Shoulder to Cry On

This week on the Island of Misfit Toys, the Gospel Doctrine lesson was all about Job. It's too bad that we get to spend only one week, one too-brief 40-minute class period on Job and his eponymous book in the Old Testament, because there are so many lessons we can learn from both him and from the people who were close to him.

I had a boil once when I was a eight or nine years old, and it occurred "across the pond" when we were on one of my family's and my trips to England to visit my mom's family. I remember my Aunt Mary, one of the greatest, kindest souls ever to walk this Earth, applying a poultice for multiple nights to help treat it and to bring down the swelling. She always knew what to do.

I can't even imagine what it would have been like to be covered head to toe with boils. And yet, somehow, Job lived to tell the tale.

Specifically, however, tonight I'm not thinking of Job but of the three friends, Bildad, Eliphaz, and Zophar, who came to comfort him when he was in the middle of his afflictions. Upon arriving to visit their old friend, "they sat down with him upon the ground seven days and seven nights, and none spake a word unto him: for they saw that his grief was very great" (Job 2:13).

Later on, of course, as those who are familiar with the story will remember, they made the mistake of berating him for what they perceived to be his sins or errors, and they were chastised for it. Nevertheless, I try to give these three men the benefit of the doubt. They were human, as we all are, and I believe that the simple act of keeping him company for that entire week, just being there with their friend when he needed them, yet not saying a word, did far more good than anything else they could have done at any point during Job's misfortunes.

Thus it is when we mourn, too. A friend (#1) of mine who lost his father far too soon essentially said the same thing recently when he spoke of another friend (#2) of ours, who lost his mother to cancer. Friend #2 was there for Friend #1. He didn't try to console him or to say it would be all right; he was just there, spending time as a friend, to let him know someone cared.

Years ago, Angry White Mom witnessed the slow, painful death of a friend of hers to a debilitating illness, her body literally wasting away until she passed from this life. The night of the friend's funeral, AWM saw me in the kitchen and, needing the same comfort, I suppose, that Job and Friend #1 sought, she simultaneously burst into tears and hugged me tightly, not letting go for what seemed like at least 10 minutes.

Sometimes, you literally need a shoulder to cry on. I'm grateful to have shared that moment with you, Mom. Mainly, I realize I got to share it with her because I was there. It's something I'll never, ever forget, a memory I will always cherish.

Family and friends reading this, I hope you'll consider me "there" for you if you ever need it. That goes for both my recent post about those who struggle with depression, as well as with any other problem or worry under the sun.

I also don't get many hugs like that these days, but I'm willing to give if the need arises.

Ladies especially.

Dog Daze

Thanks to all of you—all one of you—who responded to the Angry White Loner's latest post. He didn't receive any questions to base any future blog posts upon, so he supposes at this point that he'll just have to continue to come up with his own dithering ramblings about life, the universe, and everything for the time being.

The AWL has taken the past couple of weeks off from blogging—not because of the aforementioned fact of not getting any responses, but because he's needed some time to think. About a lot of things. It's been his longest gap between new posts since he began this blog a year-and-a-half ago.

It's the dog days of summer right now. I do not know if there is a specific timeframe to them. Personally, I consider it to fall somewhere between the end of Pioneer Day in July and Labor Day in early September. In other words, it's basically the entire month of August.

No offense intended to those of you who get excited for August, for whatever reason. But I just can't. It's my least favorite month of the year. The only good thing about it for me is that autumn is right around the corner.

I was all ready to post something new earlier this week, and then Robin Williams's suicide happened. I read the news online Monday evening, and I was crushed. Like many of you, I spent several days reading various blog posts and retrospectives about the life of one of the most unique talents we've ever seen.

I'll spare you my going into much more detail on the matter, because others have already done so and have done it well. If it affected you or caused you to think in any way, shape, or form, then I say: Congratulations. That means you're a member of the human race, and you give a darn. Whether or not you personally or someone close to you struggles with depression, substance abuse, or Parkinson's disease, then at least there is something of a desire inside you to want to understand and to help others who fight those battles.

