An open letter (so that I don't actually send it)

[Author's note: On a ratings scale, this post would most likely be PG-13, though I have tried to keep any innuendos or other descriptions as straight-forward and un-crass (crass-less?) as possible. You've been warned.]

Dear Noisy Neighbors,

While it might not be entirely neighborly of me to not know you actual names, I think it's probably for the best. Because it's difficult enough knowing what you look like after hearing what you do at night. I think names would just complicate (i.e. creepify, which is a made up word, I know) things, given the circumstances.

In the three years we've been here, we've never had an issue with noise disturbance before. Sure, sometimes we'd hear the little girl downstairs crying, but that's to be expected when little ones are about. Might I add that we have definitely felt guilt for the disturbance that has undoubtedly come with the addition of our child. But, I think it's important to note that every other consideration has been made to mitigate noise and ensure that we are being conscientious neighbors.

Which brings me to the two of you. I think it's great that you're so sporadically enthusiastic about sex. In fact, I think you should continue to be enthusiastic about it well into your nineties (or whenever). I think it's lovely and healthy and good and all that. However, the fact remains that you two are incredibly NOISY. And not just in a "we can hear the bed creaking" way. In the, "I know exactly when you're trying to top Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally" way. It's woken us up multiple times, and more importantly, it's woken up my daughter in the next room multiple times.

When it's 1:30 a.m. on a weeknight, the last thing I want to hear are, what I have dubbed, "constipated walrus" noises. The fact remains that you both are either completely ignorant to the fact that we can hear you (which is doubtful, given the plethora of ambient and not-so-ambient noise that you can hear from the drug house next door on a nightly basis), or that you just don't care. Either of which is kind of really annoying and inconsiderate. If you want to be that loud, move into a house. Or go into another room where you don't share a wall with your neighbors. Or, better yet, figure out that sex can be just as amazeballs if you don't try to break the sound barrier. (Or hurt every dogs' ears within a 5-mile radius.) I'd almost rather have you pump R. Kelly or something equally cliche, because then at least I wouldn't have to hear YOU. (Though hearing the "Ignition Remix" at 1:30 a.m. probably wouldn't be optimal either. But I suppose that beggars can't be choosers.)

One night I was so frustrated that I actually smacked our common wall... which was ill-advised to be certain, but not loud or hard enough to cause any disturbance. It's just so frustratingly inconsiderate. And creepy. And gross. And I would really love it if you two could just keep it down a little bit. Or move to Switzerland. No offense.

Best Regards,
Your Disgruntled Wall Sharing Neighbor

P.S. If it happens tonight, this letter might just end up being posted on your door tomorrow morning. Kidding. (Kind of.)

Holy balls...

today had its way with me. And not in a good way.

Let's just say it was an cannoli, eclair AND hot chocolate kind of day. 

Yeesh.

Yup, it's hooker season once again

Although, now that I think about it, when is it not hooker season? 

Bow chicka bow wow. 

[In case you were wondering, that was an onomatopoeic attempt at recreating 70's porn music. Just fyi.]

Happy Wednesday, all.

Proof that I am probably right about living next door to a meth lab...

Yeah, that isn't creepy at all...

The husb and I live on a quiet little street, just slightly east of downtown. So when we look outside our window (to the east, that is... the view to the west is definitely less pleasurable and may or may not involve a decrepit building that may or may not double as a meth lab... ok I'm kidding about the meth lab part... maybe) we see a lovely street with mature trees and manicured park strips. Upon closer inspection, however, the block needs a little TLC. There are a couple of beautifully updated homes and condominiums (like the building we live in), but most of the street is comprised of rental properties.

