Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Judge Alex Doesn't Bring Me Flowers Anymore *

*nor did her ever; the title is a metaphor as well as a literary allusion

I've never initiated a break-up of any relationship, whether boyfriend/girlfriend, friend/friend, pet/master, or even doll/owner. I still own every doll I've ever possessed except for the Skipper doll that my brother Matthew threw out the rear passenger window of our car somewhere between Barstow and Bakersfiield because I was sitting on his Mardi Gras beads and told him we'd left them at the hotel in Las Vegas. This all went down during a snowstorm in the Tehachapis, and my mother was going totally Kate Gosselin on us and telling us that we were going to make her drive over a cliff and that Matthew and I would be dead at the ripe old age of nine. (Probably the most memorable part of that whole thing was when CPS showed on our doorstep because a pervert girl who had been peeking over a school bathroom partition told a teacher that I had chains of peculiar round marks all over my upper legs and bottom. The teacher assumed that my parents must have beaten me with a strange and sadistic whip. It took some explaining to convince the CPS investigator that the marks were just from my brother's Mardi Gras beads that I had sat on for almost five hours. The investigator, who obviously had never been a nine-year-old girl with a twin brother, found it virtually impossible to believe that a child would sit on obviously uncomfortable Mardi Gras beads for the better part of five hours just to spite her twin brother.) Every pet we've ever owned has lived with us until it concluded that cohabitating with our nutcase family was simply too difficult a proposition, and chose death as opposed to continued life with us. I'm currently in a not-too-serious boy-girl relationship, but the only one I'd ever been in before was ended abruptly by the boy when he announced in the school cafeteria after my freak track and field accident that he refused to be seen at the prom with a cripple -- me, temporarily, after my freak track and field accident. Any regular friend who is no longer a friend is someone with whom I've lost touch after either she or I moved. There was never any ill will as far as I knew.

It's fitting, then, that even in a Twitter relationshhip, I would be the object of the breakup. I would be the one to be dumped. At this stage of my life, or always, maybe, my destiny is to be the one other people break up with, and not vice versa. Judge Alex Ferrer is breaking up with me.

I watched Judge Alex on television regularly. If someone messed with my DVR or failed to record the program when I was too sick to press a few buttons on a remote control myself, I made life unbearable for those around me. If Judge Alex appeared as a talking head on another program, the family was subjected to that as well. On weekends, I watched old DVRed episodes of Judge Alex's show. My father thought I had gone over the edge to have some sort of full-blown obsession. My mother said that with everything that was going wrong in my life (this was in the aftermath of the break-off of my prom date and shortly after I was released from the hospital following the mean aunt and uncle leaving me to make my way down from the smoky attic and all the way outside by myself when I had multiple fractures and was unable to use crutches) if watching a few more Judge Alex episodes than would be considered healthy by normal standards kept everyone else in the house from having to listen to me sob continually, bring on Judge Alex; everyone else could wear earplugs if the need were to exist.

I tweeted Judge Alex when my Dad snuck into my room on a cold December morning at 5:00 a.m. to inject me with a flu shot while I was still asleep. Judge Alex commiserated when my parents were going to force my brother and me to double date at the prom. He listened when I complained about not being allowed to get my driver's permit when I wanted it. We made it through many rough times together. It wasn't entirely one-sided, either: I commiserated when his wife flooded their living room floor with water from the Sea World-sized aquarium in their common living area. I read of horror stories, such as when the judge's driver drove onto an expressway via the off-ramp. He shared stories of his pets' ailments, and even the unpredictable potty-training quirks, such as when his dog Stella took an Alaska-sized dump on the floor of the veterinarian's waiting room. He shared how he unleashed his R-rated vocabulary when having his hair cut, while unbeknownst to him, his hairstylist's pastor had entered the salon and was watching and listening, wide-eyed, as the TV judge let loose with one F-bomb after another.

Mrs. Ferrer, do not panic. Your husband is not, at least as far as I know, a pedophile. Judge Ferrer, put down the telephone that has the speed dial to your personal attorney. I am not accusing you of impropriety.

I've had my share of mental health issues, but I'm not totally delusional. I remember a song from one of my mom's old Carpenters' CDs about a woman who fell in love with a musician through hearing his music played over the radio, somehow getting the idea that he was singing and playing to her and her alone. ("Don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby? You said you'd be coming back this way again, baby?") I'm not THAT much of a wack job. I always knew that Judge Ferrer was a television personality, and I was a fan, and that he didn't actually know me, nor I him. Social media such as Twitter may give the false impression that a celebrity actually KNOWS his fans, but the reality is that a line must be maintained, and if it is not, problems result for those on both sides. Judge Ferrer was my Twitter friend, not my friend. No real relationship ever existed. I knew it at the time, and I certainly know it now.

Still, even with Twitter friends, there is a poignancy in ending a relationship. It's the end of an era for me. There's a sadness in knowing that Judge Ferrer is not as wise, kind, and perfect as the image I had projected onto him. It did not hit me as hard as as when I learned the truth about Santa, but still, knowing that heroes are human, with human weaknesses, is a painful part of growing up. At the same time, a certain satisfaction comes with knowing it is a sign of growing up.

Judge Ferrer may still reply to one of the Tweets I've left, and I may even answer back, but it's over.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Protocol, Spying on Me Via My Blog, and Judge Judy, Who Expects Us to Lie

My artistically brilliant but controversial plan to be photographed atop the roof of my home, where I once performed basic (level four if you consider them having been successfully executed on the equivalent to a balance beam; level three otherwise) gymnastics skills has been temporarily thwarted because I made the silly mistake of blogging about my plan in advance on this semi-private forum. Any reader who stumbles upon this space is free to read, although he or she would have virtually no insight as to my identity as the author. Still, of the relatively few people in my life who know of the blog's existence, six are presently enclosed in the house with me. Wouldn't it seem logical to ask me of my immediate upcoming plans as opposed to logging onto a computer, locate the website, and reading the blog in its entirety? The thwarter of my plans is bedded down for the night in a room containing a doorway that is no more than two steps (with the thwarter's Bigfoot-like dimensions, he probbaly could've covered the distance in a single stride) from the doorway to the room in which I am settled in for the night.

