"Sex Sells" and Other Offensive Gimmicks That None of Us Ought to Buy

I'm jumping on a band wagon here. Actually, I've been on for awhile, and I think I'm here to stay because I find this to be a very concerning issue. The issue to which I refer is the sexualization of women and the recent backlash that Carl's Jr. has experienced as a result of their offensive ads. I haven't seen their most recent ad. I thought about looking it up, but then realized that was a stupid thing for me to do. I'm familiar enough with the concept, and if it's truly as awful as everyone else is purporting, then 1. I don't want to see it, and 2. I don't want to offer any sort of attention that could be misconstrued as positive press for the company and marketing that I'm so against. So, I'm not going to make this about Carl's Jr. I won't detail their ads or tell you about their food or the fact that I'm a third generation “We don't eat at Carl's Jr. because of their advertisements” kind of girl. (Okay, so I'll mention those things briefly, but it's not my main point.) My reason for writing this is that this is about more than a company with offensive commercials. This is a pervasive mentality that is harmful to both women AND men.

While offensive commercials make me sad, what makes me is sadder to view the embodiment of the philosophy that “sex sells.” I find this idea to be revolting. The worst part? Hard as it may be to avoid offensive commercials, they can be turned off. What can't be ignored is the fact that there are people in this world that think that the best way to sell their product is by exploiting the fact that men are naturally attracted to women. So they are. It's actually worked to my advantage that my husband likes the way I look. HOWEVER, he likes me for much more than that, and I get a little upset by other people and things that try to steal his attention from me. I find it disgusting that in addition to insinuating that prostituting the beautiful relationship between husbands and wives is the best strategy for marketing, companies utilizing this method are reducing both men and women to shallow stereotypes.

There are claims that Carl's Jr. hasn't responded to complaints from women about their advertisements because women are not their target market. Sick. This tells me that they think very little of women—and even less of men. While relegating the worth of women to the attractiveness of their bodies, marketers are simultaneously sending the message that men aren't worth much more than their ability to drool over a woman's body and buy a burger. Neither gender deserves the reputation being offered; we're better than that.

Saddest of all is the resignation that many have to these attitudes and their pornographic portrayal in movies, pictures, magazines, and commercials. Yes, there is a great deal of smut in the world. No, there is no way that it can all be avoided. I will certainly be on guard and teach my children how to handle such images and opinions. I try not to get enraged by images that offend me because forming an emotional connection makes it harder to forget. But I'm not going to sit back and allow these awful things to be said about me, my husband, my family, and my friends, and I don't think you ought to be okay with it, either. They're reducing women to their bodies and men to their hormones. Male or female, don't buy it.

Halfbacks, Quarterbacks, and Flashbacks

With high school football season starting and Fall just around the corner, I've been struck by this funny excitement. It's funny because I'm not a particularly avid sports fan. I can take them or leave them, but having been raised in a family that has spent a certain amount of time watching games, I value this time not because of the sport so much as the memories and lessons that I have in connection with the great sport of quarterbacks, tackling, and touchdowns.

My dad is a football coach. Although he has never played the game, he has spent many years watching games and studying to the point that he could coach. Because of that, I've always had football memories. When I was young, we would watch BYU games at my grandma's house. (This really meant that we'd eat cookies until my mom told us to stop, then we'd go outside to play in the leaves.) Since my dad didn't get his boys until later, he taught his girls to throw a football with a perfect spiral and how to protect the ball by holding it tight to the body with one hand on each point of the ball so that if we got tackled we wouldn't fumble the ball. He talked football to us like we understood, and somewhere in the middle of Xs, Os, and Wing Ts, he would stop and say something like “You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?” I didn't, but I didn't mind, either. In fact, I enjoyed it.

When I got to be a Freshman, I became more interested in football and decided to start going to games. (Actually, I think I just imagined that it was something that normal high school students did and that if I followed suit, it would make me more of a normal high school student. For those of you wondering, it didn't work.) I tried going and sitting—actually, it's more like standing—in the student section, but it wasn't really my thing. Since my dad was typically on the sidelines, my Grandpa George became my football buddy.

We hit most of the away games for a couple of years. Sometimes it would be just the two of us, like the time we went to Beaver and it was raining like crazy. Grandpa led the way to a couple of seats on the Beaver side, and while ignoring my protests that we couldn't sit in the opponents' side, sat down to watch the game. Pulling out a large garbage sack, he proceeded to poke arm and head holes in it so that he could use it as a rain poncho. In front of everyone! As I stared at him while trying to avoid looking like I was staring at him, he pulled out another trash bag and offered it to me. I politely declined and assured him that I had a jacket. He took one look at my light jacket that was cute, but didn't shed water, and told me I was going to get wet. Then he started yelling “SCORE ONE FOR THE REF!” in protest of a call he disagreed with, as he was wont to do. I just knew in my teenage mind that every person in the stadium was looking at me and my trashbag-wearing, ref-berating grandpa sitting on the wrong side of the field. Even if they had been, grandpa never would have cared.

