2018

I sit at my desk at home on this snowy Sunday in Salt Lake City. Two dogs are wrestling at my feet, occasionally humping one another even though both are neutered. Apparently we have perverted pets. Skylar has just made a mess of my kitchen attempting to cook pancakes. And it's time to pen a year-end post.

I started this tradition in 2010. Nearly none of you were around then. I mean, around Stranger. I'm sure some of you were alive by that time. In 2010 I wrote to an audience of about five. In fact, in that year-end post, I wrote that during that year "I blogged and wondered how many people were actually reading."

There have been so many dramatic changes in my life and in yours since I quietly wrote those words eight years ago.

The Top Ten Most Viewed Stranger Posts of 2018

It's time for one of my favorite Stranger traditions! MAKING A LIST OF ALL OF THE THINGS YOU LOVE ABOUT ME.

But for real. 2018 has been an amazing year in the Strangerverse. I think I enjoyed writing here more than I ever have before, particularly because it has been so fun to interact with all of you. I'm super proud of the progress we've made on making Strangerville sound not so janky, and I credit my truly exceptional and somehow STILL pregnant, partner Meg the Dragon Voice Walter for much of that.

I love Stranger, and I love you. I'll be back next week for my full year-end post. In the meantime, please enjoy a brief walk down Stranger 2018 Nostalgia Lane with this year's top 10 list of Stranger's most viewed posts.

Wedding Planning

I had been dreading the prospect of planning a wedding for a while when I asked Skylar to go to hell with me (which is how I refer to getting gay married).

Look. Weddings and I just don't really go together. We have nothing in common. We don't like each other. We're connected by marriage alone.

Skylar almost permanently left me a few years ago when I had a full-blown temper tantrum while preparing for Rebecca's wedding picnic. In hindsight, I blame him entirely for the whole thing. We had been together long enough for him to know that dragging me to a Costco to buy things for a wedding when I hadn't slept well the night before was just begging for a total disaster. 

He combined the two things I hate the most in this world.

He should have totally foreseen the amount of profanities I was likely to scream while dodging shopping carts the size of Mormon SUVs as I held arm-fulls of sliced cheese.

Also, it was really unfair of him to pit me and cheese against each other.

Food Poisoning

Matt said he had food poisoning on Saturday, which was annoying because he was supposed to go to a party with me. Skylar was out of town, presumably because he doesn't love me and needs the occasional break, so Matt's services were especially needed.

I don't trust anyone when they say they are sick. I always assume it's a lie. I think this stems back to the number of times I pressed my face against a hot pad in the 90s right before going into Bob and Cathie's bedroom and saying "I think I have that fever again," like it was just the same one that kept coming back.

Points to Bob and Cathie who never once called me out on that bullshit.

So I drove to Matt's house to bully and manipulate him into just doing the thing he previously agreed to do. But when I got there and wandered the place looking for him, I realized that he either was truly sick or a much better faker than 10-year-old Eli.

Matt was lying on his bathroom floor, moaning, with a large gash on his forehead, which he claims was unrelated to the food poisoning. Apparently he ran into a tree earlier in the day. The point is, maybe don't trust Matt with your fragile antiques or food preparation for the next little while.

Skylar

Last week I got engayged. That's the same as getting "engaged," except cuter. Skylar made it clear to me a while back that if he was going to move to the great Mormon Siberia to be with me, I better make an honest woman out of him.

I actually didn't need encouragement. Skylar is the best person on this planet and I feel like I've won the lottery every time he even talks to me. That was sort of true the first time we ever chatted.

It was the summer of 2015. I was climbing into bed, late on a Saturday night, when I decided to check Tinder because I wasn't getting any younger.

This picture popped up:

The 12 Days of Christmas

A present suddenly showed up on our front porch on December 1. We opened it, and soon realized that someone was doing the 12 Days of Christmas for us. Gifts anonymously appeared every day for the next week and a half. 

There was a twist at the end.

Some Really Bad Music

Meg's full-time job is as a writer for thebeehive.com. Well, that and mob boss. And serial killer. And thermal underwear model. If you can believe it, none of those jobs are even remotely related.

A few months ago she texted me and was like "YOU HAVE TO WRITE AN ARTICLE FOR THE BEEHIVE IN DECEMBER" and I was like "what if I say no" and she was like "I'M PREGNANT YOU CAN'T SAY NO OR IT'S A HATE CRIME" and I was like "well I chose to be gay so you can't yell at me because that's a hate crime" and she was like "I WILL MURDER YOU IN YOUR SLEEP IF YOU DON'T DO THIS" and I was like "you're pregnant. I can outrun you" and she was like "THEN I WILL HAVE ONE OF MY PEOPLE DO IT" and I was like "fine. Don't get your thermal panties in a wad. I'll do it." So I guess I'm basically saying that as it turns out those above-listed jobs actually are related.

What then happened is I spent a sad amount of time on the internet listening to music that is so bad that the internet later sent me an apology letter and a dozen red roses, which was thoughtful but also kind of confusing because I wasn't looking for another romantic relationship in my life, plus I'm pretty sure it's seeing a lot of other people.

Utah's Great Songwriters

The last time I was part of a Mormon congregation’s choir was in 2007. It was a young adult ward and the choir was led by an iconically sarcastic chorister, who is now in the Tabernacle Choir. He used to end every practice session by holding up a large picture of Janice Kapp Perry and saying in an impressively-earnest-sounding voice, “We all came here for different reasons, but we stayed because of Janice.”

Thing of the Day

Eli: We can't leave the house until we go through the pile of sheets in that closet and get rid of any we haven't used in six months. I'm sick of looking at them!

Skylar: Oh great.

Eli: Oh great what?

Skylar: You've chosen the Thing To Get Arbitrarily Angry About for the day.

Eli: What are you talking about?

Skylar: Yesterday it was that you couldn't find your favorite shirt because our drawers were "too messy."

Eli: WAS I WRONG

Skylar: You were wearing the shirt when you freaked out about it.

Eli: Well that probably wouldn't have happened had the drawers been organized!

Track Workout

I've been going through this phase for the past couple of years called "getting fat and aging" and apart from all of the fun parts, like eating and tv and lying on the floor after work having my servants pour candy into my mouth until I'm unconscious, it hasn't been great.

When I was 22 and eating enough calories every day to solve world hunger while simultaneously complaining that skinny jeans were too baggy on me, grownups (AKA, people between 30 and 55, which to me were all the exact same age) used to say variations of "enjoy it while you can because one day a grain of sugar will land on your face and then they'll have to remove your body from your house with a crane."

Remember those times? Remember when you could drink a gallon of cyanide while soaking in a tub of lard without sleeping for a week and the only effect any of that had was that it somehow made your skin glow?

Now if I turn on a cooking show for more than 3 minutes, I can't wear any of my belts anymore.

A few weeks ago I was lamenting the fact that all of my dress pants are too tight on me to button up and I said the words "I'M A FAT LARD FACE WHO DOESN'T DESERVE HAPPINESS," to which Skylar thought the appropriate response was a very sincere "you do too deserve happiness."

Towels

I thought that I was probably done having embarrassing things happen in a locker room.

I know. I was delusional.

But really. Surely I've met my quota by now. Surely it's someone else's turn to humiliate himself while naked in a room for naked people.

