Yeah...and good luck with that

I have had a lot of callings in the church over the years. With that said, my latest one leaves me scratching my head (bald).
I remember so vividly the evening the Bishop called Afton and I into his office for "a chat".
"Brother Ard, we would like to call you as the new Young Men's President." I immediately had a flashback of all the great activities I did when I was a youth; scout camp, fishing trips, shooting guns, weeklong horse trips deep into the wilderness, and rock climbing just to name a few. I could hardly keep from jumping out of my seat.
That entire week I was planning our high adventure activities, lessons I was going to use to mold these boys into men, and how I was going to get all these young men out on missions. That next Sunday in the third hour I walked into the room… four adults and two young men. Not two priest, two Aaronic Priesthood holders! Well, the good news was that the other ones were gone that week. When I say the other ones, I mean the other one (and he was 17.99999999 years old). The next week he announced that he had turned 18 and would not be returning. I had one Priest! Well… then I decided I would do a super job with the one I had.
The next week, a few minutes before mutual started, I sat down on the couch next to him so I could learn about his dreams and aspirations, where he was spiritually, and how I could help him achieve greatness.
Me- “Hi there Oliver! How are you doing?”
Oliver- “Ok, I guess”
Me- “So what did you do today?”
Oliver- “……..”
Me- “Ok, so what do you like to do?”
Oliver- “I don’t know”
Me- “That’s cool… that’s cool. Do you like any sports?”
Oliver- “No”
Me- “Hmmm, what do you like to do?”
He then mumbles under his breath something incomprehensible, “mmmmffff mmmfmfffmf fmfmfmfmf”.
Then after a few seconds of silence, while I am trying to figure out what he just said to me, he stands up and walks away. That was the last one on one conversation he and I ever had.
Several months later I have to say that things are going super duper (actually the same as before).
I have decided to start wearing a giant button on my suit that reads “Vote me for sacrament bread bringer”.

Someone, please put me out of my misery...

I recently felt like I needed to help those less fortunate than myself. It’s what gives me real joy. So I decided to join a few friends who were running in a 5K “Fun-Run” before the Portland Rose Festival Starlight Parade. I decided to let my wife and kids come and enjoy the festivities also. They could sit along the parade route and enjoy costumes and activities while I took a leisurely jog through the city. Nothing like a family outing.
Afton dropped me off a block from the starting line where I met some buddies from work. We took a few minutes to stretch and warm up. One of the guys began bragging about how he jogged 5 miles that morning to get in shape. Once we finished stretching, we got down to the real business of making fun of all the schmucks who had gone out and bought professional running shorts with slits up to their ribs.
Next thing we knew, we were called to the starting line. I ended up sandwiched between “Tiny Shorts Tim” and a guy that looked like a sweaty gorilla, only hairier. A mere twenty minutes later, the gun rang out and we were off. Jeffrey, Greg (Mr. morning 5 miler), and I were passing runners left and right. Then about 150 yards into the race, we all had stitches in our sides and decided to ease up a little. We decided not to ease up too much cause we wanted to finish the race in under 20 minutes. About a half mile later, we were all hoping the finish line was coming up soon as we were all running on fumes. This was about the time we lost Greg. This was also when the run stopped being fun and became outright embarrassing, as children and people wearing 100 lb costume started passing us. Jeffrey and I decide we were never going to finish if we didn’t slow the pace. We were no longer worried about proper running form, only if we were going to have a heart attack and die in front of the cheering crowd. We starting to looked like we were running on two broken legs and our arms hanging like noodles (I’m pretty sure this was about the time we got passed by a four year old girl carrying bag and a set of golf clubs). An hour later, Jeffrey and I both crossed the finish line and I slurred out, "Let's...(pant, pant, pant) ...never...(pan(pant, pant, pant) ...do...(pant, pant, pant) ......(pant, pant, pant)...this...(pant, pant, pant)...again."
I hobbled my way back to Afton and she informed me that she had parked “…across the city somewhere…”
“Do you remember what street you parked on Afton?”
“I didn't park in the street, I parked in a parking structure.”
“Do you know where the structure is? I’m really tired and I feel really sick.”
“STOP YELLIING AT ME! I DON’T KNOW WHERE I PARKED!”
We then walked around the city aimlessly looked for a familiar parking structure. The parade is going on at this time, so we had to force our way through crowds everywhere we walk. The kids are yelling “Daddy, put me on your shoulders! I want to see the parade! Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy, can I get some cotton candy?”
Just when I decide to lay down and die, Afton remembers that she parked in a structure next to Banana Republic. With what little I could muster up, I started walking toward it. Two miles later we were standing in front of Banana Republic.
“Ok, where now Afton?”
“I can’t remember?
“What?!?”
“I was in a rush and I didn’t pay attention. THIS IS YOUR FAULT TOO BRANDON!”
If all of my head steam had not been used up running, steam would have shot out of my ears.
“HOW IS THIS MY FAULT?!? I wasn’t even in the car!”
A few minutes later Afton said, “Ohh, there it is.” I stopped sobbing and wiped the tears from my face to limp back to the car.
Nothing like a good ole’ family outing. Let’s do this again next year.
You may be asking “What happened to Greg?” Well, he ended up finish the race long before Jeffrey and me. Of course he cheated and used an ambulance. Apparently, his kidneys were shutting down or some lame excuse like that. After about two week, he returned to work.

Flying the friendly skies...back seat in the middle over the hump...

The title of this blog may not make a lot of sense. Here’s the story-

A long time ago my bother drove around with five friends in his crappy little Nissan Sentra. Every time they would approach the car, they would all shout out "Shotgun". Since there were six of them, that left the other four to fight over who got to ride in the back and who got left behind. One of them got smart (kind of). He found that if he called out “Back seat in the middle over the hump”, he got a ride to wherever they were headed (however uncomfortable).
Well, last week I took a flight to Phoenix for a job interview and I must have called “Back seat in the middle over the hump” and not known it. I not only got the middle seat but I got the chairs that don’t lean back and a 350 lb garbage salesman (deduced from his smell) who just had another major reconstructive surgery (deduced this from the way he was sitting with his legs spread eagle).
Before the plane started to pull away from the gate, the flight attendant went into her cackling about safety. When she started talking about the seat cushions serving as a flotation device, I couldn't help but realize that Jabba the Hut probably floats pretty well. If we really did crash, I could hold onto a little square of foam and flip around like an injured seal, or I could ride the human raft sitting next to me. I could stretch my legs out and get a tan! Then I quickly realized that everyone else would see me sprawled out and climb on board too. It would soon look like a Cuban refugee boat and I would be smashed like a sardine all over again.
Then in a moment of brilliance, I remembered that I was flying to Phoenix and we would not be crashing into any water (only jagged rocks).
So, I rode all the way to Phoenix with my elbows glued to my hips and my knees touching. Quite enjoyable!

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