Never trust bedding with a silent ‘t’ in its name

Image via thecleanbedroom.com

Never trust bedding with a silent ‘t’ in its name (Published in the Springville Independent News) I grew up with comforters, blankets, sheets and quilts (notice the hard ‘t’ sounds). They were all soft, rectangular and reliable. Granted, I was never a heavy user of top sheets, but it was at least nice knowing they were there. By and large, my bedding situation has always been optimal, especially my SpongeBob SquarePants comforter (with matching pillow case). Then I got a wife. And with that wife came this French nonsense called a duvet. For those of you who are as uncultured as I blissfully once was, the duvet, pronounced ‘doo-vay,’ is basically a giant bag of feathers or down inside a removable cover — kind of like a bed-sized pillow and pillow case. Our duvet is fastened shut along one side with giant buttons which, let me tell you, are a real treat to roll on top of when they inevitably rotate to my side of the bed during the night. It doesn’t matter if the buttons begin the night at our feet like they’re supposed to — they’re like homing missiles, bound to eventually find my rib cage before daylight. Fun fact: did you also know the duvet’s shape is light-sensitive? In the daytime, it’s mostly rectangular, much like the blankets I’ve always known and trusted, but turn those lights off and say goodbye to that trusty polygon. Once it’s dark, sleeping under a duvet is like sleeping under a beanbag chair; forget about finding a nice, clean edge to tuck under your side. It’s just a blob, like an amoeba. You can try rotating it, but I guarantee all you’ll find are buttons, more buttons and seven or eight rounded corners you never knew existed. And if it wasn’t enough that the exterior of the duvet has a mind of its own, the interior stuffing is even more free-wheeling. Unlike quilt stuffing, which minds its own business within its fair and equal partitions, duvet stuffing loves a good party, even when decent, hard-working folk are trying to sleep. This means that when my wife does her usual patented barrel-roll blanket grab in the night — which leaves me with about four square feet of blanket to work with — all I’ve got is the empty end of the duvet cover. All my feathers are off whooping it up with the rest of them, deep within Lauren’s coils, and I’m left shivering under basically a thick pillow case. However, after one harrowing year, I’m happy to report that we’ve worked out a system: Every night Lauren and I give each other a kiss, then retreat to our sides of the bed — she to the duvet, and me to the SpongeBob blanket, which is enjoying a nice renaissance back on the bed. I can’t say it really does much for the pastel motif Lauren was going for, but then again, she kind of fouled up the nautical cartoon motif I had in mind, so fair is fair.

Can anybody hear me?

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Can anybody hear me? (Published in the Springville Independent News) I don’t know about you guys, but I can only hear so much about social media without wanting to move to the Australian Outback (the region, not the restaurant) to open my own kangaroo farm. Look, I’m not some old rip who can’t hack new technology — most of it I love — but do you ever feel like there’s just too much noise out there? When car manufacturers start telling you to go to their YouTube channel to see how their dramatic commercial ends, or your auto insurance agent pesters you to follow him on Twitter to get great safety tips, doesn’t it kinda, sorta make you want to move to a remote island, where status updates are limited to smoke signals? It’s amazing to me that even in the midst of this so-called communications golden age we are seeing a huge upswing in the number of teens twirling “Little Caesar’s Pizza” signs at busy intersections. They’ve got Twitter, Facebook, Groupon — a practically infinite number of free methods of mass communication with which to market themselves — and yet there’s that doofy teen doing the Dougie with a poster board on the sidewalk. And why do they do this? Because everything else in this world is too darn loud, and I don’t mean just decibels. There is so much competing for our attention that the only way anybody can get a word in edgewise is by dancing in front of us where we can’t (easily) ignore them. What’s next? Will the dry cleaners start throwing bricks through my window with coupons attached? The worst part of all this is that I don’t have a clue how to fix any of this. I consume entirely way too much entertainment and information than is healthy. Rarely do I make it to the end of a newspaper article, much less a book. Instead, I dart around the web gobbling up news just sentences at a time, or paragraphs if I’m feel really patient. When there’s so much begging for my eyeballs, who has time to make it all the way to the end of that 3-minute video? Thirty seconds is enough to get the gist. And even though I’m not handy or hardy in any sense, sometimes I get these odd aches to go build a bookshelf, or bust my butt as a logger in Alaska. Either of these would be disastrous, as anybody that’s watched me hang a picture frame could attest, but I think it’s just my inner human being longing to escape the exhausting electronic fuzz of this world, if only for a little while. Like I said, I’m all complaints and no answers on this one. But if anybody has any connections with an Australian kangaroo rancher who’s looking for a pair of mildly sturdy hands (though they do get kind of dry and cracked in the winter), please put a good word in for yours truly.

