And you thought BYU boys couldn't boogie.

Check out our Orange Man on bongos. We were sure his head was going to detach before the song ended. So sad they hid him in the back: I admire the great musicality of these BYU steel drummers, but their hips simply don't wiggle enough.

C'mon, kids -- miss a couple notes and boogie with Orange Man! We're channeling Trinidad, here -- not Vienna!

Death, thou shalt die.

...My Classics veil their faces,
My Faith that dark adores,
Which from its solemn Abbeys
Such resurrection pours!

--Emily Dickinson


***************************

Is the resurrection irrelevant?

Most people believe in an afterlife of some sort, and that it is at least a niceish destination if you're a non-felon (or something like that). Most of those who do believe in an afterlife don't dwell much on the body-or-no-body issue -- they figure as long as they are still conscious in some realm and that realm is a pleasant realm, they shouldn't fuss too much over the details. Even most Christians have divorced themselves from the idea of physical resurrection. You go from the Hellenic Nicene Creed, in which Jesus is freed from his body.....

....let it stew a few more centuries.....

....and soon we want rid of ours, too.

I can understand this way of thinking, though I don't subscribe to it. To truly believe that this unjust life doesn't end in cold oblivion is quite the feat; to believe that it opens onto a pleasant scene is even harder; to believe that the next life involves actual physical restoration and perfection seems pushing the limits of what the seemingly cruel, entropic universe will allow a sane person to swallow. And whether or not we are part of a faith or philosophy that emphasizes the negative aspects of physicality, we all understand the ugly side of life in a body: the appetites that hurt us and tempt us to hurt others; the weaknesses and indignities; the illusion of control that at some point is ripped away from chainsmokers and health nuts alike. Sometimes the physical aspect of our being gives us more misery than joy and we aren't sure we wouldn't be happier and better beings without it. And even those of us who do believe in a literal resurrection don't really believe that there's no possible happy existence without the taste of physical cheesecake on our physical tongues.

So what's the big deal about the resurrection? Was it just a really great parlor trick that Jesus used to prove that he was the Real Thing, but not something that really mattered in and of itself? Could he just as easily have pulled a unicorn out of his hat? And if Jesus didn't care to keep his body, as so many Christians believe, why should any Christian wish to keep his own?

Again, I understand why people ask these questions. It's baffling enough to accept the thought that a god would spend 33 years living in a leaky, smelly human body in a dank and dirty world, but even more fantastical to believe that he would choose to keep that souvenir from Earth when he returns to a purer space. It can seem like the most laughable example of human beings superimposing their weaknesses on the gods they choose to worship -- we don't like ourselves very much, so we invent a god who's physical like us and thereby feel better about our place in the universe. Then three hundred years later we realize it's ludicrous, not to mention blasphemous, and change our minds.

Mormon doctrine runs audaciously against that powerful current of human self-loathing, however apparently logical. We believe that our faith restores truths about mankind that were lost (and/or rejected) over centuries: The body is not evil, nor is it neutral -- it is ultimately divine, and is the main reason we are on earth. Whether we live 100 years or one second, a body is the single thing we all get from this life. And the reason we wanted incarnation and eventual permanent incarnation, and why both of these have been granted every human being free of charge, is we are embryonic gods and a physical body is standard issue. A non-optional prerequisite.

And it is only that knowledge that makes the resurrection meaningful. Because most people who mourn dead dear ones don't really care whether they will see them again in a body -- they just want to know that they will encounter them again someday, in some form or another. The importance of resurrection doctrine only becomes clear when we understand that is not we who want to superimpose our physicality on God -- it is he who superimposed his physicality on us. It is not just a nice thing to be resurrected and get to wiggle our toes in the heavenly creek -- it is a necessary thing. Because the next life is not just meant to be pleasant; if that were all it was, then Christ's resurrection is just tossing another pretty miracle on the pile. The next life is meant to be expansively concrete.....mind-bendingly, fantastically grand.....grab yourself a body in the Third Dimension and then we're off to the Fourth, and the Fifth, and....

We signed up to be gods.

It is pretty ludicrous, but so is life itself.


**********************************************************************

For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another.

Job 19: 25-27

Do I have to choose a winner??

'Cause you're all winners!

Except that there IS an actual winner......

But before I get to that technicality, I must say that you guys really outdid yourselves this year. Click here to read all the entries, and you'll see what I mean. (And be sure tell me in a comment which number limerick you wrote so I can put your name next to it. Any unclaimed limericks will be presumed abandoned. I will then attach my own name to them and enter them in the Deseret News Limerick Contest next year.)

The themes were all highly clever, many of the rhymes were ambitious and goofy, and I wouldn't be surprised if some ol' Irish dude Googling "silly limerick" plagiarizes your work to impress the lads, Friday night down at the pub.

Rhymes that make me woozy with glee:

Obama/drama/karma

Tatooine/Queen/mean

reprehensible/indispensable/vegetables

librarian/au pair, Ian/veterinarian

Tom/'Nam/bomb

out/shout/gout

home/roam/gloam

Other bits that almost got me fired for giggling at work:

She said “if I married”/I’d eat garlic all day and be lazy
(Oh, Maisie -- we are so alike, except my breath is like no daisy God ever made.)