And admittedly, some of these said rentals are a bit... "shady," shall we say. Littered with smashed cans of Paps Blue Ribbon and used condoms kind of shady. With a pit bull or two thrown into the mix. Which is a shame, really, since most of the homes on the block are at least 100 years old and have a lot of charm. Keeping all of the aforementioned in mind, I think the most creeptastic fixture on our block is undoubtedly this:

A school bus, circa 1977. With all the windows blocked out with various tie-dyed "curtains." We're 99.99% sure that people live in there. I snapped this photo whilst loudly feigning interest in a nearby flowering tree. (Well, it was a lovely tree... and strategically placed, as luck would have it.) Because I think you have to see it to believe it.

Dear Mother Nature...

GET @#$%^&% SERIOUS!! It's May, for crying out loud. MAY!!

(Oh yeah, and we are officially in a fight now, btw.)

Exasperatingly,
L squared

My apologies, dear tooth

I knew there was a distinct probability that it would happen some day.

It was a nagging worry buried in the deep recesses of my brain.

Every six months I would lay back in the padded chair and wait.

And hope.

And every time my fears were unwarranted.
Until today.

Today I broke my 25 year, 253 day streak of not having a cavity.

I am bit devastated.
(I mean, that's an impressive run, yeah?
Almost 26 years old and no cavities.
Ever.
Not even in baby teeth.)

I remember having a conversation with my dentist when I first went in two years ago. About how I had an irrational fear of getting a cavity. He said, "You have great teeth. If you haven't had a cavity at this point, and you keep up your habits, you will probably never have one." [Liar, liar, pants on fire.]

So I continued to brush religiously and meticulously and even began to floss on a regular basis. (Shocking, I know.) I was fairly confident that my regimen would stand the test of time, and that my pearly whites would be spared from such agony.

But maybe I always knew it was inevitable.

Remember how I hate needles? So I just had the dentist drill right in. (It was just a tiny little cavity, after all.) But then he started hitting the nerve, and I couldn't stop myself from flinching. So I had to be numbed. It was more his choice then mine.

Remember how I really, REALLY hate needles?

The shots were actually worse than the initial pain... well shot number two was. Why in the world does the dentist have to give you two shots? And why in the world does he have to leave the needle in for the better part of a minute? And why does he have to go so close to a nerve? Why does he have to hit the nerve?

Dentists, I decided, are kind of sadistic.
(Seriously, think about it.)

I'm such a novice at this whole cavity thing, that I had no idea that they had abolished metal fillings. I was so pleased and felt so special that mine was one of those "new kind of fillings." Except I have the impression that they aren't so new anymore. My bad. Thank heavens for technology.

So there you have it. Today, I mourn the loss of part of my back right bottom molar. To it I would like to say the following:

Dear Toothie,

I sincerely apologize for your pain and suffering. It wasn't really fun for me either. Let's still be friends, ok?

Regards,
Lauren

A morning tale, of sorts.

Hopefully you all remember this post, in which I discussed a random little occurrence that happens from time to time just outside of the building where I work. (And yes, this is preferential to being constantly accosted by crazy transients, as was my experience at my former place of employment.)

So I'm walking into work this morning, only to see one of the (crutch-less, thankfully) "ladies of the night" (perhaps I should say "lady of the morning" or maybe "lady of the not-quite-early-morning-but-still-early-enough-to-be-disturbing-morning") emerging from a car that appeared to be, for lack of a better word, ghetto. I'll amend that to say that is was pretty dang ghetto. The kind of car that you might catch a disease from just from looking at it. I am kidding about that last part. (Or am I?)

At any rate, Ms. "lady of the not-quite-early-morning" thanked her, er, patron(?) and sauntered away from the vehicle, hopefully with at least 20 bucks in her pocket. (I have no idea what the going rate is these days, nor do I want to even guess. Blech.)

And I walked inside to start my work day (apparently loving parenthetical statements and parenthesis in general more so than usual).

Initiation

In my past occupational experience, I find that there is some type of event or encounter that must be had in order to become fully enmeshed in the office culture. At the restaurant where I worked in college, it involved being in the building after hours, after dark, and having an experience with the "ghosts" that inhabited the environs. At my last job, it was enjoying all of the lovely, stinky and thoroughly dangerous encounters with the transients/meth addicts.

