Monday, November 29, 2010

Life is hard and then you die.

Endure to the end.  Or as my late FIL always used to say, "the first hundred years is the hardest."  (He wasn't yet 100 when he croaked so his life is still hard somewhere, I'm thinking.)  Maybe it's just the crap load of snow outside and the freezing temperatures but life seems gray and icky right now.   A horrible drudgery.  Something to just be gotten through, like really bad sex.  It's led me to do too much thinking.  I'm not a good thinker.  It makes my head hurt.  But I've been thinking a lot about joy. Or the lack thereof.

Which brings me to the question, are there any truly happy Mormons?  I'm not talking about the drugged-to-the-gills-till-I'm-smiling-vacantly kind of happy.  Or the I'm-doing-what-I'm-supposed-to-so-I-can-be-happy-in-the-next-life kind of happy, either. I'm talking joy.  Now.  I've been told to find joy in my children.  And I do!  They are usually pretty awesome and I like being with them.  But they can't be my whole life.  Living vicariously through your children is just asking for disappointment.  And what about finding joy of my own?  Where does a person find joy and fulfillment in their life when they no longer believe The Church is the source of joy?   Education?  Career? Travel?  Friends? Spouse?  A cause?  Where do I need to look to find my joy?

A recent blog post that hit me hard right in the gut talked about courage and cowardice.  I've been trying to decide how much courage I have.  Do I have enough to go after joy?  Or am I a coward and so I'll just stay where I am?  Existing.  Enduring. Waiting for that 100 years to be up.    

Well this post is a downer!  That's what I get for thinking.  A depressing post and a headache.  Ain't life grand?

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Shit my brain says

I just read the book "S**t My Dad Says".  (Why couldn't they just put SHIT on the cover?  It's not that offensive.)  Anyway, it is hilarious!  The author describes his father as the least passive-aggressive person he knows.  What his dad thinks, he says.  What a refreshing change!  I only know one or two people like that and I consider them great friends. Though sometimes embarrassing in social situations.

But then I started thinking about the random thoughts that flit through my brain periodically.  Things I've believed my whole life but no longer subscribe to. 

"You just need to listen to the spirit more" when I'm frustrated with my kids.  "You can't raise good children without the spirit to guide you."

"Hide your Starbuck's cup!  There's someone from the ward!"  Like I care what they think now.

"That shirt's too low.  It will show your garments." 

"You should stay home with the family instead of going out with the girls.  Good mothers don't take time for themselves."

"If you'd been a better mother she wouldn't be like this."

Yeah, all sorts of guilt-inducing crap.  I wonder if it will ever be truly gone?

Friday, November 26, 2010

The large, pink elephant in the room wearing a corset and singing Lady Gaga songs

Don't Ask Don't Tell started at my house.  We are experts at it. If you simply ignore something, it does not exist and we do not have to fight about it.  Packer's talk last conference has barely been mentioned.  we all heard it (even me through my closed door) but we do not discuss it. 

My oldest son is gay.  He came out to the immediate family about 2 1/2 years ago.  Very few of the extended family know.  Both sides are extremely devout Mormons and we just haven't wanted to push things.  My son is an awesome human being.  He's very smart, makes damn good money for someone his age, and is also pursuing his bachelors degree.  He cooks divinely, sews, and cleans!  All in all, a terrific man.  He's had some very difficult times but since he came out he has made great strides.  He's happier, less stressed and more confident.   Being gay does not define him but it is an important component.   I can buy him size 13 shoes for his size 15 feet, but that will not make his feet a size 13.  I could buy him green contact lenses but his eyes will still be an icy blue.  And pretending he is not gay will not make him straight. Ask him about work but not about his partner.  That would be admitting he's gay.  Ignore the ring he wears on his left hand.  It means nothing.  Ignore the fact that he loves Lady Gaga and Pink.  And that he wore a fantastic Frank N. Furter costume for Halloween, complete with corset.  He cooked us an incredible Thanksgiving dinner and his siblings and father ate it.  But his partner was not invited and it's still don't ask and he won't tell.  It's all just fine.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Sex and the single bulldozer

My cold has settled into my chest and my voice has a sexy, husky sound.  Well, sexy as long as you can't see the red nose and mucous-filled tissue clutched in my hand.  Back when my job was to make calls and generate leads for salesmen, the days when I was sick were some of my most successful ones.  Something about my voice saying, "Hey, Mr. Decision-Maker.  You looking for some heavy machinery? I can help you out."  From the reaction of the guys on the other end of the phone, I must have sounded like a platinum blond with Hooters-worthy boobage.  I have no idea if they actually bought anything when the salesman made the follow-up call but that wasn't my problem.  I was doing my job.  The fact that I had just rolled out of bed in my stained T-shirt and bedhead didn't matter.  I could be anyone I wanted on the phone and I learned to play it.

