I bid you many fond memories of evenings with Netflix

A friend of a friend once pestered me to set him up with somebody.  Since I know about a bazillion brilliant, beautiful single girls, I happily started rattling off a list of Amelia's, Becca's and Chloe's virtues.

At one point in my description of Sally's razor sharp sense of humor, infectious laugh and fantastic blonde hair, he interrupted me.  "She goes to law school with you?"

Yeah.

"I don't really want a girl that's busy."

I stared at him, and suddenly my mental list of brilliant, beautiful girls evaporated as I imagined all of them collectively raising their eyebrows at THAT statement.

Well, today on Facebook I found out that friend-of-a-friend is engaged.  I know, I know, a thousand hearts broke at the thought of that stud off the market, but 'tis too true.  So please, loyal readers, join me in wishing friend-of-a-friend and his not-busy-bride-to-be an exceptionally satisfying life full of blissful staycations.

While watching Grey's Anatomy* ...

Many verses in the Bible are arranged in chiamus.  Chiasm is the art of arranging words in a mirror-like or parallel way.  Think ABCDCBA.  The central idea (in this case "D") is usually the important thought, and all the others are arranged to emphasize it.   A quick google search revealed the following example:

 "Seek me and live;                      a
     but do not seek Bethel,                 b
       and do not enter into Gilgal            c
         or cross over to Beer-sheba;          *
       Gilgal will surely go into exile,        C
     and Bethel shall come to nought." B
   Seek the LORD and live,               A

While watching Grey's Anatomy, it occurred to me that the show's writers may be big (albeit crappy) Bible scholars.

Does anyone notice how everyone on that show repeats themselves, as if inane dialogue times two will become meaningful?


Meredith Grey: You're the guy who used to pour my cereal in the morning. That's it. It's all I remember about you. You're not my father, you're just the guy who used to pour my cereal. And, if you die it probably won't change my life that much. But, it will change hers. If you die, it will break her. And, I'm not gonna let you do that. I don't know what it's like to have a father, but I do know what it's like to have a sister. And, it's good. And, if we can get through this, then the door will be open for us to get to know each other. The door is open.


Owen Hunt: No, it's my fault. It was my call, and it was the wrong call. I was wrong and I should have known better.  I should have... I should have taught better. You see one in a million and you want to believe. I was wrong to do the surgery, I was wrong to put you on this case. You weren't ready. You weren't ready to be here. 

 Izzie Stevens: I'm wishing for a brain tumor. I'm wishing all the time for a giant tumor that would just press down on my brain and make me hallucinate George. So that I could talk to him again, so I could laugh with him again. I miss him so much. I miss him all the time, and I just want to feel better. Even for a minute you know, I just wantto be a person who isn't wishing for a brain tumor. Just for one minute. And, I can't drink because of the cancer meds, I don't do drugs, I can't even work right now. I don't have any distractions. I'm sad, and I miss George. So please, please, come inside and help me feel better.




Calliope Torres: You can't pray away the gay.  You can't pray away the gay!  (Mr. Torres says something.)  You can't pray away the gay!




(Yeah, she said that last one THREE TIMES in a row with no variation.)


OK, so it's not exactly Biblical poetry (that may be the point) but damn, it is repetitive.  So any takers on whether or not that is intentional?






*Yes, on occasion, I find myself watching Grey's Anatomy.

While watching Vampire Diaries ...

Text from Echo: Vampire urim and thummim?  So lame.

Text from Me: More like vampire liahona, don't you think?

Text from Echo: Don't like this new direction.  Vicky BUGS.

Text from Me: Maybe the vampire hunters will get her with their magical pocket watch.

Assignment

Anybody who knows me knows I like to read.

Since starting at Deseret Book, that has come in handy.

And since I like sharing the things I like, I figured I should probably share these two:

Surround Yourself With Greatness (Chad Lewis' memoir) and Christmas on Mill Street (think Sandlot meets A Christmas Story) rocked my socks off.