It's one of the most important lessons we can learn here in this human experience.

Depression is not something that you just "get over," like a cold or measles or having your tonsils removed. It is something many people have to battle on a daily basis, and it can, at times, feel like a dark, bleak, and hopeless fight.

Nevertheless, there is hope, and there is healing. I had to learn this the hard way, but I'm glad that I know now that such a thing exists. I feel like I've said this before here on the Angry White Loner, but if you're dealing with depression and need someone to talk to or someone who will lend a listening ear, please count me in as one of those who will drop whatever he's doing to help. However I can.

Carpe diem, my friends.

Weeping, Wailing, and Gnashing of Teeth

"There shall be weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and this because of their own iniquity" (Alma 40:13).

What an eventful week it has been. In case you spent the week stranded on a deserted island or have been out with the flu, one of the leaders of the Ordain Women movement was excommunicated from the LDS Church, the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals upheld Judge Shelby's ruling overturning the gay marriage ban in Utah, and the United States Supreme Court ruled in favor of Hobby Lobby's challenge of the contraception mandate in Obamacare, among other things.

So many strong emotions about it all. So very many. And, sadly, a great deal of contention as a result.

Yesterday after church, I unfortunately found myself involved in a rather contentious conversation about one of these topics, and it was a horrible, ugly, empty feeling. It was not a situation I had sought out nor one I was happy to be a part of, and I'm embarrassed for both myself and my friend's sake that it ever occurred.

Your very own Angry White Loner has blogged about this friend before. He's one of those people who, as President Hinckley once said, has left the Church but cannot leave it alone. He also seemingly falls into the category, as one institute teacher of mine called it, of "toxic personalities"—people who are impossible to please and who place the burden of their happiness on everyone and everything else around them. On everyone else, that is, but themselves.

After this conversation ended, I made the decision to unfriend this person from Facebook—that is, until I discovered that he had unfriended me first. Well, so be it.

This doesn't mean I will go out in public in disguise just to avoid this person, nor will I rev the engine of my car like Cruella DeVil should I see him crossing the street. In fact, I told him I hoped we could meet someday and that I could take him to lunch so that we could talk things over in person. I also told him I would be praying for him and that I would look for him at future social activities involving others of our age/married status.

Nevertheless, cutting ties with this person on social media, which is far too intertwined in all of our lives, was the right thing to do—for me, at least. Even the great Nephi reached a point that he had to move far away from his brothers Laman and Lemuel, because it had become dangerous for him to remain in their presence—both physically and spiritually. He still loved and forgave his brothers, yet he and his crew packed up and got the heck outta there.

At the same time, my heart breaks for this friend. The bitterness inside him has grown like a cancer, and he seems not to see it in himself. He has lost his testimony, has left the Church, and has replaced it with . . . apparently only vitriol, hatred, cynicism, blame, and, above all, misery.

What do you do with a friend like that? I don't know. But I'm going to figure it out, one day at a time.

In the meantime, I'm going to rededicate myself to accentuating the positive. Even an Angry White Loner can work at this. In spite of the whirlwind that the last week was, there is still goodness and beauty out there to be sought after, as we read about in the 13th Article of Faith. I'm glad to have you who are reading this as friends, because you more than likely wouldn't be reading it if you didn't consider yourself to be a friend of mine. Otherwise, I would just be some plumb loco quack philosophizing into the nameless void. And that, if it were true, would be utterly ridiculous.

I'm grateful to be surrounded by so many people who build up rather than tear down, which is what real friends do and is also, in its essence, what the gospel of Jesus Christ is all about. I'm grateful to have the opportunity to work on improving my own weaknesses and imperfections, some of which were made all too clear to me recently.

I'm a work in progress. We all are. How lucky I am to have such good friends along with me to enjoy the ups and downs of the ride.

