But I will tell you that Sheri Dew dissed Oprah (I think). Sheri Dew was sneaky and wily with her dissing, so as to not bring down an Oprah reign of terror or libel suit on her smarty self. But I am also crafty and wily, and I am capable of understanding moderately thinly veiled disses, and I think that was one. Maybe.
If this is Oprah reading this, I will not be a witness in your lawsuit against Ms. Dew. So don't call me.
Okay, if this is Oprah reading reading my blog, that is really super cool. So you can totally call me. We can discuss the suit over lunch at Flancer's or something. But Sheri told me you might not be a good role model, which is probably true. Anyway, thanks so much for reading my blog. I'm so flattered. Please come back soon. And leave a comment.
Err, sorry, back to Provo. I learned in a class about raising boys that boys are just sort of wild and crazy, and I shouldn't try to make them stop acting so, because it is just these sorts of behaviors that will allow them to grow into strong and capable men. I really hope their future wives appreciate all the work I'm doing here. Because it would be nice if they would sit still sometimes when they aren't on the toilet. (except for Tommy, who doesn't yet sit on the toilet. But he does slow down and get glassy-eyed when he's filling his pants. So it is sort of the same.)
Wednesday night as we arrived in SLC, it was snowing. Which thrilled me.
Thursday night we went to a concert full of well-behaved ladies, and we all listened to the latest Mormon Muzak. I would like to be a cool cat and say it wasn't my thang, which it ain't, usually; but it was actually really fun, and for a tiny moment I actually considered throwing my bra at Michael McLean. But then I remembered that it is my favorite bra, and it has been discontinued. Plus, what would he do with it? And really, we were so far up the side of the Marriott Center, that without some sort of slingshot contraption, it would have landed on some other lady down near the front. Maybe even Sheri Dew. Who might think that I was an Oprah-corrupted, bra-tossing, worldly woman, which I'm not, cause I got no time for Oprah.
Or maybe she'd just think: "Awesome. Free bra."
Friday I went to the Minerva Teichert exhibit at the art museum. She is my favorite Mormon artist, and here is my favorite painting, Wash Day on the Plains.
Friday afternoon President Monson came to close the conference. I have seen the prophet a few times: at BYU Firesides and Devotionals, at General Conference. Each time, as he enters the room, the spirit is so strong, he is less a still small voice, and more a knock upside the head, with an accompanying kindly shout in my ear: HEY LADY, THERE IS A PROPHET OF THE LORD. LISTEN UP. In addition, there is a burning in my bosom not caused by the smashed-flat York Peppermint Patty I've eaten for lunch, and I can't join in singing We Thank Thee o God for a Prophet, cause I'm all choked up.
I was accompanied on my trip by four wonderful and beautiful ladies of the Book Club: Dior, Allyson, Heather, and Holly. They were kind enough to let me crash on the floor of their dorm (Helaman Halls- Merrill Hall) and hang about with me. I learned many things from them, as well. Things that are secret lady-things, and unbloggable. Things even John Bytheway cannot teach me, unless he, too, is at Smith's at midnight, purchasing laxatives (not for recreational drug use, but for...an uncomfortable friend). Plus, if I tell all the secret activities, they won't invite me back again next year.
I also learned that the fry sauce at Training Table contains barbecue sauce, and is mind-expandingly delicious. I think next time, I might fore go the cheese fries and eat it with a spoon.
No, no, that's crazy talk. The fries are essential. I must be further spent than I even suspected. Must get to sleep.