If I'd known then what I know now, I could have turned that voice into real money by starting a sex line for Mormon men.  The right post on Craigslist and the calls would have been rolling in.  Confession-free phone sex. Your temple recommend is safe.  "Hi, my name's Molly.  Can I hold your priesthood?"  

Um, have I really become this cynical and jaded? 

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Out of gas

It's probably a combination of the weather, a nagging cold and the holidays, but I am out of gas.  Out of snark.  Out of the sarcasm and cynicism that make my life bearable.  I'm a deflated balloon with a sore throat.  But it's the cold germs that got me out of spending Thanksgiving with my mother so I should start counting my blessings.  It's supposed to help so I'll name them one by one and see what god has done.  (Now I'm quoting hymns.  I must be delirious.)

1.  I'm so good at doing dishes that any and all dirty dishes, pots and counters are left for me.  The one that works the most hours.  And doesn't get paid vacation so doesn't have this whole fucking week off.  And has a cold.  And is wallowing in self pity.

2.  My lovely daughter will spend the week at home, poking into bags and under my bed looking for who-knows-what.  She was born nosy.  She'll also remind me that my boobs sag and my belly fat is firm even though she thought it would be smooshy.  I hope she finds my new vibrator.

3. My nose is clogged so I can't smell the wet dog scent which now permeates the house.  Two dogs rolling in snow then coming into a warm house=odiferousness.  And wet floors which no one knows how to clean.  Except me.

Well, counting my blessings certainly helped!  I am now so depressed I'm going to drain a bottle of Nyquil and go back to bed.  I only wish it were a hot toddy or some buttered rum. 

Sunday, November 21, 2010

A brief history of underwear

Ever since I discovered The Cognitive Dissenter's blog and her effort of "Changing people's underwear.  One Mormon at a time", I have been mulling over the change in my underwear.  The whys, the hows and the dirty laundry of it all.  I've finally sifted through it all, so here she blows.

I remember going with my mom to a LeVoy's party.  If I remember correctly this was a Utah company that made underwear and nightgowns and things and they would sell them at parties, like Tupperware.  The party was at the house of a woman in our ward and my mom bought me a pack (a whole pack!) of this acid green, nylon-y underwear.  I don't know what they were really made of but they wore like iron.  They covered me thoroughly from crotch to navel and I wore them for years, willing them to get a hole, a split seam, anything!  I think I finally outgrew them but the image is still burned in my mind.  I wore the same granny-panty style all through high school because my mom bought my underwear for me, though I also seem to recall some hand-me-downs from my many older sisters.  Ew.

Then off to college at Bring 'em Young University with an engagement and marriage (to an RM!) almost immediately following.  I was an obedient (occasionally) little girl and got myself married in the temple and came out with the requisite Long Underwear which I wore for the next 29 years or so. I birthed and nursed babies, took every calling, and supported my priesthood-bearing husband in all of his. When I shopped for underwear it was a choice of fabric and neck style.  Then a series of events started a chain reaction, though I couldn't see it at the time.

My husband was called to the bishopric.  As we sat in the stake office and I heard the calling extended, I was not happy.  Not happy AT ALL. I was reminded of my childhood, my dad always doing church stuff when he wasn't working.  Bishop, high council, stake presidency--I never knew my father because he was never around.  All of us were left 24/7 at the mercy of our not-quite-sane mother.  I never really talked to my father until I was an adult and by then it was awkward.  The chance for a close connection with him was gone.  I DID NOT want this for my children.  But I smiled and said, sure I'll support him, and hated every minute he served.   I got called to the nursery and stayed there for years.  No need to listen to lessons that seemed to make my skin itch and no need to sneak home during SS just for a break.  Everyone thought I was so nobel for staying so long in the calling but it was an escape.  When I was finally forced out I had to return to the irritating adult classes.  It was about this time that I found out my son was gay.  (That's a whole other post.  Or two.)  RS then became absolutely excrutiating as I sat there listening to what was coming out of those women's mouths.  When the whole Prop 8 thing started it became even more of a torture.  My son's gayness was ruining the fabric of the family!  (All by himself!)  He was an abomination and unnatural.  I started walking out as soon as something offensive was said.  I am not a controversial person.  I just wanted out of that room.   Out of the suffocating atmosphere of that building.  I started going less and less often.  And I lost a goodly amount of weight, making that long underwear bag around me and adding at least an inch of fabric to my waist size.  It irritated.  It itched.  It felt suffocating.  So why was I still wearing it?  Once I stopped to think about it I could not come up with a single reason.  Not.  One.  Except habit. 