But no.

I haven't told Skylar what happened last week. I haven't told anyone what happened last week. I almost announced it at family dinner a few hours after it all went down. We were eating with Skylar's sisters and their children in Portland. But then I remembered that I couldn't tell Skylar this because then he would yell some form of "THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I TOLD YOU NOT TO GO BACK IN THERE." And I haven't let Skylar be right about anything ever so I don't want to start now.

He had told me he didn't want me to go back into the locker room that morning because we were under some kind of deadline for meeting Skylar's family to go shopping. I had brought a change of clothes to the gym and he had not, so he suggested (but in a voice that sounded more like a command) that I not shower at the gym, but instead head back over to the house and shower there, that way he wouldn't have to sit and wait for me.

Brothers?

Skylar and I traveled to visit his family in Portland for Thanksgiving. Matt came with us because he is our child and we are proud of the boy he is becoming.

I hereby suggest that all couples everywhere get a non-biased third party to go with them to visit their partner's family for holidays. It was like bringing along my own personal audience. One who could provide commentary on everything that happens by looking up from their phone periodically and saying things like "be nicer to Skylar" and "get me some food" and "scratch my back right on this spot," because Matt doesn't entirely understand that we aren't his servants.

Skylar's family is lovely and we get along smashingly.

But the whole point of this post is to address the fact that people think that Skylar and Matt look like brothers, which freaks me out. Also, I think these people are wrong.

On our last night in Portland, we went into the city with Skylar's sisters and their husbands. We were at some place that had a photo booth and someone suggested that we check it out.

Thanksmas

Look. I know. I KNOW. Putting up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving is a sin that is only eclipsed by murder in severity.

I know that. You guys. I helped vote for that rule. I canvassed and everything. When they sent us those forms in the mail asking us to rank the top five worst sins in order, I even putting this one in front of Choosing To Be Gay.

When I see Christmas decor at stores in October, I ask to speak to the manager. I even hold a purse under my arm and wear a Bump It in my hair when I do it.

I consider myself on the front lines of the War on Christmas up until December 1 every year. I go to all of the secret meetings. Remember when Starbucks changed its holiday cup to be less overtly about Christmas and all of your uncles who have never gone to Starbucks in their lives posted about their boycott decision on Facebook?

That was MY idea.

But you guys. I was bored and we are going to Portland for Thanksgiving and so I decided I wanted to come back to a house that already had its Christmas decorations up.

O.J. Simpson

This week, I have a story from when I was 11 years old. I can't believe I waited this long to tell it to you. You can hear it on Strangerville this week, and I've included the text below.

Also, I'm supposed to remind you to go leave us a review on iTunes or your podcast app of choice, if you haven't already. The reviews help us exponentially. Really. Seriously. Even one extra review will make our day and put Meg into labor, which she wants. I'm not kidding.

Please enjoy.

*****

This time in Strangerville, Meg and Eli discuss “the levels of Mormonism.” Meg agrees to let Eli deliver her baby. And an 11-year-old boy participates in a wild mock trial.

Story:

Mock Trial, by Eli McCann

Production by Eli McCann and Preg Walter

The O.J. Simpson trial happened in 1995. Anyone who was alive and cognizant then probably recalls that for the better part of that year, no one talked about anything other than the O.J. Simpson trial.

Pitcher

Make sure to check out Jolyn's new story on Strangerville, if you haven't yet!

*****

I was riding on the Subway when I heard something that hurt my ears. It came from a woman's mouth. She was in her 50s. Pleasant-looking and probably kind. So that's why it caught me so off guard.

"Larry," she said to the man sitting next to her, a man who looked exactly like her but bald, so I assumed they were married, "did you get a good pitcher of the Empire State Building?"

No. She wasn't asking if he had purchased a pitcher in the shape of the thing. She clearly meant "picture." You know. That word that has the letter C in the middle of it and is not even remotely similar in meaning to the word this woman had said.

It caught me off guard that she would say such a thing because I firmly believe that saying "pitcher" when you mean "picture" actually makes you a bad person. And she just didn't look like a bad person.

I mean, I'm not saying that doing this makes you truly evil. On the scale of indiscretions, this habit would fall exactly between sitting through a green light with a row of cars behind you and first degree murder of a pretty child. So, no, it won't necessarily send you straight to hell, but it will necessarily make you possibly deserve it.

Mock Depositions

I got to New York City a few days ago because my law firm decided that I should go to this training class.

I decided not to be offended by the suggestion, even though the class is really meant for people who are pretty recently out of law school. It's a deposition class where we spend several days taking mock depositions of fake witnesses while a panel of teachers snorts coffee and probably cocaine to try to stay awake long enough to give feedback because, as it turns out, there is something more boring than a deposition and that is a mock deposition.

It's not all bad. And the less cynical version of myself, the one that sometimes gets enough sleep and doesn't have shingles, would probably admit that the class is really helpful. This, despite the fact that a good portion of it is geared at explaining to the students what a deposition is in the first place, which might have been helpful to hear before I took eleventy depositions over the mumble-mumble years since I finished law school.

Obviously my main objective when walking into the class on the first day was to become as popular as possible because my popularity is an exact measure of my self-worth. And so I positioned myself to make all of the right jokes in all of the right places in front of all of the right people.

But because the class is really geared toward people who pretty recently finished law school, I'm a solid decade older than nearly everyone there, which is not a big deal if you're, like 75, but which is a surprisingly big deal if you're say 34.

REST

I noticed this tender bump on the back of my head sometime last week so obviously that meant that I was dying.

Meg says she's a hypochondriac. She claims to have mastered this.

Meg Walter is an amateur.

I once saw a bug bite on my hip, convinced myself that I had bedbugs, and not just regular bedbugs, poisonous bedbugs, hyperventilated, fainted at 2:00 in the morning, and then had to spend the next two weeks hooked up to a portable heart monitor so the doctor could confirm that I didn't have heart disease.

I single-handedly crashed the American healthcare system that year.

By Sunday I was convinced that it was a tumor/leprosy/bedbug-heart-disease, and so that's when I went to urgent care.

Having been around the block a few times now, I'm much more competent when dealing with my hypochondria today than I was during the bug bite situation. That's the only way I was possibly able to wait all the way until Sunday before seeing a doctor. What with my body aches, extreme fatigue, nausea, and every other symptom listed on WebMD under "things a sick human can experience."

A Murderer in our Midsts

I think Duncan might have serial killer tendencies.

He hasn't attempted to murder me or Skylar, to our knowledge. This is good, because I place my life in his paws every day. If Duncan suddenly wanted me dead, you all would be looking for a new place on the Internet to read subliminal messages about competitive PTA races by tomorrow morning. All he would have to do is put cyanide in my soup. And I know. I could decrease the likelihood of this happening by locking the cyanide closet in my house or taking him off of the cooking rotation, but I don't need to. Because Duncan doesn't seem interested in killing me.

He does seem interested in killing many other people, though. Mostly people on wheels.

We take Duncan for a walk every day to the college campus by my house. Duncan loves this activity more than any of you love your mothers. He loves it so much that if he hears us say the word "walk," he has to be sedated.

This is such a problem that we have developed a truly subconscious practice of spelling out the word if ever we have cause to say it. So subconscious, in fact, that two weeks ago I spelled it in a work meeting and then had to explain why I was spelling the word in a hushed voice like it was a swear.

