Pirates!

Tonight we're going to see Pirates of the Caribbean II with some friends and I'm vacillating on whether or not to wear a pirate shirt I have. I got the shirt for a friend's wedding, where I was a groomsman. The groom, his best (wo)man, and I all wore pirate shirts, sashes, and boots. (Although now that I think of it, it would have been cool to have the groom in an eye patch and when the veil gets lifted, the bride could have lifted the eye patch--dang! NOW I think of that!) It was fun and definitely different. Margaret and I had a traditional Salt Lake temple wedding, but every time we're in Las Vegas I think it would be cool to go to one of those Elvis wedding chapels and renew our vows. That would be a great juxtaposition to the solemn temple ceremony. Although I wonder what kinds of things we'd have to do to get an Elvis recommend? I can just imagine the interview now: "Have you been listening to Elvis when you wake up and before you go to bed? Do you wear your polyester jumpsuit with gold sequins? Are you living a life worthy of being called your spouse's "teddy bear?"

Next year will be our tenth anniversary; I'll have to ask Margaret if she wants a Vegas wedding chapel with Elvis officiating at the renewal of our vows or a nude ceremony in Hawaii overlooking the Pacific Ocean. (We have to hurry and get that one out of the way before we get too old and we don't even want to see OURSELVES naked anymore.)

Senatorial visit

A few days back, I was at the gym and who should be there at the same time but one of Oregon's senators. (I won't say which one, since this story isn't too flattering and therefore subject to repercussions by the Department of Homeland Security). Anyway, I was getting dressed in the locker room when the senator came in and went into one of the bathroom stalls. When he came out, he was walking to the sinks when someone recognized him and said hello. The senator instinctively held out his hand to shake the other guy's hand--which he reluctantly shook. Afterward, the guy, whose locker was right next to mine, asked if I had seen what happened. He (and I) couldn't believe that he'd shake someone's hand after using the toilet--and it wasn't the urinal, either! I guess that confirms my dad's contention that politician's think their crap doesn't stink (or evidently cause an E. coli infestation).

Speaking of hygiene, I remember one of my apartments in Norway with a bathroom so small (imagine the broom closet in a Barbie dollhouse and you'll get the picture) that the sink hung over the toilet and the showerhead came out of the middle of the ceiling. The whole room was tiled, so it could all get wet--so you could conceivably use the toilet, brush your teeth, and take a shower ALL AT THE SAME TIME. I never did it, in fact the tought still makes me cringe. But I wouldn't be surprised that my insane, hyper-efficient companion (I won't use his real name, I'll just write that we called him "Salsa") did it so he could get even better missionary numbers to report.

Where was PETA?

This weekend, while at my family's place in Idaho, we went up to a state park where the local community had a fireworks show on the lake shore. It was classic small-town fun--not too many people, but enough to make it enjoyable, you got a great excuse to sit around a mountain lake, and the weather was great. The show was supposed to start at 10:00, and at about 9:45, some fireworks pretty close to where we were sitting started going off. They weren't that big, but we figured, "hey, small town." We knew something was awry when a couple of the charges were angled too low and hit the water, exploding from the surface. I'm sure if there were any fish in that area, they were probably floating belly-up afterward.

Finally at around 10:00, the REAL fireworks started going off. We then realized that the ones next to us were some private individual's fireworks, which explained the drunken aim. The real show was actually pretty impressive. What made it go from cool to impressive, though, was the forested venue. In the quiet forest and across the lake surface, the sound of the explosions seemed a lot louder than you would expect. I swear, every deer, squirrel, duck, and raccoon in the area must have been terrified and ready to rampage. Fortunately we left before the animals attacked and got home to enjoy more of my mom's clam dip that she'd made for the occassion. After eating that all weekend, I saw even more fireworks when I stepped on the bathroom scales this morning.

