I had written a blog post a couple days ago, and my brother made me take it down because he thought it made me look bad. (He’s just looking out for me. He wants me married just like everyone else in the family.) But I’ve decided to post it again because 1) I won’t be able to write another post for a couple days and 2) this blog is a creative exercise. I’m trying to write things for the sake of writing, and not necessarily to influence people about what they think of me. So here it is. (Just don’t tell Troy it’s back up.)

A couple years ago I was skiing in Colorado when I went into a coffee shop and pick up a Time magazine. In it was an article titled “Grow Up? Not So Fast” that talked about a growing societal phenomenon called the Peter Pan Syndrome; or in other words, it’s young adults who don’t—or won’t—grow up.

I found the article so fascinating because it finally diagnosed what I had inadvertently been doing for the last few years—basically stalling adulthood.

The symptoms lied dormant long before they manifested themselves. It started back in adolescence, when my parents immediately overfed and underworked me. Most parents stop the flow of milk and honey when their kids become legal adults, but my parents kept the tap running, and I didn’t stopped drinking. I lived in a Neverland of free schooling, free cars, free skiing and golf, free trips around the world, free 5th row Jazz tickets, and many more free “happy thoughts.”

But for the last few years I’ve watched my friends leave Neverland. They’ve gotten married, moved away to big cities, and work grown-up jobs. I started dreading the question “So Jenny, what do you do?” because I didn’t have a grown-up, respectable response. “Uh, well, I take trips.” It wasn’t until 2 years ago when I got a grown-up job that I had been never so eager to answer that question.

Growing up has been good; however, one foot still lives in Neverland. I still take skiing trips to Chile with my dad. I still drive a nice car.

So my question is…do I hide my Neverland? There are some with much greater Neverlands; there are some with none. I don’t know. My case of Peter Pan syndrome has hindered previous relationship, so I try to flaunt the grown-up “I-have-a-job-and-put-money-in-my-stock-account” side of me and hide the rich kid, “I-drive-an-Audi-A4 side. Although Neverland is all I have known, I know there is a bigger world out there—with mortgages, car payments, and budgets, and I can live in that world. But do I want to? Do I hand back the car keys and say, “No thanks Mom and Dad, I want to live in debt?”

I can hear the alligator with the ticking clock (aka “reality check”) ticking, and it’s getting closer, and closer, and closer. But I’ll face it when it comes. Until then, I’m going to keep thinking happy thoughts and pretend to fly.

**So if you’re thinking you want to date Jenny, don’t be intimidated by her Neverland. It welcomes all who are looking for some fun.

I graduated from BYU in 2004. Although, I’m fairly happy I went there, I definitely don’t bleed blue. After living in Utah for over 15 years, last night was the first time I attended the Big Game—the state’s Holy War between BYU and the University of Utah. But rather than going to support the school of my Alma Mater, I defected to Utah.

And as I sat in that stadium, looking across the bobbing heads of red sprinkled with dark spots of navy blue, I remembered why I was so apathetic towards BYU athletics—I hate the school’s color.

Many moons ago I started my first year as a freshman at BYU, which was also the first year the school changed their colors from royal blue to navy—and I could not have been more disappointed.

For years I had been watching student fans dress up in bright blue wigs, face paint, and paw prints, and I was eager to join them. But when it was my turn I had to settle for almost-black navy blue—a boring, lifeless color I could get 24/7 at any Gap or Banana Republic. The color was meant for prep school blazers and sailor suits, not school spirit. There was no search and no pride in finding that unique royal blue piece of clothing—that piece that showed you went to great lengths to show your fanship.

I heard the change was because the school wanted to sell more apparel. But once they darkened that bright, spirited color of royal blue the dull, I-look-like-I’m-depressed navy, part of the my school spirit darkened with it. I have been a lukewarm fan ever since.

I must admit, wearing that red hat was an uncomfortable experience; and I felt guilty, out of place, and unnatural. I didn’t know these people around me; I was used to being around cougars. I was constantly looking over my shoulder in case someone who knew my school history would see me, shaking his/her head in shame. But wearing that bright, vibrant color reminded me what it felt like the first time I went skinny dipping—so right and so wrong—yet utterly refreshing and invigorating.

So last night as I sat in that roaring stadium, I started a new life—a life as a Ute fan. And I’m sure I won’t have a problem getting used to it.

**So Jenny is sorry to lose potential suitors due to her new college association. But the fact she made it through BYU without getting married shows she wasn’t really BYU material in the first place.

