Ghost in the machine.

My normal Halloween blogging glee has been curbed by the evil spirits that have taken over my computer. The pictures I wanted to blog about are on the computer and the computer is possessed. Oh well. I never take down Christmas before January 7, so maybe I'll have an extended Halloween season this year on the ol' blog. It's not like you guys start thawing your Thanksgiving turkey and dreaming of stuffing on November 1, or anything. (DO you?) If my dear bro is able to exorcise my computer in the next few days you will soon read harrowing tales of mackerel pudding; Uncle Wiggly; fearsome daisies that grow out of graves; and Domo, my ferocious Japanese pocket-monster.

However, even from this alien computer I can tell you a little Halloween tale o' horror, in honor of my brother (who as we speak is attempting to cast Legion out of my laptop).













Once upon a time, there was a lovely little sausage called Baldrick. He was made from bits of mysterious and sinister things, but people ate him anyway. And then they died.

The end.

They call me a cradle robber, but he clearly wanted out of his cradle.

I've been busy of late, loving on my new boyfriend.

I know the world will persecute us. They will say we are too different, that it will never work. But he's a deep thinker. He has an old soul. We were meant to be together -- like fireflies and frost, like Harold and Maude.

So now I have a boy neefew* and a girl neefew. Thanks to my siblings for so thoughtfully providing one of each -- this ought to keep my dad's killer baby cravings at bay a little while longer.**




* Gender-netrual form of niece/nephew.
**The people at church used to get mildly alarmed when he'd pull out his bag of toys and lure their small children onto his pew.

"I never know what to say for these things..." ;)

So a couple months ago I finally laid my pride on the altar of desperation and signed up for an internet dating site. I thought I was too good for such things. (Yes, I, with a monumentally pathetic dating life. Don't ask me to explain that vanity.)

There is something fishy going on there, though: 95% of the men in Internet Dating Land, no matter their age or girth, want me to believe that they are "very active." They want me to know that they run, they hop, they skip, they jump, they leap over tall buildings in a single bound and they grin as they do so. There need not be a damsel in distress -- it's just, you know, what they do at all times, because they are Active Guys. I know what this is -- it is an attempt to reassure me that while they may be older, they are still virile, cobweb-free. I understand, and I feel for them. (By the same token, none of my posted photos show me sans lipstick or from a bad angle.)

But does it never occur to these men that there are a lot of women out there who don't want to spend their entire dating/wedded lives cartwheeling up mountain trails? Women who are more intent on finding a man who can speak in complete sentences about things besides basketball? If he's a farmer or a rodeo cowboy, I definitely want to know how "active" he is. If he's not, I'd like to know he's intelligent enough to navigate the urban jungle reasonably well. And I'd happily trade that abundant nervous energy they all advertise for a couple sweet spoonfuls of I'm-willing-to-approach-you-and-ask-you-on-an-actual-date-
because-you-seem-to-maybe-kinda-sorta-possibly-be-worth-
the-risk-to-my-pride.*

Oh my......men with initiative. Is it hot in here, or is it just me?

* Of course, this all assumes that there are men (man?) currently roaming the earth who have any interest an ol' snarkstress like myself. Again, where does my vanity come from, and can I have it surgically removed? Maybe the indignities of internet dating will burn it out of me -- if so, that's $15 well spent, whether or not it gets me a man.

Because I'm too tired to come up with anything new.

Today I'm offering up a leftover thought for your consideration. Of course, the particular mental Tupperware I'm dumping into this post contains a wacky idea that has blown the mind of everyone I've shared it with over the years, so hopefully it will be at least mildly interesting to you.* Or at least not coma-inducing.

First some background for those of you who are not Mormons and/or wannabe cosmologists (NOTE: if you're not in the mood for my self-indulgent rambling, just skip the next three paragraphs):

We Mormons, like many other Christians, believe that Christ's atoning sacrifice is infinite and eternal. This means that we believe that the Atonement enables us to be redeemed of all the imperfection in ourselves and in our earthly circumstances and the consequences of those imperfections. I have assumed, like most Mormons, that this meant that my failure to make a good decision when presented with Opportunity A would (if I satisfied the terms of my contract with Christ) still allow for me to receive Opportunity B, though possibly not until the next life. As I imagined it, Opportunity B would most likely not be the same as Opportunity A, but it would be so delightful that presumably I wouldn't mind at all that I'd missed the first boat.

