To all the men of the church:

I just ate the most fantastic pear.

Wait! No, that's not what I wanted to tell you.

What I wanted to tell you was this: You're Fantastic.

I am saying this simply because I think we have a cultural difficulty in the church, and it's one that (interestingly enough) gives women the advantage. I'm talking about the coddling we get in Relief Society, as opposed to the numerous 'Repent Ye!'s the men seem to get in priesthood.

Now, don't get me wrong--I see nothing wrong with telling the women of the church that they're pretty awesome. I think that we really do tend to be a bit hard on ourselves, and it's important to recognize and remember the value that each of us has.

However...do men not feel this way too? And yet, while the Relief Society gets lessons on how to find joy in our lives (including the important reminder to stop and smell the roses), the men get long lists of things that they're not doing and are told to (essentially) shape up or ship out. (Well, maybe not the 'ship out' part, but the 'shaping up' is definitely in there.)

So, to all you men out there, the men who learned incredulously of the deluxe lounges available for use in the women's bathrooms at BYU, the men who get the chastising talk(s) at Priesthood Session at General Conference, the men who feel culturally obligated to joke about their own ineptitude even as they praise their wives' wisdom, virtue and beauty, to you men I say, WELL DONE.

You guys are pretty great.

You're great fathers and husbands, sons and uncles, nephews and brothers. You do your home teaching. You carry inhumanly heavy boxes and unnavigable furniture down (and up) numerous flights of stairs. You give blessings and advice and you put up with our PMS and scatterings of beauty products and enormous hair clogs in the drains. You serve faithfully, giving up your evenings and weekends to try to provide leadership for this church of ours, and you do it all while wearing suits and ties. Good grief. Frankly, I don't know how you do it.

So women, just take a moment (even though Father's Day is totally over for another year) to celebrate the men in your life. Just. Heavens. Just tell them how amazing and wonderful they really are.

Like they tell us every week.

Such a disappointment.

You know the beard thing I've been doing lately? I mean--not growing one, of course, but really liking the men who do? Or at least the men who have really nice close-trimmed beards?

Yeah.

I'm not sure if it's a result or a cause of this, but I've totally been crushing on a guy who happens to be in two of my classes. He's pretty tall, a little stocky, and has this dark hair that's just got tints of red, which for some reason looks really, erm, delicious. And he was bearded.

I say 'was,' because when I showed up for class this evening, I noticed that his beard, alas, was gone.

What a loss! I can no longer find him truly attractive.

So, I guess shallowness of affection comes in all sorts of flavors. For me, it's the beard-y flavor.

In Other News

I really, really wish men with beards would just stop being in my classes. Or on the T. Or walking around on the sidewalk.

Because they're just way too distracting.

Mmm.

Phew!

In other news...

I heard from Cathy that a fellow far too young to have a beard has just joined their family, which means that she and her husband are now outnumbered by their children.

And also that there is one more small, wonderful person to love in the world.

Welcome, Theo.

(Here are some pictures, for those of you who are visually minded.)

Now, don't be sad; this is really pretty good!

I dreamed last night that I got married. I went through the whole process: putting on a white dress, dealing with an evil relative who was secretly plotting to break up the wedding (I think she was a wicked step-aunt; I don't think she was more closely related than that), repeatedly falling into the embrace of my intended...

You know. All the stuff you deal with as you go about your wedding day.

And let me tell you: it was really, really, really nice. Even dealing with the wicked step-aunt (or whatever she was) and her carefully coordinated bathroom fixtures that somehow tied into her evil plot.

And when I woke up, I felt like I'd been given a little gift of night-time happiness. And instead of making me feel sad, it made me realize in what small ways the Lord can extend His tender mercies: in the falling of a leaf, in an email from a friend, in dreams of wicked step-aunts and glorious and beautiful and joyful marriages.

And here's what I woke up with: I had switched to 'third-person viewing' of my dream, and my intended (now husband?) was really enjoying some food. Here is, word for word, what my dream produced:

"To his surprise, he found himself thinking of something other than his love for her for the first time in days. And then, suddenly, was swept up into such a wave of love that he could see how his enjoyment of food, how all the other pleasures of life, were just a small part of the great love he had for her."

Nice, huh? Although, considering it came to me when I was half-dreaming, it could just be a garbled mess. I'll have to come back to it when I'm more awake to be able to tell.

In the meantime, have a happy Monday!

(I know I will, remembering my intended's lovely, lovely embrace.)

I'll take the hairy one, thank you.

So, I just watched a 1983 version of The Pirates of Penzance and I realized something about myself: I've been in love with The Pirate King for years.

You know how some kids love certain movies to death? As in they love them so much that they watch them approximately 257 times per day (the rules of time and space do NOT apply when a kid is on a movie-watching kick), resulting in the death of any parents or guardians who are subjected to the noise of Barney singing that one song for the NOT KIDDING YOU TWENTY MILLIONTH TIME??!??!?!???

I have been that kid.