My current place of employment has a different sort of problem... prostitution. And no, I'm not kidding.

It's been just over three months, and I finally witnessed my first "pick up." And luckily, this special moment was captured on film for you all to enjoy. Or to be completely incredulous, like I was. Either way...

Oh yeah, and did I mention that this particular "working woman" is on crutches?

It would be comical if it wasn't so sad.

Busted.

The dumbest thing I saw

while driving home from Utah county this evening, was the couple going 90 mph on a bullet bike, (without helmets, might I add) weaving in and out of traffic without signaling.

And I'm pretty sure they were both wearing flip flops. (The girl may have been shoeless... but they were going at least 90, so I didn't dare speed up to double check.)

I got nervous just watching them.

How about a shopping cart and a sanitary pad?

Or perhaps a sanitary pad in a shopping cart? Right by the elevator?

Yup, we're ready to move.

The reason why I have an aversion to vollyball nets

goes back almost 15 years, when, at the tender age of ten, I had a "run-in" of sorts with a certain volleyball net.

But let me back up a bit.

I was pretty much a girly-girl when I was little, and really, REALLY wanted to get my ears pierced. So my parents decided that I could get them pierced on my 10th birthday. When the auspicious day arrived, we went to Trolley Square and ate at Charlie Chow's (my favorite at the time) and got my ears pierced. I was absolutely ecstatic

A month or so later, we were having an extended family party to celebrate the April/May/June birthdays. It was held outside at a park, and after dinner and cake we all decided to play volleyball. Though I was, at the time, a girly-girl, I was also quite competitive.

I was playing on the front line (sorry if there's more of a technical volleyball term for it) right next to the net. A ball was coming at me, and I jumped up to hit it over the net.

And then I was caught.

I thought that perhaps I had caught my hair or a piece of clothing in the net, and wrenched around to pull myself off of it.

And then there was pain. And blood.

Because the thing that I had caught on the net was the month-old stud earring in my left ear. When I pulled myself away from the net, it ripped the earring out of my ear backwards, leaving a stud-sized hole in my ear. Luckily, my studs were pretty small (as were my earlobes) and so my mom just disinfected my ear and put the earring back in it. We also kept a constant eye on it to make sure it didn't get infected.

In time, my ear healed, though the hole in my left ear was quite low on my lobe, due to the fact that the weight of my stud set my "new" earring hole at the bottom of the bigger hole I had created when my stud was ripped out. There was no way to hold the stud in place to heal in a way that aligned with the original hole.

Which I didn't mind until I was 15, when my parents (finally) gave me permission to get a second hole piercing in my ears. I just wanted a second hole in my left ear, and not my right (because back then, that whole asymmetrical thing was totally in, I promise), which caused a bit of a problem because my first hole was so low. So they had to re-pierce my ear so that the second hole would be in line with the first hole. Thus, I had my left ear double-pierced that day.

That's the reason why I have three holes in my left ear. Shrug.

Moral of the story: don't wear earrings when you're playing volleyball.

Last night

we decided to venture out on another one of our lovely city walks. This time, the plan was to head east, to more residential-ish areas.

All was serene until a bug flew at my head. I thought I heard buzzing and then something hit my head, so I swatted it away with my hand.

About thirty seconds later I smelled something rank. And I looked down at my hair, and then at the hand I used to swat the "bug" away.

And I realized that it wasn't a bug at all...

it was bird poop.
{Hey, buzzing can sound like splatting ok? I promise.}

Me: (stopping abruptly) "Honey, do I have bird poop in my hair?"
Greg: "No... um wait... yes. Yes you have bird poop in your hair. Not so much on the top of your head, just in that one spot in the front."
Me: "Well get it out!"
Greg: "What? What do you mean, get it out? It's bird poop."
Me: "Can't you just swat it out or something?" {I think at this point the noxious fumes of said poop were altering my brain functions. Or something like that.}
Greg: "Honey, it's bird poop. You can't just 'swat it out.'"
We continue walking.
Greg: "Do you want to go home and wash your hair?" {My, my, he knows me well.}

So we circled back by the Jamba juice, got our usual, and then headed home.