Sometimes grandpa's friend, Sheldon, rode with us. On these trips, I'd usually sit in the backseat, listen as they talked, and wait for the inevitable moment when they'd start their sing-a-longs. They'd encourage me to join in (again, I would decline for fear of what they would think) and start singing some songs that I knew and some that I didn't. One of my favorites was Irving Berlin's “Play a Simple Melody.” (Which I have since heard my dad singing to my daughter Melody on several occasions. It's cute, guys.) It has two verses that are sung first separately, then together. I liked hearing grandpa sing the second verse because as he sang “Musical demon, set my honey to dreamin', won't you play me some rag?” he got this little bounce in him and he would tap his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. He looked like he was having fun. And always, without fail, he would turn to Sheldon and say enthusiastically, “We oughta sing the 'Wreck of the Old '97'!” when they'd finished. And Sheldon would say “Aw, I can't remember the words.” So grandpa would say “Oh, but it's a good one! Wish I knew the words. Now, let's see . . .” Then he'd start bouncing in time as he tried his best to remember.

“'He was comin' down the hill goin' 90 miles an hour, when the whistle began to scream. He was found in the wreckage with his hand on the throttle, and scalded to death by the steam. Oh . . . ' Hmm. Yep, I just wish I could remember the words. Only know that little bit. But it's a good one. It's a good one. . .” Then he'd hum to himself and sing a word here or there as he remembered it. For a while, I didn't believe that “Wreck of the Old '97” was a real song, but that maybe he just made up parts and mixed up various songs to make a new one. But lo, and behold! I Googled it, and it is an actual song. Sung by Johnny Cash, no less. (Not originally, though. It was originally sung by one Vernon Dalhart. Just so you know.)

Anyway, that was grandpa. While others may be concerned with appearances and what others thought, he bounced along and persisted in his own way, with little care for what others may think. And though I may have found it humiliating or obnoxious at times, I now find it to be one of the things I admire most about him. I think it's why I enjoyed sitting with him at ball games more than with the other students. (That, and Sheldon would share Almond M&Ms with me.) I learned more about football and had even more experiences when I became a manager for our high school team, but my best football memories were with my grandpa. As he gets older—as most of us do—and the memories are fading, I value my time with him even more. That's why I get a little thrill when I think of the beginning football season; it's not so much about what's coming as it is about what has passed.

Build Your Food Storage With Crispy Fries and Snack Cakes

While everyone else is excited about chicken fries, I'm going to share another type of fry with you.

As the result of a free food event, Alex and I were introduced to CRISPY FRIES. Now, for those of you who may not know, these crispy fries of which I speak are a certain potato chip brand's attempt at expanding their snack food repertoire while apparently rescuing stale french fries from being thrown out. I don't want to name this brand because I don't want them to sue me, but this I will say: contrary to their brand's tag line, these fries do NOT have ridges.

They're all-American. We may be the only country that can't settle for either french fries OR potato chips; we've gotta have both. I'm not sure why this hybrid needed to happen, but here it is. To quote Alex's response when he tasted one, “It tastes like one [french fry] you would dig out of the seat of your car.” Yum. You know you want one. 

I think the real advantage to these fries, in addition to uniting the American definition of chip with that of the English as the back of the bag proudly claims, is the fact that really, these things would probably last forever. They have the freeze-dried feeling of astronaut food and enough salt to ensure that they will never go bad, even though they have a “guaranteed fresh by” date for some reason. In the event of a nuclear holocaust, plan on eating crispy fries and those little cream-filled yellow snack cakes that sometimes dress as cowboys because they will remain unchanged regardless of circumstances.

Unfortunately, immediately following Alex's car seat statement, I found myself nodding and popping more in my mouth. “Yeah, you're right,” I agreed, and kept eating. At the end of the bag, I still thought so. But I ate them. Why? Well, it could be that I like astronaut food. It could also be that I ate many forgotten fries from the car as a small child, so it didn't faze me to eat them now.

But my point, aside from showing you that I used to (and still do) eat just about anything, is that crispy fries are a somewhat edible, but passing fad that will fill your food storage wonderfully. If you, like I, enjoyed eating french fries from the backseat of a mini-van, stock up and enjoy the nostalgia while you can!