10 Movies I Could Never Get Sick of Watching

I'm not saying these are the best films of all-time. There are many movies that I think are much greater than these, but that I could only watch once.

This post pays tribute to the movies I could watch over and over. The kind of movie you might flip on to have in the background while cleaning the house. I present these, aggressively-unapologetically, in no particular order.

1. You've Got Mail

Look. I don't care what you say. It's a nearly perfect film. I watch it every Thanksgiving morning while I cook pies that my family definitely won't eat. I could quote the entire movie at you, word-for-word from the opening line all the way to the part where Meg Ryan says "I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly."

There Will Be Some Kids

Halloween is a stressful day for me because I so want it to go well but it pretty much never goes well.

I want to live in that neighborhood from the movies where all of the kids are out in traditional Halloween costumes, marching up leaf-fallen pathways to Victorian brick houses, adorned with intricate pumpkin carvings and emitting smells of hot cider. That's all I want. Not much to ask for.

But that's not how it goes on my street.

The houses are dark, almost comically so. Windows are practically boarded. My first Halloween in my home I had about 4 trick-or-treaters.

It's gotten slightly better since then, probably only because I have aggressively shouted children down as I've seen them passing my street to move on to friendlier territory, convincing them to come over.

I never planned to be a man in his thirties screaming at kids to come to his house for candy, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Last year, thanks largely to my Halloween advocacy, I had nearly 30 trick-or-treaters. At least two of those were full-fledged adults, out without any children, but they were wearing costumes so I rewarded their commitment to sugar.

You Have Rats

"You have rats," The Perfects informed me, standing on my driveway as I fumbled with some grocery sacks from the back seat of my car.

The only one who was happy with this news was Duncan, who is brave only in the "hold me back" kind of way.

He turns into a vicious and rabid dog, while in the comfort of his own home, every time he sees a cat cross by the living room window. But when he saw one up close at Skylar's parents' house last Christmas, he quickly devolved into a nervous breakdown.

You wouldn't believe the therapy bills.

As soon as he discovered the rat or rats a day or two after The Perfects's's disclosure, he was in heaven, primarily because the rat had no interest in confrontation, so Duncan could look like a badass without ever having to fight the creature.

I knew that The Perfects didn't mean for the news to sound like an accusation, but I'm accustomed to translating everything that comes from their benevolent mouths into a certain tone and context.

Lice Check

Have I bragged about how good our last Strangerville live show was? I have? Well, one of the reasons it was so great was because of Whitney Call, who closed out the night with one of the most beautifully-written stories I have read in years. 

Check out the recording of her story on today's Strangerville; I would also strongly recommend that you read it below. This is a story worth experiencing both ways.

This time in Strangerville, Meg’s dog needs a therapist. And Whitney Call reminds us how hard it is to be 9 years old.

Story

Lice Check, by Whitney Call

Production by Eli McCann & Preg Walter

Me When I Was Bad

This is my niece, Kate.

Adorable, right? Doesn't she just look like someone you would trust with your life? So sweet and sincere.

Be ye not fooled.

Skylar Has Opinions

Be sure to check out this beautiful story from Shireen if you haven't already!

*****

Skylar has opinions about things and sometimes this is the worst.

I don't mean that his opinions are the worst. Sometimes they are. But that's not what I meant by the first sentence.

What I meant by the first sentence is that it is sometimes the worst that he has opinions in the first place.

Last week we got our by-mail ballots for the midterm elections. We sat around the kitchen table filling these out, quite thoughtfully, I would like to add. Probably more than any election, we studied the issues thoroughly, like we were preparing to take a test.

But then we got to one proposed constitutional amendment on our ballots and Skylar was not familiar with it so he asked me if I knew what it was all about.

"Just vote yes," I told him, without further explanation.

Born To Run

A few months ago I was invited to a meet and greet for this woman named Shireen Ghorbani who is running for Congress in my district right now (Utah Second District). I went because I'm totes hashtag woke.

Truthfully, I mainly went because I had been feeling guilty for a while for not being informed enough about local politics, and I thought it wouldn't kill me to spend an hour to go and hear what someone who could end up being my representative thinks about cats and Snuggies.

I'm probably like most people in being very fatigued with politics and all of the anger. That's not to say that I ignore politics or that I sometimes don't feel anger about it. I do. Check out my Twitter. Hashtag woke.

But I am tired of it. And although I have received anger emails to the Stranger account accusing me of being "a conservative mindless sheep" and "a communist libtard," and on one occasion on the same day, it might surprise you to learn that I don't consider myself conservative or liberal.

I've registered at various times for both major parties, usually so I can vote in a primary election that I feel somewhat strongly about. But I've never felt loyal to either, and I refuse to buy into the notion that any political party has the market cornered on good or bad people and ideas.

National Coming Out Day

I was 21, sitting in a parked car with a friend who was several years older than me. I looked up to her greatly. She was an important friend--one that I trusted.

It was 2005. The friend was asking me about dating at BYU, where I had just started school. I told her about some of my experiences, including that I didn't really like dating all that much and found it sort of stressful. I told her there was a young woman who was a close friend of mine and whom my friends couldn't believe I didn't want to date. She was impressive in all of the ways that 21-year-olds at BYU find young women impressive.

But I didn't want to date her. I told the friend this, sitting in the parked car.

She said it sort of in jest. The statement wasn't a joke, but her delivery was in the spirit of teasing to some degree.

"Well I just hope you're not gay. I don't have the energy to try to talk you out of that right now."

My heart sunk so low that the nearly permanent sunken state it was already in seemed healthy in comparison.

I responded in the same tone in which she had spoken, denying "of course" the suggestion. I brushed it off as casually as I could, fiddling with a cupholder, suddenly very aware that I was doing it and wondering if it was normal to fiddle with a cupholder. It was raining now, and getting sort of late.

I'm A Bad Person

My older sister and brother-in-law ditched town and their responsibilities for a little vacation and my siblings and parents were put on a babysitting rotation for their four kids.

Mine and Skylar's turn came last weekend. Friday evening to Sunday evening, to be exact.

Look. I don't have natural parenting abilities. I'm incapable of talking to children. I don't know what to say. I address 5-year-olds like they are middle-aged insurance defense attorneys. Every exchange is a legal transaction. When my 11-year-old nephew tried to haggle on bedtime last Friday,

Nephew: What if I just stay up for 30 more minutes?

Eli: You'll go to bed now.

Nephew: But what if I promise to clean my room tomorrow?

Eli: You'll go to bed now and you'll clean your bedroom tomorrow.

Nephew: This isn't fair!

Eli: I don't speak whine.

Nephew: But it's not fair!

Eli: Unless you have something of value to offer me, this negotiation is a waste of my time.

HE'S 11. I'M A MONSTER.

Roommates

Hey look! I told a story at Strangerville Live! Check out the recording and the written version below:

This time in Strangerville, Meg and Eli talk about a heavy-handed movie. Also, Eli takes the Strangerville Live stage to share a story about his worst roommate, ever.

Story

Roommates, by Eli McCann

Production by Eli McCann & Preg Walter

Rock, Paper, Scissors, SHOOT

I'm aware that Rock, Paper, Scissors is hardly more than a game of chance. I know this. I'm not under the impression that a person benefits from experience in this or that it's possible to be particularly skilled at the game.

