So I'm almost 30...so what?

I got a call tonight from a friend wondering if she could give my number to a guy. I found it very thoughtful that she asked first. But then she said the kid and I had gone to high school together, and that ended my interest. I can't be the only one who dreads dating anyone who can remember me in those golden four years, can I? Surely others run in fear of the first date being like a high school reunion, where we relive the glory days of football state champs, and the horror visits with the vice principal.

At least we had something in common beyond our age and marriage status. Most people tell me they know someone who would be perfect for me, and when I ask how, they can only manage, "He's single, and he's older, and he's LDS." Well where have you been hiding him all these years? How quickly can we book the temple?

It's truly a Utah state-of-mind. When I summer in DC, most people suggest I will be settling down and having a family in the next few years. Though I can't tell them yes, because who can know when I'll meet someone I can tolerate for long periods of time, I think the window they've given me is reasonable. So let's adopt this new standard of appropriate marriage-age. My brother would say to that, "You know your eggs are dying, right?" Thank you, dear brother. Just one more reason you don't get invited to many family dinners.

If I check my yearbook and see this guy's picture without remembering who he is, and he hasn't seen my segment on Rachael Ray, (which would be an issue all on its own...like why he watches Rachael Ray...) then I might consider letting her give him my number. But by dang, we better have more in common than our alma mater.

Copy Editing will steal your soul

As a print major, I am required to take copy-editing, but no one told me to check my confidence at the door. That should be in the course description. I thought with my grammar nazi reputation, I would breeze right through, but the red pen all over my graded papers would tell you that didn't happen.

No one told me I would have to write headlines, but all of my writing classes told me my titles were my weakest part. So yeah, let's tackle the wonderful world of writing headlines. (Just as a side note, apparently it's a big no-no to convict someone before they are charged and tried and found guilty.... hmm....someone should have mentioned that before I lost those six points.)

The best thing to come out of the class is an appreciation for the chore it is to format a page of news, catch the grammar mistakes, the AP mistakes, and the stupidity of the writers, and generally make it appealing to the audience. My hat is off to every copy editor. I will never again make fun of you. And I promise your job is safe.

And let me take this opportunity to publicly apologize to Rebecca Bradshaw for every snide remark I made about mistakes in the Statesman. You let very few slip by for the number of words you must check. Well done. Grovel Grovel.

Put the fear of American Idol in 'em...

It used to be said "the fear of God," but after most of the shows I watch switched from their respective nights of Tues and Weds to Monday, it must be the fear of American Idol. For those who don't watch as many shows, let me give you a quick run-down of the new schedule according to me.

7 p.m. is Dancing With the Stars on ABC, which goes until 8:30 and is immediately followed by Samantha Who, a charming comedy starring Christina Applegate.

However, on the CW at 7 p.m. is Gossip Girl followed by One Tree Hill. I have seen all four seasons of OTH and am not about to stop because of a time conflict. But for Pete's sake, help a girl out.

Lest you think me finished, on Fox at 7 p.m. we have Bones, a show I am madly in love with, followed by House, which is equally riveting. Oh and don't forget Wildfire on ABCfamily at 7 p.m. It's the last season and there's a long awaited wedding coming. Can't miss it, but how do I watch it?

Some of this might be doable if I owned a TiVO, but who can afford such luxuries? Instead, I skip DWTS until it's online Tues, mostly because this season I am not voting. Last season Marc and Sabrina should have won the whole show and instead went home in week 6. It was then that I realized America is stupid and doesn't vote for most talented but instead most pathetic. (Take Sanjaya for an example.)

Sacrificing DWTS allowed me to watch Bones uninterrupted -- until next week that is. I'm not sure what I'll do. It will probably involve some letter-writing to the stations to tell them to stop being such chicken butts, and run their shows against Idol. I'd watch them, and I'm all that really matters.

Why is it all the good-looking straight men are married?

The title isn't 100 percent true, but it sure feels like it. I just got finished watching the Masters golf tournament, and the winner is a very handsome 28-year-old South African named Trevor Immelman. But as soon as he won, his gorgeous blonde wife with an equally gorgeous accent came running down to hug him and hand him his son. (The one bright spot in his being unavailable, aside from the fact that he would never love me anyway, is the bright red hair his son was sporting. Either Immelman or his wife carry the recessive gene, and I couldn't take the risk that he's the carrier.) (No offense, Nancy.)