The Remedial Singles Ward

Tonight, I had a major case of déja vu all over again.

In a meeting filled with many other mid-singles (i.e., 31-to-45-year-old, non-married people my age who have been deemed too old for the regular singles ward, or leprous and highly contagious, or both) congregated in my old stake center in Bountiful, at which the new stake president of my old stake announced the creation of a new mid-singles ward, the first of its kind anywhere in Davis County.

Everybody with me so far?

Not only that, but my former bishop, bishop of the singles ward I used to attend in that very same chapel, was sustained as the new bishop of this new ward.

In a very real sense, things had come full circle for the Angry White Loner. And for many of his friends and associates.

To top it all off, I then got in my car to head over to a family function, and you know what? The tune "Zero Population" started playing on a random shuffle of the Sunday listening playlist on my iPod.

I knew I'd heard that melodious tune somewhere before. And then it hit me . . .

It was (and is) one of the grooviest tracks from literally one of both the silliest and most overplayed (on BYU-TV, at any rate) and arguably greatest* LDS musicals with false doctrine, Saturday's Warrior!

Mind = blown!

*No, it's not. My Turn on Earth wins in that category.

Hero's Welcome

The Angry White Loner's cousin returned from her mission abroad late Saturday night. Where she went is not important—at least, it's not relevant to today's post. But an important fact is that she came home after serving for only a handful of months rather than the 18 months usually served by sister missionaries. The reason? She had aggravated an old injury that was making it physically impossible for her to continue in the day-to-day labors of missionary work.

I joined with several other family members in greeting my cousin at the Salt Lake City airport, giving her a hero's welcome. Those people watching us—including BYU football coach Bronco Mendenhall, who was also on the flight!—were none the wiser that she had been out there for only about seven months. It was great to be a part of, and it was also fantastic to sit back and watch.

Earlier in the week, I reviewed some old mission photos of my own and remembered that this same cousin, at age 6, was there when yours truly walked off his own plane coming back from South America.

I wish the hero's welcome were always the case for missionaries who are forced to return from the field due to a physical or mental condition. Sadly, it is not. I fear that far too many people incorrectly judge these missionaries as being unworthy, unmotivated, lazy, or cowardly when they don't know all of the facts. Few of these RMs get the hero's welcome that my cousin did.

To this end, I recently read an article about a support group called Sick RMs, which was recently organized to help people such as my cousin. It was a very eye-opening piece. For one thing, I learned that missionaries who return from their fields of labor early often fail to receive proper treatment for these very health issues both during and after the mission and needlessly go on suffering for months or years. As a result, one of the goals of Sick RMs is to push for more doctors, psychiatrists, and other medical professionals to be made available to missionaries currently serving and recently returned. (Yours truly would really have benefited from this.)

A few other facts I picked up from the article: Only about 50 percent of Sick RMs end up giving a "homecoming" talk in their wards/branches. Seventy-three percent feel like they have been a "failure." And more than a third of them end up becoming inactive in the Church.

Add to all of that the stigma associated with being someone who reappears before crossing the so-called finish line, and these RMs are put into a very difficult situation through absolutely no fault of their own.

A good friend of mine had to return early from his mission a number of years ago. I remember him expressing a lot of the same frustrations shared by Sick RMs that were mentioned in the above article. A part of him also feared no girl would want to date him because he had served for only a few months and not two years.

It's been a decade since that time, and this friend, as far as I can tell, has been happily married to his wife for over six years.

This is just to say, cousin, as well as to all of those other unheralded and unsung Sick RMs, that you are not a failure—far from it, in fact. You have fought the good fight, you have finished your course, and you have kept the faith (2 Timothy 4:7). In the Lord's eyes, you are no different and no less appreciated than those who serve for 24 or 18 months.