She offered a prize/For the best pack of lies/Bound up in the form that you see!
(I never encourage lying! Ever! Unless it's funny!)

There once was a man named Gerard....
(Way to play to my weakness! I love it! Can I commission you to write a Love Limerick for Gerard? Will you be my Silly Cyrano?)

When making some "Irish Stew"....
("Making Irish stew" is my new favorite euphemism for sex* -- I hope you don't mind, WhoeverYouAre.)

she chased him quite gladly/and captured him, sadly/and now he's a husband - and mad!
(Ha! I like this ending better -- sadder, but funnier :)

She ran off with the manny/And his fantastic fanny
("Don't laugh," I told myself. "That's naughty!" But I did laugh. Oh, I laughed.)

Mayhap I'll be born at gloam
(Do I really know a fetus capable of writing this line? Who are you, little embryonic prodigy? The reincarnation of Tennyson?)




In fact, I laughed so hard reading every one of your limericks that I've decided to send all participants my super-special Irish Mix CD. Not a bad consolation prize, especially since most of the songs bear Sharon's Impeccable Taste in Music Seal o' Approval. (Except for the very last track -- gotta throw in at least one tacky song since she's not here to stop me.) So if you want the mix CD, be sure to claim your limerick and then send me your address using the "Email Me" feature in the side bar ---->

As for the winner of the moolah and the Pogues CD, it was hard, but after much prayerful supplication to the Humor Gods, it was revealed to me that that Greatest of Goofballs, that Viceroy of Verse, that Lord-High Limerick-Smith is the author of......


There was a cute single girl (Maisie)
Who kept her breath fresh as a daisy
It made her quite harried
She said “if I married”
I’d eat garlic all day and be lazy


So congratulations Anonymous #2 [it's Lena!] -- the rhythm was perfect, the rhymes were great, and the humor was apropos of everything. (At least in my world :)


And if anyone feels I chose wrongly, feel free to vent your spleen in the comments. Better yet, register your complaints in the form of a limerick.



Because limericks make everything better!



Thanks so much for humoring me, you guys -- I love ya.

* For the record, when I was trying to imagine the genesis of the term "wedding vegetables" I decided that maybe someone thought tossing a salad was sensual ("you see, Bobby -- when a carrot loves an avocado very much, they come together and..."), but it's all so clear, now -- the slow sexy simmer of vegetable stew....

Prepare to giggle -- the 2008 limerick entries!

If you entered the contest, please please please leave a comment telling me which number is yours so I can put your name next to it. I'll even link it to your blog so people can find more of your killer wit....

(In order of entry)

#1 (by Lena)

There was a young man called Obama
Who’s created a whole lot of drama
He’s made Hillary mad
But the media glad
And we all think he has real good karma

#2 (by Lena)

There was a cute single girl (Maisie)
Who kept her breath fresh as a daisy
It made her quite harried
She said “if I married”
I’d eat garlic all day and be lazy

#3 (by D'Arcy)

There once was a young man from Tatooine.
When he got older he married the Queen.
Not too much later,
He became Darth Vadar,
Now everyone thinks that he's mean!

#4 (by Jessica)

There once was a lass called Marie
Who on her blog set up a spree
She offered a prize
For the best pack of lies
Bound up in the form that you see!

#5 (by D'Arcy)

There once was a man named Gerard.
Who Marie thought was the bard.
He wrote in rhythm sprung,
While using the Welsh tongue,
Now he rests in an Irish yard.

#6 (by Gawain)

In truth it is quite reprehensible
That an "ingredient" should be so indispensable
When making some "Irish Stew"
There is only one thing to do
Mix in some wedding vegatables

#7 (by Vesper)

Get this freaking baby out
Is what I always want to shout
He's been in there too long
His kicks are very strong
I'd rather have the gout

#8 (by Gawain)

I still live in mother's home
Nowhere to stretch my legs and roam
No friends can I meet
My head's below my feet
Mayhap I'll be born at gloam

#9 (by April)

There once was a vet named Tom
who hadn't had a good poop since 'Nam.
So he sucked on some prunes
til he felt something brewin'
And he shat an atomic bomb.

#10 (by April)

There once was a lovely librarian
Who fell in love with an au pair, Ian.
She ran off with the manny
And his fantastic fanny
Til she left him for a hot veterinarian.

#11 (by Jessica)

there once was a lass liked a lad
who was truly a terrible cad
she chased him quite gladly
and captured him, sadly
and now he's a husband - and mad!

[Version 2]

there once was a lass liked a lad
who was truly a terrible cad
she chased him quite gladly
and captured him, sadly
and now he's a husband - and dad!

Don't pinch me -- I'm Irish!*

1) Massive Celtic pate,** packed with fiddle reels and naughty rhyming couplets.

2) Green eyes.

3) Freckle.

4) Freckle.