Now, back to reality. Why can't I find a great-looking, well-spoken, financially-sound, lover of hyphenates?

Cooking is an obsession, but not a talent I have

I love to cook. I love it so much I decided to pursue an undergraduate degree in culinary arts. Unfortunately, USU cancelled its program two weeks before my decision. At the time I thought it was merely bad luck, but since then have concluded it's the Lord's way of protecting those who would have to pay to eat my creations.

Regardless of this sign or omen, whatever we think it may have been, I still cook a lot. The greatest thing to happen to cooking since Julia Child is the Internet. I can use any number of recipe site, punch in whatever ingredient I have, et voila, a delicious recipe. That is, until I get my hands on it.

Still, I thought I would put together an article about cooking classes offered here in the valley, and some of the recipe sites I use. It's clear by Food Network's growing popularity that people are more and more interested in cooking and creating. For this reason, I wrote Cooking popularity grows in Cache Valley.

If you are one who likes to cook, and wants to improve your ability, then give it a quick read. Lots to do, lots to know here in the valley.

The Masters Golf Tournament

I thought I would take this opportunity to publicly apologize for every time I called golf "men in tacky pants walking." I have a little better grasp of the skill involved and have enjoyed watching the last four hours of today's tournament. And in the spirit of complete disclosure, I will confess I am excited for tomorrow's game as well.  

Maybe it's not my new grasp of the skill, but the new young things taking the lead and setting a fashion standard as well.  Marry me, Paul Casey... 

CIL-ly USU

Let's talk about the unfairness of the CIL exams. And by that, I don't mean we shouldn't have to prove some amount of computer competence before graduating. I simply mean those of us that are Mac users should be allowed to prove our competency on Macs.

Apple is gaining substantial ground in the technological world. More and more of my friends are jumping on the Macbook bandwagon, and yes, I will admit there is a learning curve moving from PC to Mac, but there is the same learning curve from Mac to PC. In other words, each CIL exam requires me to take the first ten minutes retraining my brain to think Windows, and PC. It's a good thing they are not timed.

I only have one more CIL and then I will never again have to prove my PC competency. (Wouldn't it be nice if that statement were true?)

Oscar is a Snob

I'm pretty sure anyone who watches the string of movie award shows already knows how snobbish Oscar is...but then again, if you don't, just visit Jim Carrey's awards page on IMDB. There is a shocking lack of Oscar nominations.

The Golden Globes have been a little more willing to acknowledge his talent, especially when he branches out from his Ace Ventura style of comedy. And while the Nickelodeon Kid's Choice Awards, and the People's Choice Awards have been very rewarding, Oscar remains aloof.

It is a disgusting display of elitism, if ever I saw one. So blatant is their disdain for comedic actors, that while Kate Winslett is Academy-Award nominated for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Carrey, her co-star is ignored. It is disappointing, and I dare say antiquated. He is not the only actor to be overlooked by those ****.

The list also includes Robin Williams, though he finally saw some appreciation for his role in Good Will Hunting, and Jennifer Garner, who played a 13-year-old girl trapped in a 30-year-old body more convincingly than most could in 13 Going on 30, (the female equivalent of Tom Hanks' role in Big, a role for which he received an Oscar nom...shocking. Hollywood has double standards? I would have never guessed.)

I specifically want to address two actors and their portrayals of characters for which most actors have no reference point and no way to research or get hands on training.

Will Ferrell plays a human raised as an Elf with such sincerity, he pulls it off. I believe all his naive comments, his heartfelt singing to his father, his gift of lingerie, and his sugar addiction. His eyes sparkle like a kid who has Christmas everyday. But did he receive some recognition for accomplishing such a daunting task? Not from bald naked man holding a sword.

Someone who can commiserate is Amy Adams, known to all tweens as "Princess-to-be Giselle" from Enchanted. She cannot take credit for her Disney-sized eyes, but she can proudly boast that she did her own singing, and she somehow created a princess pose for her hands, one that I have been unable to recreate. Brilliant choice as an actress. Again, did goldy boy even nod her way? No.

