I like to think that I am an honest and upfront person. And in the interest of full disclosure, I would like to take the opportunity right now to apologize to my future wife (I don’t know who she is, but she sounds good looking). Sweetheart, you are marrying into a family of weirdos. And in this family of characters, it doesn’t get any weirder than Gordon Richard Hilton, Sr.
Let me just start by saying that my dad and I are not friends. I literally defriended him about a year ago because he was stalking my profile and trying to make assumptions about who I was dating. Since then, I have denied friend requests from my mother, two aunts, and even my own grandmother. I just don’t believe that old people should be on Facebook. Facebook is just one of many examples where my father has taken something fun and tried to ruin it for me.
Facebook is actually a sore spot in my family right now. You see, my dad suffers from an affliction known as obsessive-compulsive disorder, and his current obsession is Facebook. He feels that Facebook is a great tool to keep in contact with relatives and hometown friends. He has thus taken it upon himself to scan and upload every picture our family has ever taken onto his profile. This would be alright if he knew anything at all about the principle of moderation. Unfortunately, he doesn’t and often spends as many as six hours after he comes home from work in the evening uploading pictures.
He has also taken it upon himself to teach all of the old people in our extended family how to use Facebook so they can stalk their children and grandchildren more efficiently, effectively creating an army of elderly Facebook stalkers. If you have an old person stalking you on Facebook, it is more likely than not my dad’s fault.
Growing up, I knew that whenever my dad came home from work, the time for playing video games was over. I actually needed a little advance notice so I could run into my dad’s room and return the cords to their hiding place in one of my dad’s shoes. I was once grounded from video games for an entire year, during which time I enjoyed many hours of mind-numbing entertainment and false alarms that had me running back and forth from the television to my dad’s shoe.
One can sum up my dad’s parenting style in two words…mind games. I spent hours the other day trying to convince my little brother that my dad doesn’t have people following him around here at BYU. My dad once told me that he had people following me around at school and that he knew that I was using my lunch money to buy candy. I knew he was lying because I was actually using my money to buy Pokemon cards.
I learned from my dad that if you aren’t working hard you should feel guilty. And even if you are working hard, a little guilt is always healthy. And when guilt isn’t sufficiently motivating, there’s always humiliation. My dad once scheduled a meeting with all of my high school teachers, in which it was discovered that I was getting bad grades because I was lazy, a fact that was a surprise to no one. I guess my dad knew his boy, however, because I started getting test scores so high that students in my class began to complain that I was ruining the curve.
My dad’s real philosophy is “decide what you want to do and work your butt off.” When I told him I wanted to be a Major League pitcher, he had the gardeners build a pitcher’s mound in our backyard. Every night he would take me outside and have me throw pitches to him while he crouched behind home plate with nothing but a catcher’s mitt, bifocals, and a whole lot of arthritis. Eventually, we decided sitting on a paint bucket would be more comfortable for him.
Oftentimes, I used to wonder if my dad was a ninja. Even though he was a busy high-paid business executive, he always found time to attend my sporting events. I don’t know. It just seemed like something a ninja would do.
When I was a boy, neither of my parents was active in the church. My dad had been inactive since he was sixteen. My mom would attend sporadically; other times she would drop me and my sister off on Sundays. As my eighth birthday approached, I decided that I wanted to be baptized. The standard procedure when a child turned eight in my family was that my dad would attend church for a few weeks, and the Bishop would allow him to perform the baptism. This time, however, the bishop wasn’t having it. I told my dad that I still wanted him to baptize me, and he decided that it was time once and for all to investigate whether the church was true.
Over the next six months, my obsessive-compulsive father read the entire standard works (the Book of Mormon, the Bible, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price), had the missionaries over every Monday night, and attended church every Sunday. Over time he realized that he had known all along that the church was true, and on December 2, 1995, my father baptized me a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He and my mother have been active members ever since.
My father has always stood as a great example to me of how people can change. Though he does have a reputation as a fun killer, he can actually be pretty fun when he wants to be. However, I don’t think Thanksgiving dinner is going to be very fun this year because of another of his current obsessions…weight loss.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Origins Pt. I – My Mother the Dream Killer
One cannot get too far into writing a blog without throwing out a tribute to mother. As next week is my mother’s birthday, I thought this would be a good time for such a tribute. People have always said that I am a mama’s boy, and by people, I mean my mom used to always say that. She’s probably right. I tried being nice to my dad once, and he made me clean the loft.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has been a dream killer. Although she has on occasion killed me in my dreams, I am actually referring to her killing of my hopes, wishes, and aspirations. When I was a child, she told me that the chances of becoming a professional baseball player were slim, that the pink power ranger was too old for me, and that becoming a dinosaur was a physical impossibility.
