You can't imagine how much giddy joy rearranging the letters on the mantle provides me. I look forward to this every Christmas.

This particular set of mantle letters is new this year, a gift from my mother. In the past, I have changed cheerful and reverent greetings into things like "A GREENNESS GOT SIS", "CRAM THIS", "LEON", "MACS SHIRT", and "SMITHMAS CRYER" (sometimes you have to hide the extra letters).

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OK, I guess I've been living in a bubble until now. A friend let me pirate loaned me a copy of John Prine; Great Days Anthology.

Not only had I never heard a single song of his, I admit to having never even heard of John Prine. It seems he's a pretty big deal though. I mean, he has an anthology and everything.

If you get a chance check his stuff out. It's nostalgic and easy to listen to.

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Five Thanksgiving Days ago, Donna and I had a huge fight about money. I had, to that point, just let her manage our finances without much interference on my part. In fact, I had little idea about what our financial picture even looked like. That week I had gotten an unexpected call on my cell phone from a creditor.

"Mr. Dunn, we're calling about your account. You are seriously past due and we need a payment today."

"You'll need to talk to my wife, she manages our finances..."

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My brother-in-law is all set to come home from his two-year Mormon mission. Though he's not sure what lay in store for him as far as school, romance and employment are concerned, he has no fear.

...the way that I look at it if I do the seminry answers (read, pray, go to church)things in the end will work out as long as I do my part. I am also hoping that my billionair mission presidant will give my a few grand, but will see.

I'm afraid, my dear brother, it takes a hell of a lot more than that to get through life. For example, learning to spell big words like, "seminary", "billionaire", "president", "me" and "we'll". No amount of praying will help you with that.

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Is there a word or term that describes the specific irony of widowing your wife and orphaning your children while doing something you are only doing for them in the first place? Something like say... falling off a ladder with a cardboard box full of extension cords while hanging Christmas lights?

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If there were ever any doubt, here's proof that Donna truly has my wiener on a platter.

This is also one of those rare occasions where she ended up putting it in her buns AND her mouth. She also usually likes more than one, this was no exception.

Just don't tell her there's beer in them thar wieners.

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Donna and I scored some free tickets to a sporting event featuring our local National Basketball Association franchise at the now-most-poorly-named-arena-in-the-entire-world. The benefactor of the tickets also hooked us up with some food vouchers, redeemable at any of the concessions in the building.

Living on the edge as we do, we instinctively went for oriental-ish food. Rice and noodle bowls with less-than-authentically-prepared pork bits and chicken gristle. Mmm meat parts.

Since this is a first-class establishment, a fortune cookie was naturally included in the swanky plastic cutlery pack. At the end of our meal, which we ate off our laps at our seats (elevation 8947'), we traded fortune cookies, as is our custom.

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I know you're all a little tired of me bitching about Donna's garments. Too bad. This is my angst and I'll bitch if I want to.

I was surprised to wake up Sunday morning to the sound of the television. Not because the television on Sunday is so unusual but because usually I am awakened by the sound of Donna rushing around the house trying to get the kids out the door for 9 AM church. Instead, Donna was still sitting in bed beside me still wearing the boy-shorts and push-up she had come to bed in the night before.

I didn't say a word about it. After all, I wasn't complaining. Much to my surprise, after her shower a few minutes later, she changed into casual clothes. She gave no indication that she intended to go to church at all. Even more surprising... I could see a panty line. She wasn't wearing her garments while the sun was out.

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My mother has a co-worker whose wife had a seizure and stopped breathing while 35 weeks pregnant almost 5 years ago. The baby was delivered in an emergency c-section and the wife, who was without oxygen for more that 20 minutes, has been in a coma ever since. Last week, her respirator was no longer effectively breathing for her and the decision was made to remove her from the machines which were now failing to keep her alive.

Guess what happened? Her lungs began functioning on their own and she regained consciousness. She can now sit up and drool and blink on her own. Lucky her. She suffered massive brain damage and now relies on her family for much more than she has for the last half-decade. She will never walk and never talk again. She may not even be aware that she is a person.

As my mother recounted this story to me, with a tone that suggested that God had his hand in the events, I remembered a dream I had a few nights earlier. I hadn't recalled anything about the dream until she reminded me so I knew my thoughts were truly being led by The Spirit^tm.