5) More freckles.

6) Freckle. Or maybe zit. (Too afraid to zoom in, and I hope you won't, either.)

7) Pasty, pasty white skin.***

8) Freckle created when pasty, pasty white skin encountered five nanoseconds of direct sunlight.

9) Drab brown hair left behind by the little green men who snuck into my bedroom 28 years ago and STOLE my pretty red pigtails as I slept.****

10) [Undisclosed location] Birthmark in shape of four-leaf clover.

11) Freckles lurking beneath my shirt. Multiplying. Ever multiplying.

* Not true.

** Like an orange on a toothpick.

*** Like the flesh of a diseased potato. Makes ya wanna flee to the New World and marry into pigment.

**** One of the saddest nights of my life. I can only hope my stolen hair was used to make little red wigs for little leprechaun chemo patients.

Don't do it for the cash. Do it for Conan.

Bzzzzzt! Time's up!

Stay tuned for the exciting results! (I hope you'll be patient -- I must wait for the tears of glee to clear a bit so I can re-read your entries perform the ridiculous task of choosing the funniest.)

And Sophie thought HER choice was hard.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It's that time of year again, dearies -- time to dust off your silly and get Irish in my second annual St. Patrick's Day Limerick Contest! I can hear you all woohooing from here.

I'm upping the stakes, though. No stuffy old books of nonsense verse as grand prize like last year. No, this time around I'm rolling out the cold hard cash. Twenty dollars (plus a copy of the best Irish rock album ever*) to the limerick that makes me laugh the hardest. That's enough green to buy you eleventh class passage to America and a pint on the way over.

The rules are the same as last year with one difference: I don't want to be suspected of choosing based on anything but sheer artistry, so all entries that want to be considered for the prize MUST BE SUBMITTED ANONYMOUSLY. If you accidentally post your entry with any recognizable identity I'll have to disqualify it, so double check before you click "publish" and be sure you've got the "Anonymous" button selected below the comment field. After the winner's chosen I'll repost all the entries, give each one a number, and ask everyone to tell which number limerick was theirs so you can all get credit for your wit.

Here are the rest of the rules, same as last year:

--Contest ends Sunday, March 16, the day before St. Patrick's Day. (But any entry posted by the time I turn on my computer on the 17th will be in the running.)
--Your limerick can be a bit naughty, but not too naughty. Use your own judgment in defining that line.**
--Finding clever rhymes for difficult words will win you extra points.
--Enter as many limericks as you want.
--No matter how funny, a limerick will probably not win if it doesn't follow the traditional limerick meter and rhyme pretty closely. Can't remember what that is? Click here for a refresher course.
--REMEMBER TO SELECT THE "ANONYMOUS" BUTTON WHEN YOU POST YOUR ENTRY IF YOU WANT YOUR LIMERICK ENTERED IN THE CONTEST.

I can't wait! I know you will make all my goofiest dreams come true!

Tell your friends!
Tell your drinking buddies!
Tell that scheming bird who up and married Tommy O'Rourke while you were off at sea!




* If you already have this album, I'll substitute some other fabulous Irish-esque giftie of comparable value.
** I reserve the right to take down any limerick that I think crosses the line. Keep in mind that my mother reads this blog -- she's got a good sense of humor, but she's still my mother, so if you do naughty, make it a nice naughty.

Why my family is better than yours.

My aunt sends me text messages like this:

"Just heard a new British term for naughty bits:
.....wedding vegetables!"

Can't beat that. Educational.

You know you're secure in your manhood...

...when you paint your toenails* purple just because you know it'll make the baby squeal. And man, did she squeal. Like a BYU dolphin who'd just bumped into her long-lost roommate in the food court.




*Yes, kids, he painted them himself!

Through the looking glass.

I was looking at the post-party self portraits I did the other day (hard proof for my mother that I do on occasion curl my hair and wear contacts, earrings, and nylons simultaneously) and it took a long while to figure out why I so much preferred the long shots I took in the mirror to the ones pointed straight at my face.

Conclusion: I've never resigned myself to the fact that I don't look like the image in the mirror -- that I actually look like the mirror image of the mirror image.

But but but.....in what sick universe would a poor girl's LEFT eyebrow be higher than her right one? If such asymmetry must exist in this cruel, fallen world, it is clearly far better for the right eyebrow to be the higher one, as I'm sure you can see when you compare the highly hot Mirror Me





















to the severely lacking Actual Me:






















See what I mean?

Reality is a harsh, harsh mistress.

It's not like this whole enterprise hasn't always been self-serving.

I have been tagged by the lovely Lena, and as I fear her wrath (nah, because I love talking about myself), I have decided to comply. Seven random things about myself that you neither know nor care to know:

1) I am so boring and unremarkable that no one in my immediate or extended family gave me any nicknames. My sister had several nicknames, my brother had heaps, I had zero. When I whimpered about this to my bro a few years ago, he cooked up a couple for me. One of them should have been Pathetic Patsy.

