In Which There Is Terror

A few years ago, my BFF Viola and I decided we would go see a scary movie together.

On the one hand, we have Viola, who hate hate hate hate hates scary movies with a passion. On the other hand, there’s me, a person who does not necessarily revel in the scary movie genre. I despise horror movies that are all about blood and guts and gore. BUT I do enjoy a clever movie of suspense or a poetically haunting ghost story. The Sixth Sense. White Noise. Wait Until Dark. I have watched all of these movies and been genuinely scared—not grossed out, but scared. I think a good scare is good for me, once in a while.

Anyways, we decided to see a movie called The Woman in Black. It was based off a book, which seemed promising to literary connoisseurs such as ourselves. It had Daniel Radcliffe in it, who will always be beloved of our generation due to his playing Harry Potter. And the poster had a photograph of children with their eyes scratched out. A ghost that scratches eyes off of photographs? Intriguing. Sign us up. We went.

Was The Woman in Black a good movie?

Yes. It was. Daniel Radcliffe was great. When his character was all, “I can’t leave this island without being terribly and stupidly brave and heroic,” I was all, “Harry, you and your saving-people thing. You never learn.” But he was really adorable as a young father.

The movie had a very interesting story. It wasn’t all gory or shock value; it was very clever and well-plotted.

Finally, there was the main attraction, the woman in black, the ghost of the story. The theatrical poster was a little misleading in this regard. The ghost didn’t scratch photographs; at least, that wasn’t its primary ghostliness. Any time someone saw it, it would force a child to kill itself. There’s nothing creepier than that if you ask me.

So yes, The Woman in Black was a good movie.

A scary movie.

Too good of a scary movie.

Afterward, Viola and I went back to my parents’ house for a spot of conversation.

VIOLA: It’s time for me to leave.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Okay.

A beat of silence.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Do you want me to walk you outside to your car?

VIOLA: YES.

We walked outside timidly, terrified that the woman in black was lurking somewhere in the dark near Viola’s Toyota.

For weeks afterward, I suffered.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What if the woman in black is on the other side of the shower curtain?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What if the woman in black appears in the mirror when I’m using the bathroom late at night?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What if the woman in black is in my closet? What if she’s in the laundry room? What if she’s at the bottom of the stairs? In the backyard? On the hallway ceiling?

I checked the book out of the library and read it. Why would I check out the book of a movie that had completely scarred me? Morbid curiosity, I suppose. Good news, though. It was nowhere near as creepy as the movie. I relaxed slightly.

Finally, some nine months after seeing the movie, I decided I was desensitized. So late on Thanksgiving night, when my little sisters said, “I’m bored. Let’s watch a movie,” I said, “I know a scary movie you might like.”

Again, morbid curiosity.

But I was desensitized, right? This movie wouldn’t scare me anymore. Well…better not take the chance. I decided to show my sisters the made-for-TV version from the 1980s, which was conveniently on Youtube and couldn’t possibly be anywhere near as scary as the remake.

We all snuggled up on the pullout bed on the downstairs couch and pulled up the movie on my laptop.

Was the original movie as terrifying as the remake? Nope.

But it was still pretty scary.

After the last scene was over, we were all kind of quiet.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Let’s just sleep here, yes?

The pullout bed was tiny. But sleeping all squished together seemed much, much safer than sleeping alone in our respective beds.

That was years ago. And yet, I’m still thoroughly disturbed. Sometimes, when I’m creeping down the dark hallway in my apartment, trying to feel for the light switch on the wall, or I’m lying awake in bed unable to sleep, I think, “What if…the woman in black?”

It sends a shiver down my spine every time.

Well, the other day, I was looking at wonderful comedic videos on Youtube when I saw a sponsored video ad for The Woman in Black 2.

It showed a very fake-looking image of a woman dressed in black with a rotting face.

I was all, “Ha. Ha ha. Nice try, people who make humorous previews for fake sequels. There’s no way this is a real thing.”

But then.

But then Wikipedia told me it was real.

I clicked on the preview because morbid curiosity.

Then I exited out after about twenty seconds because mortal terror.

Then I hyperventilated about the horribleness of more woman in black. And checked over my shoulder to see if she was there.

She wasn't.

At least, not that I saw.

I don't want to see this sequel. I would die before I saw this sequel. I am going to stay far, far away from this sequel.

I think.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Stupid morbid curiosity.

Happy Christmas, Harry.

I have super indulgent roommates, the Seamstress and Pepper, who spoil me rotten.