And I washed my hair three times. In really hot water.

I hope my hair color can forgive me for that one.

The Tale of Two Brothers, Part Two

{Missed part one? Read it here.}

May 2002

Two months had passed, and the feelings of ickiness and annoyance that were a product of the aforementioned occurrence finally began to subside. In the mean time, one of my friends decided to befriend Dave's little brother, "Glen," who happened to be a year younger than us.

I was fine with it, because Glen seemed nice and sweetly shy, and I was not going to begrudge him for something his older brother had done. It is important to note, too, that during this time I was not as involved with my typical group of friends, for various reasons too convoluted to discuss here, though I will say that I was studying a lot more and focusing on college applications and whatnot. Among other things. Thus, I knew Glen even less that I had known his older brother. (This is important to know because of what happened next.)

My 18th birthday fell on a Sunday that year, and my whole extended family was over at the house for a birthday dinner. The house phone rang, and it was for me. (Which was odd, since most of my friends called my cell.)

I was even more surprised to discover that Glen was on the other line. He wished me a happy birthday, and said that he had something for me and wondered if he could stop by for a minute and give it to me. In my mind I thought that perhaps Dave felt bad about "the incident" and wanted to send his brother over as a gesture of kindness. Or something like that.

I couldn't think of another explanation.

I hesitated, just because I had all of my family over, but he seemed so insistent, that I said he could drop by for just a quick minute. Soon after, the doorbell rang, and there was Glen, standing there with a plate of brownies.

Glen: "Happy Birthday, Lauren. I made these brownies for you."

Me: (surprised, but flattered) "Well thanks Glen, that was really nice of you to do."

Glen: "I just wanted to do something for your birthday." (His expression turns slightly mischievous... where had I seen that expression before?) "Actually, I have another present for you, but it's down at my car. Will you walk down the driveway to come and get it?"

{My "uh oh" alarm decided to malfunction I think, because in that moment, it FAILED me. Miserably.}

We walked down my hill of a driveway to his car. I looked inside it expectantly, not knowing what exactly Glen had in store for me. I should have just stayed inside my house. There's a long pause, and then Glen begins to stammer...

Glen: "So... 18... that's a big one. Do you feel old?"

Me: (at this point super confused) "Um, not really. Pretty much the same as I felt at seventeen."

Glen: "And you're graduating and stuff in a few days... that's pretty cool."

Me: (wanting to get on with it and go back inside) "Um yeah. Sure. Glen--"

Glen: (interrupting me) "So I bet you're wondering what you're present is."

{Um no, I just left my family party and am standing out here with a person I barely know just for kicks and giggles.}

Glen: "Well, I was just wondering if I could give you a birthday kiss."

{Holy heck are you kidding me? He must be joking. Except this really isn't funny. Like not even the littlest bit... NOT AGAIN.}

Me: (equal parts flabbergasted and annoyed and completely unsure of what to do) "Well um, gee, I guess you could give me a nice kiss on the cheek. I think that would be a great present." {And yeah, that's all I could come up with. You try being put on the spot like that.}

Glen: (looking dejected... whispers) "It wouldn't be the same."

{ARE. YOU. SERIOUS?}

Me: "Um well... I think I should probably head back up to my family party. Er... thanks for the brownies. They look delicious." {Never ate one, btw.}

Glen stays silent... then, as I am turning to leave...

Glen: "Now me and my brother have something in common... we've both been rejected by you."

I decided not to answer him. I think all I could muster was a polite head nod. Because at this point the awkwardness that had just transpired was beginning to hit me. I headed up the driveway and didn't look back.