Rock, Paper, Scissors is basically as complex and random as a coin toss.

Maybe a super genius has figured out a way to read an opponent's mind. But I doubt it.

It's a game of chance.

I know this.

The only way to effectively use strategy to win the game is to cheat, by adding new rules. Like Jared Dimick did to me in the second grade when he introduced "bomb," which looked like the rock, but with the thumb extended, and which "beats everything."

And I accepted this. And lost Rock, Paper, Scissors against Jared Dimick every time we played. For a year.

Yeah, I could have used bomb against him, but I was a RPS purist, enough so that I was willing to lose for my beliefs.

Hot Girls

Today, please enjoy truly one of the funniest stories ever produced on Strangerville; a story by the hilarious Rebbie Brassfield. Check out the recording, included in this week's Strangerville, plus the written version for the hearing impaired below. (Also, check out Rebbie's new venture on the Instas, @mormonsinmedia).

This time in Strangerville, Meg and Eli discuss, with some rage, Mormon genre films. Then, a woman takes the Strangerville Live stage to explain how her theory about “hot girls” was put to the test in a high-pressure situation.

Story

Hot Girls, by Rebbie Brassfield

Production by Eli McCann & Preg Walter

I don't have a beef with you.

Look.

I don't have a beef with anyone.

I mean, except for the essential oils people.

But all the other people? No beef. No beef with the other people.

If you want to ride an elevator when stairs are faster, that's your business. I don't have a beef with you. It seems like a really poor choice. But it's your poor choice.

And they aren't even stairs. It's an escalator. So if laziness is your issue, the escalator is right over there [points to somewhere not even far away]. The escalator will be faster.

But if you don't want to take the escalator, that's fine. I don't have a beef with anyone.

Well, besides people who put pineapple on pizzas. And essential oils people.

But if you're not those people, I don't have a beef with you.

Romy and Skylar's High School Reunion

Skylar had his 10-year high school reunion last night so we spent the evening with people who have no memory of the original Jurassic Park movie being in theaters.

I was mostly excited to go because of the Facebook drama that preceded the event. Skylar kept me updated for the three months that it all lasted. I'm probably not allowed to talk about it here but Skylar only spot checks this site so there's at least a 40% chance he won't see this anyway.

It all started when the organizer announced that tickets to this event were going to be $40. That would apparently cover the cost of the venue and food. I wasn't surprised when I heard this. Some friends of mine have attended high school reunions for more. Mine cost $20 because I live in Cheap Lake City.

But the ticket price started a conversation on the high school reunion Facebook page. And that conversation got ugly.

There was an irate post by someone who was very upset that this was going to cost anything at all.

There were responses to this post that devolved into general name-calling.

At one point a horse girl tried to helpfully explain to the original poster that if she just saved one dollar a day for 40 days, she would have $40, like this was a Sarah McLachlan animal abuse situation.

Halee From High School

We borrowed a stage for Strangerville Live after Meg didn't "want to be murdered" by my attempt to build one.

Under no circumstances was she willing to stand on something I created. I don't know whether this is because she deems me incompetent or malicious, and honestly I don't know which is more offensive. Or true.

Once it was determined that building the stage was not a viable option, we went back to the drawing board, hoping to figure out where the hell we could get one. A stage. Not a drawing board. Although now that I think about it, I'm in the market for one of those, too. That, and a Heart of the Ocean.

I couldn't think of where else to find a stage, and that's when I took to what the kids' moms are calling "The Facebooks."

It seemed like a shot in the dark, but I posted there, asking if anyone had a stage that could fit in the back of a Subaru Outback and had very little history of killing Meg's unborn children.

My friend Emily responded by sending me somewhere around 600 text messages with DIY ideas, unaware that Meg had already vetoed even the continued suggestion that I would be allowed around more tools.

Tara

Late last year I messaged my friend Tara on Facebook because she asked people for crock pot recipes and discussing food is the last vestige of that platform in my life.

Tara and I met in college. We were both history majors and she was the smartest person I knew so I latched myself onto her in multiple classes and made her study with me. In our last year we worked on a journal together. She was the editor-in-chief and I was something very not editor-in-chief. These were good memories. And then we graduated.

After college we stayed sort-of-in-touch through social media, chatting very occasionally. She went on, as expected, to travel the world and earn advanced degrees at places like freaking Cambridge. I saw her post pictures of the cool things she was up to from time to time and every time she did I nodded at my computer screen in polite pride that someone I knew and liked was doing snobby things without seeming to become snobby.

We hadn't chatted on social media for a few years when I sent her the crock pot recipe, and I couldn't remember seeing much posting from her in recent months and so I didn't know what she was up to these days.

She responded and thanked me for sending it. We Facebook chatted for a little while, catching up. She told me she was still living in England. I told her I was a big fat homo now and how Skylar keeps breaking my stuff but I have to accept it because I already peaked and he's settling for me so this is my best shot at a happy life.

Mormon Mothers

Skylar told me last night that he thinks "scolding" is a super power of Mormon mothers.

I had never heard this opinion from him, or anyone, but I implicitly agreed with him before taking a moment to blurt out, "wait; why?"

Skylar isn't from Utah. His exposure to mass Mormonism is a relatively recent aspect of his 28-year life. In fact, his first real visit (read: not an airport layover) was in late 2015. He was living in Wisconsin at the time. He started visiting Salt Lake City with some regularity that year because I'm very attractive and he couldn't help himself.

Uncovering Utah's uniqueness for him since then has been a surprisingly delightful experience for me. Most of this is because he has approached everything in our great state with nothing more than a polite and respectful curiosity.

Believe me when I say this is rare around these parts. Most people I know in Utah have very strong opinions, in one direction or another, about Mormonism and, specifically, Mormons. This is true of people who move here as well. They decide how they feel about the place before they get here and then they find whatever evidence they can to support their belief.

A Locked Car

A homeless woman got my attention as I was walking to my car. She was blonde and looked a little rough around the edges, but simultaneously kind. She pointed at the car parked in the middle of the street--something very fancy-shmancy, silver, and sleek--and she asked me if it was mine.

I told her it wasn't, but I was curious why she was asking because I was raised by Cathie Whittle McCann who taught me that you should always become involved in everything ever, especially if it is happening inside a grocery store.

This wasn't happening inside of a grocery store. It was happening just outside of Church & State, where our show will take place this Friday. (P.S. get tickets here.)

I had stopped by to meet with Blair, the director of the venue, so we could dig through an entire room full of audio equipment that is so intimidating that you all just became more inadequate for my mentioning it.

We did a few sound tests because, five shows later, I guess I have finally learned that it's not a bad idea to get these things worked out not five minutes before the show is supposed to start.

May my sweat-soaked suits rest in peace.

The sound-checking had gone well enough, and I was gleefully walking back to my car, parked on the side of the road, when the homeless woman got my attention.

Susan

First of all, Strangerville Live is THIS FRIDAY. Come, please. We even ordered in some extra chairs so more people can attend and so we'll look really popular. But seating is still limited, so if you can make it, get your tickets HERE or HERE or HERE or HERE (those all go to the same place. OR DO THEY?).