Had he asked me point-blank of my plans for the upcoming days, I can hardly guarantee that the answer I provided necessarily would have been the proverbial on-a-stack-of-Bibles truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Judge Judith Scheindlin, of "Judge Judy" fame, is fond of declaring that when a teenager's mouth is moving, he or she is lying. I've been taught by my parents that I should not contradict my elders. Judge Schendlin, as an enthusiastic if shrill promoter of Truth, Justice, and The American Way, is an elder whom I should not contradict. In order for my words not to contradict those of her, I must at least occasionally say things that are not true, I'm on shaky ground ever telling the truth, as Judge Scheindline said whenever a teenager's mouth is moving, he or she is lying, but i find it exhausting to speak only in lies. At times, I lack the energy to tell anything but the truth.

I reread the previous two paragraphs. They seem about as clear as chocolate milk and even less pertinent than they ar clear. Still, I like the way they sound, so I'm leaving them in tonight's blog.

The bottom line here is that my uncle, who was literally within easy shouring distance of me and could have asked me anything he wanted to know, chose instead to spy on me by reading my blog. Perhaps he lacks faith in the truthfullness of the answers I would have given. Has it ever occurred to him that no law of nature prevents me from lying in my blog? There's virtually no guarantee that information coming from my blog is any less heavily laden with lies than the information I would provide orally. I figure that Judge Judy's mantra must surely apply to the written words of teenagers as well as to the spoken ones. Most of what appears in my blog happens, for the record, to be mostly the Gospel Truth, but in keeping with Judge Judy's expectations that, as a teenager, when my fingers strike the keys, I'm under some degree of moral obligation at least to suggest that I lie in my blog even if I don't. To fail to do so would be an egregious violation of my parents' directive not to contradict my elders. Following my parents' policy of not contradicting my elders, I am at least a little bit obligated to throw in a few half-truths, mistruths and outright falsehoods in the name of respect and confirmation of the Honorable Judge Judith Scheindlin.

It seems that Uncle disapproves of my plan to climb a tree next to my house in order to scale thr roof and be photographed while standing atop it. This is, again, the same roof on which I successfully completed a front walkover and a cartwheel. All I plan to do for the picture is stand there and perhaps smile. My Uncle read about it in my blog. He should've just asked instead of spying on me. Out of obligation to live up to (or down to, as the case may be) Judge Scheindlin's expectations of me as teenager I probably would have needed to lie to him. At that point, however, he then he would have had justification to consult my blog.

Judge Judy says we lie all the time. Judge Judy is a Pillar of Society, in addition to being a cultural icon. Unless we wish to be deliberately rude by contradicting esteened elders, we must either fail to tell the truth, tell less than the whole truth, or include incidentals and embellishments that are not any part of the truth. If we fail to do this, we are contradicting an esteemed elder American. In previous generations, someone may very well been slapped for contrdicting an elder. It's less clear-cut now, but those of you, who, like me, concern yourselves with being on the correct side of propriety, some distortion of the truth is essential. It's slightly less essential in writing. Still, I consider it rude of my parents' houseguests to consult my blog before speaking with me personally. If they care enough to ask me personally, even if they know they have no greater than a fifty-fifty chance of receiving an answer that is not overstated, understated, embellished, or otherwise distorted, they are then ethicslly and morally in a position to consult my blog for the purpose of spyinh on me. After they've gone through the proper chnnels, i'm not offended by their intrusion.

It's all a matter of protocol. Adults expect us to learn theirs. It would behoove them to learn ours as well.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Home for One Last Visit

I arrived by plane with Pseudorelatives and my mom's best friend to an airport in the largest city near what is soon to be my former home. I didn't toss my cookies even once either at the airport or on the plane. I did take strong anti-nausea medication, but I've taken it everytime I've flown in the past nine month or so, and it hasn't stopped the emesis completely before. This is definite progress.

I have a camera with me so I can photograph pretty much every square foot of the house. It's not that I care all that much now, but I may have questions later, and the pictures may very well come in handy.

I blogged in one of my initial posts about how I once did gymnastics stunts on the roof of the house, which resulted in, among other thing, my being permanently banned from gymnastics. Just for the sake of memories, I want to have a picture of myself on the very top of the roof. My parents would never go along with this, nor would my PseudoUncle. I have to get them all out of the house in daylight hours. I don't yet have a plan. If I don't come up with a plan, I'll have to attempt it when they're all inside, which will be just a bit tricky. I weighed approximately forty-two pounds the last time I was up there, so my footsteps probably sounded as though a cat was walking on the roof. I now weigh roughly eighty-five -- not far from twice the weight I was back then -- and would not flatter myself by thinking anyone would mistake the sound of my footsteps on a roof at my present weight as being those of a cat.

I had forgotten just how perfect my bedroom is. My aunt is supposedly recreating the room in our next home, and the buyers of this home were told that the floor rugs, bedding, and accessories do not come with the house. I shouldn't worry, because if the room is half as cool as this one, it will be great.

If anyone has any great ideas for how to get three adults out of this house at the same time during daylight hours, please respond in the comments section.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Crashing Someone Else's Family Reunion

My PseudoAunt Jillian's family has convened to celebrate the birthday of Tim, her youngest brother. It's turned into a week-long party. The only downside is that no one is passing any booze in my direction. I'm living vicariously through other tipsy people. We're close enough to everything at our hotel that no one needs to drive. I can drive legally, but no one is asking me to drive because everyone but my Uncle Scott has rental cars, which don't allow drivers my age to operate them. My Uncle Scott just says that he likes his car the way it is, without any major dents or deployed airbags. What a buzzkill!

PseudoAunt herself hasn't consumed alcohol becasue she's recovering from a renal calculus procedure. She doesn't drink that much anyway. She went to BYU, and probably gave up the habit of drinking while she ws there. Demerol and Vicodin trump booze any day, apparently. One of PseudoAunt's sisters-in-law is every bit as sober as I am because she's pregnant. She's taking every opportunity to poke fun at the drunks, which is pretty funny, because when she's not pregnant, she's the single largest consumer of alcohol in the entire group. She thinks it doesn't count because she only drinks fine wine. Drunk is drunk, I told her. At least she can stop when she's preggers. She thinks that is proof positive that she doesn't have a problem with alcohol. I say the verdict is not yet in on that one.

I derive a great deal of pleasure from watching people who are under the influence of mood-altering substances. People I ordinarily would barely tolerate are hysterical when they get a little moonshine in their systems. I'm not naming names here.