2) I have a massive head, a fact that I think most people notice but always pretend they don't. It is GARGANTUAN, people. No hats fit me, even most of the adjustable baseball caps. My poor mother needed a postpartum blood transfusion, and the doctors thought I was terminally ill with hydrocephalus. This does not translate to more brains, sadly -- just more hot air:

3) The main reason I applied for one of my favorite jobs was that it was three doors down from the office of my entrancing Spanish teacher. Long after he ceased belting "Maria" at me in the hallways and swoonifying me with his swarthy complexion and ice-green eyes, I adored that job. And that is my testimony of doing good things for dumb reasons. Hallelujah, amen.

4) I like soggy things. The Pacific Northwest, toast soaked in cocoa, gloppy cold tapioca pudding, and Life cereal that's been stewing on the counter for at least five minutes.

5) One of my nervous habits is tugging on my Brooke-Shields-meets-Sam-Donaldson eyebrows. One day in sixth grade I was particularly nervous and started attacking my right eyebrow. Later that day my friends informed me (between violent giggling fits) that I'd almost entirely wiped out that one eyebrow. Let's just say the one-eyebrow look is much worse than the no-eyebrow look and that eyebrow pencils are a precious gift from on high.

6) I am credited in the liner notes of my favorite band's third CD. Several of you know this. What you probably don't know is that I was involved in the final editing of the liner notes, and was asked to help them trim the lengthy "Thank Yous" section down to a reasonable size. I had known the band for just a couple months and clearly didn't deserve to be credited at all, but I decided to not cut my own name from the list. Why? Because I'm evil and vain and wanted my future children to think I was supercool.

7) According to Shroud of Turin loonies, I have the same blood type as Jesus. This is why I am better than you.

Okay, now I get to tag seven others. (Don't worry, Wynne, I'll leave you alone.) Howzabout Natalie, D'Arcy, Sophie (are you still there, darling?), Emily, iieee, April, and Gawain & Vesper. I guess this will conclusively prove whether or not any of these people are still reading this blog....

Truly, I weary of your childish games.

Happy, joy.

In a quiet corner of the Internet, I found one of my favorite people watching chicks hatch in paradise.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The summer we graduated from high school my friend Wendy invited me to go with her to England, where we stayed with her uncle and his wife, Jean, in a little village in Cambridgeshire. It was their generosity that made it possible for two girls with puny bank accounts to afford the grand six-week adventure. The day after we arrived, Aunt Jean sat us down and helped us arrange our dreams in schedule form, then took us into the city and helped us choose our bus tickets. She made up the guest room for us with fluffy new duvets and sent us out each morning with cheese-and-chutney sandwiches (in case we couldn't afford both souvenirs and lunch).

One weekend she took us on a day trip across the Channel to Bruges where we she instructed us in stern tones not to look at the chocolate breasts in the store windows, for fear our Mormon mothers would think her a poor protector. When I insisted on taking a daylong solo excursion to Leicestershire to my ancestors' village, she rehearsed every bus and train transfer with me over breakfast and then fidgeted and fretted until I reappeared that night. She was patient with the decadent American teenagers when they asked to have their jeans dried in the dryer rather than on the clothesline and made us a traditional English country breakfast so we could say we'd had an "authentic" food experience (mmm! fried pig! fried eggs! fried tomatoes! fried bread! don't waste that fat! remember the War!) She went off to work each day while we played, and demanded very little of us besides helping pull some weeds in her beautiful, carefully tended little backyard garden. She was an affectionate mother hen during my first hesitant steps out of the nest, and we have kept in touch ever since.

Then a few years ago, out of the blue, her husband ran off with their mutual friend. She had had no idea he was having an affair. I was in shock for days after hearing the news -- it was impossible -- they had seemed such a jolly couple. No -- impossible -- there must have been a misunderstanding! Besides the emotional blow, this meant she had to come out of retirement and start over late in life. The ugly news added fuel to my mistrust of malekind and I began to suspect that if a marriage survives, it's only because the husband never got a good chance to trade up before he croaked. How could anyone leave Jean? Such a good and kind and life-loving person? The mother of his three children? Every time I'd think of her alone, working past retirement with no idea of what her future would be like, I'd feel the urge to a) cry or b) go punch an XY.

Then last year she remarried. Wendy said the new husband seemed be a nice man, but (I thought to myself), so had the first husband. I hoped for the best, but I was wary -- both for her and for me -- because if I learned that she'd been hurt by Husband #2, I wasn't sure I wouldn't turn in my dance card and go lesbian. Her Christmas letter this year sounded happy -- I learned that she had moved to the village where her husband lived and she sent me pictures of the beautiful orchards and sheep and wide green spaces that were her new home. I guess we'll see, I thought. Skeptically. Very skeptically.

Then the other day, on a whim, I Googled the name of her new village in hopes of finding more pretty pictures. Much to my surprise I found that her new husband had his own page on the village website -- sort of a lighthearted local human interest commentary. His love for his village, his lambs, his fruit trees, his children, his grandchildren, his wife bubbled up through the casual and humorous prose.* I could almost see his smiling eyes as he described the odd tensions between The Old Ways and The New Ways, how intently Jean watched by the side of the incubator for the chicken eggs to hatch, and how sadness always gives way to new hope. By the end all doubt was burned out of me -- Jean has found a good man, a happy and kind man -- an even bigger garden to fill with pansies and koi and pole beans.