The Golden Globes gave her a nod, and I applaud them. It's true there is a separate category for comedy/musical performance, but that doesn't diminish she so genuinely pulled off playing an animated princess brought to life that even Walt Disney himself would be won over.

And frankly, both actors deserve some form of recognition for remaining that cheerful for that long. Come on Oscar, get off your high horse and take a cue from the Golden Globe Awards.

And while we're at it, the Emmys could use a little rebuffing. Why can't you learn from the Golden Globe Awards and honor some of the performances found on the CW network? You will never convince me that Lauren Graham, best known for her role as Lorelai Gilmore, didn't turn in the finest female performance of the year during her seven-season run. Never. Never ever.

You suck Emmys. You suck too Oscar. As I always said to the referees at our high school basketball games, "If you had one more eye, you'd be a cyclops."

It's Not the Same Thing!

It's no secret that text messaging is destroying our ability to spell, in spite of predict-a-text. Laziness is quickly masticating the English language and we're just one small swallow away from hopeless degeneration. Okay, okay, that might be a little dramatic. (Channeling Peter, Paul and Mary) Where have all the apostrophes gone? Since when are "your" and "you're" the same thing? PS--They're not the same thing.

Chat and text have created an entirely new language full of acronyms and abbreviations that never used to mean something, but hey, who cares about tradition, right?



But let's talk about one problem in particular with text messaging speak. For those who don't know, and that's everyone else besides my twin, my friend Kim, and me, there is a difference between "ya," "yeah," "yea," and "yay." Though I have other more pressing tasks I should be doing, I feel it my public duty to address this issue promptly, before you all embarrass yourselves more.

"Ya" is southern for "you" and that is the only word it replaces. So when I ask for affirmation from someone, and they reply with "ya," you can understand my confusion. Ya is not affirmative. It is the word we use when we want to say a non-committal "love you." We've all said it, we've all heard it. Love ya! Love you too, chicken butt!

So if you are trying to answer someone when they ask if you'll be at the party tonight, you really mean to say "yeah." That is the only way it works. It is the slang way of saying yes. If you were Miss Congeniality Sandra Bullock, you would be yelled at every time you used "yeah" instead of "yes." But since few of us are beauty queens, "yeah" it is. Several friends want to use it to express extreme joy for some occurrence, but they are wrong. Don't be one of them.

In a moment of sheer joy, say your friend got an A on her midterm, and you want her to know how excited you are, (and a colon-parenthesis just won't cut it)....what do you do? You say YEA! WRONG! That is scriptural for "to this extent" and that's not what you're trying to say. In fact, when will you ever need to use that word? Let me help you out...you won't. So back to the scenario of congratulation wishes for a friend...you would say "YAY!"

Yea, are we all clear? Yeah? Hey, Ya! Clear? Yeah? Yay!

Two years ago I thought it might be fun to be an elf at the Santa village in the mall. The job paid $7 an hour and I didn't have to wear pointy-toed shoes, just black slacks, a white dress shirt, and a shiny red vest. I thought it would be breezy.

I have never been so wrong.

I even suspected the Christmas spirit might sink to the center of my heart for the first time since Mom dispelled how Santa knew the exact name of the Cabbage Patch preemie I wanted. But that didn't happen either.

Instead, I spent seven-hour shifts lifting chubby kids onto Santa's lap so they could spiel off their greed. "I want the new Xbox 360, plus this game and that game, and oh by the way a new TV so I can play it in my room."

Is that all? What about world peace while we're at it? I'm not sure how Santa knew that all I wanted for Christmas was back problems, but he delivered.

Still, there were precious moments to be had, like the time 2-year-old twin girls came in and screamed and cried in unison. It was incredibly moving. Or how about when Santa's van, I mean sleigh, broke down and I lied to a line of anxious children and their angry parents by telling them Santa was late because of a storm over Alaska. There weren't enough candy canes in the world to quell that crowd.

If the fat, greedy kids weren't spirit-stealing enough, our second Santa was barely 20 years old and still sporting acne and skater shoes, which poked out from beneath the Naugahyde, boot-like wrap-arounds. He couldn't get his voice to drop low enough for Santa's ho-ho-ho to sound anything but puberty-burdened. But he was jolly.