Being unemployed, I don’t have much to do during the day. I spend a few hours applying for jobs, an hour to work out, maybe write a blog post or watch the Colbert Report at 3:30 on Comedy Central, and then I’m trying to figure out what to do for the rest of my day. I’m starting to take naps. So going out to vote today was a big deal. It got me out of the house and gave me something to do—even if it was for only 30 minutes.

In Utah, a presidential election is like a spectator sport. We just sit back and watch the candidates battle it out in states that actually consider both sides. Our state is so red from the flesh and blood of hard-core Republicans that the candidates ignore us like a redheaded stepchild. We’re lucky if we get an hour visit in the preliminary preliminaries, usually doing a fuel stop, but I have yet to see that happen.

Anyway, I’ve tried to follow the election with the pretence that my vote would matter. I would think to myself, “Now if I lived in Ohio (may God help me if ever do), whom would I vote for?” With that hypothetical question in mind, I watched the debates, listened to the pundits, and discussed the issues with family and friends.

This last year has been wildly entertaining. With characters such as Hilary Clinton, Jeremiah Wright, Sarah Palin, and Joe the Plummer, the story of this election almost has as many twists as a Spanish Novela. And sprinkle on some of the greatest SNL skits, I’ve been more interested in this election than any other.

But as I looked at the boxes next to the Obama/Biden and McCain/Palin tickets on the computer screen before me, I froze. “C’mon,” I told myself, “You’re in Ohio and your vote could determine the fate of the country.” But I couldn’t touch a box. I was just about to put an X next to Obama when the word NADER jumped out at me like bacon grease half-way down the screen. “Yes,” I told myself, “Nader! I can vote for Ralph Nader!” And then I remember my father telling me that he voted for Ralph Nader in 2000 when he couldn’t decide between Bush and Gore. So I did too.

I know, I know. I copped out. But please know I would not have wasted my vote for Nader if I lived in Ohio. I would have cowgirled up and decided. But I don’t live in Ohio, and my vote in Utah is worth crap. Voting for Nader, I now have the peace of mind that I didn’t vote for the most liberal, inexperienced candidate ever to run for office—or for hot-tempered 72-year-old who may blow a fuse and leave us with Palin as President.

At least I’ll be able to sleep during my regular afternoon nap.

**So if you are on a date with Jenny, don’t talk about politics. She needs a break.

Okay, soo I had my date. It was nothing special—just a quick lunch. This guy is actually really nice, and I really didn’t want to offend him, but I was determine to plant some “seeds of iniquity” so he’d see I wasn’t the girl for him.

I had no desire for a soft drink, but I ordered a Dr. Pepper anyway. Not that caffeine is that big of a deal, but I thought it was a good warm up.

Okay…I have to get across that I sometimes watch rated R movies, I’m voting for Obama, and I laugh with gay comedians.

So, my first topic of conversation:

“Thanks for being flexible with changing the times all around…” (I had to reschedule from dinner to lunch because I got last-minute tickets to meet the NPR commentator Juan Williams—nerdy I know.)
“I was planning to go see the movie Appaloosa this afternoon. Have you seen it?”
“No, I haven’t heard of it.”
“Ah, it looks like one of those old-time, bad-guy-verses-good-guy westerns. Did you ever see 3:10 to Yuma?”
“No.”
“Oh, it’s like that.”
“I don’t really watch movies.”

Is he against all movies in general? Hmmm…change of topic. Let’s drop the Democrat bomb:

“So I got tickets to meet Juan Williams tonight. He’s a NPR commentator who I’ve seen on all the news networks.”
“Don’t know him” (That’s okay. Only my dad knew who he was.)
“I really like him.”
“So you’re into politics.”
“Not usually, but I think this election has been very interesting. I haven’t decided who I am going to vote for, but I’m leaning towards Obama.”

I couldn’t really tell his reaction from this one. Actually, I couldn’t really tell his reaction from anything I said. Let’s try another.

“So this weekend I’m going to San Francisco. I’m going to see David Sedaris with my sister-in-law. Have you heard of him?”
“No.”
“I’m not sure what he is. He’s a comedian and a writer. He has a few books out that are pretty funny. I just bought one called Naked. He’s gay but it doesn’t dominate his humor—but who know’s if he lets loose in San Fran!”

He nods his head and looks down. I take that as a sign of judgment. Yes!

As for swearing? It crossed my mind, but I was too chicken to say something like “damn” or “ass” in front of him. I was making him uncomfortable enough as it is.