Two cranky ladies will be checking names at the door (hi Anna and Emily thanks for working for me for free all the time and not filing sexual harassment complaints against Jolyn).

Second of all, to get you excited for Strangerville Live, here's an episode of Strangerville!



Finally, last night Skylar and I walked two houses down to Lynne's place for a backyard party. Lynne's backyard is like something out of a hipster magazine. She has two gorgeous patios, one with a perfectly-manicured tree canopy completely covering it, the other with a wisteria tree growing over the top of a pergola surrounding it. Both patios are lit by flame and bistro lights. And you've probably never even heard of it.

When Canning Gets Real

Everything in my family is a passive-aggressive competition, so that's why I bought 10 pounds of tomatoes this weekend after my mother posted pictures on Instagram of her canning process this year.

Cathie's entire basement is perpetually filled to capacity with home-processed bottles of vegetables and fruits organically grown in her yard through processes about which NASA has subpoenaed her for information nearly a dozen times. Her efforts at food preservation have won her several Nobel Peace Prizes and there's a rumor that her bottled pickle recipe may have been the actual cause for the deescalation of the Cold War on multiple occasions.

Cathie pretends she has no ego in this, but I know better. She'll never admit it, but I'm certain that she is exceptionally satisfied with the fact that she is better at this than all of her children combined.

Her pride only reaches this level in one other task, quilting, which she spent so much time during my childhood doing that it is technically considered my third parent. Until age 8 whenever anyone asked me where I lived I gave them the address for the fabric store down the street. I still accept some mail there--mostly from credit unions I keep forgetting to inform that I've moved. Whether or not Cathie and I ever had squatters rights at this fabric store is something that is still being argued in state courts.

Dog Hike

Check out today's Strangerville (show notes at bottom), wherein Skylar shares the best coming out story I have ever heard.

*****

Skylar really wanted to go for a hike on Labor Day weekend. We found a good one that was dog friendly and decided that we would get up at negative 5:00 in the morning and drive to it so we could get started before sunrise.

We bullied Matt into just coming and staying at our house the night before. This way we didn't have to tell him what time we were waking up for the hike. We could just carry his body to the car. Had we told him in advance that we were leaving at 5:00 he would have never spoken to us again.

Adam, Teddy, and Renley showed up around 5:00, just as Matt and Ollie were stomping up the stairs from my basement guest room, yelling something about why was it still dark outside.

Everyone Else is an Idiot

Skylar and I have a term to describe someone who is behaving incompetently in the moment. We call them "mall people." But with a strong emphasis on the word "malllll."

When someone in front of us sits through a green turn signal,

"Mallll people."

When a person leaves their grocery cart in the middle of an aisle in such a way that no one can get through,

"Malllll people."

When we go hiking and an entire family has gone off trail despite the signs asking people to stay on the trail because going off trail in that particular spot is bad for the vegetation and animals who are trying to thrive in that area and that family is eating a family-sized bag of Cheetos and dropping half of them onto the ground and they're screaming to each other about how hot it is and one of the kids is throwing rocks at a landmark that took millions of years to form,

"Malllllllllllllllllllllllllllll people."

Locked Out

Skylar called me just as I was leaving the office the other day to very suspiciously ask me when I was going to be home.

It was suspicious to me, anyway, because when I told him I was on my way but needed to run an errand he seemed disappointed but then refused to explain why.

Eventually I got it out of him. He had locked himself out of the house. I don't know how he did it, exactly. But I had several sudden flashbacks to living with Rebecca when he admitted it and it only seemed fair to give him the same mean-spirited and demoralizing lecture I used to give her on a weekly basis.

I am going to be such a good parent if any of you die and give me your kids.

By the time I made it home, a rainstorm had moved in and Skylar was hiding under the covered patio in the backyard.

He followed me to the door, looking ashamed, AS HE SHOULD, and that's when I discovered that I also did not have a key to get into the house.

10 Tips For How To Respond to Someone Who Is Coming Out

Coming out of the closet never ends for a gay person. You have to do it all the time. Constantly. For the rest of your life.

Every time you make new friends. Get a new job. Talk to people at a party.

I start every morning looking into the mirror and screaming "YOU ARE A FABULOUS HOMO."

And it's never not a little stressful.

But it does get easier, which is good. It's good that it gets easier because coming out to people at the beginning is phenomenally intimidating. I don't know if I could find the right words to really explain what that kind of fear feels like. They should make a new word to describe that feeling. Judy Garland should include that word in her lecture when she visits people as a ghost to tell them they're gay (that's how we find out).

Since I have now come out to roughly, let's see, multiply by 60, carry the one, take the square root, ELEVENTY million people, I know everything and I'm ready to mansplain it all to you so please read the below in as condescending a voice as you can muster.

(Note, I am aware that not everyone is the same and that some of the ideas below may work better for some people than others, and I welcome any of you with insight to chime in in the comments. I offer these only as general thoughts that have occurred to me over the years.)

Camping: The Ground Got Harder

(In case you missed it, we announced our next really fun Strangerville Live show. Check out this link for info and tickets; as always, tickets are first come/first serve and there is some limited seating.)

Two years ago I decided that I needed to occasionally force myself to do what the kids are calling "commune with nature." To do so, I told myself that I was going to make it a priority to go camping one time a year.

The reason for this, and I swear to you I'm not joking, is to get myself to be more grateful for shelter.

It's not because I think camping will be fun. It's not to prove anything to myself. It's because I love the inside so much and I wanted to find a way to love it even more so I decided that if I slept outside once a year, the pure contrast would make my couch and temperature-controlled home so much sweeter.

Look. I've basically said this before. Camping is an insult to our ancestors who invented electricity and the internet and Netflix so that we would never have to go outside under any circumstances whatsoever. Going camping is basically nothing more than squandering an inheritance. Except it's miserable instead of fun to do.

But despite my respect for all the McCanns and Whittlebottoms who have come before me, including the ones who were polygamists, I have committed myself to this once-a-year camping vow.

Attempted Homicide

The exciting news is that we have a date for our next Strangerville Live show. We'll be back at Church & State on Friday, September 14. And obviously we want every single one of you and your grandmas to come and support the storytellers. But the more important reason to come is to see if I accidentally kill Meg and her unborn child.

It all started when Church & State told us that something happened to their small stage and they don't have it anymore. The cause of the disappearance is still a mystery to me. But they said that if we wanted a stage, we better bring our own.

I asked Jolyn and Meg how many stages they had lying around the house and they had like 50 but all of them were being used that night so they didn't have any to spare. So I asked them if they even thought we needed a stage in the first place and both of them, in unison, screamed "WE WANT PEOPLE TO SEE OUR BEAUTY."

Then Jolyn was like "can't Matt just build us one?" And I was like "I OBJECT" because I'm a lawyer and that's how we talk all the time. And I told Jolyn that I don't need no man in my life to build things for me and I'm perfectly capable of building things on my own.

White Coat Ceremony

Last week I attended something called "white coat ceremony." This is where 150 grown people are dressed by other grown people on a stage in front of a crowd of grown people.

The whole thing felt a little like a premature celebration of achievement. But it's apparently a big deal for medical students. Just before they start classes, they have this introductory event where they are bequeathed white coats that are perfectly tailored and stylish on the women but kind of look like boxy Walmart Halloween costumes on most of the men.