We Mormons also believe that all truth is part of “one great whole” -- that the division between so-called secular and religious knowledge is an artificial one. This is why Mormons tend to enjoy sci-fi – because our religious doctrine reaches into the cosmos, embracing the ideas of other inhabited worlds, the eternity of matter and human intelligence, and a god who is subject to certain foundational cosmological laws that provide the structure upon which his glory hangs. It's not the central thing we talk about, but it is part of our beliefs, and a pretty darned fun part at that.

So about fourteen years ago Stephen Hawking came to lecture in Salt Lake. Actually, he came twice because we were just so excited to see him he couldn't resist coming back to cash in once again on our adulation. I was an uber-geek teenager who had read A Brief History of Time (meaning I'd looked at all the words in sequence and then scratched my head) so I was excited enough to stand in line half the day in the sun for tickets to see him "speak" in the Symphony Hall, and a few years later in the university stadium. It was admittedly quite groupie-esque, but also brain-expanding. If you're not up on Dr. Hawking, he's a cosmologist obsessed with finding an elegant unifying principle to explain every aspect of the universe. His work touches on brain-cramping physical principles that warp reality as we think we know it: alternate universes, black holes, the illusion of linear time, the possibility of reversing entropy, kooky subatomic particles that won't behave themselves. I don't pretend to fully understand most of it, but I love what I do understand and after attending his lectures I found myself trying to connect some of his ideas with principles of my religion (in a lazy sort of way). The most intriguing possibility I came up with was this:

What if Christ's infinite and eternal Atonement is so infinite and eternal that he doesn't just “forgive and forget” your flawed performance and give you positive outcomes in spite of your earlier failings? What if God's forgiveness means that when you comply with his terms for using the Atonement, ultimately all universes will be eliminated except the one in which you actually did perform perfectly at every crossroad and received all the best possible outcomes? In other words, what if successful use of the Atonement literally erases the fact of our failings from reality, and not just their negative outcomes? What if God “forgets” our sins not just because he's a nice guy, but because a property of the Atonement enables him to make them so they never happened in the first place?

I'm probably wrong in this particular speculation, but Joseph Smith taught that truth is way more delightfully mindbending than even we wacky Mormons are ready to accept. That once we have mastered the simpler, foundational truths (love, sacrifice, faith, etc.) we are expected to use them as stepping stones to the equally essential “mysteries.” Not that I've mastered the foundational truths yet, but sometimes one does get the itch to wander to the edge and try dipping a toe in the Mystery for a bit....

What do you think? Am I barking up the wrong B-vector?

If I can get an angelic confirmation of my kooky idea, I'll be sure to let y'all know, so stay tuned. Though I promise not to start a new religion.**

* If you feel your mind about to blow as you read this exceedingly profound post, please type a comment quickly before your head explodes, just to boost my ego. A simple “Pop!” will be more than sufficient to convey both your wonderment and your impending demise. I promise to come to the funeral, as long as it's not open-casket.

** But if I ever did start my own religion it would have a really cool sci-fi name like the United Sistern of the Sacred Stargate. Or the Immaculate Intergalactic Immortals. Or the Apostolic Apocalyptic Astro-saints.

Why I will never be more than a chorus girl.

We saw a very good local performance of Oklahoma last night at the Thanksgiving Point Barn. I was a member of the chorus in my high school production of Oklahoma, so all through the show I sang along in my head, pretty much word for word, until Act II, scene i, when I realized, in a blinding flash of prairie lightning, that the line I had belted out exuberantly practice after practice, performance after performance, was supposed to be

"Cowman dance with the farmer's daughter, farmer dance with the rancher's gal!"

and NOT

"Cowman dance with the farmer's daughter, farmer dance with the rancher's cow!"

The real lyrics make a lot more sense, but a lot less humor. I like my version better. Now that I think about it, I really did give Rodgers and Hammerstein way too much credit -- I mean, anyone capable of writing an icky stand-by-your-man battered wife aria is of course incapable of appreciating the entertainment value of interspecies dating.