Christmas on Mill Street is out now, and is adorable.  Ador-a-ble.  Enough said.

Surround Yourself With Greatness comes out next month, and covers Chad Lewis' time as an LDS missionary, BYU football player and NFL player, as well as describing events from his life, like his father's life-threatening stroke at the age of 47 or meeting George W. Bush. 

I would heartily recommend it if only for this quote:

“My main point [in testifying before the Senate Judiciary Committee in 1997] was that [the Alliance] system eliminated about half of the teams in the country from having any chance to become national champions before the season even started. They were crushing the glass slipper for all of the so-called lesser teams before the invitations to the dance were even made. Their arguments in favor of the exclusivity of the Alliance were sounding more un-American all the time.

With the pressure from the Senate, the system changed just enough to create the Bowl Championship Series, which carefully skirted the anti-trust laws in question but still runs counter to the common sense of the American people. The University of Utah would twice go undefeated and twice crash the BCS party by winning their bowl games in convincing fashion, but still not be crowned national champions because they did not belong to a blueblood conference. The way the BCS was put together was clearly not what inspired the First Americans to leave England and hack out a life on the soil and the frontier of this great country. Pedigree should not trump performance. Champions should always be determined within the lines of the field, not in the courtroom.”

You tell them, Chad.

Back in my place

When I was a law student, I very rarely confessed to being a law student.  My sister Echo and my Aunt B (who won't be happy until all her unmarried relatives are happily settled down) have tried in their own ways to disabuse me of this habit. 

Aunt B's Approach
Aunt B at church: "Have you met my niece?"
Boy: "No, not yet.  What do you do?"
Me: "I'm in school."
Aunt B:  "She's a law student!"
Boy: (internally) Must ... escape ...

Echo's Approach
Me: "I'm still in school."
Echo: (kicking me in the ankle)
Me: (trying not to swear in front of someone I just met)

But I always found it easier to just say "student," or if forced, "grad student."  If you're talking to a boy, it's almost mandatory.  As my friends Becky and Sally* have often lamented, "law student" is the kiss of death to a boy.  It's much better to just be "student," or if push comes to shove, some sort of vagely "pre-law" person.

Sally: I'm in school.
Guy: What for?
Sally: Um ... I think I kinda want to be a lawyer.
Guy: Oh, awesome. When are you applying to law school?
Sally: Well, not any time soon, that's for sure.

Guy: What do you do?
Becky: I'm kinda at a crossroads right now.  (That crossroads being choosing between a law firm in Salt Lake City, and a law firm in New York ...)
Guy: Oh gosh, I know how that is.
Becky: For reals.  Hey, don't I have awesome hair?
Guy: You totally do.

All technically true. 

Sadly, as Sally can attest (and I can affirm), the boys-uninterested-in-lawyers theme strikes pretty evenly across all segments of the population.  Sally has searched for dateable guys in both LDS ward houses and bars across the Wasatch Front, and neither group seems particularly into future litigators.  Hence, the brilliant lying plan. 

And yes ... it works.  (Boys-totally-into-directionless-girl theme?  Alive and well.  Unfortunately, Sally still hasn't figured out the "Oh, you thought I was still in undergrad?  Wonder how that happened ..." conversation.  But all in good time.)     

And it's not just that you want to avoid scaring boys off (though that's a big part of it).  It's also that you don't want to be forced into that awkward,

"Oh yeah, I was going to go to law school, but then I realized


A. How much money I could make selling real estate
B. How much money I could make with my business (cough pyramid scheme cough)
C. How much money I could make in construction
D. How much I hate lawyers"

conversation, which comes up surprisingly often even though it won't make anybody happy.  (Believe me, trying to convince these kinds of people that you didn't go into it for the money--though it is a nice bonus, when the economy isn't circling the bowl--will not work.  Ever.)  (Also, why is it OK for people to just tell you how much they hate you and what you do if you're a lawyer, but not if you're in the army, a journalist, a teacher, a bank teller?   Topic for another day...)