As an elf, my job was to take photos of the kids on Santa's lap, and then convince the parents to buy a plethora of copies, more than anyone could ever give away. And I got a bonus if I sold them the cheap snow globe with photo insert. I managed to sell my share of keychain upgrades. No, really! It's cuter when they look panicked with arms outstretched.

Truthfully, there were cute moments; moments where children squeezed Santa's neck like he was better than any bear or doll; moments when 1-year-olds looked up quizzically at the massive, white beard; moments of whispered wishes followed by magical smiles. But those were as frequent as Aggie football wins.

As Christmas neared, the commercial emphasis overwhelmed me and I began to hope for my own new, shiny TV, or maybe shoes, or clothes. When the day came, and my family surrounded me with love instead of packages, all that vanished.

Maybe Christmas, I thought, doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas . . . perhaps . . . means a little bit more. Wait, did I steal that? Seuss who?

Six Years, Still Here

It was six years ago but when I close my eyes, the flashes and the sounds make it feel as if it was six minutes ago. I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard my mother yell that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Towers. Freak accident, we all thought. So I toweled off, pulled on my plaid robe, and twisted my hair into a towel turban. By the time I left the bathroom, the second plane had hit.

We stood there, paralyzed, not fully understanding how two planes could get so off course, not willing to entertain the possibility of an attack. But the words were used. Terrorist attack. Reports told of the vice president moving locations, though they would not disclose where, thereby averting attempts on his life. The images flashed back and forth between reporters and towers, smoke and ash, people running and screaming. We couldn't turn away. We couldn't change channels. I just stood there, my arms holding the robe tightly to my body in an effort to control my trembling, my head occasionally shaking in disbelief.

Then it happened. A reporter outside the Pentagon was reiterating how little was known about the two previous planes, and suddenly an explosion caused him to duck. He panicked, then quickly composed himself and spoke to the audience in that way reporters do, using a tone of authority with words that added up to say they knew nothing: "There was just an explosion of some kind. It came from the other side of the Pentagon. We will report to you any details as they become available."

Then minutes later we knew. A third plane had hit the Pentagon. I didn't realize then that I had just witnessed the murder of my friend.

I could feel myself devolving into a pathetic bathrobe creature, standing there, staring blankly at a screen while plumes of smoke poured out of the tallest buildings in New York City. Without warning, the first tower collapsed. It just imploded. I felt my stomach lurch, the vomit rising in my throat. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes and prayed with ferocity. My legs didn't work. I needed to walk to my room and ready myself for my job. I would be late as it was, but my feet refused to move. A fourth plane crashed in a field in Pennsylvania, but no one could be sure if it was related to the other three.

The images flashed quickly, repeatedly, and suddenly I was in first grade, watching the Challenger explode on perma-repeat. My mother behind me was sobbing, hot tears staining her cheeks. I just stared, thinking of the people who worked in those towers, the firemen rushing in, the people in the street gaping at the debris raining down, the innocent travelers who boarded a plane in D.C. and expected to walk off in L.A. The second tower fell 23 minutes after the first. Now I didn't know what to pray for, or for whom, or if it mattered. I felt numb.

The 30-minute drive to work crawled. The radio offered no new information, just recounts of what we had watched all morning. All I could think was whether or not my friend Liz's husband, Brady, who worked in a high clearance section of the Pentagon, was alive. Even Liz didn't know how to get hold of him. She was never given a number to reach him, so each day he had called her. But that Tuesday, her phone did not ring. What could she do but wait?

I, like most Americans, had no idea how to help, so I stood in line that evening to donate blood. What normally would have taken 45 minutes took three and a half hours, moving slowly forward from chair to chair as we inched our way closer to the blood draw stations. Every 30 minutes we called in to see if there was news on Brady. Nothing. Scoot forward. Scoot forward. Nothing. Scoot. Scoot. Nothing.

For seven days we would know nothing. Assumptions were made, but I never allowed myself to stop hoping that he was in a coma, sans identification, and when he awoke, we would get a call to say he was alive the whole time. But Monday's phone message didn't include a coma, or a miracle. Dental records had identified his body.