Ten years ago today...

...I stepped on a plane and it landed me in a realm that altered my reality forever after. My hair was newly shorn into a pixie cut (I wasn't going to waste a moment of my Grand Adventure messing with my stupid hair.) I was quite sure that I would make no friends, but I only half cared.

I thought that I would be studying Hebrew and reveling in the history and traditions of the Jews.

I ended up studying Arabic and reveling in the history and traditions of the Arabs.

I watched a Jewish bris being performed in an ancient mosque under armed guard.

I was mistaken for a man and pulled into the men's dance at a Muslim wedding. It felt more privilege than insult.

I was served Thanksgiving turkey at a Jewish kibbutz. It was garnished with lit sparklers and red, white, and blue streamers, which is only charming when you're on a Jewish kibbutz.

I lived in a date palm grove and gathered white clamshells from the Sea of Galilee. I'm quite sure young Jesus liked to gather shells there, too.

I stood in the ruins of synagogue where Jesus had blasphemed. I finally understood: he was a radical and rebel. It blew my tidy little Christian mind.

I visited a school for orphans funded and run by Palestinian women.

I watched Jewish children sweetly blessed by their parents over Sabbath candles.

I was ushered into a cab by young men trying to spare clueless Americans the violence that was about to erupt in the streets.

I picked a pomegranate from the tree in my balcony garden and ate it while looking out over Jerusalem's temple mount.

I discovered that having to scrub pomegranate juice out of your white Sunday shirt almost cancels out the romance of eating exotic fruits while looking at exotic views.

I rode a camel named Michael Jackson.

I learned that camels, like Las Vegas, are more charming from a distance, though still worth a try.

I met an Egyptian cab driver who only charged once you'd found fun in his city. Told us about his children while we ate ice cream. Wouldn't let us buy him any.

I was henna tattooed in a dimly lit perfume shop by a veiled woman with lean, elegant hands.

I considered visiting a Turkish bath, but chickened out. Don't regret it.*

I failed to master the high art of shofar blowing. Do regret it.

I floated in the thick vinaigrette that is the Dead Sea. "Medicinal" my a--. Ohhh, what a rash.

I almost met George W. Bush. Thankfully he flaked out at the last minute.**

I almost saw President Clinton. He parked his airplane next to ours.

I was told by a Jewish woman that Israel was becoming the same racist, insular menace that the Jews were fleeing after World War II.

I was taught by a Palestinian professor that the minute you think you know who is right in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, you know that you don't know the whole story.

I saw the bottom of the Red Sea. It's covered with coral reefs and shimmery fishies. Much prettier than the Charleton Heston version.

I watched the sun rise from the top of Mount Sinai, and craggy eternity caught fire.

And after the fire, a still, small voice.






*My more courageous fellow travelers told harrowing tales of violent exfoliation practices...

**Though I confess I was miffed at the time.

At midnight I turn eggplant.

It ain't no mean feat finding a reasonably attractive dress that covers all the necessary bits of the she-Mormon physique. That is why when dress-hunting for Rachel's dance party I finally gave up trying on the *&%#!! things in dressing rooms and instead decided to buy every last dress that might conceivably suit and then try them on in the comfort of my non-fluorescently-lit home. By the time I found and fell for this little orange number I had already purchased $500 worth of lesser dresses. (Which will all be returned, of course -- if you have ever worked in customer service I hope you can forgive me this evil, evil shopping stunt -- I never got to go to the prom, so maybe we can call this my delayed Débutante Phase? Please?)

Yes, an orange dress. A shiny, solid orange dress. Stop laughing, you! I like orange. And I would have you know that They are calling orange the new black. Which is funny, because aside from a lady in green and a lady in red, I was the only lady not in black. For once ahead of the fashion curve? More likely fast-tracking to fashion obsolescence. Come to think of it, I found the dress on the clearance rack with some other orange items, so this no doubt means that my Bold Fashion Statement was no such thing. Pooh.