I was sniffling at the public computer as I read, and little chicks started chirping in my cold, cold heart.





*My favorite bit: "Talking of Chick did you see in the paper his bit where he swam thro Cambridge as an old boy in 1951.52, and 53. I know Anne used to do that swim as well, but that had to be stopped cos the water got too polluted. I don’t spose that’s no more polluted now than that was then we’ve all just got softer and there’s all this daft nanny state legislation. We shall soon wrap everybody up in sterilised cotton wool when they’re born. Then when they stink a bit we’ll assume they’re dead and bury them."

If they pollute their inheritances, they shall be thrown down...*

This summer I attended a BYU alumni conference in Sandy. I don't normally spend my Saturday afternoons voluntarily attending lectures, but I showed up because I wanted to hear a presentation by one of my former professors. As it turned out, the lecture I came to hear was not very interesting, but I wandered into another lecture that really struck me.

The topic was Mormons and Environmentalism. It's not hard to find doctrinal and scriptural support for a strong Mormon environmentalist stance, but I liked that his presentation focused on several reasons Mormon culture has largely shied away from the environmentalist movement. Below I've listed several "reasons" he'd heard offered by church members to explain their disconnect from environmentalist concerns. I had heard all of these myself over the years and even used to believe a couple of them. After each reason I've listed my own response, which in some cases was very similar to the presenter's response.

If you're not LDS, you may not find this interesting. Even you Mormons may find it dull. But too bad -- it's my blog, and I'll drone if I want to.

1. We believe that we are living in the "Last Days" and that at some point in the not-too-distant future the earth will be purged of the pollution (both spiritual and physical) that man has inflicted upon it, and resurrected into its perfect and eternal form. Therefore, why lose sleep over treating the earth well when we know it's headed for its new life anyway? Why fight prophecy?

-- This viewpoint bears a disturbing resemblance to the "eat, drink, and be merry" philosophy that Christ condemns both spiritually and physically. The Mormon doctrine regarding the sacredness and eternal nature of the human body specifically condemns mistreatment of the body during mortality, even though we know that we will all be resurrected into our perfect form one day no matter how we treat our body in this life. Such mistreatment of the body is a sin, we are taught, even though any damage is ultimately reversible. This is because such maltreament betrays a lack of respect for life and the God who gives life, and this is a serious spiritual lacking. To say that the earth is any different from the body is morally insupportable, especially given that LDS doctrine also teaches that the earth is a living thing in its own right, and not just a stage for living things to move around on. As far as the "why fight prophecy" question, there is a logical fallacy amongst Mormons (and Evangelicals and other Bible literalists, for that matter) that if God has said something is going to happen, he is happy about it and wants you to help facilitate it. Hence our embarrassing support for the modern state of Israel, despite its violence and racism.

2. Environmentalists have historically been in favor of population control measures that conflict with Mormon doctrines regarding God's intentions for human life on the planet. (Tangent: Remember how in the silly Saturday's Warrior play/movie from the 80s, what made the evil gang evil was that they wanted to "decrease the surplus population"? Not drugs, not violence -- they were a Planned Parenthood Gang, out to persecute the hero's big Mormon family!)

-- Presenter's response (I didn't have a response for this one): This attitude is much less prevalent than in the past. Environmental studies of recent years have shown that it is not population alone that causes environmental stress, but much more the kind of children we raise. Honest environmental scholars have had to admit that is entirely possible for a family of thirteen to leave no significant environmental damage, so this historical conflict between the environmentalist and Mormon camps is fading. On a side note, he mentioned that it has also been found that divorce tends to have a high environmental impact per capita, what with shuttling children between parents year after year, needing to provide two of everything for the child in his two homes, etc. In short, scholarship on environmental issues no longer condemns large families as a basic part of its principles. Rather, training children to be environmentally responsible is the key.

3. Our prophets have said little specifically over the pulpit about environmentalism. If it were really that important, wouldn't they say more to us and more often?

-- This is possibly because environmentalism has historically been a highly charged political issue, and so speaking of it over the pulpit could have easily violated the Church's efforts to keep leaders from taking overt political stands in church meetings. Admonitions have often been less overt, and have appealed to the spirit of truth that should guide each of us as we seek personal inspiration. However, some prophets have been very overt about our environmental responsibilities (notably President Spencer W. Kimball) and have simply been ignored by most church members. Also, Joseph Smith said the role of prophets was to teach people correct principles and then let them govern themselves, and revealed that we are to use our agency to do good in the world whether or not we've been specifically commanded to do it. Elder Neal A. Maxwell, who consistently focused on the importance of conscious and careful discipleship said, “True disciples would be consistent environmentalists –caring both about maintaining the spiritual health of a marriage and preserving a rainforest, caring about preserving the nurturing capacity of a family as well as providing a healthy supply of air and water...Adam and Eve were to 'dress the garden,' not exploit it."