Let bygones be bygones, youth of Springville 1st Ward

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Let bygones be bygones, youth of Springville 1st Ward (Published in the Springville Independent News) I haven’t led a sainted life by any stretch, but I’m a generally honorable fellow. However, there is one skeleton in my closet — not an entire skeleton, really; more like a couple vertebrae and a pelvis — about which I ought to clear the air. A year ago I was assigned to coach my church’s youth basketball team — a duty that anybody will tell you is fraught with peril, especially when you’ve got a roster of roughly 7,000 boys between the ages of 12 and 18, as does the Springville First Ward. I didn’t really have a head for X’s and O’s, but that didn’t matter, seeing as how all my time and energy went into divvying up playing time fairly, which requires a master’s degree in organizational behavior and a stopwatch with nanosecond precision. I was elated when I reached the end of the season having bluffed my way without incident. Well, it turns out, I hadn’t. It turns out it wasn’t zone defense, clock management or the pick and roll — but scheduling — that became my undoing as a coach. I forgot about our final game. None of the players showed up and we forfeited. Now, I could make a case that the fault lies with the league organizers, who had distributed multiple versions of the schedule, and it was an outdated version on which I was relying in that fateful lapse. I could also argue that the ward’s hesitance to offer me a contract extension had become a distraction. But I’m ready to own my blunder; I’m ready to move on: youth of the Springville First Ward, I am sorry. There, I said it. Here is the response I recently received from Andrew Creer, 15: “The day I was informed by the league official that we had missed our scheduled game, all time just seemed to stop. Was this man crazy? Why did we miss our game? Many questions needed to be asked, but all I needed to do at that moment was talk to Mr. Matthew Reichman. He came into church with a big, stupid grin on his face, not in the least expecting what was going to happen next. The moment he sat down the group erupted and let it all out; Matt had no answer for his mistake. “I have often wondered, ‘What would happen if we had actually gone to our game?’ Yes, there is a possibility that we could have lost, but I had watched the team we were scheduled to play, and let’s just say they weren’t that big of a threat. If we won that game, we would have headed on to the church-ball tournament — a dream to many. I moved on to play for the Springville High Freshman team, but others had to wait until next season to finally get another chance to play basketball. “Will I ever forgive him for his serious mistake? Yes, but in time. A good supply of Beto’s, gifts and money will always ease the pain. Whenever we talk about basketball, his forgetting our game will always pop up, and that will never change. Matt Reichman ruined a great season, but in time I know that he will be able to make up for it.” At long last, Andrew, I’m at peace.