My mother is also a liar. For example, whenever we passed by a train, she used to always say, “Look Steve, Dumbo’s on that train.” Imagine my disappointment as time and time again I somehow failed to see a cartoon baby elephant riding on the back of a train. To this day, I have very little trust in my eyes. Another time, I asked my mother what I should eat so that I could grow tall enough to grab the rim on the basketball hoop in our backyard. Her answer was, “vegetables.”
From my mother I learned that if you are a good boy, you gain your parents trust. And when your parents trust you, you get picked up from school two hours late every day.
When my mother finally did pick me up from school, she would engage in her favorite hobby…lecturing. You can pick just about any topic in the book, and she can lecture you on it for over an hour. Although we all got to hear all of the lectures in her arsenal, she definitely had her go to lectures for each child. Her favorites for me were “don’t put all your eggs in one basket;” “I don’t know why you like this music…I’ll yell at you and you don’t have to pay me;” and my personal favorite, “don’t be like your sister.”
The lecture that had the biggest impact on me growing up, however, was my mother’s testimony. Oftentimes, she would list to me all of the blessings we have as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Even if somebody could somehow prove to me that Mormonism isn’t true, I would still attend church because it makes us better people,” she would then tell me. I learned through my own experience that the church is true, and these blessings are just icing on the cake.
So, I suppose my own testimony is strong today because my mother taught me how to have faith and how to recognize blessings in my life. She may have killed a few dreams along the way, but she also opened up a whole new landscape of dreams by helping me gain a testimony. I guess what I’m trying to say is…my mom’s alright.
For as long as I can remember, my mother has been a dream killer. Although she has on occasion killed me in my dreams, I am actually referring to her killing of my hopes, wishes, and aspirations. When I was a child, she told me that the chances of becoming a professional baseball player were slim, that the pink power ranger was too old for me, and that becoming a dinosaur was a physical impossibility.
My mother is also a liar. For example, whenever we passed by a train, she used to always say, “Look Steve, Dumbo’s on that train.” Imagine my disappointment as time and time again I somehow failed to see a cartoon baby elephant riding on the back of a train. To this day, I have very little trust in my eyes. Another time, I asked my mother what I should eat so that I could grow tall enough to grab the rim on the basketball hoop in our backyard. Her answer was, “vegetables.”
From my mother I learned that if you are a good boy, you gain your parents trust. And when your parents trust you, you get picked up from school two hours late every day.
When my mother finally did pick me up from school, she would engage in her favorite hobby…lecturing. You can pick just about any topic in the book, and she can lecture you on it for over an hour. Although we all got to hear all of the lectures in her arsenal, she definitely had her go to lectures for each child. Her favorites for me were “don’t put all your eggs in one basket;” “I don’t know why you like this music…I’ll yell at you and you don’t have to pay me;” and my personal favorite, “don’t be like your sister.”
The lecture that had the biggest impact on me growing up, however, was my mother’s testimony. Oftentimes, she would list to me all of the blessings we have as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Even if somebody could somehow prove to me that Mormonism isn’t true, I would still attend church because it makes us better people,” she would then tell me. I learned through my own experience that the church is true, and these blessings are just icing on the cake.
So, I suppose my own testimony is strong today because my mother taught me how to have faith and how to recognize blessings in my life. She may have killed a few dreams along the way, but she also opened up a whole new landscape of dreams by helping me gain a testimony. I guess what I’m trying to say is…my mom’s alright.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Irrational Animal Fear #1 - Birds
As the Halloween season dawns, I like to reflect on some of the things that scare me. Like thousands of BYU students, I am afraid to walk by the duck pond south of campus after 10 PM. Unlike these fellow students, a rape whistle isn’t going to do much to qualm my fears because I don’t think they have any effect on the ducks. You see, ever since I was a little boy, I have had an admittedly irrational fear of birds. I think it might go back to the time I visited the zoo with my family and a bird shot my father.
They say that many Americans list public speaking as their number one greatest fear, which means that they would rather be the guy in the casket than the guy giving the eulogy at a funeral. Well, I would love to give the eulogy at a bird’s funeral. The following are some of the traumatic experiences I’ve had with birds over the years:
- As a small boy I am riding my tricycle out by the pool while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Suddenly, a bird swoops down and steals the sandwich right out of my hand. My innocent mind is so shocked by this act of theft that I lose control of my tricycle and fall in the pool.