In the days that followed, there was a rumor that Dave had put his brother up to it, that there was a bet of some sort. Which really irked me. I mean, I'm not a piece of meat, people! I politely tried to avoid Glen during the last week of school, mainly because my feelings were hurt at the idea that people would make me the source of such a cruel joke. You know, it's high school, people can be kind of ruthless.

At any rate, I felt it best not to deny him on yearbook signing day, when he meekly approached me and asked if he could sign my yearbook.

I believe in his yearbook all I could muster was "Have a great summer. -Lauren" without my typical heart and a slash, because I wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea. I actually shut my yearbook after he signed it, not wanting to read what he wrote right away. I did offer him as genuine of a smile as I could muster, because I was trying to just be nice and move on. Despite the awkwardness that permeated my being. {Because I was really quite sensitive to awkwardness back then, just fyi.}

Later that day, I came across his message, and was dismayed to read:

"There wasn't a bet. I just plain wanted to kiss you."

And that, my friends, is The Tale of Two Brothers.

The Tale of Two Brothers, Part One

I think I have mentioned before that in high school I did not date a lot. I did not kiss many boys, and I believe that I was altogether oblivious (my little sister affectionately referred to it as "the social skills of an eleven year old") to boys who liked me, or maybe just the ones who wanted to kiss me. (For as you know, in high school, these categories don't always jibe.)

At any rate, I will begin this story in the spring of 2002, not even a week after I had gotten my wisdom teeth (all of which were impacted, might I add) pulled. Since my mother had hidden my Loritab after I had taken exactly one pill, I believe I just may have been hopped up on 200 mg pills of Ibuprofen and had barely began attempting to eat solid foods again. "Attempting" being the operative word here. Why I am providing this little aside will become known shortly. Oh yeah, and the names have been changed in this story to protect the not-so-innocent.

It was a Friday night, and my parents were away for the weekend in New York with my little sister; thus, I was in charge of watching my little brothers until their return. I had a few friends over, which consisted of girls my own age and the remnants of our older guy friends who hadn't yet left on missions for our church. Since I was still feeling a bit woozy and tired from all that wisdom tooth extracting, we ended the night early... probably around 10:00-10:15.

So I was surprised when, about ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was "Dave," one of the guys in our little group of friends that I didn't know super well, but well enough to let him inside for a drink because he was panting like a dog.

Me: (thoroughly taken aback) "Hey Dave, how's it going?"

Dave: (panting profusely) "I'm good."

Me: "Sorry, everyone's already taken off tonight." Dave looks a bit dejected, yet inexplicably smug. "May I ask why you're breathing so hard?"

Dave: "Oh, I rode my bike up here. That's why it took so long for me to get here." {His house is forever away and completely downhill from where I lived. And I thought it was odd he hadn't caught a ride from our other friend who lives down the street from him.}

Me: "Well sorry you missed the party {I'm a tad concerned because he looks like he's about to pass out}... do you want a glass of water or something before you head back home?"

Dave: "Sure. That'd be great."

He comes in and sits on a chair opposite from where I had been sitting/reading/watching TV, and I get up to get him a glass of water. After I bring it to him, he gulps it down and takes the cup back to the kitchen... and comes back and practically sits on my lap. It is at this point where the "uh-oh alarm" begins to sound in my head.

Dave: (who is now definitely in my personal bubble, much to my dismay) "So there's a reason I'm here so late. I actually wanted to get here after everybody left."

Me: (gulping whilst trying to politely inch away from him) "Oh really. And why would that be?" {Remember, social skills of an eleven year old. My much older and wiser self most likely would have never let him in the door in the first place.}

Dave: "Well I just really wanted to see if I could, you know, like kiss you."