Orange Tap Water and Gratitude

The XXII Winter Olympic Games in Sochi, Russia, are now over. And the morning-after blues came today, as they always do following the close of another Olympics. For the first night in more than two weeks, I didn't have any curling, snowboarding, hockey, bobsledding, or skiing to watch nor any medal counts to check up on in the news.

Beyond the actual sporting events, a lot of fuss was made about these Games because of the reportedly deplorable conditions many American and other Western athletes and media encountered in their Russian dwellings while in Sochi. Supposedly, toilets were sometimes constructed side by side, the tap water resembled peach iced tea, closets were built on ceilings, and dogs were super-glued to doors (maybe), along with many other horror stories.

One school of thought is that this was Russia's way of saying "nuts to you" to the rest of the world. Another belief is that a record $50 billion investment in the Games was completely mismanaged and then, when they realized they were running out of cash, these makeshift accommodations were the unfortunate result.

Whatever the reasons behind it all may be, there's one thing I know for sure: We have things pretty darn good here in the United States.

I've known that for a fact since the first time I traveled to a foreign country, and the idea was even more apparent to me as a missionary in Peru, where living conditions are downright awful in many places—I daresay even Third World. It wasn't uncommon to visit people in shantytowns, in homes literally standing on cinderblocks and loose bricks, with tin roofs and dirt floors. I twice contracted a bad case of fleas on my lower calves and ankles because of the dust everywhere that became stuck in my socks. In some areas, we carried flashlights with us, because there was no electrical power, and in other places, there was no running water. There were no litter laws like there are in our country—at least none that were enforced—and, as a result, we often walked past mounds of garbage. I found myself watching in bewilderment as people would casually throw wrappers or other pieces of trash on the ground, out of their car windows and everywhere else.

When I arrived at my and my companion's apartment for the first time, I was in disbelief at how dumpy and pathetic it was. Something I didn't realize for a long time is that my Peruvian companion absolutely loved the place and loved being a missionary, because, along with the obvious blessings of serving, he'd never had it so good with his living arrangements, either. I soon learned that, to the people I was serving, this was their way of life, and they weren't about to complain about it.

I can't do justice to it all with just a couple of paragraphs of description. But I think you get the idea.

I felt even more gratitude for the land I live in when, just a couple of days ago, I read a Facebook post by a missionary I served with who is now a stake president in Venezuela. (Yep, I'm either old enough to have served with someone who is now a stake president, or Venezuela is desperate for good leaders—or both.)

Venezuela, as you may have heard, is not a great place to live in right now. There is government oppression and rioting and protesting and people being killed. From what I know, it's not a pretty sight. My friend's post, as stake president, was a series instructions to members of his stake to help keep them safe and free from harm. He counseled them to suspend all extracurricular church activities but sacrament meetings until things quell down; to use phone calls and social media to keep in touch with each other and make sure all are accounted for; reminded them of the importance of having a supply of food, water, and emergency supplies; and moreover to be smart and stay away from danger, obeying suggested curfew times. Most importantly, he counseled them to pray. I told my friend that I would pray for the people of his stake, too.

It made me very grateful for the land in which I live, not to mention for the organization of the Church, to boot. I'm amazed at how, time and again, it is very much an institution interested in the well-being of the individual as well as the whole.

It's a big wide world, and very few people out there have things as good as we do. I may forget that fact occasionally, such as on April 15 and whenever the Kardashians are on TV. But it is a fact nonetheless.

When Darkness Falls

"And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fool's advice
And take care of your own
One day they're here;
Next day they're gone."
 -Don Henley, "New York Minute"

A friend of mine started her own blog this week. I'm certainly interested in following friends' blogs, especially those who follow mine. I read through the first post and, in doing so, I learned a lot more about this friend that, unfortunately, I did not know before.

Among the facts I picked up were that, like me, she lives with depression. Unlike me, she attempted to take her own life not that long ago.