- As a lad, I watch my mother scream and call animal services to come remove a bird that had flown in through her bedroom window. “This animal must surely be terrifying if my mother required the services of a professional to remove it from our home,” thought baby Steven.
- My older sister torments me by telling me a story about a bird that attacked her while she was walking home from school. This bird allegedly swooped down and started pecking at her head as she ran her fingers through her hair, apparently mistaking her fingers for worms.
- In elementary school, my best friend A.J Moore releases his pet bird from its cage and makes fun of me as I run away.
- During a missionary lesson in India, a terrifying little chick jumps up onto my knee. I leap up into the air and the chick scampers away before it can do any damage.
- My older sister continues to prey upon my “gull”-ibility by telling me a story about a flock of seagulls that swarmed over her and stocked her while at the beach.
- After a long day of tracting in India, my greenie companion and I come home to find a pigeon in our bedroom. I make him scare it away while I hide in the kitchen.
- While riding my bicycle alongside my companion in Rajahmundry, India, we stop to watch as a flock of birds jumps down from a nearby roof and run across the street. Suddenly we realize that these birds are being chased by another bird, soaking wet in its own drool and making crazy rabid animal noises. Naturally, I make eye contact with this bird and it chases me and my companion down the street.
Now, the birds in that last story were actually monkeys, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
Scary stuff, right? As you can see, my bird-phobia is based on actual terrifying personal experiences, as well as reliable first-hand accounts from my sister, who may have hated me as a child.
Now, as stated above, I know that to be afraid of birds is irrational. When you think about it, they are just harmless little rats with wings. I don’t even mind being near a bird as long as it's facing the opposite direction. That way I know it’s not going to suddenly take off and fly into my face. The problem is . . . you don’t have a lot of time to think when you have a hummingbird staring you down with murder in its eyes.
Many people have tried to talk me through this, but I think it’s just something that I’m going to carry with me throughout the rest of my life...maybe even into the next.
This bird-phobia certainly has its limitations, but I like to think I live a pretty normal life. I mean, I do have to be a little more creative when planning dates because feeding the ducks is never an option; I’m unable to enjoy large European cities because I’m too busy running away from pigeons; and sometimes I get uncomfortable when at the beach or running my hands through my hair. Other than that, life is normal. On the plus side, I have a sixth sense when it comes to awareness of birds in a general area. I just hope that when I become a dinosaur, I get to be one that eats birds.
They say that many Americans list public speaking as their number one greatest fear, which means that they would rather be the guy in the casket than the guy giving the eulogy at a funeral. Well, I would love to give the eulogy at a bird’s funeral. The following are some of the traumatic experiences I’ve had with birds over the years:
- As a small boy I am riding my tricycle out by the pool while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Suddenly, a bird swoops down and steals the sandwich right out of my hand. My innocent mind is so shocked by this act of theft that I lose control of my tricycle and fall in the pool.
- As a lad, I watch my mother scream and call animal services to come remove a bird that had flown in through her bedroom window. “This animal must surely be terrifying if my mother required the services of a professional to remove it from our home,” thought baby Steven.
- My older sister torments me by telling me a story about a bird that attacked her while she was walking home from school. This bird allegedly swooped down and started pecking at her head as she ran her fingers through her hair, apparently mistaking her fingers for worms.
- In elementary school, my best friend A.J Moore releases his pet bird from its cage and makes fun of me as I run away.
- During a missionary lesson in India, a terrifying little chick jumps up onto my knee. I leap up into the air and the chick scampers away before it can do any damage.
- My older sister continues to prey upon my “gull”-ibility by telling me a story about a flock of seagulls that swarmed over her and stocked her while at the beach.
- After a long day of tracting in India, my greenie companion and I come home to find a pigeon in our bedroom. I make him scare it away while I hide in the kitchen.
- While riding my bicycle alongside my companion in Rajahmundry, India, we stop to watch as a flock of birds jumps down from a nearby roof and run across the street. Suddenly we realize that these birds are being chased by another bird, soaking wet in its own drool and making crazy rabid animal noises. Naturally, I make eye contact with this bird and it chases me and my companion down the street.
Now, the birds in that last story were actually monkeys, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.
Scary stuff, right? As you can see, my bird-phobia is based on actual terrifying personal experiences, as well as reliable first-hand accounts from my sister, who may have hated me as a child.
Now, as stated above, I know that to be afraid of birds is irrational. When you think about it, they are just harmless little rats with wings. I don’t even mind being near a bird as long as it's facing the opposite direction. That way I know it’s not going to suddenly take off and fly into my face. The problem is . . . you don’t have a lot of time to think when you have a hummingbird staring you down with murder in its eyes.