Skylar invited his parents, who flew to Salt Lake City, to attend the event. My parents went as well.

It was TWO HOURS long. It was kind of like a graduation. There was this whole procession thing where all of the new students walked in as the most dramatic music I have ever heard in my entire life played. Several school administrators and faculty stood on the stage and one-by-one took the podium to give speeches about how special and amazing all of these new students were.

If you've ever wondered why so many doctors have huge egos, you should go attend one white coat ceremony.

Then each person was called up, one at a time, so someone could help them put on a white coat. This took a full eternity.

A Sweet Treat

Please check out today's Strangerville, which includes one of my favorite stories we have ever produced. More info at the bottom of this post.

*****

Matt had a party yesterday because his town had its summer festival and they were shooting off fireworks at the park just behind his house. He throws this party every summer because his backyard is a perfect vantage point for fireworks viewing. 

Matt decided to prepare a taco bar for the 20 or so guests that would be coming to the party.

Now, I wasn't born in a barn. Bob and Cathie taught me Jesus's's way, which is that one should never go to any party empty-handed. So I called Matt yesterday morning and asked him what he thought I should bring.

Pictures from my Phone & Weekly Distractions

Toward the end of my Europe trip a few weeks ago I got a text out of the blue from Matt that said, "sorry about your house."

This is a terrible thing to have someone say to you without any context whatsoever while you are thousands of miles away from home.

A few days and eleventy flights later, I walked into the place at 1:00 in the morning, wondering if the reason for Matt's apology would be readily apparent. It was. During the two weeks I was gone, Matt completely rearranged my entire house. He moved paintings and furniture. He hauled stuff from one room to another. He made a pile of lamps and other decorations that were to be discarded. He even bought some stuff and left me a bill.

How much do you have to hate someone's taste to show up and do something like that while they're on vacation?

Anyway, your Pictures & Distractions:

Golf and Buses

Skylar started medical school yesterday while I went golfing.

I would have traded him places in a heartbeat.

And no, I'm not interested in going to medical school. I'm just even less interested in going golfing.

But I have to go once a year. Yes, "have to." Don't give me that whole song and dance about how we choose our own adventures. Once a year I am invited to a work function that requires me to go golfing and I'm not totally sure what would happen if I didn't go but I suspect at least prison is a possibility and look at this face it was not made for prison.

I could, you know, practice. Then maybe I wouldn't be terrible at it and then maybe I wouldn't hate it with a hot and fiery passion. But that would require me to golf more. And I don't know if you've picked up on this yet, but I hate golfing. Kind of a lot.

So instead of practicing, I show up to a golf course in God knows where at God knows what time when it's Satan knows what temperature to play exactly one game of golf each year.

Woven Tarp Bags

A little while ago this thing, that's probably a drug front and is definitely run by the Utah Mafia called "The Beehive", was launched. Meg writes snarky content for it, and we are also running a weekly podcast through it called Hive Mind. In it, we complain about TV and movies. So if you've ever listened to Strangerville and thought, "I would like to hear even more of their thoughts on The Power Rangers," you are in luck.

Hive Mind is being produced under The Beehive's channel, so you can find it on any podcast app by searching for The Beehive and looking for Hive Mind episodes. You can also find Hive Mind here.

And in other news, after a few weeks of break, we are back with new episodes of Strangerville. Please enjoy the below, which includes a story from me about leaving Ukraine recently. For those who hate the sound of my voice, I've included the text of the story.

This time in Strangerville, Meg and Eli absolutely do not judge anyone for breastfeeding their adult children, and a grandmother nervously navigates the security area of an Eastern European airport.

Cringe

A few years ago I was talking to my childhood best friend Sam's dad because he had stopped by Bob and Cathie's house for some reason. This was right before I moved to Palau and he was asking me what my job was going to be like in that country.

We talked for a while. And the conversation naturally moved to what I would do after Palau. I was telling him about how I would likely look for a job in the Salt Lake area but I wasn't sure, exactly, and that I hoped to find a good job before my contract in Palau ended.

We talked about those plans to look for a job in Salt Lake City for a while. I had expressed worry about not being able to find work. And then he said, "well, do you have any good contacts that could help you?"

And I said the following:

"Um . . . actually I don't wear contacts. I mean, I have these glasses, but my prescription is super weak. I don't really need them. But I like wearing them because I think they make me look smart hahahaha. I don't think I could ever wear contacts. It would be hard for me to stick something into my eyes."

Seatmates

The universe has required me to take on a substantially larger share of sitting next to not-the-best seatmates on flights.

I'm happy to do it. Sometimes. But not every time.

It's like a curse. I see the 100-pound sensible-looking elderly woman with a tidy purse board just before the 7 foot 2 man with 16 carry-ons and a half-eaten jumbo bag of corn nuts and I immediately know the latter is destined for the seat next to, which in coach basically translates to "on top of", me.

It's fine. Someone has to sit next to the excessive cougher or the complainer or the person who insists on a window seat despite needing to use the bathroom every 20 minutes.

But it would be nice to have a break from this every once in a while.

Last night I did not get the break.

I knew where they were headed the moment I saw them get onto the plane. It wasn't rocket science to figure it out. They were very late and there were few seats left. I was in an aisle seat on a row of three, and the middle and window seats were unoccupied.

How I Nearly Started World War III

We booked the hotel because it advertised access to a "private beach." The beach ended up being more like a stone patio that dropped off into the Adriatic Sea. It was nice enough. A bit small. But Croatian coastal towns seem to be crowded this time of year, so any access to the waves is appreciated.

Skylar and I had wandered to the water in the early afternoon. The stone patio was big enough to contain about 50 lounge chairs, all huddled closely together.

We wandered past each, looking for one that had not yet been claimed. About half of the chairs had people sitting in them. The other half had been draped with towels, most of them hotel towels, like little flags claiming territory on the moon.

Not a single lounge chair was empty, so we eventually perched ourselves on top of an uncomfortable rock.

We baked there for 20 or so minutes. I continuously scanned the patio, hoping that someone would give up a seat. But the 25 people already sitting looked like they were about to start requesting that their mail be sent there. They weren't about to go anywhere.

Smizing in Slovenia

In Ljubljana Slovenia last night:

Skylar: Here, give me your phone so I can take a picture of you.

Eli: No. You're really bad at taking pictures of people.

Skylar: I'm VERY good at taking pictures of people.

Eli: You're not. You're good at a lot of things, but this is one of the things you're really bad at.

Skylar: How am I bad?

Eli: You do weird angles and you take the pictures when the person isn't ready and you don't notice that the picture is bad so you stop trying and you tell the person you "got some good ones" and I've been burned by you enough.

Skylar: These are all lies! Give me your phone now! I'm going to prove to you that I can do this.

Eli: Fine. Here.

Olena

I have several friends in L'viv Ukraine, all of whom I met when I lived there as a Mormon missionary in 2003 and 2004. Usually I try to see as many of these people as possible when I'm in the area, but for some reason it just happened to be really difficult this time around.

Some of them were out traveling near the Black Sea for summer vacation. A couple of them have disappeared from social media. Some have moved.

Olena was the first person I met in L'viv. I had been in the country for six weeks when I was sent out to that city from the outskirts of Kyiv. I felt like I had been moved to a fairy-tale land. L'viv's architecture was so far from anything familiar that it sort of felt like it was operating in its very own reality.