Thursday, August 25, 2011

Andrew's Sermons While Sober and PseudoAunt's Pontifications While on Vicodin

My PseudoAunt is under the influence of a couple of legally prescribed and medically indicated mind-altering substances. She's been pontificating in a lengthy post to our cyber-friend. I told her twice that her clarity has become seriously compromised by the medications she has taken, and that she might wake up in the morning and wonder why we allowed her to go on and on about whatever topic it is that she's addressing. She's veered sharply with few if any transitions between themes involving Theresa of Judge Alex's fan page (and soon not to be of Judge Alex's page, if Theresa's predictions of her demise on the page are to be believed), hurricanes, the lack of a clear mission in the hearts and minds of many military servicemen and women, and the lack of scruples in certain individuals, who will use the obvious absence of sanity of other posters as a forum for their own jokes.

It's unfortunate that PseudoAunt is not a member of a church where women preach sermons, because all one would need to do would be to give her a Vicodin and perhaps an ibuprofen for good measure, then steer her toward a pulpit, wind her up, and let her talk. Church would instantly become less boring and worth paying attention.

My sort-of-cousin Abdrew is really great at giving bogus sermons. He has several down pat, but he can also wing it on a given topic. He just spouts complete madness for the most part, but he does it in a sort of vitriolic manner that would make most people hearing him wonder if he might be serious in what he says. He talks about how Jesus is opposed to gun control because when people ask the Lord to protect them, they ask as though it is God's total responsibility to take care of everyone without any of us as much as lifting a finger in our own defense. Andrew likens it to the part of the Lord's Prayer that says, "Give us this day our daily bread." We wouldn't pray that prayer but then sit on our butts all day, not working, not growing any food, or at least not collecting cans on the side of the road in order to have sufficient funds to purchase something from the dollar menu at Wendy's. According to Andrew, just as we woulnd't sit idly, praying for food but doing nothing to produce it or to produce the funds that would provide it, we owe it to God and to ourselves to keep AK47's or whatever they're called, in our closets and under our beds to aid God in protecting us. His delivery is virtually flawless.

Andrew was not a great student. He did well in an occasional class, but for the most part, he just took tests but did almost no class assignments except for the ones of which his mother was aware and absolutely insisted that he do. Even with his lack of productivity, most of his teachers liked him because he was funny. Many people strive to be class clowns without the skills to back up the job description. One cannot successfully hold down the position of Class Clown unless the person is genuinely funny. Andrew is genuinely funny. So is PseudoAunt when she's had a Vicodin or two.

PseudoAunt's emails and PMs tonight sounded a lot like Andrew's sermons except that she wasn't attempting to be funny. If it were not a form of drug abuse, someone could give PseudoAunt Vicodin and maybe a benzo of some sort, then push her onto a stage. The smartest thing would be to tell her she was to give a serious academic discourse rather than tell her she was doing stand-up comedy. She'd probably be funnier if she didn't know she was supposed to be funny.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Jessica Beagley Is Convicted; Other News

Sistter Jessica Beagley, LDS mother of six, two of whom included adopted Russion twins, was convicted of the single count of child abuse with which she was charged. She'll be sentenced on Monday. I'm really curious as to what her sentence will be. The maximum is something like a year in jail and a fine. I'm not sure either of these penalties would help her tiny and vulnerable son. I don't know what would help him. What if she were sentenced to taking both little Kristoff and his twin brother each by themselves to do something actually fun once or twice a month, where they could each have her undivided attention, and where she wasn't yelling at some kid to eat his or her oatmeal while ear-splittingly drilling another kid on spelling words? Perhaps that would accomplish more than any monetary fine, jail term, or mandatory community service sentence.

The Russian consulate has supposedly threatened to take the child back to Russia if she was convicted. I'm not at all certin that would be in his best interests, either. Neither the orphanage in which he previously resided nor the parents whose lifestyles sent him to that orphanage in the first place would be much of an improvement over Sister beagley' care. Maybe Sister Beagley just needs help, although the way she sought it - by sending tapes to Dr. Phil as opposed to consulting professionals in her own area who are trained to help with such matters, would cause one to think she was more motivayed by the 7.5 minutess of fame that reality television typically offers these days, as opposed to any actual practical assistance she might have received in dealing with the behavior of a troubled little boy. Regardless of her motivations for anything that she's done, or, for that matter, for what she actually deserves in terms of justice, I hope that the guiding force in all of this is what is best for the poor child already harmed enough in this process.

Mt PseudoAunt Jillian underwent a procedure to pilverize her renal calculus into piecess small enough to pass easily. The procedure appears to have been successful. She's already far more comfortable than she was a day ago. Her parents and brothers andd their families were already here celbrating the birthday of her youngest brother, which is nice for her. My parents came as well, becaus my father is a board-certified anaesthesiologist who provided her general anaesthesia for the procedure.

For the remainder of the week, we'll do fun thing as she getss stronger. My job is mostly to keep an eye on the small children when their parents need me to do so. Yhis is something I enjoy doing. If teaching were not such a miserable profession, with less-than-great pay while legislators who haven't a clue as to how education really happens enact legislation all over the place dictating how the job must be done, I could consider teaching as a profession. As things stand, it's out of the question for me.

Have a pleasant night!

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Sister Jessica Beagley, Stake Primary Presideny Extraordinaire, Gets Her Day (or Week) in Court

The trial of Jessica Beagley, known to many of us because of her infamous appearance on "Dr. Phil," is standing trial this week for what is, I believe, a single count of misdemeanor child abuse. A jury was selected yesterday, and opening arguments took place today. The videotape that was aired on "Dr. Phil" was allegedly shown to the six jurors and two alternates. More videotape allegedly exists and waa supposedly taken into possession by the Anchorage Police Department. It will be interesting to see if the out-takes were even more incriminating than the one we actually saw, or if they were merely bloopers.

In a San Joaquin Valley city where my cousins live, a woman who was a teacher at one of the local high schools shot her husband and daughter-in-law minutes apart while allegedly accusing them of being romantically involved. The woman then ran down the street, at some point losing her clothing. She was found shortly thereafter by the local police department's K-9 unit hiding in a trash can in her birthday suit.

I haven't been to law school yet, but even without benefit of legal education, I can say without equivocation that this is a case in which I would've begged my client to take the best plea offer she could get. She accidentally shot two people accidentally, minutes apart, and then hid with no clothes on in a trash can several blocks from her home? This stretches the bounds of credulity.