Superman review

Well, in a nutshell, the movie was okay. There were some genuinely enjoyable moments, but I have to admit that my throat was a little scratchy afterward from groaning so many times. I mean, I'm all for the super powers and all, but some of the things he was doing seemed just too over the top--like drinking a Coors Light?!? I'm thinking Superman would be more of a microbrew kind of guy. We went with a group and did have fun making comments throughout the movie, however. Which probably didn't endear the theatre-goers sitting around us.

I remember growing up, my little brother totally worshipped Superman--I mean he was a bigger influence in his life than JESUS! (In fact it might still be that way, but I'm sure he's working on that problem with his bishop.) He's the one who got Margaret and me hooked on Smallville. When he was little, he had a Superman cape that he would wear everywhere--and oftentimes even to bed. Fortunately he never did try to jump off the house, though. My brother and I would exploit that somewhat by making him clean up our room as fast as Superman. He'd frantically rush around the room picking up clothes and putting away toys as fast as his little legs would go. When he'd slow down, we'd say that he must not be Superman because Superman wouldn't get tired like that, which would goad him into speeding back up again. I guess the comic book character you associate with most as a child tells something about your personality. How money-obsessed must my pysche be for my favorite comic book to be Richie Rich? Yikes!

One of the guys that came with us just had a tendon replaced in his knee and was limping pretty bad. After the movie we decided to go to a nearby restaurant to rehash the movie. I totally thought it was right across the street, but it was two blocks away, which wouldn't have been noticeable had we not had someone in the party that was in pain for every step of the way. Oops. Oh well, that's what hydrocodone is for.

Superman Returns

Tonight we're off to see the new Superman movie. After reading the newspaper review this morning, I was a little worried. Fortunately, though, my brother, who is a Superman connoisseur, said he went in with low expectations and was pleasantly surprised. Now I'm conflicted as to which way my expectations should be bending.

Speaking of expectations, when I was growing up, I had enormous pressure to get good grades. When our annual standardized testing came around, I remember my mom making us giant breakfasts to make sure we were ready for the determination of our future earning potential. Fortunately I was a shameless brown-noser teacher's pet, so getting the grades didn't pose that big of an obstacle. When I got the top grade in something, I just assumed it was confirmation that I was better than my classmates, which I'm sure made me REALLY popular with most of them. Well, anyway, before computers were very widespread, report cards were always a special form on heavy paper that the teacher filled in by hand. When I got to seventh grade, however, the school started giving out computer-generated report cards. One time, I thought I'd play a trick on my parents by creating an exact replica of the computer report card, only giving myself C's and D's. I remember being totally nervous bringing that home, knowing the fury it would unleash in my mom. Whoo-ee, I had no idea! When I handed it to her, she looked at it for a second, thinking that she didn't understand the format or something--because how could her baby get grades like THAT! Then, as comprehension set in, her eyes turned red, the earth beneath her began to shake, and a rip in the space/time continuum opened up behind her. In a booming voice that shook the house, she asked me how I could have let this happen and what did I do wrong and what I had been doing at school and I was going to be cut off from tv to study all evening every night. I cruelly let her rant for a bit until I gave her the real report card. Despite that, it still took her a few minutes to calm down after getting so worked up. She was pretty mad, even though later we all got a laugh out of it. Man, I was so glad that I didn't actually get those grades, because if I had, I'd have never seen the Simpsons and I probably would have been forced to develop a strong study ethic that would have driven me to getting a Ph.D. by now. Whew! Dodged THAT bullet!