Olena was in her upper 40s and she had two youngish children. I went to her apartment and she welcomed us in. She was tall and very thin, with long black hair and an almost cheesily cliche Eastern European face.

She didn't speak a word of English and I spoke very little Ukrainian at the time. After I sat down in her kitchen she handed me a glass of something I described that night in my journal as tasting like "someone milked a tree."

To Become a Star

We had to vacate our Airbnb in Kyiv by 11:00, which was unfortunate because our train didn't leave for L'viv until about 12 hours later. Despite our best attempts to pack lightly, at least two out of the three of us decided to bring with them enough clothes to start a new life over here. I'll let you guess which two out of the three are guilty by smelling us.

I thought the best option might be to wander to the hostel down the street and ask them if we could just pay a little to store our bags for the day. I should have been deterred by the hundreds of google reviews that warned me of the five-flight stair climb and very average Eastern European customer service. But I wasn't. And when I entered the place and asked my simple question I was met with several eye rolls and half a dozen phone calls to Stalin-knows-where, during which the hostel employees attempted to negotiate an international peace treaty for the foreign travelers in front of them.

When homegirl got off the phone she informed me that we would have to rent a room for the day, which was $10, but then she warned me that she wouldn't dare leave anything whatsoever at that hostel because "it's more dangerous than prison in this place."

I asked her to repeat herself several times, sure that there had been a miscommunication. But each time she did, the warning became starker, finally ending with "I don't even bring my wallet to work."

Kyiv's Raccoon Man

We landed in Kyiv on Saturday afternoon and found a taxi to take us to our apartment. "She's Got It" by Venus was playing on the radio.

Taxi Driver: Vat zis mean, she got it?

Eli: It means she has something special.

Taxi Driver: Vy zey not just say "she have somezing special?"

Eli: It's just a saying in English.

Taxi Driver: Vat so special about zis voman?

Eli: I don't know.

Taxi Driver: Vy he sing about her if he don't say vat so special.

Eli: Look. I haven't slept in like 40 hours. I'm incapable of engaging in philosophy at the moment.

Grammar Book

I'm going to Ukraine on Friday.

And don't even try to break into my house, robbers. I've got house-sitters and they're all angry former cops with complicated pasts and uncertain futures. Go break into my sister's house. She's going with me and she has a much better collection of alabaster pots and sewing supplies.

The house-sitter situation is necessary because keeping things alive at my home in July is an unrelenting job. For the last four weeks I've just been engaged in a constant loop of pot watering where I start again from the beginning the moment I finish giving a drink to the last pot. I haven't had a single break in days. I'm typing this with my toes right now. (Yes, Tami is literate).

Finding a responsible house-sitter is a challenge because it requires you to make a list of all of the people you know who have nothing going on in their lives and can easily pick up and move into your place for as long as needed, and then identify one person on that list who is reliable.

Thank God for all of those former cops.

Won't You Be My Neighbor

My two older sisters hated it when Trolley started making its way back to Mr. Rogers's house from Make Believe Land.

Every episode had the same simple format. Mr. Rogers would come through the front door of his tiny and simple home, singing about it being "a beautiful day in the neighborhood," asking viewers to be his neighbor, and changing into a sweater and more comfortable shoes. He would introduce the simple concept of the day. Music, or creativity, or sadness, or inclusivity, or whatever. Various cast regulars and special guests would come by to help demonstrate the lesson of the day. Then Trolley would go off to Make Believe Land.

International Spy

Skylar treats state-issued IDs like you might treat chapstick.

Don't remember where you put the last one? That's ok. Just grab another the next time you're in the checkout line at the grocery store.

Keep one in your car. One at your desk. Send a couple through the washing machine in a dirty pair of pants.

The problems with this habit, though, are obvious.

State-issued IDs are not chapstick.

They are supremely more inconvenient to collect. And the more you have, the more likely your identity will be stolen.

Since I met Skylar in 2015, I have seen him lose at least 4 driver's licenses. That's one a year, y'all. And you know I don't even say that.

You guys. Jurassic World. There's another one.

Last week Meg told me there was a new Jurassic World movie out, and then she threatened me to see it with her.

This is an activity that makes sense for us because our relationship is basically based off of the first Jurassic World movie. When that one came out I wrote a recap about it that was, how do I put this, somewhat critical. If you go to that post and look for Meg's contribution in the comments section, you'll find the birth of our friendship. Just three years ago we were commiserating over hating Jurassic World and now I'm 8th in line to get her children.

Mark my words: I will do what it takes to ascend that list.

Which is maybe why Saturday afternoon I showed up at Century 16 movie theater at 3:00 in the afternoon to meet Meg. What happened over the next two hours will be hard to explain. But I'll try.

Elk in the Woods

As you know, earlier this week I DECIDED TO BE GAY. Now every morning when I wake up the soundtrack to Rent is blasting through my house from speakers I haven't yet been able to locate and Judy Garland keeps calling me.

No one warned me this would happen.

Skylar keeps telling me that even though he doesn't support my lifestyle, he still loves me. Which is true. He absolutely does not support my lifestyle. This fall he's starting medical school so I have a very sad feeling that I'm going to be supporting his for the next eleventy years to come.

Matt has been texting me variations of "WHY DID I HAVE TO FIND OUT YOU WERE GAY ON YOUR BLOG I THOUGHT I WAS YOUR BEST FRIEND," even though I met Matt over four years ago when mutual friends of ours set us up on a date.

By the way, for our first date we watched Jesus Camp together. I knew Matt was different when he sided with the camp leaders by the end of the documentary, screaming at me in his strong southern drawl, "WELL WHAT'S WRONG WITH JESUS?"

Except the way he said "Jesus" it was a much longer name than I had learned growing up. It was more like JeeeeeauauauasssssuauauauIreckonuauauauas.

A Thing I Decided I Want You To Know

I'm pretty gay.

I know. You're all shocked. NO ONE guessed this. I'll give you a moment to recover.

This is something I just never thought I would really address on Stranger because I never felt like I needed to.

But several things have changed for me. The most important one is the mounting internal pressure to be more open about this because being open about being gay can literally save lives. It opens dialogue, and it helps people who feel alone feel less alone. Honestly, in recent years a part of me has felt a little selfish for not being open.

Coming out as gay to anyone is kind of a scary thing. Even in 2018. It took me many many many many years to come out to the people I'm closest to. Like, 29 or so years. A lot of this was because I didn't exactly grow up in a community that has a great track record when it comes to treatment of The Gays.

Flashback to a very gay boy in the 90s sitting in many lessons at church in which the teacher explained that no one is born gay but the wicked choose to be gay and for that reason their souls are lost.

A Good Toilet

Last year when the essential oils people descended upon me and nearly destroyed my home, I decided that I would take a possibly-permanent break from Airbnb.

I changed my listing to no longer allow people to automatically book the place. Instead they could send inquiries and I could decide from their picture whether or not they looked like they practice witchcraft.

This was going fine. I got very few inquiries for several months, and I mostly declined the inquiries for one reason or another.

And then last week I got a message from Bill and Brenda. (Names have been changed).

"Hello. We are driving to Salt Lake City from Idaho for a small procedure. Please let is know if your space is available."