The Grace of Lovingkindness

Consider how I love thy precepts: quicken me, O Lord, according to thy lovingkindness.

Psalms 119:159

Words have meaning—even words in the scriptures. Whoops! I mean, especially words in the scriptures. I've often come across scriptural language that made me think, “Well, why didn't you say so?” but as I become more familiar with the language of the time, I see that is exactly what the authors were doing, and so beautifully, too! One of my favorite words as of late is lovingkindness. I think it's such a tender word, quite perfectly suited for its use.

The word was recently called to my attention by my grandma. She mentioned that while reading scriptures, she and my grandpa had come across a “funny word.” And while she tried to remember what it was, I thought of all the funny scriptural words that I could. Firkin. Whithersoever. Sackbut. Heh, sackbut. (I know it's a musical instrument, but it gets me every time!) I was surprised when she finally remembered. “Lovingkindness. Isn't that kind of funny? It's so long!”

So I spent the next little bit trying to figure out why my grandma would think that lovingkindness was a funny word. I concluded it was because it was an interesting combination of words that we don't typically use anymore. I mean, it seems somewhat superfluous. Is it really necessary to have both words? Doesn't kindness presuppose love? Aren't we kind to people we love? And then I thought of families, and both my questions were answered.

But really. How many times do we mistreat the people we love? Far too often. And yet, at the same time, we go on being kind to others that we don't love. We do this for various reasons. We may feel it's our duty to be kind. We may be behaving because people are watching us. Whatever the case, we are human; therefore, for us, the connection between love and kindness must be made so that there is no mistaking our Heavenly Father's role.

Isn't it wonderful that we can know that God is kind to us because He loves us? It's not simply because it's one of His Godly duties to treat us well. But because He is God, we can be sure that He will love us perfectly. Kindly.

Lovingkindness. It reminds me of an institute class I had in which we discussed tender mercies. The teacher explained that the Lord has given us many mercies. And then there are tender mercies. Some of his examples were “It's a mercy that God created this earth for us. It's a tender mercy that He made it beautiful,” and “It's a mercy that God blesses us when we have obeyed His commandments, but it's a tender mercy that sometimes, He just blesses us.”

I really love Isaiah 54. It begins with the Lord promising us that while we may have made mistakes in the past and sometimes feel as though He has left us, He has not forgotten us. Verse 10 reminds us that permanent as we may see the mountains and other geographic features, they will change. What will not change is our Father's everlasting kindness. Due to His lovingkindness and tender mercies, He is able, as verses 11 and 12 show us, to “lay thy stones with fair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.” However He does it, He trades our hardships for precious stones. This is something that I just can't do on my own. I try, but I mess things up. I can harden my heart to stone, but that is of no value to me or anyone else. Somehow, though, He does it. He makes me into a “precious stone”-type person who is fit to live in this “precious stone”-type place talked of in Revelations 21 (especially verses 18—21).

To bring this back to my original verse in Psalms, let me explain why I find this verse to be particularly awesome. Did you know that, in addition to the “go faster” definition we tend to think of for the word quicken, it can also mean “to give or restore vigor or activity to; stir up, rouse, or stimulate,” “to revive; restore life to,” “to become more active, sensitive, etc.,” and “to become alive; receive life”? In pregnancy, quickening occurs when it becomes clear that something in there is alive. So, as a blessing for obeying the Lord's commandments, because of His lovingkindness and tender mercies, we can be more sensitive, revived, and restored. I find that to be lovely, and it makes me want to develop my own lovingkindness.

Cheap Yogurt and Hypocrisy at Walmart

Walmart is an interesting place. There are people who will smile back at you when you smile at them, and there are people who won't. We all come together in this one place to purchase almost anything we could want or need, and we all respond to that opportunity differently. Sometimes we get stressed about how many other people are doing the exact thing we are: just shopping and minding their own business. I often catch myself hypocritically feeling like I have a right to be the only one in the store. “WHY DOES EVERYBODY ALWAYS HAVE TO SHOP AT THE SAME TIME I COME?” *Ahem.* Please excuse my outburst(s).

My grandma likes to tell me about how she enjoys psychoanalyzing people according to the contents of their carts. She invents stories about what kind of people they are because they have healthy/unhealthy food in their carts. Well, as much as I may judge people in my head, I try not to be too harsh because I know my cart must be giving healthy people a laugh heartier than their oatmeal. And I always try to keep my judgments to myself.

This is a lesson I learned while shopping at thrift stores with my sisters. No matter how ridiculous the item you are mocking, there WILL be someone who comes up right after hearing your “Who would buy this?” who will pick it up and buy it. Always. So, I try to discreetly whisper about how silly certain items are, instead of broadcasting it to the entire store. And though the local DI's sales have dramatically decreased, my embarrassment has followed suit. I consider this to be a win.