Oh well. I had much fun even though my second-rate fairy godmother allowed me to show up as a dancing pumpkin. That Rachel sure knows how to throw a party, and she knows how to dance, too, as you can see:*



She's a visionary hostess, that one. Great invitations, great choice of band, great job convincing substantial numbers of men to dance. I wouldn't be at all surprised if she also arranged for that lovely summer thunderstorm. A little less wind next time, though, Rachel. Some of us forgot to wear slips under our flimsy orange wrap dresses....






*See the pillar and A-beam behind the dancing Rachel and Kendall? That is the very pillar that Rachel had climbed earlier in the day and the very A-beam that she bravely sidled out upon in order to A) thread the supports for the Chinese lanterns and B) get herself covered in grime. I doubt she'd admit to intentionally getting covered in grime, but I'm quite sure she did, if only subconsciously, because it sure added drama to her Cinderella transformation at nightfall. Cleans up nice, don't she?

Fresh boiled 'nads.

Information on our upcoming 3-day singles' ward activity at Lava Hot Springs:

"The spring's temperatures range from approximately 102 to 112 degrees."

Ummmmm......we only have about 20 men in our ward, and now we're going to mass-sterilize them? How do I register a complaint....?

Pioneer Day, post script.

Great, crashing waves of baby lust.

Will I ever be someone's ancestor?

Pioneer Day: the unfamous edition.

My post from last Pioneer Day has led to some...um...interesting developments in my life and family history. What can I say? It's sorta fun to be descended from Important People. But to be honest, I've only become attached to my paternal heritage in recent years -- the stories I grew up on were from my mom's side. The side made up of lowly folk no one's ever heard of.

My maternal-paternal great-grandfather didn't walk across the plains; he converted to the LDS church well after the railroads had been built and he came to Utah in relative ease. And yet I consider him one of the great pioneers of my family, leaving his beloved but unbelieving family behind in England and raising in the Utah desert a his-hers-and-theirs blended family of 15 children so lovingly that they took offense if I ever referred to them as "step-siblings." He was jolly, known for the lovely singing voice that won him the lead role in The Mikado (see photo) at the local college though he had just a second-grade education. He was a self-taught mechanic, adapting to the industrialization that ultimately landed his stocking-weaver parents in the almshouse until their deaths.

Years ago I decided to transcribe the letters his mother sent him from England (the picture below shows her standing outside the almshouse where she lived). We only get her half of the conversation, but in it is a clear reflection of his pain at the death of his first wife and the sorrow of separation from his home. I don't think Pioneer Day should be about flogging ourselves for the pains of those who came before. It's not a celebration of asceticism, but of love -- for faith, for ideas, for children, for the future. Yet how can his choice have always seemed good as he looked back at his poor, sad family? They are together now, and I hope they see me here tonight.*

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

Jan 28 1915

Sapcote

Dear Son and daughter

i now sit down to rite a few lines to you once more hoping they may find you all in good health....Well dears i must tell you their is alot of trouble and triles to get along with all throu this dretfull war it is cruell to think about every things is getting so dear we pay 1s [shilling] 2p [pence] abag of coles 1s p bacon 9p lard 1s cheese per pound bread is getting verry dear buter we don't get any meat is 10p per pound and now we must thank you for the nice letter and the contents i am shure we boath are alot better in health for it....we ofton set and talk about you all and say as how we should like to see you all in your homes but that will never be on this earth do yor think so Well dears you must excuse me for not riting sooner we got yours the 4th of the new year so you see i haven't been so long after all father think they may be a chance to come and see you now their is flying meshenes [flying machines] o if we could i do wish we could see you and all of them dear children of yours as well o what a meeting a meeting it would be but we hope to meet in the bye and by....now i think i have tould you all i can this time and I contlude with our verry best love from your dear old mother and father good by

rite again soon

* Of course, if he's really like he sounds in the family stories, he'll find this posting unforgivably maudlin. Sorry, Grandpa. I get this way on Pioneer Day.

I am no wisteria sadist.

The performance of the wisteria vine I was scoping out for Wisteria Watch was, um, less than spectacular this year (see sidebar). That's why I was dragging the ol' feet. I watch for it to bloom every year, but this was a lousy year. Maybe it's depressed -- I dunno. Maybe its girl took its dog and ran off to Nashville in its pickup.

But to compensate you patient wisteria waiters, here are some slightly better ones I found 'round town. (No extra charge, because I love you.)