You're probably wondering what the hell this case has to do with
Jessica Beagley's trial. The answer is very little, except for one minor point. The teacher, whom my cousin knew by sight but had not taken classes from, was a very frumpy sixty-ish looking woman with frazzled hair, ill-fitting and un-stylish clothing, and comsmetics, when appled at all, done haphazardly and in shades that did not enhance the woman's overall appearance. Prior to her trial, the woman's attorney arranged for some sort of makeover for the woman. In court she looked like a competent, nicely-coiffed, attractive professional. She still lost her case, but I'm sure her makeover at least lengthened the time the jury spent deliberating, and probably resulted in a shorter sentence for her than she otherwise would have received.

Jessica Beagley's haircut looks as though it was done by one of her six childrem -- probably whichever one likes her the least, which would presumably be Kristoff, the hot sauce boy-- using those scrap-booking scissors that have various designs of scalloped edges. She's not inherently an ugly woman, but she would benefit from skillful and subtle application of cosmetics and careful choice of wardrobe for court appearances. Perhaps a pair of glasses that would lend a less harsh look to her appearance could also be of benefit to Sister Beagley. The way she looks is the way many Stake Primary Presidents look, but it's not necessarily an advantageous look when one is on trial for child abuse. That is, it's not advantageous unless Sister Beagely, in being judged by a jury of her peers, was lucky enough to empanel a jury of Stake Primary Presidents. In that case, she'll walk.

I haven't a clue how this case will go, but I suspect it's been won or lost already by either side in jury selection. If I could see the jury, even without knowing a thing about them, I could probably tell you what the outcome of the trial will be.

Finding Wisdom Wherever It Is: Vai Sikahema, My Dad, and Mormonism

Those of you who have read very many of my blogs know that only rarely have I passed on any opportunity to point out oddities in the religious practices in a large number of my relatives. This is not to say that I believe that all members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints
are lacking in sanity, intelligence, or enlightenment. My dad, as a football fan and a former Utah resident when he was in college, reads online editions of some Utah newspapers. One columnist of whose writings he is especially fond is Vai Sikahema.

Vai Sikahema is a former NFL running back and special teams player who spent most of his eight-year professional football career with the Philadelphia Eagles. Sikahema immigrated to the US from Tonga as a young child. He was raised mostly in the Phoenix suburb of Mesa, Arizona. He played football for BYU, with his college football career spanning some of the years my father attended BYU. Following his retirement from football, Vai Sikahema found employment covering sports for an NBC affiliate. I believe he now works for the network, although I'm unsure. He also authors a column, "Vai's View" for The Deseret News.

My dad sent me several columns to read when I was being treated for PTSD at an inpatient facility. I liked much of what Mr. Sikahema had to say, so I began reading the column regularly and also searching the archives for past columns. Sometimes the columns were interesting. At other times they were thought-provoking. Sometimes they were humorous. I didn't and don't always agree with everything Mr. Sikahema writes, as he's a died-in-the-wool Mormon and far more conservative than I. Still, even when I don't agree, I read what he has to say.

One column dealt with modesty in clothing for females. I thought it was a bit sexist in that it addressed the topic of female sports uniforms as being immodest when they're comparable to male sports teams' uniforms in terms of total body coverage. Additionally, he was critical of prom gowns with spaghetti straps or even worse, no straps at all. My prom gown was strapless. In all honesty, I wasn't specifically looking for a strapless prom dress, but the one I liked best in terms of fabric, color, and style happened to be strapless, so I bought and wore it. On the other hand, I don't own a bikini, don't wear shorts that are very short, and don't wear clothing that exposes my midriff. For the most part, even Mr. Sikahema would probably consider my wardrobe essentially modest. For me it's not a huge issue because my parents have never made a big deal out of what kind of swimsuit I wore or the overall amount of coverage most of my clothing provides. For Mr. Sikahema, it apparently is. For the record, if I were to attend an LDS function, I would not be so disrespectful as to wear anything that would be considered offensive there.

I suspect Vai Sikahema would not like me personally, as I am not always respectful of my elders and I occasionally disparage things that he would consider sacred, but he doesn't know me, so it's not even an issue. I read what he writes. If it's in line with my own values and belief system, fine, If it isn't, I chalk it up to cultural difference. Either way, it causes me no pain.

In a particular column he wrote about the diversity of the LDS church in the New Jersey area where his family presently resides. The people and incidents he described were ones I'd truly like to experience, such as an African-American female who sings her testimony during Fast and Testimony meeting, or a child who, when asked after being baptized to go back into the fontto pull the plug and drain it, did a cannonball and drenched the first three rows of attendees at his baptism. I hate to think of what would have happened if I'd done that when I was baptized for the dead at the manti Temple. I probably would not be alive to write this blog if such had been the case. That sort of thing is incredibly foreign to the white-bread Utah-sanitized version of the LDS Church that I've always known.

I would provide a link except that any link I have just goes to The Deseret News site and not directly to Mr. Sikahema's column. Google him sometime. He has interesting ideas to share.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Does living in Utah Cause ADD/ADHD?

Several of my cousins on my dad's side have been diagnosed with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. In the previous generation, on my dad's side at least, none of their parents had similar dignoses. From what my mom has learned just through talking to her brothers- and sisters-in-law, my dads' siblings' spouses didn't, for the most part, have the condition in their families, either. The fact that the disorder didn't exist or at least wasn't diagnosed in the previous generation doesn't make it impossible that the diagnoses in my first cousins are legitimate.

One thing that is interesting to me is that every single case of ADHD that has been diagnosed in my family was diagnosed, and medication was prescribed, when the family was living in Utah. My dad's family is large enough (he's one of ten children surviving to adulthood; my dad and my Uncle Steve each had two children surviving past infancy, but the other siblings produced a minimum of five children each, with the mean of offspring, when my dad and Uncle Steve are excluded, being over eight children. So even though it's only one family, it's a large enough sampling to make at least a few generalizations.

Six of my father's nine siblings live in Utah. Of the forty-four of my first cousins on my father's side who have lived in Utah, twenty-four are male. Of those twenty-four male cousins, fourteen were diagnosed with and medicated for ADHD. This ADHD-diagnosed population of male cousins equals 66.5 % of all male cousins who have lived in The Beehive State. The disgnoses in every case occurred no later than during the child's kindergarten year of school, with almost half occurring prior to kindergarten entrance. My mom thinks it's statistically significant that nearly all of these boys with ADHD diagnoses have birthdays no more than two months prior to the cut-off date for kindergarten entrance, and in each case the parents opted to start the boys in kindergarten rather than holding them out an additional year, which many educated parents will do when their children, particularly boys, are born near the kindergarten cut-off date.

