How to get released from your calling as bishop
Before church, my dad told one of the tiny deacons to go buy a bunch of food from the Farmer's Market. He was expecting a big turnout for sacrament meeting, and he didn't want people to go hungry. Then Dad refused to conduct sacrament meeting for no reason I could figure out. As for the guy who ended up conducting, instead of walking up to the pulpit like a normal person, he jumped over it. And then opened the meeting like he hadn't just performed a feat worthy of the Summer Olympics. The deacon brought back a bunch of food vendors, who walked up and down the aisles—like they do during football games—during somebody's talk, selling their food. After this sacrilegious meeting, I asked Dad why he wouldn't conduct. He pulled up his pant leg a few inches and said, "Because I'm wearing the wrong socks!"
Another common dream motif: Bogus money
I was out to dinner at an exciting destination (the mall in Murray) with my family. I tried to pay for my meal with a 26-dollar bill. The guy taking the order seriously considered calling the police. (I know this because in my dreams, I can read minds. Sometimes.)
A taste of what my pizza-delivering dreams are like
My Domino's dreams usually follow one of two formulas: (1) show up to work hours late wearing the wrong pants, or (2) take delivery to an absurd location (like the highest water slide at the Payson pool), lose car, and, if I'm lucky, return to work hours later.
My night started well—my first delivery was close to the store, in an area I'd been to before. I figured I'd be back in 10 minutes a couple dollars richer, ready for more. But the minute I pulled away from the store, things got weird. I suddenly remembered that the one road that leads to this house is tricky to find—as in, you have to drive by it at exactly the right time or it won't be there. After a couple of tries I found the right road, but then I realized the village the house was in was located inside a tower. So I had to abandon my car and carry six large pizzas + 20 wings + two orders of breadsticks + two extra icings (no drinks this time, thankfully) and wait in the elevator with a crowd of hungry and curious people. Once out of the elevator, I had no idea where the house was and had to leave my pizzas on a bench somewhere and trek through the snow (of course) to find the house. Then I had to go back for the pizzas, which had fallen off the bench and were in the dreaded upside-down position. It occurred to me then that I'd been gone for hours, and I stood there helplessly watching a crowd of kids play soccer in a parking lot, listening to Greg Wrubell—a.k.a., The Voice of the Cougars—talk sports over the radio waves.
A Spanish class I would happily take
I've decided to take a Spanish class, and for once it's cause for excitement rather than anxiety. The class is taught in a really cool building in D.C. (cool = historic with secret passages). The teacher doesn't allow his expertise in one subject to put him above his lowly students. But the best part is the final. It's a cruise from December 30–February 2 that starts in an unpronounceable Latin American country and ends in Miami. *Please note that this was a college dream, not a high school dream. Halle-freakin-lujah.