But instead of watching Barney (which was not around when I was a youngster) or Disney videos (well...maybe Sleeping Beauty), the videos I remember watching over and over (and also: over) were, I kid you not, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home and The Pirates of Penzance.

I realize now that somewhere in my pre-preadolescent self, there were the seeds of something that would germinate into what I now reluctantly acknowledge as my adult...erm...inclinations, otherwise known as the fact that I kind of think hairy men are sexy.

There. I said it.

Which is why, watching The Pirates of Penzance at 3 o'clock in the morning, I felt all wrapped up in comfortable nostalgia and uncomfortable realizations that the reason I loved Pirates so much as a little girl was both that it has catchy music and a crazy zany plot, and also because it has some seriously beautiful men, one of whom has a seriously hairy chest and is the ONE example of a man with a mustache whom I have ever, ever found attractive.

Which makes me feel all weird about myself.

But there you go.

When in dreamland...

The first thing you should do when you realize you're dreaming is smile (subconsciously, of course). Because things are about to get really interesting.

It's what happened to me a couple of nights ago when I went to bed around 3am after having taken a 3-hour nap in the late afternoon. (Really, not a good idea for sleeping patterns. Although I don't regret what it did to my dreaming patterns.)

One of my favorite things to do in dreamland is flying. So, given the opportunity (and the right dream setting) I fly as much as I possibly can. But this time, it was actually flying, or rather a sense of floating or weightlessness, that actually tipped me off to the fact that I was, in fact, not awake. Because you can't actually fly (or float) in real life. Duh.

Okay, I thought to myself, let's have some fun with this. So, I proceeded to do my darndest to try to influence the reality of my dream. Oddly enough, I was only partially successful. I wanted to fly (or float) and so I did, but I was only able to fly (or float) around some really dull stairwell type things (although being able to fly around in them was much better than, say, walking around on them).

Second, I really, really wanted to dream that I was being kissed. Really, really well. By someone really, really hot. Unfortunately, I just couldn't seem to conjure anyone up. I just kind of floated around these stairwells and accidentally set fire to the stove of a boss I had a few years ago. (Sorry, Marsha! That part, I assure you, was not intentional.)

So, I learned a valuable lesson during this dream session: even when you should be able to manipulate your reality into anything you can dream up (ha! 'dream up?' get it? aha...oh, nevermind) that doesn't necessarily mean that you actually can. Because I couldn't. I mean, I could a little, but not entirely.

So what does this mean for waking life? Maybe that dreaming, while beguiling, isn't really the place to find full satisfaction (i.e. kisses from hot boys)? Or perhaps that manipulating reality is something best left to non-mortal and not-unconscious folks? Or that flying/floating is really the best way to travel around boring stairwells?

Whatever it is, it was an entertaining night. And it makes me wish, oh so fervently, that I could know I was dreaming every night.

Because maybe my kissingly-hot boy conjuring would improve with practice.

May I show you a beautiful man?

Oh. My gosh.

I just found an image on a Toby Stephens fansite. I can't seem to get it to show up in my post, so I'll link you there instead.

Here he is. (It's the large image on the right-hand side of the page.)

Ohmyheavens he's like a male embodiment of autumn and his...eyes...wow...the hair...um...

Phew. I can't really breathe here. Uh. Just give me a minute...

Living vicariously is great fun...until the DVD is over.

Having the new Masterpiece Theatre production of Jane Eyre on DVD is...well...'wonderful' is too mild a word.

I've watched it twice in the past 24 hours, and I've watched certain parts more than that.

And I love it.

Loveitloveitloveit.

But alas, the DVD comes to an end, and now here I am again, stuck in this life where I have my room to clean & laundry to do and no Mr. Rochester.

And so I guarantee that it won't be too long before I go and live Jane's life vicariously again. Not long at all.

How sexy can a vampire be?

Very.

If I wrote a vampire novel (and I don't think I'm quite up to it) I would never, ever be able to write a vampire quite as sexy as Edward Cullen.

He's...he's very...um...like he's good at kissing & stuff.

In short, he is pretty much the perfect, ideal romantic lead. (Except for that whole vampire thing.)

And yet... And yet, I can't quite help feeling a little unsatisfied... Edward is romantic, protective, gorgeous, fast, strong, and pretty much the perfect man (except for that whole vampire thing), and maybe that's the problem.

Because honestly, despite his interest in classical music & his fantastic piano-playing ability, and despite the fact that he can read minds, (sorry for all the Twilight spoilers here...), he kind of strikes me as a little bland. (I mean--aside from that whole vampire thing.)

And speaking of that vampire thing, is that where all of the interest comes from? An otherwise uninterestingly fabulously handsome man becomes suddenly interesting because he could kill you and suck your blood instead of kiss you at any time?

I'm sorry, but I just need something more. Some sort of flaw. Like big ears, or...a little teeny obsessive compulsive disorder, or an unsightly mole on his chin, something to make a fellow more...well...human.

(Which is pretty much impossible because of the whole vampire thing.)

Alas.