Medicating a child with Ritalin (or similar drugs frequently prescribed for children with ADHD, i.e. Concerta or Adderal) is not the equivalient to giving him arsenic. Still, controversy is associated with the practice.

In some cases, medications to control ADHD are cleaarly indicated. If a child's hyperactivity, inattentiveness, distractibility, or impulsivity is making him a danger to himself or others, or his behavior is interfering with the education of either himself or his classmates, medication for the child is ethically and morally imperative. In less blatant cases, which correctly depicts all of the diagnosed cases of ADHD in my family, the prescribing of medications is arguably less imperative.

If I were on better terms with these relatives, I would give you more information on how the diagnoses were reached. Even without documented information in each case, I can state just from anecdotal information that
neighbors and fellow church members have suggested to my aunts and uncles that their lives might be made easier by taking their sons to particular pediatricians or family practitioners who were or are known to freely prescribe the common medications used to treat ADHD.

Again, it's not as though these boys were given poison. Still, some of them were given powerful medications that they did not need. My parents don't like to give my even acetaminophen or ibuprofen unless I really need it. It's impossible to state unequivocally that no harmful effects whatsoever have occurred through the ingestion of these medications.

Statistically speaking, probably at least one or two of the ADHD diagnoses were bona fide. A lot more, however, were borderline at best. My mother feels that they occurred in my family's case as a result of large families with parents lacking the coping skills to deal with boys who have difficulty not annoying parents and other adults in the confined settings of home during harsh winters and church during three-hour marathon sessions. The condition is exacerbated, my mom believes, by too much time spent watching television and playing video games from early ages.

Obvsiouly ADHD is very real, and if a child is truly suffering from it, medication should not be withheld. Equally obvious to me, however, is that ADHD is sometimes diagnosed with medication prescribed when the condition could be managed by more appropriately spent leisure time and better parenting strategies. My mother, whio is a licensed clinical psychologist, once said that there have been many times when she has observed the dynamics of a family in the waiting room of an office. In some of these cases, she has said, she would have loved to be able to approcah the parents and say something to the effect of, "I've seen a whole lot of children with their parents, and in your case, the problem is not your child; it's you!"

Information I received from one of my readers indicated that today was the court date of Jessica Beagley from Dr. Phil's show, of hot sauce fame, for her charge of child abuse. I'll have to see if any information was released. This isn't entirely pertinent, as she doesn't live in Utah, but I wonder if any of Sister Beagley's children, biological or otherwise, have been diagnosed with ADHD and are taking Ritalin or similar medications.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

To Visit the Old Homestead or Not to Visit?

My brother and I have completed high school and are moving on. My mother has chosen not to remain with the school district for which she has worked for many years. My father's work takes him to several parts of the state, and he doesn't presently work near our home as much as he works in other areas. For this reason and a few others, my parents have chosen to sell the home in which our family has lived for nearly nine years. They will be relocating to the central coast of California. My mother is presently boxing up belongings and preparing for the final move, which will take place in about five weeks.

I have been offered the opportunity to make a final visit to the house that was my home for just over half of my present life, and far longer than I lived in any other home. We moved every few years before settling into the house we are preparing to leave forever. The home of which I speak is filled with memories, some of which are pleasant, but others which are not. I am unsure as to whether a final visit to this home is something I wish to undertake.

It's just a house, for one thing. Wherever we gather as a family when my brother and I are not off on educational pursuits will be our home just as much as the old one was. Once all our furniture and possessions are out of the house, it will mostly be just another house. I'm not saying that in twenty years' time if I happen to be in the area, I won't drive past it to see if it's still standing or to discover what the current owners have or have not done with the place. I just don't know if I need to go inside, sleep there a night or two, and generally pay homage to a place that is just a place.

My PseudoUncle believes that I should go back home at least once before all the furniture has been removed. He thinks I should maybe take some pictures, both inside and outside, of the place. He thinks I should stare up at the roof peak that I once used as a balance beam and take time to give thanks that I'm not a vegetable or a quadriplegic as a result. He thinks I should feel the carpet on the floor where I spent hours immobilized the time I fell trying to get into my wheelchair in the middle of the night when no one could hear me, and remember that I made it through that night. He thinks I should sit on the stair landing where I was stuck because I was too weak to go up or down on my own when my parents were at a party, and remind myself how far I've come and how strong I now am. He thinks I should stare down the window space through which a brick was propelled, waking me from a sound and pain-killer-induced sleep following a physical and sexual assault, and remind myself that nothing will ever come through that window, or likely any other window, at me again. He wants me to walk into my beautiful bedroom that my Godparents had specially created for me after my assault, so I could sleep in a different space than the one containing the window through which the brick was propelled. PseudoUncle says I should crawl into the bed and remember what it was like when I first woke up in that dark room, after having been carried there in my sleep, not having any idea where I was and feeling along walls to find a light switch that would illuminate for me a room as luxurious as a five-star hotel room. He thinks I should feel the textures and smell the smells that will probably be with me for my whole life.

I see his all of his points, but I really don't want to go back there. My five closest friends and most of their families have all moved on. I've already met up with my friends at places closer to where my new residence will be. The old house, and the old town, won't hold much of anything near and dear to me for long. I'm not sure I get the point, since I have no desire to go there. It's almost as though he thinks I need to exorcise demons or something, which will remain forces at work against me if I don't face them down this one last time.

I'm not sure if it's something I really want to do.

And So It Goes

I fell asleep on the sofa very early tonight, and my PseudoUncle carried me to bed. Unfortunately, dear sweet Warren Jeffs decided to pay a visit to me in my dreams again. This one wasn't so violent that I screamed and woke up the neighborhood, which is good, but I'm having trouble going back to sleep. If I'm not asleep an hour after I wake up from a bad dream I have to wake up my PseudoAunt because I will get in trouble if I lie awake all night without telling anyone.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with my surgeon and one with my psychiatrist. I'm not looking forward to either appointment, but at least the most intimate part of my body I'll probably have to display is my mid-section, which isn't all that bad. Where I draw the line is at anything that's covered up in a strapless backless bikini. They practically have to anaesthetize me to look at anything else. This is one of the reasons I think I'm probably not cut out to be a stripper. I will discuss Warren Jeffs with my shrink. I wonder what insights he'll have into the situation. There's not much he can tell me that I don't already know. I'm well aware that Warren jeffs is locked up in texas, that he's not likely to get out anytime soon, and that even if he does escape, he's probably not coming after me. That knowledge still does little to keep the nightmares away.