Unfortunately, a lady in the yogurt aisle today had not learned this lesson. I was minding my own business and making my way toward the cheap, store-brand yogurts that are, I know, less nutritious (but also much cheaper) than name brand yogurts that are all-natural with great probiotics and such. As I approached, I listened as a woman loudly explain to her children that she would be buying GREEK yogurt, and that they could have some. Her children evidently didn't want Greek yogurt because they continued to pester her to have a different type of yogurt: “But moooom, look, strawberry banana!” To which she replied even louder than before: “NO. Those yogurts are full of sugar and artificial colors!”

So, I paused for a second and tried to decide what to do since I was heading right for some colored sugar myself. Should I grab a more healthy yogurt? Just because some stranger lady was berating her children in the dairy section? No. I'm better than that. I would have my cheap, inferior yogurt.

I toyed with the idea of walking past and circling around again after the yogurt aisle was deserted, but decided that was taking the easy way out. Not to mention it would be utterly ridiculous! I don't know why I found it so intimidating to just walk up and get my darn yogurt while a woman argued with her children about the nutritional downfall of normal yogurts, but I did. For just a second. I mean, it's not like she made an example out of me after I left by telling her kids “See, what happens to you if you consume sugar and coloring? You'll be like that girl!” If anything, she probably just judged me quietly, like my grandma would. I mean, what kind of person comes home from Walmart and obsesses with people they saw in the yogurt aisle . . . ?

And thus the hypocrisy continues.

Haircuts

I have an inescapable urge that has become hard for me to argue with. Although I normally get feelings that I want to cut my hair, I am able to shake them off and convince myself that's not really what I want in life. Now, though, it feels like part of my identity. I mean, I had my first child over two months ago; isn't it about time that I got a “mommy” haircut?

It's been a few months now that I've been considering chopping my hair off. I've gotten a major haircut about every four years since 5^th grade. It's been over five years now that I've been putting this off. I've cut in bangs as a compromise and since grown them out again. I repeatedly tell myself that any haircut will be like that—a passing fancy that will take years to grow out. It always is.

The truth of what pushed me over the edge? I tried to watch an episode of Battlestar Galactica. (Hangs head in shame.) The first episode was a bit racy for my tastes, but before I turned it off, I was tempted. And my temptation came in the form of a naughty thought: “Hmm . . . that sexy Cylon sure has great hair.” And that's all she wrote. (Though, she obviously wasn't me, because I'm still writing.) I immediately went to the computer and Googled “wavy chin length haircuts.” This minor infraction led to an even greater evil: the establishment of a Pinterest account. (My head slips even lower in the ignominy of the whole situation.)

Saturday morning, I was ready to go for it. There are such cute hairstyles available! I don't know if any of them would actually look good on my head, but they sure look great on the people who have them. Every time I looked in the mirror at my less-than-great Saturday hair, I thought about doing something different. If someone would have knocked on my door and said “I'm here to cut your hair,” I would have said “Let's do this!” Now, though, I'm a bit more hesitant.

First off, I hate caving to peer pressure. If every sexy Cylon got a cute short haircut would I jump off a cliff? Absolutely not; that's completely illogical! I might follow suit and get a haircut, though.

There's just the main problem that my hair is naturally straight more than it is curly. I keep justifying that with less hair weighing me down, I might be able to coax my remaining locks to cooperate in a bit of a wave, but I don't want to spend much time in styling. There's also the issue that I hate for that much hair to go to waste, but Locks of Love, the group that I've donated through each time before, requires 10 inches of hair. I don't know what that means for my future hairstyle. There's also the “What if I don't like it?” factor. Well, if that happens, I suppose I can grow it again for the four years. I've done it before, and I'll probably do it again.

[Some Arbitrary Number of] Things You Shouldn't Say to People Who Hate Lists of Things You Shouldn't Say

 

If you're on the internet, chances are that you've seen at least one of those lists entitled “[Some number of] things not to say to [some group of people].” These lists can inform us of things we shouldn't say to a wide variety of individuals: pregnant women, people with/without kids, deaf people, sober people, and people with anxiety. I understand liking to make lists, but I'm starting to realize that while it may be beneficial to write down everything you need to get at the grocery store or that you are hoping to accomplish in the day, it's less helpful to write down lists of every possible way you can mess up at a thing or all the wrongs that you're trying to avoid. For cases like these, I'm starting to recognize the wisdom of having one or two guidelines that you may actually be able to adhere to. I'm going to help you out here. Instead of writing a long list of things you should not be saying to single people (“When are you going to get married?”), married people (“So, it's probably about time you had a[nother] kid, right?”), rude people (“Can I offer you some manners?”), and old people (“Do you plan on dying anytime soon?”), I'm going to simplify this: Don't be stupid; be courteous.