Or there's the "I'm going to get really defensive and assume you're (A) a jerk, (B) arrogant, or (C) condescending before I even get into this conversation" attitude that also tends to affect a significant minority of the population, men and women. 

So yeah, I avoided the law student label. 

After graduation came a whole new adventure - people who wanted to introduce me to their friends as a "lawyer," even though I am not one.

"No, no - haven't passed the bar, haven't passed character and fitness, haven't taken the oath or gotten my number.  Not a lawyer, not this girl."  This was usually blurted out in a combination of insecurity/fear of the bar examiners, who would surely appear from behind a ficus to yank my license before it was even bestowed for the sin of the unauthorized practice of law.  Yes, friends ... I know that got old, and I am sorry.

But now that I have passed the bar ... and will be getting on that character and fitness thing any day now ... and will supposedly be starting at a firm in T-minus two months and three weeks ... I recently it might just be time to pony up to the "lawyer" title.

So a couple days ago, I finally introduced myself to someone as a (albiet underemployed) lawyer. 

Random Person: So you practice in Utah?
Me: Uh, no.  I passed the Arizona bar.
RP: So you can't actually be a lawyer here, right?
Me: ... That is correct.

Life to Me: Check and mate.







* Names changed, natch.

Mormon weirdos

In Sunday School today, we discussed how important it was for the Mormon pioneers to maintain group cohesion as they made their way across the plains.  Rules about when the company could leave (not until the very last family was ready), rules about preparing things for the next people to come (pioneers would build houses and plant crops so the next group of settlers would have somewhere to live and something to eat, and then they’d split), etc.  This, of course, was a transition to how we, as modern-day Mos, should be treating each other—with consideration, fellowship, so on and so forth.


And then, after church today, I remembered why we should sometimes take Sunday School lessons with a heaping serving of salt.

Mormons are weirdos. And I don’t particularly want to be friends with all of them.  So (sorry, pioneer ancestors) I give you THE REASONS WHY I DON’T HAVE MANY MORMON FRIENDS.

Scenario One: Guy From Parents’ Ward

My sister Echo and I were chatting with two guys who very cleverly switched their names. (Ha. Ha.)  Damn you Jack Weyland and your books, convincing Mormon youth the world over that being a dork is the equivalent of being charming.  Bill/Brad was talking about how he knew our dad and uncle; Brad/Bill was sitting quietly next to him.  It took me a minute, but finally I realized Bill/Brad was the Guy From Parents’ Ward Echo had previously warned me about.

Despite being kind of an oldster, GFPW had a bad case of the Mo-Bachelors, and was ward hopping in order to prey on the youngest and tastiest new freshman/sophomore meat.  Having blown his way through one ward, the Mo-Bachelor will move onto the next, where hopefully none of the brand new girl YSAs (most of whom who haven’t even had the chance to take their Young Woman of Excellence medallions out of that red velvet box yet) will have heard of his exploits.

Bill/Brad was finally cluing into the fact that Echo and I are sisters. (Despite growing up surrounded by people who insisted You two look just like twins! a lot of folks now fail to make the familial connection altogether.)  However, he quickly tried to turn the tables one me. “I’m hurt you don’t remember me!” he said with a grin I’m sure he thought was charming.  (Again, Mr. Weyland, my displeasure is directed at you.)

I shrugged. “Well, I am four years younger than [your youngest sibling].”

Hint. Hint.


Scenario Two: Endless Love … For School

Echo and GFPW were soon having a deep conversation about lending rates (zzzzzzz…), so I transitioned into conversation with GFPW’s roommate, Brad/Bill.

Brad/Bill actually seems like a real sweetheart, and he was definitely easy on the eyes. (OK, I’m he was actually really, really hot.) But any inappropriate day-dreams I might have indulged about Brad/Bill were immediately killed because within a few minutes of conversation, he started making awkward confessions.  I don’t mean the “bless me father for I have sinned” type of confession, though those can also be a problem for the Mormon people.  I mean the “holy cow, you should not have told me that, I will never be able to respect you” kind of confessions.