Dad, poolside.

"That cloud up there -- it looks like.............nothing."

[20 seconds of silence]

"The one behind it looks like.............well, it also looks like nothing. Just a different version."

Oh wow.

My poor, poor neighbor. Apparently some freak in the building can't tell cremains from cocaine?

Other theories?

****************************
7/12/2008

UPDATE FOR YOU DEAR CONCERNED READERS!

Two weeks ago I spoke with my neighbor about his missing mother, and he said she did finally arrive. Apparently his brother miscommunicated when she would be showing up. He said (ominously) that his brother will soon need an urn of his own if he doesn't shape up.

Make your own metaphor.

I don't understand long-stemmed roses. I mean, some might find long stems aesthetically superior to short stems (perhaps this is akin to preferring long legs to short legs?) Personally, I couldn't care less about the length of the stems. Personally, I think we've decided that we like long stems because they're more expensive to produce and more expensive = better. Personally, I think we've convinced ourselves that if a man spends more money on our roses, he must love us (read: our long legs) more than any woman (or any woman's legs) in the vicinity. And therefore we can trust him with our legs and the rest. Or something like.

But can't we all agree that the prettiest part of any flower is the flower part? And it is a simple law of nature that cut flowers survive longer if their water supply is closer. That is why all long-stemmed roses that come my way are immediately amputated.* This formerly-long-stemmed rose was a half-open bud when I got it twelve days ago. TWELVE DAYS. Look how pretty it is on its stubby little stem...



* If you are determined to convince me that you love me more than Paris lusted loved Helen, skip the long-stemmed roses and go for the short-stemmed chocolate.

I'm a walker. I walk.

I was out walking the other night and encountered a little old lady shuffling down the sidewalk with her walker. We smiled at each other as we passed and she said, "I admire your bouncy walk!"

I didn't detect an ounce of envy in her face or her tone -- she really seemed just to enjoy watching my healthy chub tripping down the lane. Was my easy stride just one more sign of life for her? Like loving babies and daffodils, even though your own spring is long passed?

I really liked that lady. I want to be her when I grow up.

Game's still on, but....

....I just gotta say, this Mormons-on-reality-shows thing is getting stale. It all boils down to:

"Dude, get the camera! I just spotted a babyfaced virgin who sings/dances/cooks/survives/eatscockroaches like a heathen!"

It's Britney, circa 1998. And we all know how that ended.

[Shudder.]

Spring is for sillinesses.

April and Wynne have both requested that we restart the Balderdash game from last year, so here we go! New game, same rules, same gut-busting fun!

If you've never played the game, the point is to make up a fake definition for the word that is convincing, or funny, or both. In the official version of the game you would also get points for knowing the real definition, but that doesn't work well online since it's so easy to Google a word, so we'll just do bogus definitions. Post as many definitions as you like for each word. Feel free to post a definition on any past word that strikes your fancy, even if the person who chose the word has already revealed the true meaning. Also feel free to post your own word once the previous word has had a couple of responses. No points -- just a special commendation to the first player who makes a reader die from laughter.

So give giggles -- the gift that keeps on giving!

P.S. The "Balderdash" link in the sidebar will take you directly to this posting when it's been buried by other posts.



The first new word is.......

RIBAZUBA

Ready......set......LIE!

You know it's time to lose the new profile photo...

...when your dad, reading your blog, exclaims,

"Marie! What a great new photo! It hardly looks like you at all!"

Sigh.

True.

On the bright side, though, now that I've gone back to my old photo I can once again make silly comments without people wondering if I'm really trying to be ponderous. To illustrate:




That's when the windmill of my mind was skewered on the jousting lance of his delusions and out poured the whole-grain flour of my fury.




vs.



That's when the windmill of my mind was skewered on the jousting lance of his delusions and out poured the whole-grain flour of my fury.





Aaaaah. That feels so much better.

All the pretty little posies.

Now beginneth the season of technicolor wonder. Here are some of my favorite blooming plants around downtown Salt Lake, though only a few are in bloom at the moment.