Me: (completely at a loss of what to say/do/think coupled with being entirely creeped out) "Um, well I just got my wisdom teeth out... and I still have the stitches in my mouth... and aren't you leaving on your mission in a week... so yeah, um, and I'm pretty tired... you know... and maybe you should take off." {This was my polite way of saying "HELL no." Just fyi.}

Dave leaves, and though I am relieved at my aversion of what would have inevitably been a gross-out situation, I couldn't help being a bit angered by his audacity. I mean, he was leaving in a week for a two-year, absolutely no contact with girls, mission and was trying to get some while he still could. I thought it was pretty insulting. So did my girl friends once they heard about the story.

Luckily, I did not see him again before he left. And I tried to put the awkward and unsavory experience out of my head.

But little did I know that I would soon be reminded of this occurrence in a most unexpected way.

To be continued...

Apparently the "Utah hair" phenomenon is more far reaching than I thought

If you're from Utah, you know exactly what "Utah hair" is. It comes in many forms, but is notable because of the intense hair ratting that's involved in achieving such a look. Basically, girls tease the life out of their hair, primarily in the crown region, creating an awful and white trash-looking bump. I guess like those who are tanorexic, who think they look amazing all leathery and orangey-brown, the girls who adopt this hairstyle think that extreme volume in the roots is sexy and feminine. (But maybe it's just more scary than anything.)

Anyway, the other night husband and I were watching TV, and a commercial came on advertising a product called the "Bumpit," and I couldn't help laughing. It's a plastic piece that you place under your hair so it looks bigger (and I would contend, bumpier). As a result, you get perfect "Utah hair" as shown below:

It's just sad really. Not to mention really, really wrong. And it's from a company that's named itself "Big Happie Hair." Happie with an i-e. Eesh. Don't they know how to spell? Oh wait, they were probably trying to be super cute or creative or something. Double eesh. As a side note, I checked to see if it is a Utah-based company, but it's actually out of California. Which means this whole icky hair trend is not completely relegated to the areas south of Salt Lake county and north of (and including some northern parts of) Davis county. Which is troubling. Very troubling indeed.

Yet another reason why the homeless shelter should be moved to Siberia

Please see here for the horrendous act of violence that happened about 100 yards from where I park my car every day. In BROAD daylight. Across the street from the Courthouse, no less.

Can we move that shelter yet? Please?

Yet another reason why I'm glad I have the Gregory

I think the 22 and 3/4 years leading up to G and me were filled with more dysfunctional dates and relationships than many people encounter in their entire lives. Maybe I'm exaggerating just a tad, but mostly I am being gravely serious. In retrospect such dating debacles now seem quite entertaining, because now I am happily retired from the disaster that is the dating world.

Which is why I can share this snippet of a story and no longer cringe.

A few years back I was dating a guy who was nice but was a really slobbery kisser. This bothered me for multiple reasons, and I finally (delicately) brought it up to him. His reply: "So you seriously don't like the sauce?"

[Um, ew. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit when you said that. And while we're mentioning it, no I don't, which is why I brought it up in the first place. But thanks for making a potentially awkward conversation even more awkward and slightly creepy. Why exactly are we still dating?] = what I was thinking/should have said if I was totally mean

Needless to say, we didn't last very long. (Thank heaven.)

I'm having a difficult time today/What I should have done instead of go to college

Let me preface this by just underscoring the fact that I am greatly blessed. I have an amazing husband and family and so many other things that I will not take the time to expound in this post, mainly because it would be infinitely long. That being said, today has not been the best day.

Work's hard. I come in everyday and it's different. Some days I'm ok. Others, I feel like someone has kicked me in the gut. I'm trying to deal with it the best way I can, and really trying not to be a drama queen. But it's difficult when the moment you walk in the door you're bombarded with a barrage of complaints or questions or whatever else. I'm learning patience.