A week's worth of hope spilled out of me in a deluge of tears. The deep sobs bruised my chest and swelled my eyes. I wanted to be grateful that we knew, unlike so many families in New York City, but I had no room for gratitude. Brady was dead; Liz was a widow at 25. I had just seen her in March, excited about life, glad for the new job that had moved them to the area, the same job that would cost her husband his life. What now? I wrote a letter to express my deep sorrow for her loss, but nothing I said fixed this. Nothing I wrote made the hurt smaller. I'm not sure when I fell asleep that night, but I remember wishing I would not wake up.

Six years later, the question remains. What now? Today my heart is heavy, desperate to right this evil, desperate to help people remember and understand what was lost that day. We didn't just lose towers and strangers, faces known only to those who loved them. We lost hope, and a feeling of security. We lost the comfort of innocence and naivety. We lost our childhood.

I haven't slept well in six years. I want to feel safe again. I want to board a plane without fearing who else might be taking my flight. I want to pack a full tube of toothpaste in my carry-on. I want to feel good about bringing children into this world. I want back the life I had on Sept. 10, 2001. More than all of that, I want to fight this; I want to take back what was lost and fight for what is good. But my only weapon is words, and today they fail me.

A Wee Rant on Christmas Yard Art

I don’t remember reading about the Abominable Snowman attending the birth of our Savior, worshipping next to a shepherd, but that is the scene portrayed on the lawn of a home on 200 North.

Along Highway 38 in Deweyville, you will find Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy and Pluto in quick succession behind the wise men on course to worship the newborn Christ child. Funny how the New Testament left out that small detail. It smacks of Disney worshipping if you ask me. Others have equally offended the boundaries of commercial versus spiritual.

Maybe you don’t have this beef with the season, but I find it inappropriate to blend the “reasons for the season” on the same patch of lawn. I would be appeased if those people simply used the sidewalk leading up to their door as a divider, putting the Nativity on one side, and Santa or the Grinch on the other.

The offenses don’t stop there. How about the folks who turn on their Christmas lights just after Halloween? Granted, Thanksgiving decorations are a little harder to come by, merely because Wal-Mart doesn’t sell inflatable lawn turkeys. We should really talk to them about that.

I just got off the phone with Wal-Mart headquarters, and in fact they do sell inflatable lawn turkeys. So if you feel the need to adorn your lawn with tacky used car lot gimmicks, $100 can buy you a fix. Actually, I made that up. They don’t sell blow-up turkeys, but I’m sure some of you are halfway to your car with Visa check card in hand. I know, I know. I can be so cruel.

Instead of the air-blown turkey, a better idea would be to acquaint yourself with the farmers around here and talk them out of some dried corn stalks and left over pumpkins. It would be like choosing crème brulée over vanilla instant pudding. When it comes to yard art, there’s never room for J-E-L-L-O. A lovely fall scene after Halloween would allow enough time for the appropriate unveiling of all things Christmas.

Lest you discover my own Christmas shortcoming and think me hypocritical, I will confess to listening to SheDaisy’s Christmas CD beginning in October. But unless you’re riding in my car or sitting in my home, you remain unharmed by my dance with the devil. Yet no matter how hard I try to avert my eyes, the neighbors’ inflated crocodile pulling Santa’s sleigh in for a front row view of the Baby Jesus catches my peripheral vision, and burns my retinas.

I nearly gouged out my own eye when on yet another lawn the Polar Express passed by Bethlehem’s lowly manger scene. Next year I fully expect to see the magi kneeling before the King with their gold, frankincense, and myrrh followed closely by a polar bear with his Coca-Cola. There are better ways to honor Him, and we can start by giving the Nativity its own side of the yard.

I Said I'd Never Be One of These People.

And by these people, I mean bloggers. I feel the blog is journalism's equivalent to reality TV. You need no skill, no training, no education, no grammar test to prove yourself a worthy and reliable source of information. Why did I bother with four years of college and journalism classes when Joe Schmoe can post to his heart's delight sans any and all of my educational acquisitions? Okay, maybe that's too narrow. There are many bloggers who have skills, education, my same opinions on things, and a deep dedication to the truth, but how can we know?

Well, I will be sure to tell you when it's gospel or gospel according to Ang.