PseudoAunt's brother, his wife, and their three-year-old daughter are in the area. Today Pseudoaunt, Timmy, and I took the child to the zoo while her parents slept. Her mom is pregnant and her dad is tired from being a first-year-resident. My dad told me that he was never so tired in his life as when he was a first-year resident. It's not quite as brutal for the people currently aerving residencies as it was in the olden days when my dad did his, but it's not good, either. That's one of the reasons I don't want to wake up PseudoAunt -- because it will probably wake up PseudoUncle as well, and he needs his sleep.

I've tried counting sheep, which is stupid. I've tried mentally recreating the periodic table of elements and reciting poetry in my head and solving complex equations. I've even tried singing mormon hymns in my head. if Mormon hymns do not put a person to sleep, that person is in a certified state of wakefulness. Nothing seems to work. If the people in control of my life would just give me one tablet of something that would make me sleep each night, I would not take it unless I needed it. Nine times out of ten I would give the tablet back to them in the morning. They will not do that, however, because a sixteen-year-old, even an intelligent one, is neither mature nor smart enough to know when it is appropriate to take any drug that falls in the class of benzodiazapenes.

So in five minutes I'll wake up my PseudoAunt. She'll wake up my PseudoUncle. Chances are that they'll make so much noise that Timmy will wake up as well. PseudoUncle will give me an Ativan. I could've taken my own Ativan just fine without waking up an entire condo full of people, but that would have made too much sense, apparently.

It's time to wake up the house and start the Ativan party.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Home Again

After a brief stay at the home of a family friend, I'm back in my temporary home with my pseudoaunt and pseudouncle. We had an interesting experience with dry erase markers. I won't go into the entire drawn-out chronology of events, but the three of us present who are not medical doctors were using the surface of the table to solve math problems with dry-erase markerss. Then the  MD came home. The MD among us was at first angry -- at me, predictably; I always get the blame for everything -- for writing on his nearly new table. We showed him that they were dry erase markers that wipe off smooth and hard surfaces. The MD proceeded to write on the matte wallpaper with the markers. The giant happy face he drew quite predictably did not come of when wiped when a napkin or cloth. Don't assume your doctors are geniuses, ladies and gentlemen.

I decided to perform a mizvah and get the giant orange happy face that rsembled a jack-o-lantern off the dining area wall. A large portion of the pseudorelatives' security deposit was riding on it. It isn't easy, but with the right chemicals and a lot of elbow grease, the wall looked like it looked before pseudouncle graced it with his kindergarten-style artwork. I explained that most people draw pictures on paper, and then they hang the pictures on theit walls if they're suitably satisfied with  the results. If he writes or colors on the wall again, I might not be so lucky in terms of my ability to undo the damage.

I'm going back to physical therapy tomorrow with the stipulation that there be NO MASSAGES. Who in the would would attempt a deep-tissue massage on a person with no deep tissues of which to speak?

I had a bad dram about Warren Jeffs last night. I dreamed I was in one of those pastel dresses that all the girls and women of the FLDS wear, and I was pushed into the temple. I tried to get out but all the doors and windows were locked. Warren was searcing for me, and I was hiding. He kept calling out, "I know where all the hiding places are in this temple because I designed it. You'll never get away. " I woke up screaming. My dad's friend gave me medication to slow my heart rate and stayed in the room until I went back to sleep. I hope I don't have another dream like it tonight because I don't want to wake up the pseudorelatives.

Pseudoaunt's brother Timmy knows were there's a cool rope swing that goes over a canyon. We're trying it out tomorrow.

My brother is still without a woman and may be for quite some time. It's one of the hazards of being a sixteen-year-old college freshman. If he wanted to go back and hang out at a high school campus, he'd probably have the women crawling all over him, but at  university, it's just not going to happen  anytime soon.

toki sio

Saturday, August 6, 2011

I Need Help

I texted my Uncle Scott at work to tell him that I need help. He texted me back that he's greatly relieved that I'm finally willing to admit I have a problem and that the first step in getting better is acknowledging that one has a problem. Uncle Scott can't hit me because I'm still bruised from my physical therapy massage, so I will say STFU!!! I DON'T need help for myself. DUH! I need it for my brother.

My brother's girlfriend just broke up with him. He's devastated. It doesn't matter to him that the relationship was going absolutely nowhere fast and was doomed from the start. His IQ is probably twice what hers is, and his is nothing about which to boast. He's going to a major university next year. She graduated after summer school (after four years of high school, not early) and is on a wait list for some school that's supposed to teach her to do nails. She wasn't even accepted outright to nail school! She's over eighteen. He's sixteen-and-one-half, as am I. (DUH! We're twins!) That means if the two of them were to boink -- which I'm not advocating -- it would make her a sex offender, hardly better than the King of All Sex Offenders, Warren Jeffs himself. And my brother is sad that this girl wants him out of her life. Go figure.

Still, he's my younger brother (by about thirty seconds), and it is my duty to cheer him up when he is heartbroken. He would do the same for me. Actually, he'd probably beat up the guy who broke up with me, or at least arrange to have him beaned in baseball practice. The girl is not a baseball player. Furthermore, she's five-seven and probably weighs one- hundred-twenty-five at least. I'm almost five-one, and my weight is up to a whopping eighty-three following my pneumonia and appendectomy. I wouldn't stand a chance against my brother's former girlfriend in a physical battle even if I wanted to settle the score in that way, which I don't.

The breakup didn't occur in person. My brother is at some sort of baseball camp that involves traveling around the western states. The former woman of his dreams texted him with the news. He then went out and walked twelve batters, not to mention the three he hit, in last night's game. I told him that at least his part of the game was a no-hitter (no batter can hit the ball if the pitcher either hits him first or throws the ball totally out of his reach) and that it was a compliment that the manager left him in long enough to do so much damage. My dad texted me to tell me that my comments intended to console my brother were pejorative. Anyway, he won't have another start for probably three days. I must get him out of this slump before he takes the mound again.