It was at this time that my awesome sister and I went to LA to an epic rock concert.  I was rocking the tight jeans on my somewhat skinny body and I did not want to wear The Long Underwear.  So I bought a pack of panties.  I walked into a store and bought a pack of panties.  Like a virgin.  Shopping for the very first time.  Not once in 47 years had I ever shopped for pretty panties for myself.   And when I got to LA and dressed for the concert, I put them on.  Black ones.   With lace.  I wasn't struck down by lightening or hit by car or burned beyond recognition in a freak fire.  I simply had a blast at a great concert with fun people.  And I didn't ever put the long underwear on again.  That was it.  I was done.  I now have a drawer full of pretty underwear--bikinis, thongs, lace and silk.  But I still have a drawer filled with long underwear too.  What's that all about?!

Saturday, November 20, 2010

I want to be evil...

I  thought this song was original to "Kinky Boots" but when I went to YouTube to try and find it, there was this delicious version by Eartha Kitt. It totally sums up my attitude lately.

Friday, November 19, 2010

A short history of gas...

I've redesigned my blog a bit and I noticed it really looks like a man blog.  Men like farts and all that stuff.  But there is another reason I chose this title and theme.

My mother has always been a gassy woman.  For as long as I can remember, she would belch multiple times a day and every time she would look startled and say, "OH!  Excuse me!" like it took her by surprise and she had no idea where it came from!  The running joke was that mom's side of the family let the gas out and dad's side just bloated.  If you've ever had abdominal surgery such as a laparoscopy where they fill you with gas, you know how painful bloating can be.  So I learned from watching my mom that you should embrace the gas and let it go.  Let it out and feel the relief.  But don't act surprised.  Everybody knows you're gassy.  So I am embracing my mental gas in this blog and hoping to get some relief! 

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Hey, Butt-Faced Miscreant!

You know who you are.  I know you read my blog.  Get your secret identity and comment already!  Back me up on the thong story!  I know you were walking in front of me so you were spared the flash but you heard the "whump" that was magnified by the incredible acoustics of the tabernacle!  Quit being a lurker, woman. 

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Pernicious guilt

Since writing my last post about things that get me through I've had this nagging sense of guilt.  It niggled at me and it's black cloud followed me around all morning.  But why?!  Well, my house is now rife with the stench of the gaseous epiphany!  I didn't list enough things about my children in it!  My children should be the upper-most thought in my mind at all times.  They are the air that I breathe and the reason I live!  My life is nothing without them! 

This idea has been burned in my psyche by hundred-- if not thousands--of lessons, talks and Ensign articles over my life span.  I know in my conscious mind that I am a person in my own right but my subconscious doesn't get it.  Maybe it never will.  Or maybe it just needs a few shots of Jager with my ho friends.  I've gotta go light some scented candles.  The stench is overwhelming.

What keeps you going?

Little things that keep me going:

Sleeping in really late with my dogs after working the late shift.  Furry warmth and comfort.

Iced Mocha and chocolate chip cookies for breakfast.  But not every day.

A huge pack of batteries in my nightstand.  No more late-night desperate, horny searches for batteries.

Wearing a fancy bra and panties to work.  Under my clothes, of course.  Makes me feel awesome all night.

Drink-and-bitch time with my ho friends.  A great way to blow off steam. 

Driving with my dogs, their fuzzy heads out the window and ears flapping in the breeze.  It always makes me smile.

Watching cooking shows with my youngest.

Hearing, "Mom, will you help me proof my paper?"

Blasting rock music while I clean the house. 

What keeps you going?

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

How to get a concussion in five minutes or less

I mentally brace myself and answer the phone.

Oh, hi mom...  Yes, I know I'm hard to get in touch with.  I work a lot...  No, I didn't hear last Sunday's Relief Society lesson.  I was working... Yes, I know we shouldn't work on the sabbath but I need the money right now...  My calling?  I'm the um, family history thingy person (technically, but they only asked me because they wanted my husband's tech skills). 

No, he was released from the bishopric a while ago.  (I know you equate a person's worth by their calling.  Sorry to disappoint you.)

*massage temples with fingers*

Um, no, I haven't been to the temple in a while (because I haven't had a recommend in years and prefer thongs now). 

No, I didn't hear much of conference.  (I shut myself in my room and tried to drown out the noise as much as possible.)