The kind of confession that the confessor probably doesn’t even realize is a confession, since it’s clear they aren’t ready to be ashamed of their lametown ways.

You see, Brad/Bill is studying for the MCAT. Not because he wants to be a doctor, mind you. Because he wants to go to China.

I blinked. “For med school?”

Yeah. For med school.

In the course of five mind-blowing minutes, Brad/Bill proceeded to explain to me his passion for China, and the fact that he had decided the easiest way to make headway behind the Bamboo Curtain was to apply to medical school. What kind of grades does an American need to get into Beijing U, you ask? Brad/Bill didn’t know. He want to ask the admissions people at the U medical school about it, and shockingly they didn’t know either.

This prompted so many internal questions on my part, I struggle to even list them:

1. So are you into Asian girls? Sure hope so.
2. You know there are easier ways of going to China than medical school, right?
3. How old are you? I know you don’t have the rotting eggs problem, but seriously, do you want to throw out your back when you’re playing in the sandbox with your toddler?
4. Have you mentioned this plan to any current medical students, to get their reactions?
5. You know medical school is four years, and that’s just the school part, right?
6. And you don’t speak Chinese yet, is that correct?
7. What are student loans like in China? I’m assuming communism has got to have a unique take on that one.
8. I suppose this is a silly question … but do you happen to have any friends or family in China?

At this point, Brad/Bill added that he had majored in governance (seriously … governance. As my friend Michelle* would later point out, her sister once met Brad/Bill and, having heard his major, burst out laughing and said, “You and James Madison, huh?” Unfortunately, it was a real thing.) and had once considered law school. Not, you know, because he wanted to be a lawyer. But because he wanted an “education of the law.”

The sad thing is, I think I really could have been friends with a Brad/Bill type had he not added the “education of the law” thing. I like to think I can respect ambition and unique perspectives, and Brad/Bill had plenty of both. And as I said, he was really pretty, which (let’s be honest) can make up for a ton of other flaws.

It’s just that being semi-delusional is a bit of a problem for me, and with the admission that Brad/Bill had essentially considered law school just for the sake of more school, it became abundantly clear that Brad/Bill was not merely someone with big dreams. Despite being obviously very smart, and very nice, Brad/Bill was a six foot tall Peter Pan. (With dreamy blue eyes. OK, I’ll stop now.)

Despite having clearly articulated goals (Med school, check. China, check.), I couldn’t escape the sadly inevitable impression that Brad/Bill didn’t know what he wanted out of life. Because, seriously—who besides a college freshman thinks up these sort of plans?

At the end of the day, you shouldn’t go to medical school because you want to go to China, and you shouldn’t consider law school because you want the opportunity to think about laws for three years.  First, it's just too hard to gut it out through med school or law school if you don't really want to be a doctor or lawyer.  I loved law school, but I, along with plenty of other people I know (guys and girls),  admit to crying a time or two over it.  The thing is, we actually wanted to be in our program.  I can't imagine doing it for some other reason entirely. 

But the real problem with Brad/Bill's plan was that only people who seriously debate these futures are people who, deep down inside, still don’t know what they want out of life. And I really can’t handle people who don’t want to grow up, which unfortunately, is a big problem for the Mormon people.

If I can, I'm going to try to think of a way to blame Jack Weyland for that. 


Scenario Three: Buzzkiller

Finally it was time to get our baked potatoes, brownies and punch, so we wandered inside for some much needed sustenance. (It’s hard work, mingling with Mo-Mos.)

My friend Michelle and I sat down at the dinner table and were discussing our upcoming road trip to Vegas for the Utah-UNLV game. I had just finished explaining how my friend April is a genius blackjack player who had helped me win $50 in Wendover when Mr. Buzzkiller came over for a chat. He sat between us, and for a few brief seconds seemed content to munch on his carrot cake in silence.

But as soon as the words “Las Vegas” passed Michelle’s lips, Mr. Buzzkiller said, “I have not so much as put a quarter in a slot machine.”