4. Mormons are largely Republican, and the Republican party has typically ignored or opposed the environmentalist movement, which has typically fallen under the banner of the Democratic party.

-- This is very true, but as the matter becomes depoliticized and more and more thinking people realize that it is a universal concern, political party will likely play a much smaller role in affecting Mormons' stance toward environmentalism. And of course, I think a lot of Mormon Republicans are currently rethinking their party affiliation in light of...um...recent events. A brief history lesson on the relationship of the Mormon church with the two major political parties might also open people's minds, but that's the topic for a different discussion...

5. The word "environmentalist" calls to mind too many extremist images that are not in keeping with the gospel's message of wisdom and moderation.

-- It can be hard for people to get over the negative associations they have with the word "environmentalist." However, in Mormon doctrine we have powerful doctrines and commandments linked to the words "steward" and "righteous dominion" that can help us craft our own vision of how God expects us to treat the earth and its creatures, or at the very least help us not break out in hives when we hear the word "environmentalist."

6. We believe that God gave Adam (and mankind, as his descendants) "dominion" over the earth, which means he wants us to use the earth and its resources.

-- Similar to the last answer; yes, this is true, but again we are taught clearly that moderation and stewardship are the keys in whatever power and authority God gives us, whether it's church callings, how we steer the lives of our dependent children, or how we appropriate the earth's resources. We are also taught that we were given dominion over people and things in this life as a practice to see if we will be worthy to take on greater dominions in the eternities. If we fail to use wisdom and self control in our use of the earth's resources, we will prove ourselves unworthy for greater responsibilities. There are many LDS scriptures that we may skim over (eating meat sparingly, eating foods that are in season, for example) that can be considered ahead of their time environmentally, if we choose to pay attention to them rather than waiting to be spoonfed them by our leaders.

7. The scriptures say that in the earth there is "enough and to spare," so to rein in our consumption is to deny God's statement about the earth and its ability to provide amply.

-- "Enough" means that there is sufficient to meet the basic needs of everyone. We don't know how much "spare" there is beyond that -- it probably depends on how many people there are at a given time on the earth. It has long been clear that if part of the earth's population takes much more than it needs, there is NOT enough for the rest to survive on. To me, that "enough and to spare" scripture sounds like God saying, "don't blame me that there are starving children in Africa -- I've given you what you need to provide for everyone, and if you deprive your brethren through your greed [cringe] or indifference or supporting leaders in your own nation who uphold oppressive foreign regimes and foreign policies, then the sin be upon your heads."

8. I think there was an eighth one, but I can't remember it at the moment.

-- But I'm sure I would've had a really long-winded response to it.


Anyway, I don't have much more to say on this. I'm far from perfect. I'm still addicted to lots of things that I don't need that my children will one day reprimand me for having used in my youth. They'll ask me how I could have done X, Y, and Z, even though I knew that it would make the world smoggier, grayer, and bleaker for them. They'll ask how, as a good Mormon, I could have continued to drive my car to work and produce a bag of garbage per week, and I don't know that I'll have a satisfactory answer for them. But I do want to be able to say that I choose to change before I was forced; that I mulled over these questions and came to my own conclusions based on my own reasoning and the doctrines of my faith, regardless of the tides of my culture. That even if I didn't behave perfectly or go carbon neutral overnight, that I was willing to be inconvenienced in order to start carving out a new way of being so that the next generation will be able to take it for granted that green is the Only Way to Be. I don't care if the cocky little brats get all morally superior with me -- as long as there are still a few polar bears floating around on a few icebergs...somewhere.

* Doctrine and Covenants 103:14

January is the cruelest month...

I have this longtime deal with God -- if I die a spinster and can make a good case that I tried hard to find a husband, He has to give me Gerard Manley Hopkins in the next life. By the time I check in at the front gate I'm hopeful they will have managed to program the celibacy glitch out of him and I will woo him by reciting his poetry back to him. I currently have six of his memorized, and can deliver them with great feeling. I think we'll go for a short engagement.

I rarely go into a true depression in post-Christmas winter, but every year the darkness and chill always make me think about illness and death and fading youth and I get this bone-aching craving for poetry that I feel no other time of year. The one I reach for most often in my winter mood is by my beloved Gerard:

MÁRGARÉT, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, líke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

It cheers me right up. Works me through the fear, looking it dead in the eye, and finding the beauty behind the ache. I noticed just last year that most of my memorized poems are of the melancholy kind. Here's a list of my current repertoire, for what it's worth (this IS my vanity blog, after all!) I'm available for weddings, wakes, and bar mitzvahs.

I always have one or two new poems taped up in my bathroom -- the inside of the medicine cabinet door is ideal, if you have a medicine cabinet. The idea is this: you memorize them as you brush your teeth, and the challenge of memorization encourages you to prolong your brushing sessions. This in turn improves your oral hygiene, making you more attractive, and improving the chances that you will not, in fact, find yourself still a spinster in your 73rd winter, stroking your aged cat and reciting the words of dead poets to an empty room.