*gently thump head with palm of hand*

Yes, the talks are online and I could read them.  (Especially the one that calls my wonderful son unnatural and immoral and said god never would create someone like him.)

*gently beat head on wall*

No I didn't see the devotional on KBYU.  (I only watch the cooking shows on that channel.)

No I haven't talked to her in a while (she may be my sister but she's the devil and I refuse to let her poison my life anymore).  I don't mean to put our eternal family in jeapardy, mom.  

*pound head a little harder*

The kids are just fine, mom.  (Your grandson is gay and happy and doing great, though we don't dare tell you he's gay because you're incredibly close-minded and bigoted.)

*realize I'm unconsciously pounding my head but can't stop*

Sorry, mom, but I need to go to work.  (I'd talk with you longer but every word out of your mouth has to do with The Church and it's giving me a headache.)

I love you too, mom.  Bye.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Another really stupid survey

So apparently the higher-education officials in Zionland couldn't figure out why more Utah women don't finish college. I can't even fathom what rock they must have just crawled out from under to not know this. So a survey was taken of 245 women, 80% of them Mormon.  Surprise!  The study found that "many Mormon girls are encouraged to go to college but not necessarily to finish."  Duh, they're encouraged to go to college and find a man.  The sheer number of  "date and find a mate" activities my children are subjected to at the Lard's University is staggering.  If only they put that emphasis on studying and obtaining a degree!! 

It goes on to say "Some survey participants said they saw no urgency to graduate, believing they would finish "someday." Others said that starting a family trumped college, and getting married ended their education."  One Fast Sunday in my married student ward long, long ago, the bshop got up and actually said that the number of babies blessed that day was too low!  The rest of us needed to get busy!  I think there were at least five blessed. Maybe more.  It was interminable.  No encouragement from the pulpit to finish their education first.

"LDS young women get it that it's important to go to college. That's not the problem," The study goes on. "They don't see options. They do not see that one evening a week they could go to class and their husband could watch the kids. It's all or nothing."   This idea seems very reasonable, doesn't it?  Of course it depends on getting a husband who is supportive of his wife's education as well.  AND willing to watch his own children.  AND if the woman isn't overburdened with church callings and post-partum depression.  AND the money can be scraped up to spend on somthing so frivolous. It's a crap shoot and the odds are not in the women's favor.

To significantly raise the number of women with degrees in Utah, the entire cultural mind-set needs to change. I'll do my small part by encouraging my daughters to make the most of their minds and opportunities.  THIS is the best time in their lives for them to do that.  They have the rest of their lives to get married and have children.  And they have me, a great example of what happens when a woman doesn't get that education.

Here is the link to the article but since I'm technologically challanged I'm not even sure it will work:

The thong, the tabernacle and the missionaries

I needed to attend an event at the Tabernacle but wore a lacy thong under my modest-mom skirt just for the thrill of it.  I really didn't mean to trip, do a face plant, and flash my lily-white ass at the clumps of sister missionaries and tourists.  That was just a bonus.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Shart people

Yes, I meant shart.  I have to keep the whole gaseous theme going and it sounds like a rural Utahn pronounces it.

So today a rude, rude woman made a right turn and pulled right in front of me as I was going 65 down the highway.  (No, I was not speeding.)  As I yelled obscenities she could not hear and waved my middle finger so she would see it, I was reminded that short people really bother me.  Now, I have short friends and I know some incredibly awesome short people that I like very much.  As long as I don't have to walk behind them.  I was born with LEGS and I use them.  When I walk, I walk with a purpose.  I kick them out and go!  Nothing brings out the bitch in me like being trapped behind a short, slow walker.  Which brings me to pants.  If I can find pants with a 36" inseam, anyone can find pants that don't flap around their cankles.  Gawd!  Um, if any short people area reading this, it's nothing personal.

I'm done.  The bitch has left the building.  Temporarily.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Yesterday I took my youngest to a music store.  It's in a cool old building in the middle of the valley with squeaky floors and it's simply packed with music books of all kinds.  Scott Joplin for organ, anyone:? 

