A Two-Ring Proposal

We were in the Shade Garden on October 13, 2012. The cacti were making long, pointed shadows on us as the sun slowly fell behind Camelback Mountain. An Asian woman interrupted as she chased a family of quail with her camera off the designated paths at the Desert Botanical Gardens in Phoenix, AZ. At dusk, the mosquitoes began to buzz and feasted upon our ankle blood. Nerves full and pride swallowed, I hinted to alleviate the pressure. Next, a little light laughter, an answer for most occasions, illuminated the tiny reflection pond. Finally, I muttered something on bended knee. She said yes.

We took the red-throated hummingbirds, the Bee Garden, the succulents, the butterflies with us, and we bathed in apple cider. Our secret was leaking. It could no longer hide in the hem of my jeans. It was bursting from the doors of Bourbon Street. The hiss from burning pumpkin seeds whispered our secret like a game of telephone. Our secret – a child’s face hiding a Snicker’s wrapper with chocolate on the corners of her mouth. Naughty girl – no, you’re naughty.

Volume two begins.

Premeditated Misdemeanor

I am fortunate enough to have two friends with golf connections in the greater Phoenix area. Thus, most Saturday afternoons consist of slices, hooks, and chunks. Golf, as has been said, is a gentleman's game. Last Saturday, I prepared myself for a round at TPC Scottsdale, a professional level course, home of the Waste Management Open. I dressed myself in plaid, bid my roommate adieu, and dashed out the door.

My tee time was approaching quickly, and I was beginning to worry if I would make it in time. I made my foot heavy and sped away. In my haste, I left my water bottle behind. As much as I enjoy golf and many other glorious things in this life, there is one thing, whether I enjoy it or not, that is a permanent part of me -- saving money. Maybe more appropriately stated, cheap runs in my blood. At such a golf course as this, little to nothing is free. So ... I turned back for my water. 

My garage door slowly opened. I quickly parked my car and ran inside to fetch my water. As I made my way passed the living room, I noticed my roommate quickly shuffling things around in my peripheral vision. I stopped and looked at him. His face was normal, but his eyes were hiding something. 

"What's up, man?" he said.

"Not much. Just forgot my water," I replied. We stared at each other for another few seconds, and he finally spoke up.

"I'm eating your chips," he said. 

I then noticed a bag of Salsa Verde Doritos partially hidden behind the couch. He also opened his clenched fist to reveal a purple chip clip. His plan was didactic. He knew exactly when I would be leaving ... but never did he plan for my untimely return. I caught him purple-handed. However, I was not upset. I could only smile and say, "Have as many as you like. Next time just tell me you want some."

His response was something like, "Thanks, but I prefer to eat in secret."

An Offer I Can Refuse

I received a job offer a few days ago for a substantial amount more money than my current salary. Yet, after much thought, I turned it down. I deliberately chose to continue to work in a state of misery. This caused me wonder ... "Am I really miserable?" Honestly, I'm not quite sure. One thing is certain, the offer just didn't feel right.

In other news, Independence Day in Phoenix was oddly mild, around 80 degrees. And like a true American, I watched fireworks in a camp-chair near a trash-infested, back-alley canal with my two best Phoenician friends. It was just us. No crowd, no lines. The fireworks flashed and bounced off the grungy canal, providing just enough light to see a few impoverished ducks wading into the filthy water. Next to those ducks, life felt just fine.

The Pursuit of Happiness

It's true, I've become another vermin in the never-ending Rat Race. And while I am exhausting every corridor in this maze, I have not yet found a way out. Rest assured, I will not go quietly into the night. Whether this race is governed by public or private entity, the cunning plan is apparent. With so much cheese, it is easy to see how mice become content and bloated, thereby unwilling or unable to escape. The race, the race, the race. It can consume so much thought as to distract a mouse from even smaller trifles. Worse yet, inside the maze, good becomes bad and bad becomes good. Take, for example, a night out with friends at a Mexican restaurant. In this case, Mucho Gusto.