I was intrigued about the procedure and Bill and Brenda looked to be about my parents' age so I thought what the hey, and I accepted their booking.

Pray For Arnie

You guys.

I've been really stressed about something on the Internet.

Well, I've been really stressed about a lot of things on the Internet because I'm not a sociopath and I have Internet access. But there's one specific thing that I'm going to tell you about today.

For some time I've been obsessively checking all of the animal rescue websites in Utah to see who is looking for a home. I don't know why I do this to myself. For about a thousand reasons I can't take in another dog right now.

So all I do is look at all of these doggies with their sad doggy eyes and their sad doggy mouths and their ratty shelter doggy hair and I can hear them crying and saying "why can't you love us? You could save me but you are choosing not to. Why?" and I start getting choked up and part of me is like "TAKE THEM ALL, ELI" but then another part of me is like "YOU USED TO HATE ANIMALS WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU" and then the first part of me is like

Queen Latifah

Matt accused me of exaggerating "just like" I "always do."

This was offensive. Not because I consider "exaggerator" to be an insult, but because he said it in the same tone he uses to discuss youthsss on Instagram.

This all came about because I was telling him about this time in 2012 when I was living with Daniel and we were supposed to go somewhere but then suddenly the American classic Just Wright starring Queen Latifah came on TV.

Daniel told me that it was important that we stay home and watch this cinematic masterpiece in its entirety rather than do anything else in that moment.

This was back when we were too poor for DVR so we really had no other option.

I hadn't seen the movie before, but Daniel apparently had. Which is why he had no excuse for his decision to suggest that we watch it.

Look. It's been so long that I might be mixing up the plot I'm about to explain to you with about 9 other movies. So don't use this blog post as your exclusive source of knowledge on Just Wright, especially if you have a test on it coming up.

Skylar Thinks He Can Cook

Skylar thinks he's a cook.

Yes, you should read into my word-choice there.

Also, I want to mention that Skylar is the most amazing human being. He is selfless, beautiful, and charming. I don't talk about him enough, because I am jealous of him. I wish I could be just like hime when I grow up.

[The above paragraph, including the curious spelling of the word "hime," was written by Skylar when I left my computer unattended.]

He decided he was a cook some time ago despite never having really cooked. I suppose this is because he watched his sisters obtain this skill over the years, somehow believing that their mere relation to him made culinary arts a collective familial knowledge.

But it didn't.

I know that it didn't, because I have seen him ambitiously host a number of dinner parties over the three years that I've known him. And I've literally discussed the results of the dinner parties in therapy.

The Girl F Word

A conversation between Brianne and her very young nephew, as was told to me this morning. I can't stop laughing.

Nephew: My little sister has a potty mouth.

Brianne: Really? Does she say swear words?

Nephew: Yeah. She's been saying a really bad one lately.

Brianne: Which one?

Nephew: [Whispers] The F word.

Brianne: What?! No. She doesn't say the F word.

Nephew: Yes she does. I hear her saying it all the time lately. Sometimes she walks around the house yelling it.

Brianne: Buddy, I don't think she knows the F word.

Motherhood, amiright?!

Recently Meg texted me in the middle of a school day and was all like "GO TO A MOVIE WITH ME OR DON'T BOTHER COMING HOME," which was weird because we don't live together.

I normally oppose going to all movies at all costs when those movies are played during the day hours because I find coming out of a movie theater when it's light outside to be supremely depressing.

But I've had a relatively stressful work week/month/year/life and I love myself so I decided I would just take some time and do it.

I met Meg at the theater at 4:00 in the afternoon. She wanted to see a movie called Tully. No spoilers here, but basically it's about a woman with two kids who has a third baby and is super overwhelmed with caring for the newborn.

And y'all. Like 20 minutes into this movie I was so stressed about motherhood that scheduling a dozen spa days is basically a medical necessity for me right now. I went shopping right after the movie and charged everything to my insurance card.

I'm one thousand percent convinced that Meg wanted me to go to this movie with her because of every time I've screamed at her for not staying caught up on TV shows because she was too busy dealing with sick children and I'm like "CHANGE YOUR PRIORITIES OR DON'T BOTHER COMING HOME."

Counseling: What is your earliest memory?

I don't know why it came up but recently I was talking with Skylar about my earliest life memories and he basically called me a liar. I'm angry about this because I know I'm right.

I have four different memories that all seem to have happened around the same time, although I'm not sure of their order.

One is of my cousin Ryan talking to his mom, my aunt Sally. We were in the basement of their house and she came to the top of the stairs and the two had some conversation. Ryan is a couple of years older than me, and I remember watching them talk and being impressed that Ryan could have a conversation with an adult because I was just barely too young to understand what they were saying.

I remember pulling a little horsey on wheels down the hallway at our house, barely able to take a few steps without stumbling, and my mom stepped into the hallway holding my baby sister, who was an infant (only 18 months younger than me). There was a big mirror at the end of the hallway behind her, and I remember that when she stepped in front of it, it blocked my view. I had been watching myself get closer to the mirror as I pulled the horsey toward it.

I remember going to my great grandpa McCann's funeral. I was wearing my favorite clip-on bow tie. My dad picked me up so I could look into the open casket. When I did, I reached down and tried to touch grandpa's eyebrow, just as my dad pulled me away from it. I remember that vividly.

WHAT IF PAUL SIMON, Oakland

Paul Freaking Simon and I made eye contact on Friday night.

I'm not kidding you about this.

Skylar went to the concert with me even though he was all like "this sounds boring when does Beyonce come out do they have any avocado toast where's my participation trophy" and I was like "YOU DON'T DESERVE THIS" but he was already in the Oakland area for work and I didn't want to go to this thing alone so his attendance made the most sense for me.

I bought the tickets months ago and since Paul said this was going to be his "farewell" tour, because I think he is being translated like Yoda was in Star Wars episode XXQI, I decided that I would empty all bank accounts and take out a second mortgage on my yachts so I could buy the best tickets possible. Now Duncan can't go to college. None of you can go to college because of how much I spent on Paul Simon tickets.

And I started regretting this a bit as we got into an Uber and started making our way from San Francisco to Oakland.

Pictures from my Phone & Weekly Distractions

You guys. Paul Simon. I'm going to be like this close to him this weekend. I got negative eleventy row tickets to see him for his supposedly-farewell-tour-but-obviously-he-could-never-retire-from-me. He probably already knows I'm coming and that I love him and that I would give my life for him even if it wasn't really necessary, but I also feel like if any of you are friends with Paul Simon, maybe you could do this Stranger a solid and get me some VIP backstage passes? Also, if you have this connection I might murder you and wear your skin. AND I MEAN THAT ONLY IN A NORMAL WAY.

And now, your Pictures & Distractions:

In Natchez

So this is the south.

Matt has been in Mississippi for several weeks. He drove from Salt Lake City all the way to Jackson, which if you look at google maps is a distance of exactly 7 light years.

I don't know how he did it.

I mean, I do kind of know how he did it. I know because he texted me every four minutes for three days, telling me every detail of every part of his journey, including where Ollie was pooping, how much he was pooping, how long it was taking Ollie to go poop--pretty much 95% pooping updates.

I knew he had been driving nearly 7 light years when I texted him and asked if he had made it to Mississippi yet. He responded with this picture and no further explanation.