The beauty of having a guideline is that it is so widely applicable that I don't have to spell out every thing you could be saying to offend various groups of people. Goodness, it even applies when you may not even be speaking.

One of the many problems with creating lists of things NOT to do is that you could be eternally adding to your lists. To pretend that you can exhaustively iterate offenses is pretentious—and to be honest, obnoxious. I also find it ironic that through informing us how not to offend an “in” group, list-makers, whether intentionally or not, are quite offensive to the “out” groups—both by assuming that we are so unintelligent as to be incapable of our own thought and by mocking our opposing positions.

I realized that I usually only read through the lists for positions with which I agree or identify, and then I smirk and think about how stupid people are. Today, though, I read through a list which contradicted my own opinions. Because it was a good friend who had posted it, I spent the whole time thinking “I don't think I've ever said that to her, but is that REALLY how she feels?” I also found myself feeling many of the concepts were juvenile and unfunny—sad, really. But I'm sure if the person who compiled that list were to read through the opposite view's “What not to say to people who ________,” they would feel similarly. We're all different. And we're all in different points of our lives. Let's exercise a bit of restraint and show some compassion.

It wasn't necessary for Thumper's mother to qualify her advice “If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.” One of my favorite quotes from Benjamin Franklin recommends that we “Remember not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult still, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.” Before you speak to someone, whether your best friend or a stranger, consider how it will sound. Is it stupid? Then don't say it. Is it courteous? If not, just chill in silence, my friend.

Lights on Hills

The Jehovah's Witnesses came by to see me again today. They hadn't been by in awhile. When they came by during the Saturday Session of April's General Conference and I accidentally answered the door with eyeliner and mascara on just one eye because I thought it might be my in-laws, I was nice to them. And while trying to show them but one side of my face at a time, I smiled and chatted for a bit. After all, I've known enough LDS missionaries to consider that it's got to be hard knocking on doors to try and talk to people about your church—especially in Utah! I tried to credit my kindness later when they came nearly weekly to try and talk with me, usually while I was at work. I thought they must be trying to catch us at the 8 to 9 months of pregnancy stage so that they could take advantage of the fact that we were starting a new phase in our lives and were a little bit anxious to do things right. And while I was telling myself that they kept coming back because of the way I was, it danced across my mind that their persistence speaks to their credit, not mine.

Yes, I was nice. But not “come-back-weekly-for-the-next-month” nice. Yet they came. And around this time I became determined to keep my front room clean so the next time they came, I could ask them to come in. Not because I'm interested in converting, but because I'm interested in the people themselves. I figured I would be honest and tell them “We're happy with our religion, but we always like to meet new people, so if you'd like to come in and visit, you're welcome.” Unfortunately, after I had discussed this with Alex and we had agreed on a plan, they didn't come back.

Until now. But they caught me off guard. I had just gotten to a good stopping point while feeding Melody (but was only half-way done) when there was a knock on our door. Since I'm home alone all day with a baby, I made sure to get to that door—I didn't want to miss out on any adult interaction! They offered me a pamphlet about their website, and seeing as I was holding a baby, let me know that their site had a lot of good stuff for strengthening families there. Young, old, married, single: their site could benefit all.

I appreciated it. And I don't think they came by just because they want to get greater numbers in their church, but because they want the world to be greater. This world can be a scary, nasty place to live, and families are being weakened by everything from adultery to zingers (as in, clever but hurtful comments, not the Hostess treat). Television shows minimize the importance of parents and celebrities model the ease of marriage—and divorce. We NEED people going door-to-door distributing pamphlets because their websites are good for families. So, if you're looking for a website to help strengthen your family, maybe you'd like to browse JW.org, LDS.org, or a site of your own. As members of different religions, people in various areas, or just unique individuals, we're bound to disagree on some things, but the value of family is fairly universal. If it's a cause we believe in, what are we doing about it?

Because of the feeding situation, my messy house, and the fact that I had a spider running loose on my couch, I still didn't invite the Jehovah's Witnesses in, but I hope they come again. When they do, I'm going to invite them into my [hopefully sans spider, clean-ish] front room to thank them for caring about families. They offered me a wonderful reminder about just how important my own family is to me and how I need to value and care for them. While we may differ on some points, I'm grateful that the Jehovah's Witnesses are persistent and that they're spreading the word about having strong families.

