WE ARE ALL FAMILY

So the other day I posted that thing about my family reunion and how my grandma wanted to go clubbin' with me and I made a passing joke that my giant Utah Mormon family is so huge that I'm related to all of you and WHY WEREN'T YOU AT THE FAMILY REUNION. Well then people started suggesting that we all create a group on some genealogy website. And I immediately started twitching because I suddenly had eleventy flashbacks to that one time all of my smart ass cousins simultaneously shared this video on Facebooks, tagging all five million members of our family. And then I had that awful song stuck in my head for A MONTH.

Well. The Strangers then came through. Swingwise, specifically, bless his little heart.

I hesitated momentarily but then went to family search and created an account so I could join the group at relativefinder.org. And it was amazing. The page shows you everyone else in the group and ranks each group member according to how closely they are related to you.

Family Reunion

I have like 14 family reunions every summer because I come from several incredibly active gigantic Utah Mormon families. So, I belong to eleventy different groups that plan family reunions every year for all seven billion of the world's inhabitants who are descendants from every one of my pioneer ancestors that multiplied and replenished the Earth one-hundred and fifty years ago.

I'm not kidding about this. If you were born in Utah, there is a 150% chance we are first, second, and third cousins. Simultaneously.

My grandma's dad was married to and procreated with one woman for several years until she died. Then her sister stepped in and started helping with the children until eventually just marrying him and birthing several more children. I didn't really think hard about this until recently when I realized that some of my grandma's siblings are also her cousins. Then I tried to draw the family tree to see what it would look like and it basically just turned into the labryinth.

Every time anyone starts talking about my family history I can hear that song "I'm My Own Grandpa" playing in my head.

Pictures from my Phone & Weekly Distractions

Rebecca texted me at some ungodly hour this morning to inform me that she can't leave to go back to Washington DC until she sees me. So I told her that I'm going to hide so that she has to stay here forever. But then she reminded me that if my goal is to keep her here so I can spend time with her, hiding so that she has to stay will undermine my objective. So I reminded her that she told me she can't leave until she sees me, but if I see her, that will have no effect on whether or not she leaves, WHICH MEANS (stay with me here): although I needed no more motivation for it, I have just discovered yet another benefit in my life to stalking.

And now, your Pictures and Distractions:

Eli and the Pantses at Survivor party. 

Birthing a Mattress

I've basically been sleeping on one of those Flintstone beds for the past few years. Just a very uncomfortable slab of bumpy rock. Except, worse even. If I so much as contemplate rolling over in it, the mattress squeaks so loudly that it sets off car alarms in India.

If you've ever hear car alarms going off on the other end of your customer service calls late at night, it's probably because I blinked in bed in Salt Lake City.

Y'all. I'm an insomniac. I think this is one of those chicken/egg things because I'm not sure whether I'm an insomniac because my bed is from 1745 or if my bed feels like sleeping on top of a pile of rocks because I'm an insomniac and therefore unable to get comfortable anywhere.

Various friends have conducted aggressive interventions with me over the years, demanding that I upgrade to something called "a grownup bed." They do this as though I still sleep in a race car bed, which is kind of offensive but OH MY GOSH NOW THAT WE'RE ON THE SUBJECT DO THEY MAKE THOSE IN ADULT SIZE?

A Kentucky Clerk

Unless you've been living under a rock for the past few weeks, you've probably heard more than you ever wanted to hear about a Kentucky county clerk named Kim Davis.

Lately, everywhere I go there seems to be conversation about her. People can't stop talking about her since she was arrested for defying a federal court order to issue marriage licenses. She was refusing to do this because, according to her, she was acting under God's authority, which apparently takes offense to the Supreme Court's recent ruling on marriage rights for same gender couples. 

Hippie School Emails

Recently I met someone who works at something called a "Montessori" school. He gave me a very long explanation for what this is but basically it's just a place for rich hippies to send their children. So naturally the Snapples had to start emailing a bunch of these schools about the education of their child.

Our victim here sent an email to the Stranger account after the end of this explaining that as the emails became more ridiculous, she googled "June Snapple" and found Stranger. I may have to start a new cover.


From: June Snapple
To: Private School
Subject: Connections

To whom it may concern,

I have recently moved into the area and my gifted child and I are exploring education options. My gifted child has very specific needs and demands the highest caliber of education. Your institution boasts of out-of-the-box new-age progressive approaches. I may be interested in encouraging my gifted child to choose your institution as well as making sizable donations. Can you please help me understand your institution's views on free love?

June Snapple

Keys on Main

Every time I hang out with my friend John Michael I end up in an odd situation that takes a surprising amount of time to exit. Friday was no exception.