Mission sugar rushes

Yesterday's posting and subsequent comments reminded me of how big a deal brownies were on my mission. And not the pot-filled kind, just the basic sugar-laden ones. It seems like every opportunity we had, we'd bake a batch--oftentimes eating the whole thing that evening...just between TWO missionaries! (Walking around all day getting doors slammed in your face really takes it out of you.) Everyone had his or her own recipe, until one recipe, "Buck's Brownies" (named after that immortal mission chef Dan Buck, who tirelessly altered, experimented, and ultimately perfected the brownies made by the missionaries) rose to the top. Everyone knew about them. Missionaries broke mission rules by calling other missionaries for the recipe. Missionaries gained weight making them all the time. Missionaries would run out of money halfway through the month buying ingredients for them. Missionaries broke the Word of Wisdom by adding RUM EXTRACT to them. The Norwegian mission hadn't seen this much of a sensation since 1963 when scriptures with little hand warmers built into them hit the market. (Although much to Buck's and my other missionary friends' chagrin, no one can find the recipe among their mission memorabilia. It was as if they were destined to die with our halcyon days of Scandinavian service and we now have to console ourselves with substandard Betty Crocker brownies. And to think that if someone kept it, we might have the seed recipe to start a brownie empire to rival Mrs. Fields! Blast!)

One reason I think brownies were so popular was that since we couldn't de-stress with alcohol or cigarettes or get a buzz from coffee, we turned to two legal ingredients for missionaries--chocolate and sugar. We could get a buzz from all the sugar and fat in them that just melted our days pains and problems away. Unfortunately, though this simple pleasure was corrupted into a dark monster. You know how most evil things are really corruptions of really good things? Well, the brownies in Norway spawned an awful, evil, poison. It was called "Sizzle." I'm not sure when it was first forged in the dark places of some disturbed missionary's mind--a mind driven mad by the lack of sunlight in the northern reaches of Norway; driven crazy by freezing weather; pushed to the brink by not being able to watch Baywatch. All I know is that it was a part of underground mission lore long before I got there. Sizzle was everything about brownies that you know and love--magnified to such gross proportions that it became a hideous monster, capable of halting the digestive process in humans and even goats. To make this deadly concoction, you take a basic brownie recipe and half the flour and double the sugar and butter. After baking it, the cook quickly pulls it out of the oven and scoops the thick stew into a bowl (you can't cut it--it's too soupy at this point and if you wait too long, it will turn into a mass more durable than a titanium bar) and pours milk over it. The cold milk hits the hot sugar/butter combination and starts to sizzle. The longer the sizzling, the better the sizzle. At this point, you had to dive right in and eat it as fast as possible before it turned into a brick in the bowl--better that it turn into a brick in your stomach. I only braved the stuff once, and of course it was before a Norwegian wedding reception, so I couldn't eat one Norwegian pastry, treat, or cake because my stomach was still full of a chocolate rock it probably wouldn't digest for another 24 hours. When I told my grandmother about sizzle, she said that it was a good thing that missionaries are blessed that they can withstand poisoning because any normal person would be dead after eating that. Those words of warning have prevented me from ever trying the recipe here in the States--well, that and the fact that I'm no longer capable of processing 12,000 calories in one sitting.

Sabbath shopping punishment

Over the weekend, we kept putting off grocery shopping until finally around 5:30 on Sunday afternoon we realized that we'd better get a move on if we were going to have any food in the house this coming week. We headed to Costco (of course, since we're a household of two, where else could we shop?) and got there at 5:50, only to discover that it closed at 6:00! We sprinted in and had to dash from location to location--fortunately we'd made a list, or we would have been kicking ourselves at how much we'd forgotten to get. Actually, that proved to be the most efficient trip to Costco we've ever made.

Despite closing early, I'm glad we have the freedom to shop on Sunday. When I was in Norway, they have strict Sabbath laws that practically close down the country. Convenience stores and gas stations are allowed to open, and some touristy shops, but by-and-large you have to wait until Monday--even if you wanted that sweater or new CD NOW! One store that could stay open on Sundays was Midnight Video, a video store that wasn't too far from us that stayed open until--you guessed it--midnight. I remember breaking one mission rule, and not really obeying the spirit of the Sabbath when we would rent movies from that video store to watch on our day off, which was Mondays. Well, we'd take that seriously and consider our day off to start when Monday did--at the stroke of 12. We'd go to the video store around 11:45 or so on Sunday night and pick out a movie, but not pay for it until midnight--when it wasn't breaking the Sabbath anymore! Weren't we ingenious? We'd discovered a loophole that the 10 Commandments didn't address! (Please disregard the fact that we weren't supposed to be watching movies in the first place--and I can't remember offhand what we even rented, so for me to so easily forget, I'll assume they were all Disney animated films and nothing of a questionable or violoent nature.) We'd rush home with our treasure and make a big batch of brownies and get a REALLY early start on our day off. Now if I stay up past midnight, I'm dragging for a couple of days just to recover. Stupid aging!