Okay, it was kind of a weak (and stupid) experiment. But my whole point of it was to prove that I fell from a different tree, and I shouldn’t be critized for not being interested. I thanked him sincerely for lunch, and we went our ways. I hope he doesn’t call, for then I would have to do the mature thing and actually tell him how I feel.

**So if you’re on a date with Jenny, and you feel the same way she does, show her your worst—you Sabbath-day-football-watching sinner you.

I just had another conversation with a group of guys and girls about breast implants—and this one was particularly disturbing. I’m not sure why this topic always comes up (maybe it’s because Utah is 2^nd to California in most breast augmentations a year), but it seems to more often than not among groups of single adults.

In this conversation, one young, single man compared breast implants to braces—like it was a normal pubescent defect that should be corrected. I immediately was aghast at the statement—telling him that was the stupidest thing I’ve heard. When we live in society where women will feel that if they have small breasts they must have not grown in right (like crooked teeth) and need major surgery in order to correct them. A deviated septum? Sure. Breast Implants? C’mon! (I was later told by a source that this individual had a “fund” set aside for his future wife’s surgery.)

Boobs are overrated anyway. Many large-chested women often complain about their “girls.” They get in the way of exercising, your clothes don’t fit as well, and your upper back is constantly aching.

What I don’t get is how parents reward their daughters with boob jobs for a graduation present. How does one encourage their daughter to increase her intelligence with a reward to increase her breast size? Doesn’t make sense to me.

What if we lived in a world where guys lusted after college degrees as they do breasts? Women could show off those instead.

“Dude, did you see the degrees on that chick? Yea, biology and exercise science. Those are awesome!”

But it wouldn’t be fair for me to assume how a woman with a small chest feels. I’m no Dolly Parton, but I’m no 12-year-old girl either. I can say that I do feel sorry that my small-chested friends feel they have to go such extremes to attract men.

My advice? If you’re so self-conscience about it, then fix it and move on with life. Just get a respectable size and stay away from the porn stars. You don’t want guys to have to hold their hand under their chin just to keep their eyes on your face.

But I’d love to see more women reject the notion that large breasts is the answer. So how ‘bout it girls? Instead of using your hard earned money (or your parent’s hard earned money) to go under the knife, why not think about using that money towards…I don’t know…grad school?

**So if you want to date Jenny, don’t ever mention you are saving money for your wife to get a boob job. It’d end right then and there.

My friend and co-worker JJ asked me to promote his girlfriend’s designer jeans boutique on my blog. (Do you think the next person will actually PAY me to advertise on my blog?) Anyway, I said sure. I kind of owe him because he helped me get my job. So I got thinking about my desire for denim and all the “it” jeans I’ve sought after throughout my life. Here’s what I remember:

Elementary School: Guess jeans. I had a friend who had stitched the upside down triangle on a cheap pair to imposture the Guess brand. My first exposure to the extremes people did with designer envy.

Junior High: Ghirbaud jeans. The price tag of $60 was so steep just for that little white strip across the fly.

Early High School: Gap jeans. The Gap was the store to shop in 90s—especially for jeans. But poor cut and fit has quickly moved them towards the bottom of the denim food chain.

Mid High School: Lucky jeans. I felt so scandalous every time I unbuttoned my jeans and revealed the tagline “Lucky You” along the inside of the fly.

Late High School: Abercrombie & Fitch jeans. These were the first jeans I remember that actually looked good and felt good. And $50 bucks was a good price. Everyone had them my senior year.

Early College: The Freshman 15 prevented me from wearing jeans for about 2-3 years.

Late College: Seven for All Mankind—the first jeans I remember with a $100+ price tag. My first reaction: who the hell would pay $130 for a pair of jeans? I quickly understood as I watched these jeans trailblazers catch the eye of numerous males. I still was wearing my forgiving khakis and corduroys, so I watched in envy.

One month after graduation: I finally gave in.

I bought my first pair of $100+ jeans during the summer of 2004. I remember this so clearly because it was such paradigm-shifting moment. I was in AZ visiting some family, when I went to the Scottsdale mall (awesome mall, btw) to kill some time. While in Nordstrom’s I thought I’d humor myself and just TRY on a pair of Sevens. Big mistake. Once I slipped on that $150 of sexiness, I stared into the dressing room mirror in awe and thought, “I cannot NOT have these.” Seriously, I just couldn’t leave the store without them. And worse, I couldn’t believe I really spent $150 to have them. So from that moment I’ve been determined to find good-looking jeans—even as prices grow increasingly insane—without EVER paying full-price again.