More for the Misc Category

Going days and days without blogging = having way too many topics by the time I finally get back on track.

For instance:

The moon. I love it. I love it when it's a waxing gibbous form climbing halfway out of the east in the early evening. I love the way the top is sharply defined, curved, smooth as an eggshell, and the bottom is faded, mysterious, unknowable, blending into the darkening blue sky.

Also, seriously, what is up with that whole 'dumb guy voice?' I really, really dislike it when women talk of their husbands or other male acquaintances and quote them using this voice that sounds like a cross between a gorilla and a person who flips burgers for a living. (No offense meant to any burger flippers here. Erm.) They'll say in their normal, reasonable-sounding voice, "So, I said, 'Let's go see a movie tonight.' Then he said [enter gorilla], 'But I like football. And watching it. Grunt, grunt.'" Okay. So, not only does this demean the gorilla-husband, it demeans the person speaking! Why on earth did she marry the fellow if he's such a neanderthal?

And, oh, speaking of men? Yes. I am officially in love with Mr. Rochester.

Just so everyone knows.

Bring on the men 20 years older than I am. Seriously.

I was wrong. I was all wrong.

I (foolishly) watched Pride & Prejudice again this evening, but at least it helped me realize something very important. My previous post about Austen's leading men was completely off.

We don't fall in love with Mr. Darcy because he has fine manners or dresses well. It's not even really because he does really nice things for Elizabeth, (like save her sister from moral & social ruin), although that's certainly a symptom of the reason why we fall in love with him.

We fall in love with Darcy because he is completely in love himself with Elizabeth--helplessly so. And when, at the end, he declares that his feelings for her are unchanged, and can hardly draw breath for the intensity of his emotion, we melt.

I melt.

I melted.

Maybe that's all we want. The dancing and the elegant letter-writing and the clean handkerchiefs are all well and good, but what we really want, what we really need, is for someone to love us as thoroughly and helplessly as Mr. Darcy loved Elizabeth Bennett, for someone to look at us as he looked at her.

Oh, DARN it.

Poor men. They haven't got a chance.

On behalf of those of us (aka women) who are fond of Jane Austen and her film incarnations, I must break it to the rest of the world that, I'm sorry, you'll just never quite measure up.

You see, the Jane Austen men (at least the leading men) will always be universally charming, romantic, and impeccably dressed. And, while the rest of you (aka living & breathing men) certainly have powers of charm & romance, these powers seem to dissipate all too quickly. You sometimes blow your noses too loudly, or leave a bit of a mess around the toilet. In the world of romance, some of you may pursue too hard, and others (shockingly) never fall in love with the right person at all (i.e. the woman who wants you). In short, you're real--you have problems and issues just like us, and we can't have that, now can we?

Jane Austen men always properly dispose of their hankies. And, at the end, they always seem to screw up enough courage to tell the woman of their dreams that they are lost unless she saves them. How can you blame us then when about every five seconds there's a woman who sighs as the ending credits of Pride & Prejudice start scrolling down the screen, or as she sets down Persuasion after the long-awaited reunion of Anne and Captain Wentworth, or as she realizes while reading Sense and Sensibility just how much Colonel Brandon cares for Marianne, and that really he can make her much more happy than Willoughby ever could.

Alas, you real-life red-blooded men. Try as hard as you may, you can never quite measure up to those little expectations we generate for you. You can never truly be Mr. Darcy. It really isn't your fault, though. And eventually, we women will put down the book, or turn off the television, and come back to our senses...but perhaps never quite all the way. Be patient with us, will you? There's a dear.

I think I'm in love

I've never considered myself much of an opera buff. Not to say that I don't like opera per se, and I'm a little familiar with the more commonly performed works like Madame Butterfly, La Boheme, and The Magic Flute (which I just saw performed this last Friday with my family--woohoo!).

So, I was kind of surprised to find myself falling for a popular opera singer. Go figure. Maybe it's just that time in my life. You know, the fall-in-love-with-a-popular-opera-singer stage, which follows right after the eat-clam-chowder-from-a-can stage. (Man, am I glad I'm over that one.)

In any case, this falling-in-love-ness happened to me suddenly, as I was driving up to my sister's house (which takes about an hour). I was listening to "The Record Shelf," a radio program on the local classical music station, and the host of the show, Jim Svejda, was interviewing a rising opera star, Rolando Villazon. (Haha! I just got it! "Rising?" "Star?" It's totally like a star in the sky, and it rises, and......oh, nevermind.)

So, anyway, Rolando's voice was heavenly. And, when they interviewed him, he was passionate about his music, and funny, and wry, and he had this cool spanish accent. And hey, when it comes down to it, what more do you need to fall in love with someone you've never met? (Heck, the accent by itself probably would've done it.)

So, I believe I'll spend at least the next few weeks pining over Rolando. I doubt it'll last too long...after all, I've never even met the man, for heaven's sake. But, it'll be pleasant while it lasts. Maybe I'll even buy a CD of his. If I feel committed enough to the relationship.