What would ever make a person want to do such thing? I used to wonder—a number of years ago. I'm sure it's a thought many of you may have asked yourselves at one time or another. If you've never been chemically depressed yourself, it's certainly an understandable query.

That was before my own battle began. And when I learned exactly what depression could do to me or to anyone else, I learned several hard, painful lessons, some of which took me years to learn. Others, I am still in the process of learning.

It certainly affected a good friend of mine, who not only suffered with depression but also with issues of anger and I-don't-know-what else. The thing is, he suffered in silence, never opening up nor uttering a word about his struggles. At least, not to me, he didn't. One summer day, the last time I saw him, he and I went to see a blockbuster movie together (the title of which is not important, but it rhymes with Revenge of the Sith). A few short weeks later, he was featured in the top story on that night's newscast.

He had shown up at his ex-wife's house and, when she opened the door, he shot her at point-blank range, killing her instantly.

Depression also, sadly, runs in the family of a handful of other friends of mine—all brothers in the same clan. One spring day, our circle of friends was informed that one of these boys had taken his own life. A mere three years later, his brother, likewise, committed suicide, as well.

I attended two separate funerals for this family over a three-year span. Both for the same reason.

So, what have these experiences taught you? you ask?

Many things, to be sure. I don't have all nor even most of the answers, but I have learned that everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle of one sort or another. Many, like my three aforementioned friends, suffer in silence or perhaps feel there is no one around who will understand what demons they are battling. What I do know is that kindness is always a good choice. I don't always choose that route, but when I do, it is always a good option.

Perhaps it's something I need to talk or blog about more. If there are any friends or acquaintances reading this who are depressed or have been depressed at one time or another, please count me among those whom you can talk to about it. If my own struggle has taught me anything, it's that help and healing are available, and though times may be dark, there is always a way to see things through. If I can help out anyone in any small (or big) way, then all of the difficult things I've been through won't have been suffered in vain and I will have learned the lesson(s) I was supposed to learn. If it's not me, then talk to someone about it—a parent, friend, bishop, or someone else in your circle of trust.

To those who don't know what it feels like to be depressed, just know that it is not imagined and is very real, and it happens to people you know—to family members, neighbors, friends, people in your ward, co-workers, etc. If you don't understand it, then at least err on the side of caution and believe people when they tell you or show that they are having a hard time.

Doctrine and Covenants 45:31 reads: "And there shall be men standing in that generation, that shall not pass until they shall see an overflowing scourge; for a desolating sickness shall cover the land."

I do not know what this scripture means, per se, and I have not heard any General Authority speak directly on it. It may refer to the spread of some sort of illness or to indifference, pride, anger, any number of addictions—even to some kind of plague yet to come. But when I read it, it reminds me directly of depression. It certainly is a scourge and a sickness to the millions who live with it.

Right now, when the days are very short in length, is a particularly vulnerable time for people who are depressed and/or dealing with S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder). From personal experience, I know that that is also a very real thing. It can truly make some people feel as dark, despondent, and gloomy inside as the sky is outside.

They're having a tough time right now. Love them anyway.

Why It Matters

On Friday, a federal judge overturned Utah's Proposition 3, passed in 2004, which defined marriage, under Utah state law, as a contract entered into between only a man and a woman. I just read in tonight's paper that, in the three days since, more than 700 gay marriages have already taken place across the state.

This is all happening so fast—much faster than I was prepared for. I didn't think we'd have to cross that bridge here in Utah for a few more years at the earliest.

And yet, here we are. "Tomorrow" has come. Some rejoice in that fact. I have been somewhat surprised to see more than a few of my LDS friends join in their jubilation.

As a result, many conversations have taken place, some more heated than others, over the past few days. Personally, I have engaged in discussions about the issue with family, friends, and even a few mere acquaintances, both in person and on Facebook discussion boards.