Yesterday was an interesting day. The husband and I walked out to where my car was parked, with the purpose of attending church, only to discover that my car was gone. Admittedly, it was parked in a non-spot in our lot that others frequently utilize when the other spots are full. Since there was no info or evidence that it had merely been towed, Greg called the police to report a stolen vehicle. It was then we discovered that no, my car had not been stolen, yes, it had been towed, and thankfully the number to the towing company was provided. We called them and were told to go to their location (a total DIVE, btw), pay them TWO HUNDRED and SEVENTY-FOUR dollars (in exact cash) in order to get our vehicle back. So an ATM stop and a quick gum purchase at 7-11 (because they wouldn't just give us two tens for a twenty) later, we found ourselves bailing poor Lola the Corolla out of impound hell. (I should have skipped college, and prob high school for that matter, rented a cheap piece of land, worn my pants half-way down my butt, and screwed a lot of people out of money for a living. It's a brilliant plan really.)

After we got my car, we got a disheartening call from G's dad. Greg's grandma, Shirley contracted an infection that has spread throughout her whole body, and thus does not have a lot of time left to live. So we spent the remainder of what would have been church time up at the hospital. Though this is really hard for G's family, it's also a blessing because Shirley has had a pretty low quality of life. She suffers from dementia and has recently become a lot worse. So we are happy that she will soon suffer no more and are grateful for the great grandma she has been, and revel in the glorious plan that weaves us all together.

My insomnia has returned in full force, and random thoughts such as this have been infiltrating what was once sleep time:

Thank you John McCain for making my voting decision easy... now I have to vote for Obama since Palin's so clueless. (See exhibit A)

Imitation is NOT the highest form of flattery. In fact, it's actually quite annoying.

I love Special K. Why haven't I gotten it lately?

Steve's REALLY gone. What does that mean for this and this and this...

The Yankees suck. They ARE NOT going to make the post season. My guy Joe G. is in TROUble.

I'm so proud of my brother Joe; he'll be a great missionary. And I'm gonna miss that kid.

Why can't I field a grounder anymore?

Why does my body feel like the body of a 60 year old?

I love love LOVE my husband.

I am really REALLY excited for my one year anniversary.

I wonder if we'll make it to Lagoon this year.

(It's a wonder why it's difficult for me to sleep isn't it?)

I muse, therefore I am

The world in general has the propensity to bewilder me. And not just about issues of horrendous violence and overall misconduct, but on matters that confront me on a daily basis. For me personally, this would include the extremely conservative sub-culture that exists within my religion. I sometimes grapple with feelings of animosity I develop toward people who take the teachings and principles of the faith that I firmly believe in, and twist them to fit their own agendas. Granted, we all have our biases and experiences that form our view of the world and the things in it, but I struggle with those who adamantly declare themselves to be absolutely "right" while condemning others for being "wrong."

While I often use this blog to explicate my thoughts and feelings (oft times to sarcastic degrees), I would never tell someone that just because they disagree with me, they are wrong, or in extreme cases, "going to hell." (I may pull a Colbert and call you "stupid," but I won't tell you you're wrong. Hehee.) That's not the way I was brought up, and I refuse to do it.

One of my frailties is that I experience difficulties with those in my faith who intertwine their own self righteousness with the principals of my church. Those who blur the lines between their interpretation of the Gospel, coupled with their culture representation of it, with the actual teachings therein. I know that no one is perfect and that everyone is just doing the best they can, but it irks me when people take the teachings of the church (or any church or ideology for that matter) to the extreme.

Like the few people whose blogs I stumbled across who declared that Breaking Dawn was "pornographic," and that Meyer "should have known better than to write something so immoral" because she is LDS.

I'm still trying to figure out which version of the book they read...

At any rate, not trying to berate anyone, just describing my confusion a bit. Sometimes it helps me to think aloud. Or in this case, in typed form.

P.S. #1: I want to state that I think that while this idea applies to a broader spectrum of people that are not necessarily of my faith, I just chose to write about my personal experiences/confusions.

P.S. #2: I realize that I may become the subject of some derision because this post may be construed as being judgmental, in spite of the fact that I have tried to denounce it. To that, I say that I have sought to avoid it as best as I can given the subject matter I have chosen to write about. And hey, I realize we're all not perfect and that my impatience is something that I must work on.