Win-win!

Three, two, one.....SQUAWK!

What do you mean, What are you supposed to be?? Don't you know your Russian fairy tales?












I'm the Firebird, of course! The Fenghuang! The Phoenix!




















Can you see it now?





















Howzabout now? Say "yes," or I'll peck you to death!


New Year's is a pretty pointless holiday, except when you get to preen yourself to a shimmer, attend a masquerade ball in full Regency attire, and dance the night away with the girls. It had everything but a Austen wedding finale. Ah, well. But maybe 2008 will be the hap-happy year? If I don't save my rose-gold eyeshadow just for dancing days? If I wear red, red lipstick at all times and toss my head confidently like a rare bird who nearly never cries?

Hope springs eternal.

Happy New Year, all y'all. May it be a bright one for you and yours. If you are mated, may your nest be warm with your lovebird. If you are flying solo, may your song hear its echo one day soon.....

The more you know.

Pssst! I learned some top-secret information about Santa that I think might
serve you well in advance of next Christmas. Hearken, I prithee.

It came to my attention, while attending a recent performance of Benjamin Britten's Saint Nicholas cantata, that our favorite saint is not only a jolly old soul, but that he can resurrect people. Yesireebob! And not just freshly dead people -- people who've been hacked to bits, pickled in brine, and served to unsuspecting pilgrims. It would seem that he was trying to one-up Jesus's remarkable Lazarus miracle.* Cocky fella, that Saint Nick.

So anyway, let this serve as an early warning that if you're veeery good kidlets every last day of 2008 -- if you wash behind you ears and eat your lima beans and call your mother -- you need not hesitate to put Great-great-grandpa Horace at the top of your Christmas list. Or your flat kitty friend buried in the backyard. Or even Elvis.

Go on -- let those sugarplum visions run wild! The ol' boy can deliver!

* Our judges give S.N. a 8.9 on the Wow! factor, but a mere 1.3 on the Inspires-Reverence-Rather-Than-Giggles factor.

Enough, and to spare.

When I was in high school, two of my non-Christian friends went in together and in lieu of a Christmas present, donated money to a charity in my honor. The surprising thing wasn't how moved I was -- it was a thoughtful thing for them to do -- but rather the realization that none of my overtly Christian friends or family had ever done that for me and that I had never done it for anyone else. I mean, I'd given to charities on occasion, and I know that most other people do as well, but I'd never given to a charity in place of a regular gift, nor asked others to do that for me. Reading and re-reading the card from those two friends gave me a feeling that is often elusive amid all the fa la las -- that my mere existence on the planet had made some positive difference in the life of a person who truly needed it. It was great.

I love to see my little niece smile when she opens her toys (though she most often prefers the ribbons to the toys), and I love to see my mom get the warm gloves she needs for her commute to work. Heck -- I even love to see Dad parade around in his new parrot slippers that I know he'll rarely wear again, except as a joke. If I get the Jeeves and Wooster series on DVD,* I will hug it and kiss it and sleep with it under my pillow and there is no chance in h--- that I will run out and donate it to the local orphanage in a bid for sainthood. But if instead someone gave to charity what they could have spent on Jeeves, I will still live in a warm apartment with clean running water and a comfy bed. I will still have more delicious food than is healthy for me to eat, more DVDs than I can watch, more CDs than I have space for, more books than I have time to read, a car that runs, money for the bus if the car stops running, and enough scented lotions to supply an army of teen girls for a good decade. My greatest trial will still be learning to be moderate and wise when all around me is abundance and overabundance. And I will feel all glowy and gooey and warmy and fuzzy. Maybe even a little fizzy. With a cherry on top.

In the delightfulest [insert additional superlatives here] Christmas movie, Millions, the little protagonist receives regular visits from sundry Catholic saints (who turn out to be much funnier than you might expect). He is saddened to learn that the bag of money that literally fell on him from the sky was not sent by God so he could help the poor, but had been thrown off a train by bank robbers. When Saint Peter appears in his bedroom, the boy asks him if he can still use the money to help the poor even thought it isn't from God. Saint Peter answers indirectly by offering him the "real" story of the miraculous feeding of the 5,000: Jesus is offered a few fishes and a little bread by a small boy, and Jesus blesses them and hands them around to the crowd. However, as it turns out, the crowd wasn't really starving -- almost all of them had food hidden in their pockets, but had pretended they didn't have it so they wouldn't have to share with any of their less fortunate neighbors. But when they see the little boy offer his own food to them, their hearts are softened. When the basket of bread and fishes comes to them, they pretend to take some of the boy's food, but instead just take out their own food and begin to share with their neighbors so that everyone is fed and the basked remains full. And that, says Saint Peter, is how the miracle of the loaves and fishes was accomplished.

I believe that Jesus was more than just a pretty idea or an inspiring teacher. But the miracle could have happened that way, and in a way it would have been an even bigger miracle. A miracle that changes hearts is no small miracle, no matter how it's done.