Great Expectations

I often find that big life events don't turn out much like I expected. They aren't necessarily awful, they just leave me wishing that I hadn't imagined them so much that I got a totally unrealistic idea of how they would be. I think the only time I wasn't let-down in my expectations was when I went to kindergarten.

When I was in the pre-kindergarten phase, I was obsessed with going to school. I would load the diaper bag with every book that I could and carry it to the front door to imagine that I was going to school. (Kudos to my mom for allowing me to string a trail of books to the front door on a regular basis. Also, for not ruining my fantasies by telling me about how truly awful school can be sometimes—say, as an eighth grader.) I found it unfathomable (“It means without fathom”) that I would ever be cool enough to go where the BIG kids go—the elementary school—let alone graduate from a university and be a mom. And yet here I am. How did this happen? It sort of went like this . . .

One day, I finally DID get to go to kindergarten. I put on my [empty] backpack, my mom took a picture of me, and I went to class. It. Was. Awesome. We decorated paper cutouts so they looked like us—and they were almost half my size! Mine had mismatched blue button eyes, approximately three strands of light brown yarn hair, and a scrap of fabric that I would guarantee would not adhere to the For Strength of Youth modesty guidelines, but I was so proud. Later, we rotated through several activities. We played with blocks, and there was a large plastic trough full of water that we got to dip toys in to play, and we listened to Raffi (you may know him for his masterpiece, “Down by the Bay”). It was so wonderful. The only problem was that apparently the book on tape about some pigs that we got to listen to had a song at the end, but my partner rewound the tape before we got to hear it. Other than that, it was just as great as I thought it would be. With promises of finger painting, the trough being filled with a new substance, and the thought that I would get to hear the pig song, I was looking forward to my next week of Kindergarten. Then we had our assessments, and it was determined that I was better suited for first grade. My kindergarten experience had come to an end.

First grade, though! It would be even better because most of my friends were there, anyway. I think as I pictured walking into my first day in Mrs. Munk's classroom, I envisioned that it would be something like the Arthur theme song: I would be surrounded by my teacher, my friends, and some other kids who would all say “Hey!” What a wonderful kind of day.

It wasn't like that, but it was still pretty good. I've found that most of the so-called “big” events in my life have been kind of like that. Not quite what I expected, but still good. A bit anti-climactic, but good. I expected something crazy important and big each school year. Then I would sometimes be disappointed and a bit surprised to discover that this year, like the last, was good. The same thing happened with my high school graduation. The whole bit seemed surreal, but when it was all over I found myself thinking “That's it?” And life went on with some ups and some downs, but really I just found that things were very much the same as they were when I was in high school, and so on.

I have since discovered that dating someone is very much like being single, except that you're dating someone. And when I got married, my wedding day was a very exciting, happy day that made my life after just that much better. I had many people ask how life was being pregnant. Well, it was a lot like life, but I was pregnant. Now I'm a mom, and I love it. However, with all the time spent thinking about what it would be like, I would think my dreams would share a bit more fidelity with my current reality. Much like I haven't noticed day-to-day differences in the mirror, I still don't feel like my life has changed until I look back through snapshots of time and discover there are major differences. I wouldn't trade my current situation for what I thought it would be, though. I don't think my reality's broken, I think it has to do with my expectations. Maybe I need to finish kindergarten and renew my imagination.

Going Where No Congregation Has Gone Before: The Singing of Unfamiliar Hymns

“Thus, just as there will be many more Church members, families, wards, stakes, and temples—later on, there will also be many more nourishing and inspiring scriptures. However, we must first feast worthily upon that which we already have!” (Neal A. Maxwell in “God Will Yet Reveal” October 1986 General Conference)

What are we doing with what we have? I keep hearing people asking about when the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (which I will refer to as “the church,” since it's the church I belong to) is going to put out a new book of hymns. This would be nice, but I think if we would look inside our existing hymnbook we would find many hymns that are “new” to us because they are rarely sung in meetings. Before seeking to acquire a new hymnbook, I would advocate getting to know the hymns we have currently.

Let me tell you the perspective from which I write this. I currently serve as the ward music chairperson, which means that, among other things, I am responsible for selecting the hymns that our congregation sings each week. As a pianist/organist I have also used the hymnbook in my music sight-reading exercises. Thus, I find myself with a greater familiarity with the hymns than the average church member may have, and I want you to know that our current hymnbook is full of inspiring hymns. Many of the songs we never sing have lovely lyrics and beautiful music that would bring the Spirit to our meetings—if we we could get past the thoughts of “I've never sung this song before!” “Why are we singing this song?” and “Nobody knows this song.” That's why I'm trying to throw in some less familiar hymns (and why my ward may be wishing that the bishop would call a new music person).