Many people have tried to talk me through this, but I think it’s just something that I’m going to carry with me throughout the rest of my life...maybe even into the next.
This bird-phobia certainly has its limitations, but I like to think I live a pretty normal life. I mean, I do have to be a little more creative when planning dates because feeding the ducks is never an option; I’m unable to enjoy large European cities because I’m too busy running away from pigeons; and sometimes I get uncomfortable when at the beach or running my hands through my hair. Other than that, life is normal. On the plus side, I have a sixth sense when it comes to awareness of birds in a general area. I just hope that when I become a dinosaur, I get to be one that eats birds.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Hawaiian Surferboy or California Dreamboat?
Countless philosophers and literary figures have tried to define the concept of "home." I define home as the most convenient place to say you are from in order to justify rooting for a particular sports team or wanting to work in Washington D.C. I recently told a Big Four recruiter that I didn't have a home and wanted to move to the East Coast. I didn't get that internship, but I think he was impressed. Most commonly, I either tell people that I am from Hawaii or California.
On the one hand, I have photographic and testimonial evidence that proves I spent at least three years of high school in Hawaii. In most of these pictures, I will be either on the computer or playing video games, but if you look closely enough, you can just make out the ocean in the background.
While in Hawaii, I attended Mid-Pacific Institute, a private school for those who can’t get into Punahou or Iolani but still want to feel superior to the world. I was one of about ten or so haoles (white people) in my graduating class; as a result, I came to BYU thinking I was Asian.
I'm not gonna lie. I like the attention I get when I tell people I'm from Hawaii. However, even people I met on my mission to India intuitively knew that I wasn't a native of Hawaii. The truth is that I spent most of my childhood in sunny Southern California.
I was born in the O.C, which you might recognize from such shows as the O.C. Please refer to that show for more information about my childhood there. At the age of twelve, I moved to Moorpark, California where I attended high school with Dennis Pitta, star tight end at BYU and now with the Baltimore Ravens of the NFL. On a side note, Dennis Pitta would probably be unable to identify me from a group of strangers on the street.
My family still owns our home in Moorpark, a beautiful brick mansion sitting atop a hill and surrounded by twenty acres of avocado and lemon orchards. We initially sold it to a man who was later arrested for using his airline to smuggle drugs for the Mexican mafia. That transaction didn't go through, and we kept the home. Every Christmas my family meets up at our Moorpark house, and guess who doesn't get to go home to Hawaii . . . Steven Benjamin Hilton.
I actually haven’t even been to Hawaii for over a year, but I do love the place. I don't know of another place on Earth where a guy could move into a new high school during his sophomore year and feel so welcome. And on the rare occasion that I get to return, I love kicking it at home with my boys Kirk Fong, Frederick Rohlfing, and Jordan Berardy . . . provided they want to come visit me at my house, because it’s a long way down from the top of the ridge.
So, I’m going to have my cake and eat it on this one. I’m both a Hawaiian surferboy and a California dreamboat . . . ladies.
On the one hand, I have photographic and testimonial evidence that proves I spent at least three years of high school in Hawaii. In most of these pictures, I will be either on the computer or playing video games, but if you look closely enough, you can just make out the ocean in the background.
While in Hawaii, I attended Mid-Pacific Institute, a private school for those who can’t get into Punahou or Iolani but still want to feel superior to the world. I was one of about ten or so haoles (white people) in my graduating class; as a result, I came to BYU thinking I was Asian.
I'm not gonna lie. I like the attention I get when I tell people I'm from Hawaii. However, even people I met on my mission to India intuitively knew that I wasn't a native of Hawaii. The truth is that I spent most of my childhood in sunny Southern California.
I was born in the O.C, which you might recognize from such shows as the O.C. Please refer to that show for more information about my childhood there. At the age of twelve, I moved to Moorpark, California where I attended high school with Dennis Pitta, star tight end at BYU and now with the Baltimore Ravens of the NFL. On a side note, Dennis Pitta would probably be unable to identify me from a group of strangers on the street.
My family still owns our home in Moorpark, a beautiful brick mansion sitting atop a hill and surrounded by twenty acres of avocado and lemon orchards. We initially sold it to a man who was later arrested for using his airline to smuggle drugs for the Mexican mafia. That transaction didn't go through, and we kept the home. Every Christmas my family meets up at our Moorpark house, and guess who doesn't get to go home to Hawaii . . . Steven Benjamin Hilton.