My Aunt Jillian's brother Timmy, who is typically full of ideas (none of them good, by the way), thinks we should get the girl to take my brother back. He wanted to call that radio program host Delilah and pretend to be my brother. He was going to pour his heart out to Delilah and dedicate some really charged song to the girl. I told Timmy it would never work. Besides, I'm pretty sure those calls on Delilah are fakes anyway. No one in real life could or would call in saying such sappy stuff.

What my brother needs is a new girl, preferably one with an IQ in the average range. It would be best if the girl were based somewhere in the southern California area, since my borther's university of attendance is in that region. If anyone has any good candidates to recommend, please give me a heads up.

The doctor who gave me difficulty is now getting what he deserves. A nurse overheard my earlier conversation with him. He is now being called "Warren Jeffs" by most of the hospital staff. At times Karma can be a female dog.

Friday, August 5, 2011

How to Lose Friends and Alienate People

My blog title is actually the title of an old book. The book was a parody of the more popular How to Win Friends and Influence People. My uncle tells me that though it is several decades old, I could have authored the book (How to Lose Friends and Alienate People, not the other book). Why would he say such a thing? He obviously would have a reason, but probably not a very good one. In this particular case, it seems that I insulted a doctor at his hospital by telling the man that he bears a remarkable physical resemblance to Warren Jeffs. Who would have thought that a mere observation of a possible physical resemblance between the doctor in question and a public figure would create such controversy? I didn't suggest that the man has seventy-nine wives or engages in sex with twelve- year-olds. I merely verbalized my highly subjective observation that the man bears a noticeable likeness to the LDS Prophet-in-Chief. Who would've guessed that it was such a hot-button topic? While I don't find Warren Jeffs particularly attractive (I described him earlier as looking somewhat corpse-like), but then again, he's not exactly the Elephant Man or Camilla Parker Bowles. I didn't realize I was disgracing the entire family by saying that.

Some things we can say may seem fairly benign, while those on the receiving end of our words inevitably take offense. Comments pertaining to weight, even when intended to be compliments, must be worded carefully. "You look thin in that outfit" will usually be taken to mean, "It's obviously an optical illusion brought about by the particular outfit you're wearing, because in anything else you look like the 'before' picture in a SlimFast ad." Likwise, if one observes, "You cut [or coloured] your hair" to someone and then says nothing else about it, it's obvious that the person making the statement is not fond of the other person's new look. If a person undergoes cosmetic surgery, should one comment on it? It would seem that the recipient of a cosmetic procedure obviously was dissatisfied with his or her pre-procedural appearance, or else he or she would not have undetaken the discomfort and the expense to make the change or changes. Strangely enough, people often do not appreciate having attention called to a cosmetic surgical procedure recently undergone. I suppose they want others to pretend they've always looked the way they look now. If it's a cosmetic procedure gone wrong, such is all the more true. If a woman's lips look like doughnuts with too much yeast, don't mention it. If a man had a bad hair transplant, just let it go unless he says something first; then you can either lie or commiserate based on your reading of the situation.

I have trouble with these issues at times. I was taught to be honest and to tell the truth. My uncle said that having been taught to tell the truth doesn't give one license to hurl any insult that pops into my mind at my intended victim. I will admit that I was not entirely pleased with the doctor I suggested bears an uncanny resemblance to Warren Jeffs. He had just told my uncle that if I don't drink the nutritional supplements he prescribed, my computer and cell phone should be taken away, along with television and any other privileges I have. (The fascists think they're being humanitarians because they're allowing me to breathe unimpeded.) What did he expect me to say, that he looks like Jake Gyllenhall? People need to be realistic.

I was just talking to an aunt (not the one married to the dictator uncle) and was explaining my predicament. She laughed and said it may be genetic, because my mom used to make teachers and other authority figures angry by suggeting that they looked like Jim Jones, Charles Manson, or Gary Gilmore. If it was a female whose skin she wished to get under, she'd say the person looked like either Billie Jean King. I personally don't think Billie Jean is all that ugly, or especially wasn't in my mom's day, but whatever floated her boat is fine with me. I'll share with my uncle that it's not my fault that I'm blunt to the point of rudeness; it's genetic as well as environmental. I was both spawned and raised by a woman with the social skills of Chelsea Handler or Joan Rivers.

Furthermore, I happen to know that my uncle is not as incensed as he pretends to be. He sometimes speaks too loudly when he is talking about me to his wife, and I hear what he says without even trying to eavesdrop. He and his wife were laughing hysterically about the incident with the facist doctor, and my aunt agreed that, now that it's been mentioned, she, too can see the resemblance between the doctor in question and Prophet Jeffs.

In order to help others avoid the pitfalls into which I've become entrapped, I will give you two lists.

This is a list of people to which others will be flattered by any suggested physical resemblance: Denzell Washington (if the person is not a racist), Alex Ferrer (if the person is not my Uncle Jerry), Jake Gyllenhall, Jesse Spencer, the guy who plays Dr. Wilson on House (sorry; I can't recall his name), Ryan Reynolds, Brad Pitt, Jon Stewart, Jay Z, Ben Affleck, President Obama, the good-looking guy from Glee,
Neil Patrick Harris (unless you're a homophobe), George Clooney, Will Swenson, Jonathan Bennett, Hugh Jackman, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Lopez, Reese Witherspoon, Stephanie March, Gwyneth Paltrow, Halle Berry, the Duchess of Chadwick, Pippa Middleton, Natalie Portman, or Alexis Bledel.

This is a list of people to which many people would be affronted by the suggestion of a resemblance: Warren Jeffs (apparently), Jim Jones, David Koresh, Charles Manson, Gary Gilmore, Carrot Top, Linda Tripp, Debbie Rowe, Camilla Parker-Bowles, Guy Fieri, Peewee Herman [Paul Reubens?], the Elephant Man, Nancy Grace, Dick Cheney, Rush Limbaugh, Larry King, or Donald Trump.

My lists are merely advisory. If you perceive a resemblance between a private citizen and anyone on either list, make a verbal note of it at your own risk.

May peace be with you, because it's probably not going to be with me, and it may as well be with someone.

P.S. Does anyone really care in the least whether or not the probation Casey Anthony served in jail is reccognized as valid? Does anyone care where she is right now?

Does anyone care in the least about any of the Kardashians besides just wishing they would all go away?