The Seamstress's present to me.

Ron is particularly freakin' adorable.

A Very Muppet Christmas

I mentioned before that I write a family newspaper every Christmas. Here's the main article from today's issue.

Your intrepid reporter was at a Christmas choir practice when her sisters said to her, “Want to go to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert?”

“The Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert? You mean the Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert? The Christmas one? The one we couldn’t get tickets to? The one with Santino Fontana, Broadway star and voice of Prince Hans from Frozen?”

“SANtino FonTANa,” said Older Sister Obnoxious, one of your fearless reporter’s sisters, said bossily. “Not SAHNtino FonTAHNa. He’s American, not Spanish.”

“Santino Fontana,” the reporter continued fearlessly, “and the Muppets?” Your reporter breathed that last phrase like it was as precious as the last pure oxygen in a smoker’s lounge.

“Yes,” said the sisters, “the Sesame Street Muppets. We’re going a few hours early to be in standby for tickets.”

“Count me in,” said the reporter.

“Dress warm,” said her sisters.

“Okay,” said the reporter. She went home and put on 3,000 layers of warmth. She filled her pockets with tissues (because she was getting over an illness), an umbrella, and the recording of Steve Whitmire’s heartbeat she listens to when she falls asleep at night.

“I’m so excited to be in the same room with Muppeteers,” the reporter swooned. “Especially Steve Whitmire!!!”

“I know. I’m just so intimidated at the thought,” Little Sister Obnoxious, another of the reporter’s multiple sisters, exclaimed.

Then one Bonnaby, aka the crusher of all hopes and dreams, sent your reporter a screenshot of the program from the concert. Everyone from Sesame Street would be at the concert, except…

“William Barkhurst?” your intrepid reporter said blankly. “I have never heard of this man in my life. Who is he, and what did he do with Steve Whitmire???”

There was a moment of shamed silence for the lack of getting to be near Steve Whitmire.

“Oh well,” sighed the reporter. “The other Muppeteers will still be there. And I still think it will be really cool to hear Santino Fontana sing.”

“You’re still saying it wrong!” shouted Older Sister Obnoxious, harbinger of correct nomenclature pronunciation.

Siblings four and Carrot Top, a friend of Little Sister, trooped off together to the standby line for the concert. Would they get in to the concert? they wondered as they shivered in the rain. Would they be able to be personal witnesses to the glory of Sesame Street and Santino Fontana’s voice? Or would they be forced to instead watch the broadcast of the concert on the cramped benches of a tabernacle built in the much-smaller proportions of humans from a hundred years ago?

They wondered and they wondered. It was more suspenseful than The Woman in Black.

Slowly, people from the standby line were allowed into the concert. Your reporter and her companions were about the fifth hundred people in the standby line. First three hundred were let in…then another one hundred and seventy-five…and then there was a terrible pause. Would another twenty-five people be let into the concert? Would they get to go in? Would there be snow for Christmas? Would The Legend of Korra ever reveal Suyin’s father? And would he be someone cool, like Sokka, or some lame-o? These were some questions they wondered.

The man handing out the tickets paced up and down the aisles a few times. He talked to some people and listened to his headset. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun.

Just kidding. He pulled out a fat pack of tickets.

“There are seats for you in the balcony,” he told your committed reporter as he pressed tickets into her hand and the hands of her siblings. “But you’ll have to hurry before they close the doors.”

Quick as an Energizer bunny on caffeine, they dashed across Temple Square and to the conference center. They slid into their seats just as the opening number finished and the guest stars arrived onstage.

Muppets!

And Santino Fontana.

But also Muppets.

“Gee Bert,” said Ernie, “isn’t it great to be here with Fantino Sontana?”

“It’s SANTINO FONTANA,” said Bert, Older Sister’s best friend.

“Right. Bandino Bondana.”

There had never been more love in your gallant reporter’s heart for Muppets and Muppeteers than there was at that moment.

Stealing a Car on a Snowy Evening

Whose car this is I think I know.
He’s shopping in the grocery though;
He will not see me leaving here
To drive his car out through the snow.

My parents dear must think it’s queer*
I have a new car every year.
Whenever I am home on break
Through questioning they persevere.

With plastered grins that look quite fake
They ask if there is some mistake.
I tell them I get cars quite cheap.
They say, “Well, that just takes the cake!”

I lead them through these lies like sheep.
They do not know my crimes run deep.
When they find out they’ll likely weep…
Next year I think I’ll steal a Jeep.