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As the parents of four daughters (pick yourselves up, you heard me right... try to keep the karma comments to a minimum) Donna and I decided early on that we would need a less clinical term when referring to... ahem... a girl's... umm... junk. I mean, I'm fairly certain you can't even say the word "vagina" within 100 feet of an open diaper in Utah. Something to do with the Utah Clean Mouth Act or whatever.

My sister-in-law (who I would just as soon karate-chop in the throat as talk to) uses the term "Vahgeegee". I think that might actually be a character from the Book of Mormon, so we opted against that. Plus, you sound like a french interior decorator when you say it.

We instead opted for "ToTo" (Hurry boy she's waiting there for you...). I still feel like an idiot saying it but it seems better than sounding like my high school health teacher for some reason.

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Sometime around midnight Donna and I heard a voice from the doorway of our bedroom, "Mom... Dad... hey..."

It was our twelve-year-old daughter, Megan. We hadn't noticed her come into the room as I had been busy under the covers gently, yet firmly pressure testing Donna's bartholin's glands and she was preoccupied moaning and begging me to, and I quote, "hurry up and stick it in [her]". One thing we were certain of is that Megan had been standing there a little longer than any of us would have liked.

"Get the hell out of here!" I instantly reacted.

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Todd had been tired all week. His normally refreshing walk home from work had been leaving him exhausted lately. He was sure he was getting the flu. After a nap on the couch that afternoon he asked his brother to give him a lift to the store from some cold medicine.

Somewhere between the car and the pharmacy Todd stopped breathing. Todd's esophagus had become completely blocked by a tumor that had been growing for quite some time now. Emergency workers managed to get him intubated and rushed him to the hospital. Doctors would soon learn that, in addition to this nearly-always-fatal cancer, Todd had leukemia. Two for the price of one. Lucky.

Sometime before his first of several big operations, my brother Geoffrey and I visited Todd. The room was dark and Todd had machines to breathe, eat, and even circulate blood for him. We stayed for a few minutes and gave our best wishes but, really, the situation was pretty grave and Todd was totally unable to speak.

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I have plenty to say today but I can't think of jack shit that wouldn't just be a rehash of the same stuff I already beat you over the head with. You know, "I hate my wife's underwear... I love beer and I miss it like a lost loved one... I'm a complete fuck up but love me anyway because I make you laugh".

I figured instead I could give you an insight into how I write.

First, I pick a general topic from the 14 you see in the "Topics" menu. (Misc and Photos aren't really topics of their own) I do this to keep my posts from degrading into the mundane, "Here are some song lyrics that I heard on the radio today that really made me feel like someone understands me", or "I don't know what to write so I'll just tell you that I am having a really boring day", or "I'm too shallow to think of anything new so here's a tutorial on blog writing".

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At my office, in the break room, there is a calendar. The calendar is there for employees to coordinate vacation days. The reason for this is obvious. If, through some unfortunate coincidence, all the women in the the office were off at the same time there would be no one to sit around and talk about how stupid everyone else is. We can't have that.

During one of my several daily visits to the Fridge Full Of Free Diet Dr. Pepper yesterday I saw a new entry on the calendar. It seems we may have a new oriental prostitute, soliciting hand jobs, on staff. Maybe on Monday I'll wear my dress greens and I'm sure she ruv me rong time.

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I want to be careful about what I say about this next topic. Not because I worry about the sensibilities of my audience. My reservations stem from the fact that The Jinx is a scientifically proven phenomenon. At least it is if you apply the same "count the hits, ignore the misses" methodology known to work so effectively on the everyday study of prayer, lucky numbers and priesthood blessings.

Seriously though, I don't want to fuck this up. Last night was night four in a row of panties and bra for Donna. Usually she breaks out the civvies only for rare and special occasions like say, when she needs new tires on the van. And while it is true that I find it impossible to resist her advances when she's all scantily clad like that, last night she was not giving the steal home sign. She curled up in bed in her matching boy shorts and push-up bra and said, "I'm really beat from the long day I had. Cuddle close till I go to sleep."

Now, I'm certain that the next time I piss her off enough to deserve an expression of rejections, she'll use her garments to ward me off. I'll just have to try extra hard to not do that. Remind me not to mention beer or anything.