The guitar music was near a wall that was covered in beautiful violins of all different sizes, along with bows and their three-and-four digit price tags.  Soon a boy of about ten walked over and removed one from the wall.  I cringed.  It was obvious from the way he handled it that he did not play.  An employee came walking up.  A youngish, skinny guy.  I waited for him to rescue the violin.  Instead he said, "Hi, I'm the violin maker.  Shall we find one your size?"  He had the boy hold out his arm to measure a violin against.  When they found the perfect one he asked, "Would you liike to hear it?"  He then preceeded to play the most beautiful song.  Chills literally went down my spine. This man has a passion for music and he shares it.  Whether helping someone find sheet music or sharing the glory of a violin with a little boy, he shared his passion.  I consider him one very lucky man.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Fart 'em young

My barely-18-year-old daughter suddenly got the inspiration to take off to the other side of the world for six months because, "This really feels like the right thing to do".  Besides her tender age, she has OCD and anxiety for which she takes medication.  She's had recent "episodes".  There is no cellphone service in this practically third-world country.   Add to all this the fact that it costs several thousand dollars for this experience.  PLUS clothing and living expenses.  We do not have this money. And she would leave in TWO MONTHS!  All things considered, I think this is a VERY BAD IDEA.  (Sorry for all the caps but I feel VERY STRONGLY about this.)  But how do I say, "Sweetie, you're too young, poor, and mentally unstable to do this"? 

Then with a great rumbling of my innerds, out came the great, gaseous epiphany!  I was exactly the same age when I got married.  I had barely met the guy, had no job or money and I had undiagnosed (and obviously untreated) depression.  Which option do I think is better for my daughter?  Well, I'm looking for sales on really warm winter clothing and working extra hours at my jobs.  I hear the Ukraine is fucking cold.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Fuzzy memories

I'm getting so damn old there aren't many memories from my childhood left.  I think I've blocked many things out because I simply couldn't process them and the rest are fading.  But one memory from my freshman (and only) year at BYU is still crystal clear. The very first fast-and-testimony meeting in my student ward got me thinking.  I don't remember what was said but I left thinking, "I need to confess to the bishop".  I really didn't think it through properly because it didn't occur to me that I could be kicked out of BYU.  No, I just knew it was something I "needed" to do. 

I made an appointment with the bishop, who sold garage doors when he wasn't dealing with the hundreds of teenagers under his authority.  I confessed my sin of having premarital sex and he told me that because of the seriousness of the transgression a bishop's court needed to be held.  I was a petrified barely-eighteen-year-old girl and I willingly walked into a room full of older, balding men in suits and white shirts and proceeded to answer questions about how many times this serious transgression occurred and over what period of time, etc.  So many questions from these old dudes.  I certainly didn't want to give specifics on the first time in his sister's bedroom (and the subsequent hideously painful "honeymoon cystis") or the attempt at fucking in the pool in his backyard while his parents were in the house  Or the various rooms in my house and, of course, my car.  There was a LOT of empty desert to drive into.  Yeah, I seriously transgressed. A lot. And I had to tell them about it.  So my stomach is churning, I'm sweating and attempting to answer these probing questions when the bishop asked, "Have you always been tall?". What.  The.  Hell.  And then I noticed.  This was a room full of short, bald men. If I had known then what I know these 30 years later I would have walked out of that room and left BYU and all that shit behind.  I was baring my soul to a bunch of short, bald men and letting them judge me. 

I was eventually told that they had decided, out of the goodness of their hearts, to merely put me on church probation.  I did not have to leave BYU in disgrace.  Of course, that bishop called the bishop in my home ward who proceeded to call MY FATHER who proceeded to call me.  So much for that confidential shit.  I think of my 18-year-old daughter going through something like that and I want to punch someone.  Preferably short, bald men. Ah! An epiphany!  That's why I don't like short, bald men!  This random farting really is helping.  

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Utah english

"You want these ones or those ones?"  I hear this 20 times a day before I get sick of it and tune out.  What is it with Utahns that they have to tack "ones" on the end?  I'm no grammarian but I know that "would you like this or that?" is correct.  And it's always parents saying it to their children who then start using it and teaching it to their children and it becomes ingrained in the DNA.  Just like they teach them to leave the "T" out of the middle of words.  We don't have mountains around these parts, we have mou-ains.  And bu-ains instead of buttons.  And we have lovely signs that advertise a "yard sell".  It's called a "long A" people!  And now my fingers are tired from using all these quotation marks. Probably incorrectly.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Why I fart randomly

Most days I feel like my life is in chaos.  It may appear fairly placid on the surface but rippling underneath are currents, both shallow and deep. Mostly shallow.  Very, very shallow.  Like, am I too old for a nose piercing? Just a little stud.  It's probably cheaper than a tattoo.  It looks a little uncomfortable but any type of jewelry can be if you're not used to it.  But where do you go to get a nose pierced?  I know Walmart doesn't do it.  Or that jewelry place in the mall.  Hmmm.  I will have to think on this.  I doubt that it would go over well with the fam.  But most things I do don't go over well.