I hope I will allow my heart to be changed in that way, for good, and even when I'm down on my luck. Not just because it's what I'm supposed to want at my most righteous millisecond in the midst of Christmastime charity fervor, but also because to be comfortable and healthy and safe and educated and still have a lot left over to help others is a luxury very very few in this world have. A luxury that feels as good as any other luxury there is.**

And I am a creature of luxury. Ooooh, yes.


Jeeves -- draw me my bath. With bubbles, please.






*No, this is NOT a hint, Dad. Really. I've seen them all like five times -- why would I need to own them? A framed portrait of Hugh and Stephen will do nicely.

**Including chocolate.

What? You're still reading??

So the ol' blog is a year old this week. Gootchie-goo! Isn't it cute?

It's grown bored of navel-gazing and has toddled off to taste those chemicals under the kitchen sink. The Drano should make for a FANTASTIC blog entry! And if stomach pumping is involved -- all the better!


NOTE: If the video gets stuck, click on the progress bar just after the marker.

Thanknesses

Starry nights

Airplanes

Photos of freaky phosphorescent fanged fish at the bottom of the sea

Warm spring soil

Squash, squash, squash

Vaccines

Screamin' orange poppies

People who are required to love me

People who choose to love me

Words

Arch support

Godiva in all its forms, even naked

Seashells

A God who knows me

A God who keeps his distance while I decide what I want

Clean tap water

Funky bass lines

Kevin Kline

A certain revolutionary feminine hygiene product that I'm too shy to name

Air conditioning

Things that are nothing like Ronald McDonald

Extended deadlines

Small children who look into my soul and smile anyway

Freedom to flee the kitchen

The kitchen

This post brought to you in part by...

Doughnuts.

In recent years my mom's childhood friend has invited us to stay in her parents' beautiful beachfront house on Maury Island, west of Seattle. Her father made his fortune designing and manufacturing doughnut machines, and one of my mom's first jobs was working his doughnut booth at the Seattle World's Fair.

So thank you to Mary for the hospitality and the fridgeful of delicious food, thank you to Mary's parents for letting us stay in their house, and thank you to America for trading your dough for doughnuts. Y'all got happy tastebuds, and we got a lovely vacation. Everybody wins!

Here is the view from the deck of the beachhouse.

Here is the view from one of my bedroom windows.

And here's the view from my other bedroom window.

Are you jealous yet?

Here is the spider who hung out on the deck the whole time we were there. I called him Irving. He looks less creepy when you call him Irving.

The inhabitants of Maury Island (and its sister island, Vashon) have their own angle on life and sense of humor. The island's mom and pop thrift shop won't take unwanted exercise machines and the mainland is only accessible by ferry, so the residents have started a waterfront gym with their castoff hamster wheels, for any crazies who would rather run in place than explore the beautiful island.



The first night I stayed in Bellevue with my wonderful cousin Jen. We went to a funky Seattle costume shop in search of her Halloween getup.

Satan needs a hug!

Murderous warthogs make fun pets.

Does your boyfriend have a weird thing for Hermione Granger? Then here's the costume for you-ewwwww. (On second thought, just dump him -- he sounds like a sicko.)

Sign o' the times, I'm tellin' ya. Sign o' the times.

Formal accessories: for that final touch of upper class sleaze.

Wynne's blog had a link to a page where you can buy these neat haunted portraits. It was fun to see one for myself. (They seem to be super good holograms.)

And on the way home: the spooky Fremont Troll, lurking beneath an overpass.

We spent an afternoon at the Museum of Glass in Tacoma, and got to watch the Venetian artist Lino Tagliapietra work his magic in fire and ice.

Is he really the "greatest living glass blower," as billed? I don't know, but he was fascinating all the same.

And with a name like that, you know he has to be the greatest living something.

Outside the museum, on a bridge over the freeway, are permanent installations of Dale Chihuly's glass work: one of his glass ceilings and a wall showcasing some of his funky vases.

Now let's play a quick round of "Spot the Chihuly Transparent Hermaphroditic Cherub Being Eaten By a Sea Creature"!

This one's harder -- can you see it??

Pike Place had all its regular charms, and a few new ones. Or at least new to me. This is the first street pianist I've ever encountered. I wish I'd asked him where he keeps that thing at night. Does he wheel it up the steep steep hills to his apartment? Or just bike lock it to the street sign?

If there's anything funnier than French people, it's American people who reeeeally want to be French people.

We discovered a Russian bakery, Piroshky Piroshky, that was so so yummy. The others got dinner pastries and I got a whole apple baked in pastry and piped with fresh whipped cream. Might as well crawl back into the womb. Who knew Russian food was edible -- let alone delicious?

We even spotted one of those blessed doughnut machines, spitting out hot little spudnuts for the Market crowd.

Yummy sugar.

Yummy vacation.

All in all, a splendid little trip. I could definitely be a Washingtonian.

'Cause when it rains, I look up, not down.

And when the fish hits the fan, I open my mouth.