*The literal definition of this word being, according to Merriam-Webster, "questionable" or "suspicious."

He Is the Gift

I have to say, The Lord of the Rings is one of my favorite Christmas stories.

Now, now, my good people. Before you cry, "Foul!" and "That's not a Christmas story!" allow me to compare the story of Frodo to the story of Christ.

A humble hobbit chooses to carry a great burden for the sake of his people. He suffers all kinds of afflictions and anguish. While he ends up adored by many from other lands, most of his own people fail to recognize the sacrifice he made for him.

Sound familiar? Then try Harry Potter on for size.

Harry chooses to die for the people he loves. When he willingly lays down his life, it evokes an ancient magic that saves those he dies for. His death allows his friends to live. And then Harry comes back to life, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase "The Boy Who Lived."

I could go on. Every love story--I don't mean a romantic story but a true love story of sacrifice--is a Christmas story. It's a retelling of the story of the man that Christmas is all about. A retelling of the story of our brother, savior, lord, and king, Jesus Christ.

I'm a gift person; I told you this. And His sacrifice is the greatest gift I have ever received.

Merry Christmas.

And God bless us, everyone.

Hobbits and Hanukkah

You're surely aware that the new Hobbit movie came out this past week.

You likely aren't aware that the start of Hanukkah was that same day.

Little Sister and I went to see the movie with Favorite Cousin. I wore the cloak of Lothlorien from my Frodo Baggins Halloween costume. Favorite Cousin bought a special promotional cup for his very large soda. I liked the cup but I never drink that much soda. Especially not in movies. In fact, it just so happens that the last time I ever drank a large soda was when my dad bought me one at The Return of the King. Within an hour, I had to go to the bathroom incredibly badly but I didn't want to leave lest I miss something. I spent the rest of the movie with a burgeoning bladder. At the end of the movie, there's a scene where Frodo says goodbye to this friends at the Grey Havens. It is very emotional.

And very long.

So, no. I did not wish to drink any soda. But I did want the cup. So I purchased it along with a small portion of the chocolate-hazelnut gelato I got hooked on when I was in Italy.

Hmm I thought, eating gelato whilst holding the very expensive cup I did not plan to drink from and wearing my single hobbit costume piece in a crowded movie theatre full of people dressed like people going to a crowded movie theatre normally would be. I can't tell if this is the epitome of adulthood or a low point.

After the movie, Little Sister and I could not remember where we'd parked my car.

This wasn't momentarily forgetfulness, either. We seriously walked around the parking lot for twenty minutes, unable to remember where my car might be.

There was much confusion.

"This must be what it was like in Mirkwood," Little Sister said, referring to the previous hobbit movie. "We'll have to climb a tree to see above the cars."

"What if we can't find my car and we miss Hanukkah?" I asked.

"Maybe," Little Sister said, "we'll have a Hanukkah miracle and your phone battery will last for eight days."

Deck the Hollies

Apparently Christmas is a thing.

I mean, no duh it's a thing. It's the thingiest of things. Almost everybody knows about it. Lots of people celebrate it.I just mean…people get really intoChristmas, you know? As they should. It is the most glorious of celebrations. There are just so many ways to celebrate that it’s at once delightful and overwhelming. Everybody emphasizes something different.

My workplace is all about Christmas games and contests.

Etch-a-Sketch’s family holds a Christmas party each year in October. My impression is they feel like Christmas parties in December are overrated, and people are less swamped in October anyways.

My mom often buys a Christmas box of chocolates from our local fancy candy store. The family eats it all together, everyone taking turns in choosing a chocolate. The idea is to find the chocolate that you most desire. Many a time I’ve bitten into a chocolate I was positive was English toffee-flavored only to find it was actually coconut cream or peanut-caramel.

Lots of people especially enjoy singing Christmas songs. When Baby Brother was, well, little more than a baby, he would sing Christmas songs nonstop during the joyous season. His three favorites were “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Jingle Bells,” and “Deck the Halls.” He knew only a few lines of each song, which he would sing over and over and over again. This was particularly true of “Deck the Halls.”

Deck the hollies boughs of jollies

Baby Brother would sing.

La la la la la, la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaa

At the end of each round of “la las,” he would change the key to a higher pitch and start over. I’m sure someday Baby Brother will be the sweetest of tenors, but his prepubescent soprano could break a department-storeful of glass bulb ornaments and Christmas lights.