Earlier today, one friend posted a link on my wall that read, in part:

"Should a particular religion’s faith document (referencing the Proclamation on the Family) become law for everyone? Is the Bible the Constitution? Churches can still believe and practice what they want and not impose those beliefs on secular law. And do you really want to make legal or illegal everything the Bible endorses or opposes? Do you really want to go there?"

To paraphrase: "Why do you care, Angry White Loner, whether a man chooses to marry a man or a woman chooses to marry a woman? It's all about love, not hate. What does it matter to you whom another person chooses to love? How dare you impose your hateful, ignorant, outdated, homophobic religious beliefs on society."

I've pondered a great deal over both these questions and the possible answers over the course of the weekend. (Having strep throat tends to leave you with a lot of time to think about a lot of things.) And I've come up with two main points to sum up why this issue does matter a great deal to me personally and why it should matter to us all.

1) Two months ago, in the October 2013 general conference of the Church, Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said:

"Each day is a day of decision, and our decisions determine our destiny. One day each of us will stand before the Lord in judgment. We will each have a personal interview with Jesus Christ. We will account for decisions that we made about our bodies, our spiritual attributes, and how we honored God’s pattern for marriage and family" (emphasis added).

Though the world may not care what I, personally, believe on the matter, and may discount my opinion as someone unqualified to opine, the Lord cares what each and every one of us thinks on the matter and whom or what ideals we choose to follow in this lifetime. The day will come when we will have to account for it, face to face. And His opinion of us matters. He will want to know where and with whom we stood when all of this was going on.

2) Because of my nieces and nephews, it matters. A lot.

That thought occurred to me yesterday while I got to spend some time with them (at arm's length, of course, because I'm currently under the weather) at our bi-monthly family dinner.

I care for all nine of them a great deal. Hopefully, more will join us in the next few years. If and when I have kids, I will feel the same way about them, too. Next to their parents, grandparents, siblings, and other aunts/uncles, I care for them more than anyone else on this Earth. I want them to be happy and healthy and to succeed and grow and to live up to their potential. I also worry about what the future may bring them, though it is with cautious optimism. I hear a lot of optimism from President Monson and the other General Authorities when they speak.

As a family, collectively speaking, we are teaching these children that "marriage between a man and a woman is essential to His eternal plan" and that "children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother." Following this teaching is the only pathway to true, lasting happiness and a fullness of joy, both in this life and in the eternities. The God we believe in is a God of pure, perfect love, not of hate, and one who wants us to return to live with Him—though we have to do our part.

Already, however, the world is telling these children, either directly or indirectly, that this doctrine, as it is found in the Proclamation and in the mouths of 15 modern-day prophets, seers, and revelators, is outdated, stupid, wrong, changeable, hateful, discriminatory, bigoted, and other, worse adjectives that I won't mention here.

I cringe at the thought of this happening, though I know, sadly, one day, it will. I want to protect them from these detractors who are, in reality, the hateful, spiteful ones. I will fight with everything I possess to prevent it from happening. I will try to be the best example I can be of someone who honors God's pattern for marriage and family. Never, however, will I resort to bullying, fear mongering, unkindness, shunning, or any other tactic unbecoming of a follower of Christ to do so.

On a different friend's wall, I read this other thought:

“Right is right even if no one is doing it; wrong is wrong even if everyone is doing it.”
― Augustine of Hippo

Family and friends, the wheat is being sifted from the tares—even within the membership of the Church itself—and the five wise virgins are filling their lamps with oil, while the five foolish ones are being "tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine" (Ephesians 4:14). Nevertheless, the way to go is clear, if we will but hold to the rod and "not be deceived" (D&C 52:14) by false prophets, secret combinations, and other wolves in sheep's clothing.

Daily Gratitude: Two-ply Toilet Paper

'Tis the season for being grateful and for the giving of thanks. In fact, I am pretty sure there is a holiday right around the corner, one for which we are supposed to be grateful and to give thanks for all the things for which we are grateful and thankful. If memory serves right.