I have heard people say that they actually hate this or that hymn simply because “we always sing it” and “I'm tired of it.” This is a very real phenomenon found in our congregations because we really only sing a small percentage of the hymns in our hymnal. I do not think that we should be hating any hymns. I understand having favorites, but to have a series of blacklisted hymns simply because they are commonplace is unbelievable to me. If we were to broaden our repertoire this would be far less likely to happen.

When selecting the hymns, I often make an effort to match the theme of the music to the topic of our Sacrament meeting. This is hard. I come across many hymns that I think would be a perfect complement to the talks, but I don't dare select them too often because I am afraid nobody will sing. Which is a shame, because I typically end up selecting a hymn everybody knows. Then, in my paranoia I find myself thinking “I'm probably reinforcing someone's dislike of this song.” I'm stuck. More than my concern over whether or not people hate the hymns I'm singing, though, I'm concerned that we aren't getting what we could from our music in church meetings. Having sung the same hymns repeatedly, I kick myself into auto-pilot and fail to pay attention to what the words I am singing mean. They become trite. Then again, if people are caught up in the unfamiliarity of a hymn they aren't likely to glean much meaning from it, either.

What to do, what to do? I understand that for organists with limited abilities the suggestion of an unfamiliar hymn can be quite stressful. Their comfort is more important than the introduction of new hymns. I would imagine that an organist having a nervous breakdown would be far more disruptive to the Spirit than singing “Nearer, My God to Thee” for the third week in a row. However, many of the hymns from the so-called “sealed portion” of the hymnbook are actually easier to play than the ones we know. It just takes a little looking. Remember, though: “Seek and you shall find”!

I like my comfort zone, and I know others do, too. There is a certain amount of peace that comes from singing an “oldie, but a goodie.” Can't we broaden our horizons and find more songs that we will love? That is my hope. I have some ideas I've tried to implement and some that I still need to test, but I'm trying to give it a go without completely scaring (and scarring) my ward members. I try to select a less popular hymn for the congregation to sing each week or so. I usually put it as an opening hymn so that people can forget the awkward feeling that can sometimes come from after having to sing a song they don't really know. I mark the hymns in my hymnbook with a date and my goal is not only to avoid singing the same songs too often, but to have a date by each song. I don't think I'll have this calling long enough for that, but I'm aiming for it. I also try to play through some less common hymns as part of the prelude on weeks that I play the organ. The thought has also crossed my mind to use the choir and special musical numbers to familiarize ward members with the songs they may not know. Occasionally the Mormon Tabernacle Choir will sing uncommon hymns during General Conference. Seize the opportunity and sing the song shortly thereafter in your ward! Perhaps the best place to practice new hymns is in the home. If you are a pianist, consider using the hymnbook to improve your sight-reading. If you are not, all the hymns can be found on lds.org. Sing them for Family Home Evening. Be brave and improve yourselves. Whether at home or in your ward, persist and rotate through until it becomes comfortable.

In short, by singing only the hymns with which we are already familiar, we deprive ourselves of the beauty they contain and progressively limit the hymns that we can sing—which can sometimes cause negative feelings or automatic singing of the hymns we do sing. These thoughts—or lack thereof—can disrupt the Spirit of the meeting. Singing a wider range of hymns can help with this. Keep in mind that side-effects may include decreased singing in your ward, nasty looks from ward members, and general discomfort. Singing less familiar hymns may not be for everyone. You may wish to discontinue treatment if your organist has limited abilities or if you experience chronic disruption of the Spirit. Talk with your bishop to determine if unfamiliar hymns are right for your ward.

Caution: Dangling Participles Ahead

I'm a bit of an English language . . . nerd? Enthusiast? Grammar Nazi? No, definitely not that last one—I tend to be a bit of a Laissez-faire Englicist. (As evidenced by my propensity to use words that are not actually words. Like Englicist.) I currently have at least three dictionary tabs open in my web browser. That being said, you probably won't be as excited about the following entry as I am. But if you are, please correct me if I'm wrong.

Public service announcement: I feel I ought to tell you that I've just discovered what a participle is and how it can be “dangled.” For many years now, I've heard people berate the dangling of participles, and I've never known what it is or how to do it. Fear no more. I will now educate you on the mysterious art of participle dangling.