Before JJ met his current girlfriend, he was a victim of bad jeans, but now he’s so proud of his new jeans. One time JJ got in trouble for wearing jeans at a trade show. The booth manager told him, “JJ, you’re not allowed to wear Levi’s.” But JJ retorted, “I’m not. These are Diesels.” I’m sure his girlfriend would have beamed at JJ at that moment.

It may be easy to justify expensive jeans that make you look good when you’re single, even if you could support a child in Africa for an entire year instead. But with the right effort and a little luck, you can find fantastic jeans without ever paying full price. This weekend is an opportunity just for that. Namedroppers is having a monster sale off big, BIG names. 50% off on Thursday. 70% off on Friday and Saturday. 80% off on Sunday. That will bring the price tag to a reasonable $60. They are located at 2350 Parleys Way (2100 South) in Salt Lake City. Don’t pass it up.

**So if you want to date Jenny, she gets uncomfortable if a guy knows about designer jeans more than she does. It just seems wrong to her.

I’m pretty good about discouraging people from sending me those annoying “forward-this -to-ten-people-or-something-bad-will-happen” emails. But I sometimes do enjoy the funny ones, like the one I received last week. It had a list of new words for 2008.

Blamestorming: Sitting around in a group, discussing why a deadline was missed or a project failed, and who was responsible.

Seagull Manager: A manager who flies in, makes a lot of noise, craps on everything, and then leaves.

Assmosis: The process by which some people seem to absorb success and advancement by kissing up to the boss rather than working hard.

Salmon Day: The experience of spending an entire day swimming upstream only to get screwed and die at the end.

Prairie Dogging: When someone yells or drops something loudly in a cube farm (an office filled with cubicles), and people’s heads pop up over the walls to see what’s going on.

Crop Dusting: Surreptitiously passing gas while passing through a cube farm.

404: Someone who’s clueless. Derived from the World Wide Web error message ‘404 Not Found’ that means the requested site could not be located.

After I read this, I decided to flex my own creative muscles and try to make up some words that would apply to the world of singledom and Mormonism. All but a couple are original. Here’s what we came up with:

A Sister Robinson: A Mormon mother likes the young man her daughter is dating more than the daughter does.

Cyber School Reunion: The two-week period after you join Facebook when you are bombarded with hits from people you knew in high school.

UFO: A guy who hovers around a cute girl but never actually lands and abducts her.

Fallen Soldier: A single friend who just got married.

Textual Harassment: An assault of text messages from a (usually) unwelcomed pursuer.

Chick A”flick”ionado: An expert in chick flicks.

Nothing But Net: A Mormon who pays tithes on net income rather than gross.

Satelitte: A ward member who lives outside the ward’s boundaries.

“I’m on the books”: What an inactive Mormon says to convince a cute, pious Mormon girl to date him since he is still officially Mormon because his name is in the church records. (And I got this one from my dad’s best friend, who is an Adult Aaronic.)

Okay, I know some of these are a stretch (and not as good as the first list), and I doubt they will ever obtain the usage of such words like wingman, metrosexual, Molly Mormon or Peter Priesthood. But hey…my creative muscles do feel stronger.

**So if you date Jenny, amuse her by using some of her new words in conversation. She would think that she is very “hip.”

My sister-in-law Michelle shared with me her thoughts about my post from last Friday, for which I completely agree, and I now share them with you:

“I was amused by Jason’s comment about “I win, because I never started
a book about the history of salt” and it, combined with my friend’s
comment (I sent her the link to your blog) that you were obviously
very bright/well-educated, got me thinking:

Is there some reason that girls of our variety think we must read
“intelligent” books? Heaven knows most guys don’t even bother to put
up such a pretense…in fact, Brandon [my brother and Michelle's husband] hasn’t read a single book
without tennis, golf or skiing in the title since he graduated from
college. And he doesn’t feel guilty about it, I assure you, even
though he considers himself darn smart. He gets his
info/entertainment/ enlightenment fix from watching copious amounts of
TV and browsing the internet, like any man worth his salt (pun
intended, I suppose).