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There's an old set of my scriptures sitting on the end table next to the couch in the family room of my grandparent's vacation home. I'm not sure exactly how they ended up there but last time Donna, the kids and I were up there I saw them sitting there with my full name stamped in gilded letters on the leather cover.

My grandmother had given them to me as a gift when I started high school. The pages are worn and heavily marked. I had once toted this book to and from school every day and to church every Sunday.

One Sunday, I visited the LDS ward I lived in before high school. As my friend Aaron, who still lived in the ward, and I waited for Priesthood meeting to start, Aaron took my scriptures and jotted a note on the inside cover. He then took a roll of clear tape from his jacket pocket and stuck a piece over his inscription, preserving the words for eternity.

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Some time ago I discovered the beauty of coffee in my life. I had always loved the smell but was sure I would share a busbench in hell with Richard Nixon if I ever dared drink it. Those days of ridiculous guilt about everyday normalcies are (I like to pretend) pretty well behind me. Donna, though she tolerates my Starbuck's excursions, would flip her lid if I were to actually buy a coffee pot and put it in our kitchen.

I have solved my at-home coffee problem. The Back-to-Basics Coco Latte Express ($19.99 at Target) makes a perfect latte. It is small, inconspicuous and also makes a mean hot chocolate, which is perfect because, as every Mormon knows, cocoa is not actually a hot drink. This makes it acceptable enough, I guess.

Each morning I pour milk in the mug, spoon in some instant coffee and switch the contraption on. 3 minutes later I have a pretty damn decent latte. Of course, Starbuck's it isn't. Four bucks it isn't either. For a change I can use chocolate milk or powdered cocoa mix along with the coffee. I sometimes add a sugar-free vanilla syrup for an added twist.

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I have a personal chef. She is a fabulous chef. So good, in fact, that I would never want to eat a meal prepared by another. The food is the greatest.

There are some problems with my chef though. I have a favorite desert, Bananas Foster. My chef simply won't prepare it for me. No matter how much I ask, beg, suggest, coerce or plead. No Bananas Foster for me.

I have asked if she has an issue with Bananas Foster and she claims that she does not. I asked once if she doesn't like preparing the dish. "Does it make you gag?" Nope. She just won't make it.

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Gordon B. Hinckley today became the oldest man ever to be President of the LDS Church. He is 96 years and 132 days old. At the time of his death, Joseph Smith, Jr. was only 38 years old. Brigham Young was a spry 43 when he assumed the job of top dog a few weeks later. John Taylor, Young's successor was 72, the first of the geezer parade.

You see, when Brigham became church president he set into motion what I call "The Yellowstone Syndrome: A System Of Geezers". His assention established the practice of making the senior Apostle the next church president. It also made it so that the LDS Church will never again be led by a young, vibrant man. They will now, instead, be forever helmed by old men.

Joseph Smith and Brigham Young were different kinds of men entirely from Gordon B. Hinckley. Much if this is because of their relative youth. Those men had an appeal and charisma an older man can never have. They also governed the church in a way a much older man can't.

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Something happened yesterday that never happens. Donna and I found ourselves unexpectedly alone in the house. The kids were, one minute, clamoring about the house, the very next they all miraculously were gone. The stars aligned and everyone else was somewhere else doing something else.

Everyone knows these are the kinds of moments you take advantage of. (Of which you take advantage?) This is like being on vacation where you set aside your inhibitions and lounge around in your swimsuit. These are the times you lock the doors, take the phone off the hook and have sex on the kitchen table with Quiet Riot playing on the stereo.

I guess Donna didn't have the same impression of the situation I had. Her big idea was to take this chance to visit her mother so we could give her the pictures I took at her Aunt Jane's funeral. Wow. Hot.

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If you're like me, and I pray to Gawd that you're not, you've been called an anti-Mormon. I was told recently that this site is "anti-everything I hold dear" by a friend who recently visited.

I am not anti-Mormon. I do not hate Mormons nor do I seek to destroy the faith of those who place theirs in Mormonism. What I aim to do here is relate my experiences with being raised Mormon and living with and around Mormons. I also wouldn't mind selling a few shirts.

I make no claim that my experiences or observations are typical of anyone else's. I make no claim to speak for any group. I just speak my mind.

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