Because I'm a cranky old lady

If you ever find yourself wondering why I do or say certain things, that will usually be the answer. It's been coming on gradually, but I feel like I'm thisclose to being the old lady on the porch who screeches at the neighborhood kids while throwing beer bottles at their heads.

Here are just a few cranky old lady thoughts I've had in the last few days:

1. What is with those people at church who study voice or whatever and decide to start singing their own higher descant during the hymns? You know who I'm talking about, especially if you attend a BYU ward. I mean, I could see this being a beautiful and enriching thing as part of a choir number where there were other sopranos besides just them doing it. Otherwise it's about as appropriate as me whipping out a pan flute and going to town during "How Great Thou Art."
2. Was there some sort of memo that proclaimed it okay to bring one's cellular phone into church? And did the memo also say that it's perfectly fine to use sacrament meeting as a time to send text messages to your idiot friends? Because I'm seeing this happen, and it's an ugly, ugly thing. Let me say this once: You have absolutely nothing so important to say that it can't wait 45 minutes. I'm sure no one is bleeding or dying, because if that were the case you wouldn't be calmly sitting during the meeting, sending out the annoying blue glow of "I'm using my cell phone because I'm a twit" directly into my retinas.
3. Sunday at my complex seems to be the day where people roam about aimlessly (or perhaps purposely) and then "drop in" to an apartment to hang out. I realize this is all well and good and social and blah blah. But there are limits. First off, I shouldn't have to drop whatever I'm doing just because some guys took it into their head to go a-visitin' at 11:30pm. Sure, I may welcome the distraction, especially if the guys are cute, but it's likely that I won't, especially if the visit lasts several hours with absolutely no regard for social cues like yawning, paralysis, and death. This is on account of the old woman factor (my bladder can't take it) and on account of the "I didn't call and invite you over and therefore am not obligated to be the hostess" factor. So quit hijacking my Sundays, people. I have naps to take and trash to read. (Note to actual friends: This, of course, does not apply to you. If you came to see me I would rejoice and feed you baked goods until you had a tummy-ache.)

Whew. I'm glad I got all that off my chest. Now I'm going to find a mustard plaster and some needlepoint to keep me busy until bedtime, which is in exactly 1 hour.

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