Occupy Bedford Falls

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Occupy Bedford Falls (Published in the Springville Independent News) I’m not usually one for politics or social issues, but during my annual viewing of “It’s a Wonderful Life” this year, I couldn’t help but think about the Occupy Movement. Mind you, this was a subject about which I grew weary of hearing roughly five minutes after it began, and here it was occupying 130 of the most wonderful minutes of my year. (Note: if you haven’t seen “It’s a Wonderful Life,” go make a decent human being out of yourself by doing so immediately; this column can wait.) The movie spans some hard times, including the Great Depression, for the fictional Bedford Falls citizenry. One Henry F. Potter, a grouchy old gazillionaire (adjusted for inflation), pretty much has a choke-hold on everything in town, squeezing every last penny out of his debtors. Our protagonist, George Bailey, portrayed by the incomparable Jimmy Stewart, lays it all out thusly: “Just remember this, Mr. Potter, that this rabble you're talking about — they do most of the working and paying and living and dying in this community. Well, is it too much to have them work and pay and live and die in a couple of decent rooms and a bath? Anyway, my father didn't think so. People were human beings to him. But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle.” Sound familiar? Sound like something that could be shouted through a megaphone at Zucotti Park, or scrawled on a posterboard (OK, a really big posterboard)? But here’s where the movement and the movie differ greatly — George Bailey never camps out in Mr. Potter’s front yard. He and his “rabble” never stake down R.E.I. tents in front of the bank to show how upset they are with Potter’s greedy ways. They continue shaving, bathing and keeping their noses to that old grindstone, no matter how unfair life seems. George spends his whole life sacrificing personal luxuries — a trip to Europe, a college education, his honeymoon, that lucrative equity in Sam Wainwright’s plastics company — so he can keep the lights on at the Bailey Savings & Loan, an institution he frankly never wanted a part of. But he knows the “99 percent” of Bedford Falls would be up a creek without it. He builds a subdivision of “dozens of the prettiest little homes you ever saw” and sells them for half of what they’re worth so he can keep a few more people out of Mr. Potter’s slums, all while living in the decrepit old house whose windows he and his buddies used to throw rocks through as kids. And don’t even get him started on that ball post at the bottom of the stair railing... I won’t spoil the rest, but suffice to say the fat cat Potter never breaks George Bailey and the working class of Bedford Falls. And maybe we never see our protagonist fulfil his bright-eyed dreams as a world-renowned architect, but is that really the ultimate metric of success? Look, I can’t fault the occupiers for their passion, but how about channeling it into a little less Twitter and a little more elbow grease? If you’re unhappy with the economy Mr. Potter has created, make your own. Just remember — don’t entrust Uncle Billy with the cash deposit.

A well-boiled icicle

Video (which contains a great spoonerism) via MyNapoleonDynamite

A well-boiled icicle (Published in the Springville Independent News) I’ll never understand how some people can hear a good spoonerism and not giggle uncontrollably. It’s almost like a biological reaction for me. It’s similar to the sneezing brought on by abrupt exposed to sunlight — another phenomenon to which certain people are simply immune. If you're unfamiliar with the phrase, a spoonerism, comedy's highest form, is a verbal slipup (named after the tongue-tied but otherwise venerable Reverend William Archibald Spooner) wherein pieces of two words or sentences are accidentally interchanged. "A well-boiled icicle," instead of "a well-oiled bicycle," is a famous example from Spooner's semi-apocryphal legacy; “a scoop of boy trouts,” instead of “a troop of boy scouts,” is another one. He also once inquired if it was “kisstomary to cuss the bride” and another time professed that “Our Lord is a shoving leopard.” We call them Brentisms in my family, in honor of my tongue-tied but otherwise venerable brother Brent. He’s uttered such favorites as "I got covered in a poud of clowder!" and "Let's play Screed Spabble." (Cloud of powder, Speed Scrabble.) He recently informed my brother Josh that the “legs on his hair” were standing up. Unable to commit to either "confused" or "clueless," Brent once apologized for being "confuless" to a Village Inn waitress. (She was flirting with him at the time, I might add. Was.) All too fittingly, he recently mentioned that his “spurch was already sleered enough as it is” after suffering a mild concussion. Then there's our sister Amy, who once lamented during a card game, "All I have are jeans and quacks!" (Queens and jacks.) Then there’s my Sunday School teacher who advised us all to “let virnish gartue thy thoughts.” (Another church one: Brent once gave a lesson on the “dutings and blessies” of service.) “Carving pumpkins” always comes out “parving cumpkins” or even “pumpking carvkins” for my friend Moham. And not too long ago I heard a local news anchor announce that a man was facing some “prettis chargedy serios.” (Pretty serious charges.) My friend Chris still hears about the time he dramatically shouted, “Fine, son’t day bye to me!” as a girl with whom he was attempting to flirt drove away. I still take guff for exasperatedly yelling, “Who puts keeping these towels over here?” on a trip to the pool. But my all-time favorite might be my friend Elliot, who, upon discovering a missing hotel pool key in his pocket, shouted, "Who put this pocket key in my pool pants?" instead of "Who put this pool key in my pants pocket?" It was like he put his sentence in a blender and poured it right back out. The confused, panicked look on his face as this unrecognizable jumble spilled out of his mouth was priceless. And if you’re one of those types that reads this and thinks none of this is pity, I funny you. You probably don’t sun when you look at the sneeze, either.