I had gone over to his house mid-evening. He was watching a football game. I nearly died of boredom the moment I arrived. Because sports. And so after an excessive amount of complaining, the sports were turned off and we ventured on to Main Street to a place called Keys on Main.

Keys on Main is a piano bar that just happens to be one of our favorite spots in Salt Lake City because for some reason the moment we walk through those doors the filters that normally stop us from engaging in embarrassing behavior completely shut down.

I'm not sure exactly why this is. I think it must be partly because we never ever see anyone there we know. The place is usually full of bachlorette parties and groups of people who came in from the suburbs for their semi-annual night on the town. The people who live among us, our neighbors, don't go to the piano bar. I'm not sure what my neighbors are doing instead of going to the piano bar because they apparently don't invite us to their things. But they are definitely not at Keys on Main.

Pictures from my Phone and Weekly Distractions

Rebecca is in town. I know this because she stormed into my house today, rearranged everything in it, told me every possible fact about her life, and then left in a huff. She says she'll be around for a few weeks and "WE'RE GOING TO BE ROOMMATES AGAIN!"

I'll let you know what all of this means if I ever find out.

Also, no, I'm not sorry that almost every picture this week is of Mr. Ollie Pants.

THE WORLD SHOULD BE THANKING ME.

Here are your Pictures and Distractions:

Mr. Pants in the car!

Roll-top Desk

It was Labor Day on Monday so Matt, Ollie, and I decided we should labor.

We made a stop at Home Depot, where all 7 billion of Earth's inhabitants were wandering the aisles at exactly the same time. This did not discourage us, but it did make our "quick trip" take about four times longer than we planned. And Mr. Pants was not pleased about this. But he got to ride in the cart EVEN THOUGH I ASKED FIRST. Apparently I was "too big" and "no, I'm not pushing you around again. It's embarrassing." 

Praise Be To Alanna

I have been relatively clear here that I am basically incompetent when it comes to technology or what the kids are calling "The Internets." And this is pathetic because I have maintained this blog for nearly 8 years now (OH MY GOSH YOU PEOPLE ARE GETTING SO OLD). I have also kept up a relatively active social media presence. 

But you guys. I don't know what I'm doing. This site is a mess. My life is a mess. Everything is a mess.

And every once in a while someone will freak out and send me an email or leave a comment that says something like "YOUR IN-TEXT ADS ARE RUINING MY LIFE AND YOUR HAIR ISN'T EVEN THAT GOOD TODAY!" And then I cry for a while and search the entire internets for "what the hell are in-text ads and how can I destroy them." And then the internets provide me no answers so I eat a bunch of candy and snuggle with Mr. Ollie Pants and forget about this.

Machu Picchu and Lake Titicaca

By way of brief update, we made our way to Puno, Peru, and set sail on Lake Titicaca. Also known as the North Pole. Because it is so freaking cold all of the time always. You guys. I think my body has been cryogenically frozen just from walking around outside this week. I'm asking not to be brought to until everyone responsible for Glee has left this Earth. 

Machu Picchu was magnificent. Even more so than I ever imagined. Also, I am totally convinced that all of the buses in Peru were made by the same people who make the buses in Harry Potter. You know. The ones that can twist and morph into whatever size is needed so they can fit through cracks and drive sideways across cliffs. Because I can't think of any other way to explain how I have gotten to or from anywhere in this country without my body ending up at the bottom of a very deep pit in a burning pile of automobile. 

Speaking of which, we returned from Machu Picchu last night and immediately began an all-night 9-hour bus ride with the stinkiest backpackers that have ever wandered this planet. Be ye warned. The smell will likely hit your home in the next 24 to 48 hours (depending, of course, on the winds). 

High in Peru

I write to you now from somewhere around 12,000 feet high in the middle of nowhere Peru. And I mean "high" in terms of altitude. And not in terms of inebriation. Although don't think the opportunity hasn't arisen. Last night I was accosted four times by men who got in my face and acerbically offered me "weed cocaine." NOT THAT WE KNOW WHAT THAT IS, CATHIE.

Actually, if they truly were offering me a singular substance called "weed cocaine," and not those two things individually, I definitely really don't know what that is. But I have a feeling it's not my style.

It sort of felt like an after-school special every time it happened. I was compelled on each occasion to blurt out "NO THANK YOU I'M HIGH ON LIFE!" But instead all I could will myself to do was close my jacket more tightly with one hand and wave the other while indignantly saying "NO. THANK YOU." As though I was a classy broad on the receiving end of an improper proposition in the 1930s.