Mimosa trees:
--grounds of Daughters of the Utah Pioneers Museum


Weeping pussy willows:
--235 A St
--4th Ave and B St (NE corner)


Dogwoods (one pink, one white):
--2nd Ave and H St (SE corner)


Pink magnolias:
--south side of Canyon Road Towers apartments (Canyon Road and 2nd Ave)
--567 3rd Ave
--215 B St
--681 3rd Ave
--511 4th Ave


White magnolias:
--inside SE wall of Temple Square (also north of South Visitor Center)
--3rd Ave and H St (NW corner)


Wisteria:
--400 South and 1300-ish East (north side of street)
--south of Relief Society Headquarters
--2nd Ave and D St (SE corner)
--214 A St


Hydrangea (alas, white only -- the colored ones don't do well in Utah):
--bottom of the cascading fountain on Temple Square


Flowering quince:
--220 A St
--4th Ave and E St (NE corner)


The most fantastic-smelling, large-blossomed white lilac:
--1st Avenue along north side of Gateway Condominiums


Great big fluffy bank of forget-me-nots and bobbily-headed English daisies:
--between Joseph Smith Memorial Building and Church Administration Building (along sidewalk)


Do you have any others I should watch for around town? Or favorite plants from your area that I should search for at my local nursery? Also, there's a parking strip in the Avenues planted with nothing but fantastic red oriental poppies, but I can't remember where it is. Anyone know?

Don't believe everything you read.

It turns out the blog world does intersect with reality. Occasionally.

Y'see, last Pioneer Day I posted about my ancestors, and my great-great Grandpa Hezekiah Thatcher in particular. I told a little about his life of heroism and rebellion as an early convert to the Mormon church, driven west for his faith and then further west for his crankiness. I got a good response from my readers, particularly on the running-off-to-California-against-orders bit. We Thatchers have always sorta prided ourselves on that rebellious streak; we like to be faithful to our creed, but not TOO faithful. You hear the word "maverick" a lot when you sit in a gaggle of reminiscing Thatchers -- you could call it our family myth. We've always assumed that this telling of the Hezekiah Thatcher story was true because 1) we knew that Brigham Young had specifically forbidden his followers to go to the Gold Rush or into mining in general and 2) we assumed that our ancestor must have fallen in the rebellion camp, because otherwise we'd have a family legend explaining his purer motives. Usually family traditions tend to put a positive spin on reality, rather than the opposite. So a negative family tradition is probably true, right?

Then a few months after writing that Pioneer Day blog entry, I was reading about Mormons and the Gold Rush and learned that it was now known that Brigham Young, after telling the general membership of the Church NOT to go to the Gold Rush, took aside a few individual members and asked them to do the opposite: go make as much money as possible in the Gold Rush and bring it back to build up the Mormon communities in the Great Basin.

Oh no, I thought.

I wasn't all that upset to discover that I might have fed my faithful blog readers falsehoods about my family. I was upset to discover that I might come from OBEDIENT stock.

Oh NO.

And not just obedient stock -- super-duper obedient stock. I didn't tell anyone in my family: I feared being stoned for the crime of entertaining heretical historical thoughts. I briefly considered heading up to USU to dig through the Thatcher family papers collection, but when it came right down to it...

I didn't want to know.

Then a few weeks back I'm contacted by a stranger who came upon my Pioneer Day posting from a Google search. He's filming a genealogy show for BYU-TV about great-great Grandpa Thatcher and guess what? It's about this very question. Was Hezekiah Thatcher a rebel or the goodiest of do-gooders?

It would appear that the universe is determined to enlighten me on this point.

They want me to be part of the show: a descendant of Hezekiah to add human interest to their investigation (I'm imagining that History Detectives show, but for the Mormon crowd). So I need everyone to pray for me. Pray like you've never prayed. Pray that at least one of the following will happen:

1) They find nothing new and we Thatchers continue on in blissful crankiness

2) They find an entry in his journal that says, "President Young told me to stick around, and I told him where to stick it"

3) They find out he was acting under orders on the Gold Rush thing but at the same time discover that he was selling national secrets to the Commies (or something equally fabulous but non-anachronistic)

4) They find out that he was nothing but good and obedient and I somehow manage not to burst into tears on camera and/or get banned from all future family reunions

Wishing you and yours safety from the tides of inconvenient history. Over and out.