Michell and I kinda trailed off and stared at him. Part of me thought, He’s got to be kidding. (Not so much about the never having gambled, but the fact that he’s going to bust out that information in old-timey language.)

Awkward pause. Then, because sometimes I don’t know how to not say things, I joked, “Well, now I kinda feel bad, I’ve just spent the last five minutes trying to convince Michelle to play blackjack with me in Vegas!”

He looked at us sternly. “I believe it’s very important to follow the Prophet’s counsel on this issue.”

Cue: http://www.sadtrombone.com/

Mr. Buzzkiller continued to go on about how the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles have really stressed the importance of not gambling for the last seven years (“Seven?” Michelle said teasingly. “Seven,” responded Mr. Buzzkiller firmly.) Michelle and I had to kind of sit there awkwardly, and finally Mr. Buzzkiller asked, “Why are you guys going to Vegas?”

“The football game,” Michelle answered distantly.

Now, the point is this. I guess I can’t blame Mr. Buzzkiller for his sanctimony—gambling is not exactly on the up-and-up in the Mormon church. (I’ll save my defense for the good, wholesome recreational activity of gambling for another day.)

But the point is, no one likes to be brought down.  Michelle and I were having fun, joking around, and Mr. Buzzkiller turned our conversation into an impromptu Sunday School lesson.  A lame Sunday School lesson at that.

It would have been on thing had we already been talking about a church topic, but we weren’t.  We were talking about a vacation.

And have I mentioned I don’t know Mr. Buzzkiller that well?  Michelle does, so I guess that was an OK transition.  But seriously—no where else but in the Mormon world would a guy feel comfortable dropping into a random conversation with two girls (one with whom he is friends, one with whom he has a passing acquaintance) and busting out his spiritual opinions with little to no transition.

Boys and girls, I don’t like talking about religion with my best friends, I certainly don’t like to talk about it with people I barely (repeat: barely) know. Just because we’re at a church function does not make this activity church. It’s not ok to try to turn it back into church or some other version of sharing-and-caring time. This is chatting time, the social equivalent of work or school. Leave the church out of it, unless you’ve been invited (think: Are the current social cues facilitating me pulling up the new Ensign on my iPhone? No? Ok, I’ll not do that then) to throw in a spiritual thought.

PS - Just because you think it’s an uncontroversial topic (like gambling) does not mean anyone around you wants to try to navigate it. For some reason, it seems like many Mormons don’t understand this rule.

And it’s not like Mr. Buzzkiller, who started lecturing instead of sharing, was interested in anyone’s opinions in our conversation but his own. In case you all didn’t know, dropping “The Prophet said” into a conversation is the Mormon equivalent of Godwin’s law. The other people may still not agree, but you have effectively shut down the argument and now there’s nothing else for anyone to say. People will trail off and start talking about something else.

*****

So there you have it. The reasons why I don’t have many Mormon friends. Because they’ve let Jack Weyland influence their social interactions.  Because Mo-Bachelors are not only common, but freshman/sophomore girls will inevitably continue to line up for them.  Because they share inappropriate information without being aware that it’s inappropriate.  Because they want every conversation to be a seminary lesson.


And most of all, because talks about the pioneers make it so normal Mormons like me can’t just shut them down with an icy glare, which is what I would do in any other situation.

Do I wish I were better at making Mormon friends? Sure. In fact, I remember once telling my friend Chris that I could list all my Mormon friends on two hands, and even then, I had to count three people well on their way to excommunication.**

But it may just be that I’m not meant to get along with all my fellow Mos.

And that’s OK.  Because we're never going to have to cross the plains.  






* Names have been changed

** Not really. Most likely a soft disfellowship.

An update and a quote

1. I passed the Arizona bar.  :)

2. "His name is Gingerbread Pocock." - sister's coworker's six-year-old son, introducing the family's new mini schnauzer puppy.

If there is anything cuter than a mini schnauzer, it's a mini schnauzer named Gingerbread Pocock.