Sitting down with great expectations, I noticed several complimentary baskets of chips and bowls of salsa. What a delightful surprise, this place must be good, I thought ... which is exactly what the Race would have me think. How wrong I was.  "Would you like another basket of chips, Sir" is not a question at all, rather a crafty imperative sentence in sheep's clothing. Needless to say, by the time my meal arrived, I was nearly fulfilled on free, free, free.

The spicy pork tacos stared into my eyes as the sweet aroma rose into my snout. Whether by smell, financial responsibility, or compulsion, I forced the trough into my mouth. Yes, the squealing was painful to my ears, but I was uncertain if the noise derived from the pork itself or from some part of me. Clearly, the Race had won, and I had lost. I finished the meal, and like a pig to the slaughter, I rolled to the car. The party relocated to a friend's apartment nearby. En route, I had ample time to ponder the dinner events ... I lost, I lost, I lost.

I cannot presume that each member of our party was as bloated as I, but I can say with some confidence that each partook of the chips and salsa. Sadly, these chips, stained red with each stab into the salsa bowl, were the highlight of the meal. However, the facts aforementioned and herein are trivial compared to the wedges I next attempted to pursue, or the lack thereof, I should say. My teammate and I were full from mediocre Mexican food, and when the night ended, we were empty handed ... without one Trivial Pursuit: 90s Edition wedge.

I suppose the point may not be apparent to the reader, so let me clarify. Feeling so satisfied by free food, I still paid for and completed a healthy-sized meal. I was thus left full on satisfaction and empty on knowledge.

And so I still wander in the maze of life.

Operation

I need money to finance my extracirricular business ventures. Naturally, in times like this, I turn to easy-money Casino Arizona. Has there ever existed a place where money comes so easily? I have serious doubts. The last eight visits have rewarded positive returns.

OperationMo: It appears that a Mormon reality TV show is immient. However, the focus may have to change from the religion itself to a specific individual. Easy, done.

OperationRP: The website that will change the world (at least my world) is nearing completion. Watch out, Nielsen! Your monopoly may soon end.

There are other operations that are just too private to share.

I'm Single And ...

Note: Several production companies (including FreMantle and Pie Town Productions) and TV networks (including Bravo and Oxygen) have sidestepped this Idahoan gem: YSA - a Mormon reality TV show. Retweet, FB post, share, shout from the rooftops, my friends. Mormon reality TV is coming soon. Help make it happen!

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Don’t you think it’s amateur to begin writing with a question? I do. Oh my, those words are frightening, “I do.” No thanks, I don’t. Those of us that choose, “I don’t,” are not the residue or the surplus. We are the not so few, the proud, the single, and in almost every culture, we are growing. A shift from the norm.

This is evident in one culture in particular, Mormons. In fact, there are two distinguished classes of single Mormons. If unmarried and between the ages of 18-30, you are considered a Young Single Adult. If unmarried and over 30 years old, you are considered a Single Adult, young no more. Thanks to Governor Romney, The BOM Musical, and Mr. Dynamite, mainstream Mormonism is quite relevant right now, but being single and Mormon is something entirely different and unique. What is the best way to understand a phenomenon like this? Well, of course, the answer is simple: reality TV.

Think, “Jersey Shore meets Jesus.” For those of you thinking instead, “I’m going to steal this idea and make millions,” you are too late. I’m almost certain someone else will beat you to it. But as a safeguard, I have written and registered a television pitch with the Writer’s Guild of America. So, if you dare to try, I will squash you with my large legal team. FreMantle Media, here I come … or anyone else out there that is willing to take a chance.

If you think Snooki has problems, wait until you see Miss Molly Mormon. Molly may act more appropriately in public, but her private life, her psyche, and her peculiar lifestyle and beliefs will breed hysteria in a home stuffed with sin-free Unmarried Mormons. Beware; whether by mine hand or another, Single Mormon drama will soon invade your home. And so it will come to pass …