I actually haven’t even been to Hawaii for over a year, but I do love the place. I don't know of another place on Earth where a guy could move into a new high school during his sophomore year and feel so welcome. And on the rare occasion that I get to return, I love kicking it at home with my boys Kirk Fong, Frederick Rohlfing, and Jordan Berardy . . . provided they want to come visit me at my house, because it’s a long way down from the top of the ridge.
So, I’m going to have my cake and eat it on this one. I’m both a Hawaiian surferboy and a California dreamboat . . . ladies.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Steven Hilton - Future CPA or guy with a personality?
If I like three non-gospel related things in this world, they are chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, myself, and attention. So, I decided to create a blog. And I can think of no better topic to launch off this blog than the topic that dominates my life from the months of September to April of every school year . . . the topic of accounting.
People who have asked me what I want to be when I grow up have gotten a wide variety of different answers throughout the years. In kindergarten, I told my teacher that I wanted to be a dinosaur. Some jerk must have squashed that dream, because by the time I reached first grade, I had decided to be a power ranger. From there, I dreamed of being a major league baseball player, an author, a professional basketball or football player, an astronaut, and a pokemon trainer. Now, I haven't really ruled out any of these, but at the moment, I am pursuing the glorified path of the CPA, or Certified Public Accountant.
One day, while doing homework in my college dorm room, I got a call from my mother. From previous experience, I knew that if I didn't answer, my mother would call some poor BYU employee up and yell at him for not knowing where I am and not having curfews and bedchecks, so I answered. "Steve," she said, "I just talked to your Uncle Rick, and he says that accounting is really boring." She then proceeded to lecture me for thirty minutes about whether I wanted to be a boring person. The same mother who had lectured me as a kid that I was "putting all my eggs in one basket" in regards to my dream of being a professional baseball player was now lecturing me about picking the most stable career on the market.
It's a few years later and I am now a first-year masters student in the number one accounting program in the country . . . maybe even the universe. Is accounting boring? Heck yes! I'm actually considering relocating my bed to the tanner building. With the boring nature of classes and the seven plus hours of homework every night, I get a lot more sleep in my accounting classes than I ever do at home.
So, why do I do it then? Well, I do it mostly for the ladies. I also do it because its a solid foundation for any future career in business, its a field in constant demand even in a tough economy, and because maybe I like depreciation, fraud detection, and income taxes . . . but mostly, I do it for the ladies. And even though I've chosen accounting as my field of study, I'm constantly trying to keep my options open. I still plan on writing a book, and who knows, maybe one day I'll even become a dinosaur. The only difference is that any book I write now will probably be about accelerated cost recovery rather than wizards and magic.
In regards to the question posed in the title, you'll have to decide for yourself, but I'd like to think the answer is yes.
People who have asked me what I want to be when I grow up have gotten a wide variety of different answers throughout the years. In kindergarten, I told my teacher that I wanted to be a dinosaur. Some jerk must have squashed that dream, because by the time I reached first grade, I had decided to be a power ranger. From there, I dreamed of being a major league baseball player, an author, a professional basketball or football player, an astronaut, and a pokemon trainer. Now, I haven't really ruled out any of these, but at the moment, I am pursuing the glorified path of the CPA, or Certified Public Accountant.
One day, while doing homework in my college dorm room, I got a call from my mother. From previous experience, I knew that if I didn't answer, my mother would call some poor BYU employee up and yell at him for not knowing where I am and not having curfews and bedchecks, so I answered. "Steve," she said, "I just talked to your Uncle Rick, and he says that accounting is really boring." She then proceeded to lecture me for thirty minutes about whether I wanted to be a boring person. The same mother who had lectured me as a kid that I was "putting all my eggs in one basket" in regards to my dream of being a professional baseball player was now lecturing me about picking the most stable career on the market.
It's a few years later and I am now a first-year masters student in the number one accounting program in the country . . . maybe even the universe. Is accounting boring? Heck yes! I'm actually considering relocating my bed to the tanner building. With the boring nature of classes and the seven plus hours of homework every night, I get a lot more sleep in my accounting classes than I ever do at home.
So, why do I do it then? Well, I do it mostly for the ladies. I also do it because its a solid foundation for any future career in business, its a field in constant demand even in a tough economy, and because maybe I like depreciation, fraud detection, and income taxes . . . but mostly, I do it for the ladies. And even though I've chosen accounting as my field of study, I'm constantly trying to keep my options open. I still plan on writing a book, and who knows, maybe one day I'll even become a dinosaur. The only difference is that any book I write now will probably be about accelerated cost recovery rather than wizards and magic.
In regards to the question posed in the title, you'll have to decide for yourself, but I'd like to think the answer is yes.
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