If someone were to ask me what types of books I read, I would probably
fumble through something about biographies of early American
historical figures and period novels. All true, but WHY do I choose
these books when, if I were to be completely honest with myself, the
books I find myself most enjoying are semi-crappy fantasy novels
clearly geared toward the young adult audience (the Twilight Series,
for example, with which I must shamefully admit I am mildly obsessed
at the moment). My bookshelf reads like a store display of
“notables”…yet how many of those books did I actually enjoy? Latest
biography of Einstein, absolutely…but not as much as Harry Potter 7.”

Michelle, I sheepishly admit I was the first one at the library (yes, I use the public library) to get the new Twilight book. Sometimes after a few “brain candy” books, like Twilight, I feel like I need something with more meat, substance—a “brain vegetable” book if you will—and I pick up a David McCullough. I guess it’s all part of a healthy brain diet. But like you, I too prefer dessert.

**So if you want to date Jenny, realize you have a lot to live up to once you meet the vampire Edward. And also realize Jenny is bright/well-educated (see Michelle’s comments).

We deal with a lot of idiots in this world, as well as jerks, knuckleheads, and yahoos. Yet the Judeo-Christian ethic teaches us to be loving and accepting of all God’s children, no matter how stupid, slow, frustrating, or annoying some can be. But even nice people don’t think and say nice things all the time. So what do you do when you want to make a less-than-nice comment? You use a special vernacular ruse to kindly soften the blow.

Before I criticize someone about his (or her) actions, behavior, or just personality, I first say the phrase “bless his heart.” For example,

“Bless his heart, his mom never taught him how to use a fork and knife.”
“Bless her heart, she’s trying out a new look.”

But what I really mean is

“That person is an idiot, why can’t he eat like a civilized human being?”
“What was she thinking? Her hair is a disaster!”

Using the phrase “bless his heart” to deliver a insult under false sincerity was validated when I recently saw an interview with Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi on CNN. Referring to President Bush, she said, “You know, God bless him, bless his heart, president of the United States, a total failure, losing all credibility with the American people on the economy, on the war, on energy, you name the subject.”

So next time you want to pack an insult, even about the President of the United States, you can do so with feigned kindness using those three sweet-sounding words and still be considered a nice, caring person.

**So if you’re dating Jenny and you just flat out say something rude about someone else, you’re a jerk. You should at least try to act like a nice person.

Many Europeans believe Americans are loud, unsophisticated, and poor dressers. I confirmed the first 2 points some time ago while on a ski vacation in Austria. I think Europe is the coolest. There is so much history (and castles!), the Snickers bars taste better, and the cows look so much happier and healthier (thus the better dairy).

But Europe has its setbacks. There is a disproportionate number of old people, the drinks never have ice, they don’t clean up after their dogs, and dinner is always a 3-hour affair. After more than a week of these 3-hour dinners on our trip, I was growing pretty restless every night waiting for our food.

After one particular day on the mountain, I was riding down the gondola to go back to our hotel with our friend Scott, who is a very POLITICALLY CORRECT, vegetable-eating, yoga-practicing, airline pilot. I had just realized I was starving, and I was dreading the thought of another long meal. I thought these dinners were such a waste of time, so I decided to voice my frustration to Scott.

“You know why the United States is the number one superpower in the world? We don’t waste half of our day eating food.”

Scott’s eyebrows rose off his head and motioned his hand over his throat for me to stop, but I was so adamant to justify my point that I continued,

“No…seriously….everyone hates Americans because they say we think we’re so much better. But really, we’re just not lazy like everyone else. We eat our meals in 20 minutes, our stores are opened until 9 pm, and we work in the month of August. We basically know how to get things done.”

Scott finally put his hand over my mouth and whispered for me to shut up. He then points to the 20 other Europeans in the gondola now staring at me. At that moment, I remembered that practically every Scandinavian or German speaks English and I had just royally put my foot in my mouth. Scott then turns to the large Dutchman sitting on the bench and said, “Please excuse her, she actually is one of those dumb Americans.”

At dinner, Scott retells my social blunder to our group and said that even though I generalize and stereotype against anyone who wasn’t like me (which isn’t true), he admired my patriotism. Scott then starts chanting, “U-S-A! U-S-A!” and pretty soon everyone else joins in.

So to this day, whenever I make a political or social comment about the world, (to my chagrin) my family starts chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A!”

**Well, dear reader, please realize Jenny was young, naive, and oblivious to her surroundings when she made that comment. She behaves more appropriately in public now. If you’re out on a date with Jenny, and she starts sharing with you her global views—whether complimentary or not—you may have to stop her from making her point, or at least make sure she keeps her voice down.