Warren Jeffs, Mental Health, PTSD

In what must have come as a surprise to very few, Warren Jeffs was convicted of raping two underage girls. He presumably himself raped or had a hand in arranging similar fates for many more than just two underaged girls. I can't relate to this at all on a personal level. All the adults significant in my life have been very protective of my sexuality, or lack of it, to the extent that there were discussions of parts of the trial I was not able to watch because someone thought it might be upsetting to me, despite the fact that at just over sixteen-and-a-half, I'm less than half a year away from being able to watch R-rated movies. Where were the vigilant people in these girls' (and boys'; being kicked out of one's home and even one's community as early as the age of thirteen is not exactly a walk in the park, either) lives, and now what's going to be done about it.

In addition to a situation I experienced which culminated in my having to crawl from the third floor of a smoky home in a semi-capacitated state at best, I had a single sexual encounter which was, thank God, interrrupted before it reached the point of either forced oral sex or forced intercourse. I underwent many months of relatively intense therapy because of this assault. While there was somewhat graphic violence in my encounter, it was ONE PHYSICAL AND SEXUAL ASSAULT and five days of neglected care in an entire lifetime of otherwise being protected from anything bad. What my situation supported was the hypothesis that a parents can do almost everything right for a kid's entire lifetime, yet one or two really traumatic events can enter the picture and render a young person frantically clinging to what little sanity she has left.

A study was conducted on this very topic when a busload of children and their bus driver from Chowchilla, California, was overtaken, and the children and driver transported in inhumane conditions to a remote underground location. The story had a happy ending when the children and their driver dug their way out of their underground tomb. Someone wanted to know if the PTSD from that single experience could undo a lifetime of normalcy and good parenting. The therapist, whose name was, I think, Lenore Terr, found in her study that, for the most part, one sufficiently devastating event in a child's life could override everything normal and predictable that had happened in those children's lifetimes. Terr concluded that yes, it could. Her conclusions came as a surprise to the mental health field at the time.

But if one icident can bring such devastation to a kid's life, what happens to a child whose entire life is what I would consider devastation. The FLDS employed waterboarding-like techniqes in order to teach babies not to cry and, perhaps more important, to fear their fathers from an such early age that they don't even remember why it is that they fear their fathers. Physical punishment that reached the legal definition of abuse was the norm in the fLDS culture. Children saw their sisters married off at ages where they should possibly have been anticipating attending a first school dance at most. The same children saw their brothers banished from the home and community at ages when they were far too young to be expected to fend for themsleves. Those children knew that, depending upon their gender, one fate or the other would be theirs eventually. Even if the children are rescued after the fact, and chances ar that not all will be, how do they rebound from this hellish life? Can even the ones who are reached be helped?

Just how far should theumbrella of fredom of religion extend to protect people and allow them to live in such a manner? Is there a way to allow the adults in groups such as the FLDS to live according to the dictates of their consciences without involving the children? I don't really see how?

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Physical Therapy Is Getting In the Way of My Keeping Up With the Warren Jeffs Trial

If anyone out there is looking for a career change and doesn't mind putting in a few more years in college, I have a field to recommend: physical therapy. My reason is that basically everyone recovering from any illness or injury is now being referred for physical therapy. I had pneumonia and a ruptured appendix. People have been recovering from such ailments for the better part of a century, and those who have succesfully navigated their way back from death's door (it was a little trickier a few years ago when surgical techniques were not so refined and antibiotics were not so plentiful) generally have done so without the benefit of a physical therapist's assistance.

After I had surgery, I stayed in the hospital for more than a week. Then I came home (to a hotel in this area) to be babysat by my parents for a week while I gradually regained strength. That's the way it's always been done. In this enlightened age, however, the medical profession now knows that a post-pneumonia and post-surgery patient can recovery his or her strength oh so much more efficiently with the involvement of physical therapy. This s a win/win proposition for the physical therapists who work with me. I say this not because I am such a delightful patient, which I am, but that is beside the point, but because I am going to get well and regain my strength no matter what methods the physical therapists do or do not use. They could have me draw pictures with my toes in peanut butter on the floor, or spit chocolate milk through a straw, or just stare at the freckled assistant and try to count his freckles, as their sole methods of physical therapy and I would still regain my strength. It takes a little longer, but it's much like curing a mosquito bite or an uncomplicated case of hiccups: it's going to get better as long as you do nothing counterproductive. I'm their dream patient.

Anyway, Pseudoaunt was kind enough to record the coverage of Warren's trial. The coverage actually consists of the talking heads talking about what they saw and heard in the courtroom, as no live audio or video feed is allowed. As much as I'd love to see and hear it, the judge was probably wise not to allow Warren any more of a forum than he already has. I can't imagine how he'd be acting if he knew he had a live nationwide audience. I loved the way the judge sent the jury out while he rambled on and on about his right to religious freedom. Then, after an hour, she basically said, "OK. Now that we've heard this argument, anytime you wish to object on these grounds, just say, 'Objective Number One.' We've already heard all about it, so we'll know exactly what you're talking about. You don't need to go through the entire schpiel again." Brilliant!

A tape was played today in which Warren was instructing at least one underage female in specific instructions for meeting his needs. He supposedly went so far as to say what body parts were to be shaved, and exactly how. Jeffs' megalomania seems to be manifested in part in a bizarre need to immortalize everything he says and does with recordings, which is something that ultimately will contribute greatly to his undoing. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but an audio recording has to be worth at least nine hundred. The reporters said the directions Warren gave were too graphic and explicit for them to repeat on air.

My PseudoAunt is trying to monitor what I'm watching because she doesn't want me to start having Warren Jeffs dreams. She's particularly worried about the audiotape of the women restraining the twelve-year-old on the temple bed while Warren has his way with her. While the tape probably won't be aired on TV, even the discussion of it may be graphic. I'll go along with her wishes because I don't particularly want to have Warren Jeffs nightmares.

I may have a polygamy party, where everyone dresses up as a polyg or as a character in the trial if one cannot stomach being a polygamist. Pseudoaunt was experimenting with her hair, and she eventually achieved the signature FLDS forehead flip. That is the fricking ugliest hairstyle I've ever seen, and that includes the way Nick Nolte's hair looked in his mugshot, or the way Charles Manson's hair always looks. I'll have her do my hair that way as well.

If you're feeling under the weather, perhaps you are in need of physical therapy. If you need a new career, consider physical therapy. Physical therapy is the way of the future!