one since. I know there are much more traumaic things that could have spawned such a deep and abiding avoidance of horses, like being trampled, maimed, drawn and quartered, or have a finger bitten off (I don't know if horses really do that, but you never know), so there is a slight chance I will one day get back on a horse--and not one of those that cost a quarter to ride that you find in front of K-Marts.

Margaret and I just went through security at the Portland airport and boy are they getting strict! They have the sensitivity on the scanners turned up so high they would go off if you had more than three fillings in your teeth! I dutifully put my bag on the belt; they then said I had to take off my coat, so I did that. Then I tried to go through the scanner, but the guard had me take off my shoes. I tried again, but of course it went off, and I realized that I had my watch on, then I tried AGAIN! and had to go back and take my belt off! By the time I was cleared, I was glad that I was wearing my firetruck underwear, because that's all it felt like I had on and if everyone has to see me in my underwear, I would want to be wearing those!

I remember once right after 9/11 that Margaret and I were flying back from New Orleans. They were doing random extensive searches of people and they picked an old lady that needed a walker and an Amish women (okay, she probably wasn't AMISH, but she was dressed like one, she had some knitting she was doing, and she didn't even have a iPOD!--and in my book THAT'S Amish!) I had no idea that Al Quaida was so desperate that they were recruiting amongst the elderly and the technophobes. Maybe they offer a better health care package than Medicare provides. Another time, flying back from Europe, we went through Dutch security, but that wasn't invasive enough for the US State Department, so we had to go through American security, too, before we could even get to the gate. They conducted personal interviews with every person getting on the plane--asking us about the nature of our trip, how we got to the airport that morning, if I wore boxers or briefs, what that condom full of heroin was doing up my... well, you get the picture. What REALLY set off their suspicion flags, though, was the fact that we only had ONE piece of luggage between the two of us. Who every heard of such a thing--especially with Americans?!? What we thought was a convenience (who wants to lug around a crap load of bags on a trip through Europe?--plus compared to the French tourists we ran into, there wasn't THAT much need to change our clothes very often) turned out to make us terror suspects--I swear, I hadn't been confronted with that much suspicion since I was being questioned by the mission president in Norway after an entire ward turned into atheists (and I still maintain that I had almost NOTHING to do with it!).

Yesterday we got our Christmas bonuses at work. I took the opportunity to be able to buy Margaret her Christmas present without having it show up on our credit card statement--one drawback of completely joint financials is that it takes away the element of surprise--plus it's always embarassing when Margaret takes a look at the statement and sees that I used the debit card 15 times last month for purchases at Taco Bell for under $2--oops! Anyway, what I wanted to get her was at Nordstrom, and since they have a notoriously generous customer service policy, I thought I'd try to just cash the check there and make my purchase in cash, thereby preserving the element of surprise (I'm writing this right now confident that Margaret won't see it before she opens her present, since we'll be opening our presents to one another tonight--it's a struggle to bring all our family presents let alone our own on the plane and we leave for Utah tomorrow.) Well, I go up to the customer service lady and said, "Is there any way I could cash this--I want to buy something here, but I don't want my wife to know about it." She gave me a studied look and said that they didn't and I'd have to go to a bank if that's what I wanted to do. Now I wonder if she might have thought I wanted to buy something for someone I'm having an affair with and that's why I didn't want my wife to know about it and THAT'S why she wouldn't cash the check. How dare she judge me! Oh, and Margaret, when you read this--the gift really was for you!

This past weekend, my brother took his four-year-old son to see Santa. After he got done, my brother asked him what he asked Santa for. My nephew said, "A DUMP TRUCK! I don't even want a dump truck, but I got so nervous up on his lap that I couldn't think of anything else. Next year, I don't want to sit on Santa's lap." Now he's worried that that's all Santa is going to bring him. Talk about a scene out of "A Christmas Story."

I remember when I was little, I asked Santa for a Speak & Spell. Oh the joy, to have a computer that gave me constant reinforcement for good spelling. Now I think, "What an N-E-R-D!" That Speak & Spell was my pride and joy, and I ran through batteries on that thing faster than the digital camera of a Japanese tourist. I even got modules for my birthday that had more words to spell. I admit that I have a SLIGHT obsession with correct spelling--and I'm sure that the Speak-N-Spell reinforced that. After all, how could I resist something that congratulated me with a monotone "good job" or "terrific" every time I spelled something correctly? I wonder if I would enjoy work more if everything I did was followed by a "nice going" or "you're great." Now I think about how my siblings surely thought I was the biggest dweeb--asking for an EDUCATIONAL toy when I could have asked for a video game or something! Fortunately I've outgrown that--I've moved on to asking for the standard frivolous items from Santa--a new patio door! Akk! What have I become?!? Maybe I should send an emergency letter to the North Pole and change my request to a dump truck, too!