It's not uncommon to scroll through my news feed on Facebook these days and to read what others call their daily gratitude posts—the simple and the most important things in life for which they are appreciative.

As for the Angry White Loner, when it comes to gratitude, he thinks of two-ply toilet paper. Yes, really.

That's a pretty lame thing to be thankful for, some of you may think. And you would be right, assuming all of the world out there had things as good as we do here in the United States of America.

In case you haven't been to the Third World, I will let you in on a little secret: They don't have things as good as we do. Not even close.

Sure, France has its Eiffel Tower—in fact, two of the AWL's brothers and their spouses were there just a few days ago (not that I am bitter!)—Australia has its kangaroos and dingoes, and Japan has karaoke bars on pretty much every block. Beautiful things, all of them. But we truly live in a unique and a blessed land. There is no other place like it on Earth.

Why? Because of two-ply toilet paper.

Years ago, when I opened my mission call and read that I had been called to serve in the Peru Lima Central Mission, I knew exactly three things about Peru: The ruins of Machu Picchu were there, and it also had South America's highest concentration of Native Americans (Lamanites) and llamas. If you had asked me back then, I would have ventured a guess that they all rode llamas everywhere and had llamas for pets instead of dogs and cats and they all ate frequently at llama burger joints instead of McDonald's or Wendy's.

Granted, many of those preconceived notions turned out to be true. Llama tastes like chicken. And I did, in fact, make it to Machu Picchu—twice.

Nevertheless, the luster and the wonder soon vanished when I had my first glimpse of one of Lima's many shantytowns—Third World-like dumps where squatters live in homes literally made out of tin roofs and adobe bricks and plastic sheets and not much else, with dirt floors and no electricity in many places and unpaved roads with so much dust to kick up that I contracted conjunctivitis my first week there, along with several other bugs, and my ankles and feet became infested with fleas not once but twice. There are also frequent earthquakes and a destructive weather phenomenon, coined by Peruvian fisherman, called "El Niño."

Don't even get me started on Atahualpa's Revenge. You either know about it, or you don't.

This is where the issue of toilet paper comes in. Peruvians use toilet paper for every possible, conceivable reason. It's as valuable a commodity as towels are in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series of books. Not only do they use it for its already well-known properties, but they also use it as napkins and for taking notes and about 1,000 other things. One of the first things I learned in my first few days in the country is that you carry several sheets of toilet paper in your pockets at all times, because you never know when you will need some. If you run out, you restock. This is, in addition, because many toilets in Peru (1) don't have actual toilet seats to sit on and (2) are not stocked with any toilet paper at all.

The problem with Peruvian toilet paper? In two years, I never saw a single sheet of two-ply paper. One-hundred percent of it is single ply. I missed two-ply toilet paper. A lot. I also missed peanut butter, root beer, Dr Pepper, and hot showers.

And so, this Thanksgiving, that's what I'm feeling grateful for. Among many other things.

Spaghetti Uh-Oh

Who among you out there doesn't enjoy a good meal of SpaghettiOs?

*long pause*

To those of you who just raised your hands: We're no longer friends.

Just kidding. Sort of.

SpaghettiOs have been one of my favorite foods for as long as I can remember. They remain so to this very day, and, as I am a bachelor, they are also one of the few foods I can actually prepare on my own without risking danger of burning down the house. Sure, all it takes just a bowl and the push of a button on a microwave, but who's keeping score?

The other day, I enjoyed just such a meal for dinner. When I finished eating, however, I took a look at the empty SpaghettiOs can and read the expiration date: August 2009!

For those of you keeping score at home, that's three-and-a-half years ago.

Immediately, a few questions popped into my mind: (1) How did a can with such an expiration date end up among my groceries? (2) They tasted just fine . . . or did they? *stomach gurgles* (3) How long befBLEARARAGHGHGGHGHGH!!!

The moral of the story: It pays to read the labels on your food.

Also, note to self: Sign up for that community cooking class at the high school.