Let's talk first about misplaced modifiers. (Keep calm, guys, this is going to be FUN.) Modifiers are words, phrases, or parts of a sentence that give us further information or description of another word, phrase, or part of the same sentence. This can help narrow things so that we better understand what the writer meant by the original word. SO, when we talk about misplaced modifiers, the word “misplaced” is modifying “modifiers.” Thanks to this word, we know what kind of modifiers we are specifically discussing—the misplaced ones. These modifiers can cause some confusion and sound awkward because instead of being placed near the phrase they are modifying, they make it look like they are modifying a different piece of the sentence. Observe.

Green and warty, the people saw the frog as disgusting.

Now, see what happened? You read the first portion of the sentence and thought I must be writing about wicked witches. Only after you finished reading did you realize I was instead writing about a green and warty frog. This could be avoided if I were to move the modifying phrase so that it reads

The people saw the green and warty frog as disgusting.

This eliminates any confusion over who is green and warty.

So, these dang participles—I mean, dangling participles—that I was talking about before all of this are a specific type of misplaced modifier. (For you logicians reading this: all dangling participles are misplaced modifiers, but not all misplaced modifiers are dangling participles. By the way, if I'm wrong, I'll admit that I always lie.) Anyway, participles are words that we would normally recognize as verbs acting instead as an adjective. An example of this would be a plunging neckline. Plunging is totally something that we could do—which, as we learned in our early language classes, is what makes a verb. However, in this case it's not a verb, but an adjective. What sort of neckline is it? A plunging one.

Dangling participles are participial phrases that are placed in such a way that it leaves you hanging, so to speak, and wondering what exactly is happening in the sentence.

Burned and disfigured, I looked at my cookies.

Am I the one who is burned and disfigured, or would that be my cookies? Well, given my history in the kitchen, it very well could be either. But let's pretend that my intent was to describe the cookies. In that case we can wave our magic revision wands and instead get

I looked at my burned and disfigured cookies and cried because I had once again failed in the kitchen.

(That last part wasn't a critical part of the revision, but I thought it might help me more clearly communicate the situation.) What I'm trying to show you is that by moving the participle, we have clarified what could have been a concerning statement. We can all breathe a bit easier—especially me—at knowing that I haven't suffered a horrific kitchen accident.

Because some dangling participles can be easily interpreted, such as Jumping into a lake, my article informed me, is a good thing to do when being chased by bees. Jumping beans, maybe, but articles? Hardly. Therefore, we automatically interpret the sentence correctly because the alternative is so improbable. For this reason, dangling participles have become somewhat accepted by all but a small group of grammar gurus who continue to insist on their un-dangling. Despite this traditional battle, the participle dangling continues to grow in popularity, especially among tour guides.

Looking off to the right, a blogger can be seen boring her audience by babbling on about obscure English concepts . . .

Oops, I Did It Again: In Which I Confess That I'm a Blockhead

So, this week, in addition to having a baby to care for, laundry to do, a house to clean, and sickness, I also had writer's block. (For those of you who really wanted to know the inner happenings of my life. For the rest of you, sorry, but the solution seems obvious: don't read my blog if you don't want to know.)

See, the thing about my writing is that I've always written when I wanted to and not when I didn't want to. If I don't have something I want to say, I struggle with coming up with a topic and feel guilty the whole time I'm writing because I know that the attempt I'm giving is mediocre at best. My heart just isn't in it. To solve this, I don't usually talk when I don't have anything to say and I don't usually write when I don't have any ideas. It's both good and bad.

In high school I used it as a wonderful excuse. My English teacher: “Do NOT put this assignment off. You'll be sorry if you do.” Me: “It's cool. I'll just wait for inspiration to strike me and then I'll be done in half the time.” And it typically worked out okay (most often in the wee hours before the assignment was due), except that it reinforced my awful habit of procrastinating.

That's not what real writers do, that's the approach of someone who occasionally writes. I've been cheating my way through; this is the exact reason that I started a blog—I wanted something to hold me accountable and keep me writing, even when I didn't have the words bursting out of me.

I find it interesting that my lack of ideas coincides with my sister-in-law's offer to let us use her Netflix account. I thought I was doing all right. I mean, I haven't sat down to waste entire days watching entire shows (yet!). What I've found, though, is that increased TV time seems to be robbing me of more than just time. In moments when I would normally be pondering odd thoughts like “Where does the phrase 'I trust you implicitly come from? Is it possible to trust someone 'explicitly'?” (which questions, by the way, were resolved through a simple dictionary search), I'm instead wondering “On whose side is Mulder's informant, and will he be in the next episode of X-Files?” I'm still undecided, but it seems the only way to get to the bottom of this is to continue watching and see if I can come up with any ideas and prove my hypothesis wrong. Who knows? Maybe this question is unanswerable.