Yesterday on the bus, a semi-homeless woman tapped me on the shoulder and said, "President Ford had a stroke." That was it--no introduction, no follow-up--just a totally random statement. It's always so unnerving to me anyway when strangers talk to me on the bus--or any public place for that matter. Why can't they just leave me alone? And to imagine that I was putting people in that situation EVERY DAY when I was a missionary! If any Norwegians out there are reading this, I'l like to say I'm sorry. Anyway, I instantly thought, "This lady it totally crazy! Gerald Ford has been dead for YEARS!" A minute later she tapped me on the shoulder again and told me that he'd been sick. I'm thinking, "Is she living thirty years in the past? WHAT is she talking about and would it hurt her to run a comb through her hair once in a while?" (Okay, that last part didn't have anything to do with what she was saying, but I couldn't help thinking it--and I'm all for full disclosure here.) Fortunately my stop allowed me to escape, and as soon as I got off the bus, I called my grandmother to ask her if Ford was still alive. Well... it turns out he's still alive and that "crazy" lady was just making small talk. Ooops! (But that didn't change the fact that she needed to comb her hair.)

Also, my grandmother solved my 'getting rid of the help' problem for me--she suggested I put the cleaning on hold since we'll be out of town for the holidays and tell them that we'll call them when we get back to restart our schedule--and then just never call them back. I know, I know, it's a TAD cowardly--but they're Eastern European--what if they respond with a vendettta or a blood feud? THEN where would we be? This way seems preferable for all involved--except the cleaners, or course.

Margaret and I have been fighting over who has to be the one to fire our cleaners. We're both dreading it, which is why we've tolerated finding undone cleaning after they've been there for so long. I told her last night that I wish I had a personal assistant to do my dirty work. How great would that be to tell my assistant, "Ludmilla, please 'take care of' the cleaners today and then conduct interviews to find some that will do a good job for around $25" Unfortunately, I only make 6% of the required income to be able to afford a personal assistant, and also my life isn't so complicated that I really require it. My poor personal assistant would be relegated to things like popping some microwave popcorn when we're watching a movie or standing guard while Kitty eats her food to make sure the racoons don't steal it--those rascals. Alas! Maybe Margaret and I'll end up playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who has to do play Donald Trump and declare, "You're fired."

We had recommended these cleaners to our friend Ber and she didn't think they did that good of a job, either. One time when we were over at her house, she was talking about the cleaners and what they missed or glossed over or did poorly. We were comiserating when it struck me: when did WE become the people who complained that you can't get good help these days!

Following tradition, this morning I bought a newspaper and went in to Noah's Bagels. I'm trying to cut back on the newspapers, since The Oregonian just upped its price from 35 to 50 cents! Since I usually only read the Living section--that's the part that has the comics, crossword, and sudoku--most...addictive...game...ever! (The rest is so DEPRESSING.)--I thought 35 cents was a fair price to pay. But now that it's 50 CENTS I feel compelled to read the entire paper--including the SPORTS PAGE--and believe me, THAT'S a chore I would prefer not to have to do. Anyway, while I was paying for my bagel, the newspaper started slipping out from under my arm and when I looked down--to my horror--I had accidentally grabbed TWO papers. I should have know something was wrong--after the newpaper box slammed shut, I felt a great disturbance in the Force, but I had chalked it up to Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes having a baby together--little did I know that I was the cause of the disturbance. I told the cashier at Noah's what I'd done and said that I had just lost some karma points. That dedicated bagel angel then spared me the wrath of the gods by saying that the shop hadn't bought it's store copy yet so she would just take the extra one from me, go deposit 50 cents in the newspaper box, and open it, but not take a paper. Whew! When she came back in after doing that, I could feel my Light Side points tick back up, counteracting my Dark Side points that I had accrued in Norway for... well, I'll just say I'm a big believer in justification repentance.

The Internets have spoken and they have demanded a picture of The Dress. Never one to argue with the Internets (I heard that JFK tried arguing with the Internets--although it was called the Mafia back then--and look what happened to him!), I feel compelled to comply. So, for your viewing pleasure, here is a picture of Margaret's party dress. I'm posting this with full faith that no unscrupulous visitor will use the picture for evil--so let this serve as a warning: I'll be checking all the Southern Belle fetish websites to make sure that Margaret's honor is upheld. I really hate to have to visit those kinds of websites, but what can I say, I'll make all kinds of sacrifices for my Margaret, it's just a service I provide.