27 going on 80

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27 going on 80 (Published in the Springville Independent News) I’ve recently become enamored with the steam room at the gym. Consequently, I’ve been putting in a lot of quality time with elderly folk these days. Those oldsters do love to work up a good sweat, don’t they? Steam room time is my “thinking time,” however (that makes me sound really mollycoddled, I know), so I generally avoid conversation with the other steam-bathers. But I do eavesdrop plenty, and have become my own Jane Goodall to a different sort of gorillas in the mist. There’s a couple old codgers I see in there regularly — I like to imagine they’ve been pals since the third grade — that sit in the exact same spot every time. One day they come in to find a few young women already in their spot, so Statler and Waldorf (probably their names) reluctantly shuffle over to a place on the bench about two feet further down. They don’t say anything, but I can tell from his glances that Statler doesn’t think much of the loud woman doing yoga poses. By the time the women finally leave 10 minutes later, Waldorf has Statler totally captivated by his story about saving $10 on a snow blower repair. “Now hang on, Statler,” Waldorf abruptly announces. “Before I get too far along in my story, let’s you and me move to our regular spot now that those ladies are gone.” They scoot two feet over to their usual seat, which is not noticeably different from any other, and Waldorf resumes his story. Sometimes the old-timers gossip about the dating scene among widows and widowers, and it always sounds like something you’d hear at a junior high lunch table until you hear a comment like, “He’s only 76, so why the hey shouldn’t he ask her for a date?” But when they’re not gossiping or talking about snow blowers, they’re hearkening back to the good ol’ days. One day this red-faced, potato-shaped fellow mentions that after the war, he wound up on academic probation at school until he found a wife that could keep him in line. “Off sowing those wild oats, huh?” asks another guy, eyebrows raised. “You better believe it!” roars the storyteller. Here it comes, I think — we’re about to hear about some pretty serious shenanigans. “You see, I had a friend that worked at the BYU Creamery that got free tubs of ice cream,” he says with a wink. “We used to get a handful of spoons and eat through a whole tub in one afternoon!” His small audience loves this. He has them right where he wants them. “And you know what else? The bowling alley used to give us free games for setting up pins, so sometimes we’d skip out on class and set pins for five or six hours. That’s a whole weekend’s worth of bowling right there!” That does it — those old rascals bust right up, having never heard such a thing in all their years. A few more jokes, a few more belly laughs, and off they go to watch Wheel of Fortune with their sweet, frail, hunched-over spouses. Surely tomorrow the steam room gang will come armed with more devil-may-care tales and rumors. Something about all this makes me think the best years of my life are still four decades away. It’s like watching little boys play Legos on the living room floor — not a knock on the intelligence or maturity of the AARP crowd, mind you, but an admiration for their total contentment with the cards life has dealt them. Getting older is scary, but it’s reassuring to see how darned happy those guys are yukking it up in the sauna. They can keep their ear hair, though. I won't be growing any of that.