I used to be one of those stupid Californians who always made fun of the Utah folk. And it was okay, because I didn’t live among them.
When my family moved to Utah earlier this year I think I cried — pretty hard in fact. I was devastated to think that I would have to face frequent interaction with Utah folk and frankly, I just wasn’t prepared for that sad reality.
No, it wasn’t be-cause of your funeral potatoes or green Jell-O — they are rather tasty. And it wasn’t because of the way that women do their hair –— a condition that I call the “square head syndrome”. It wasn’t even because of the despicable driving skills — probably 90 percent attributable to the lack of turn arrows at traffic lights — or the fact that somebody, somewhere started putting those ridiculous rock letters on mountains to let everyone know the first letter of the city’s name. What is that all about anyway?
Okay, so I’m lying. It really was because of all those things.
Don’t get me wrong. I have grown rather fond of plenty of Utah folk. I just have a hard time becoming one of them. I even have my California address listed as my permanent place of residence on stalker net as proof of this.
I guess it’s safe to assume that I’m in denial. Go ahead. Make fun of me.
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