Treadmill mishap

Don't you hate it when this happens? It's probably enough for that girl to never darken the door of a gym ever again. I remember one time at a summer camp, we were learning about measuring our metabolic rates and one of the students got on the treadmill when it hadn't slowed down all the way. The exact same thing happening as happened to this girl. It was hilarious (at least to us spectators--not for the guy.) The treadmill was up against a wall and it kept him from flying clear of the treadmill and he ended up sanding his forearms for a few seconds until the teacher could unplug the machine. For the rest of the summer camp, he had scabby reminders of the ordeal. And we had scabby reminders to taunt him.

Shave already

Every once in a while--like twice a week at least--I see someone on the bus that if I were ruder would get out my camera and take a picture. Two incidents this week had me wishing that I had one of those secret agent spy cameras, because what I saw made me cringe, and I just wish I could have shared the moment with the internets. Both of these incidents have to do with hair, but oftentimes they have to do with poor clothing choices, odd piercings, pornographic tattoos, or festering wounds. You never know what you're going to be entertained with when riding public transportation. Anyway, first incident: I learned first-hand why men with beards should shave below their jawline. A guy got on the train who just grew out a beard with maintaining it in any way--you couldn't tell where it ended. It wasn't long enough to just hang down like Santa's--it was just a solid mat that disappeared under his t-shirt. Talk about a missing link! Intelligent designers HATE when they come out in public. There's a guy at my gym who would have this problem, too, but he evidently took matters into the 21st century. The solution makes him look fine when he has a shirt on, but when he takes his shirt off, you can see that he's had electrolysis done on his neck and upper body to prevent gorilla back and chest from sticking out from his clothes. Well the effect in the locker room is a guy wearing a white dickie around his neck or one of those Elizabethan collars. Hopefully he's just saving up for the full procedure.

The second incident involved a guy who really needs a significant other to remind him to shave his neck. I sat down behind him on the bus and couldn't avoid looking at the mat of fur that came off the top of his head and disappeared down the back of his shirt. It was then that I was cursing my camera phone, because when you snap a picture, it makes a loud camera shutter sound--presumably to prevent people from secretly taking pictures of other people. Imagine someone who would do... oh wait. Oh well, you'll have to be content with the written descriptions.

If I ever fall victim of either of these problems, I hope someone will tell me. And at the rate that my hair is migrating off the top of my head, I'm sure I'm in a high-risk category.

4th of July preparations

We've been thinking about getting out of town for the Fourth of July. I looked at a lake in eastern Oregon that has lots of cabins. Unfortunately there weren't any available, so we're still looking. It's probably for the best, as if we did find a vacancy, the area would be so crowded that it wouldn't have been enjoyable anyway.

Which reminds me of a Fourth of July my family spent one time in British Columbia. Ahh, nothing like celebrating America's independence by leaving the country. We stayed at a really nice provincial park and there was only one other group of Americans in the campground. The area was completely thick with crows that squalked us all awake every morning. Well, one morning, we heard the American kids laughing and causing a ruckus nearby, and when we walked over to them, they had started throwing rocks at a crow, hit one, and after it had fallen to the ground, continued to throw rocks at it, killing it. We were so disgusted--we ran them off, but it was too late. What a great way to foster international goodwill! At least we're doing a better job with fostering goodwill in Iraq... oh wait--never mind.