I like to make up a Christmas newspaper every year. When I was thirteen, I had this English teacher who had stacks and stacks of The National Geographicin his classroom. I read so many of those magazines during the fall that I decided to write an imitation article for my Christmas paper. (National Geographic articles have a very distinct style, for those who haven’t had the pleasure.) I posed it as a guest article by Velvet Darwin of The Irrational Geographic about a faraway village where they celebrate Christmas all year round or something like that. ‘Twas a thing of beauty.

But that’s not all, my friends. There are still a million and one other ways to celebrate Christmas.

Check out Pinterest, for example. Christmas crafts abound, as well as new takes on Christmas cards, gift wrapping, and traditional Christmas treats.

The other day I happened to see an interesting pin on Pinterest. It was a photo of a long slab of raw meat.

“What’s this?” I asked myself. “A recipe for a delicious marinade?” As a person who cooks only for myself, I have little interest in marinades for excessively long slabs of meat, no matter how delicious, so I scrolled on past.

Then the text at the bottom of the pin caught my eye. “Winter White Red Velvet Fudge” it proclaimed.

“There’s no way,” I said to myself. But there was a way. Some people apparently like to celebrate Christmas by making festive fudge that looks exactly raw meat.

The knife doesn't help.

A Confession

It's after Thanksgiving now sooooo I can celebrate Christmas without any grumbling from those naysayers who are always like, "Don't even mention Christmas before Thanksgiving or you're dead to me!"

I must be dead to a lot of people, because I started Christmas shopping in October. I had nine Christmas presents and all my wrapping paper purchased while my family's Thanksgiving turkey was still strutting around a barnyard.

Other people who defy the naysayers by starting to celebrate early don't usually start with shopping. They start with a little Christmas music, then maybe purchasing a seasonal Christmas treat while taking care of the last-minute Thanksgiving shopping. Then the day after Thanksgiving the tree comes up and--hey, whaddaya know? Guess it's time to get Christmas presents. Gotta put something under that tree.

What I'm trying to say is that many people feel ambivalence towards Christmas shopping. Some also get anxiety about it or just plain dislike it.

Not many people love it, but I do.

Okay, this is the part where I confess something to you.

Every now and again, some philosophical soul goes off on some rant about the commercialization of Christmas: "I mean, gifts! Really? Wanting presents on Christ's birthday is materialistic and greedy! Everyone should get one gift for Christmas. Or better yet, no gifts. They don't really mean anything, after all. Don't you agree?"

In the past, I would vaguely mumble something like, "Yeah, presents! Who needs 'em? Materialism and all that!"

But no more. I'm coming clean.

Ladies and gentlemen, gifts are my number-one language of love.

You heard me. Of all the five languages of love, gifts mean the most to me.

I've been ashamed of it ever since I realized the truth. It does seem really materialistic. Not to mention greedy and shallow.

But I've recently decided to embrace the fact that yes, presents mean something to me.

While you're still reeling from the shock that people like me exist, allow me to point out the two greatest blessings of having gifts as my love language.

The first is that it's a pretty diverse love language. Anything meaningful is a gift. Sometimes that's an actual gift, but sometimes it's something that comes from one of the other four love languages. Words of affirmation can be a gift. A quality visit from a friend who usually wouldn't come by can be a gift. An especially welcome hug or act of service can be a gift. It's the thought, effort, and the outward manifestation that someone was thinking about me are what make gifts gifts.

The second blessing is that I like to give other people presents. I take extra joy in giving other people gifts. Thus the very early Christmas shopping. Gotta start early so I have plenty of time to find something perfect for everyone!

Of course, like all love languages it has its downfalls. The first is that sometimes, yes, there's guilt for being materialistic.

The second is that if I can't think of a good gift for someone, I feel like a failure.

The third is that sometimes when I ask people I care about what they want for Christmas, they try to do me a favor and say, "You don't have to get me anything."

And then my soul cries, "WHY DON'T YOU WANT MY LOVE?"

And then I curl up in my closet and sob while they pat themselves on the back for being so considerate of me and also not materialistic.

I Hope That Something Better Comes Along

A word on dating.

Now, remember. I'm no dating expert. I've never had a relationship (except with this blog--twenty months strong) so I don't know a lot about dating. Although I suppose that it's possible to learn more about a thing by failing at it than by succeeding at it.

Either way, you should perhaps take my word with a grain of salt. Add grains of thyme, garlic, and rosemary for a delightful herb marinade.

As a Perpetually Single Person, I am often the recipient of much advice. Much of the advice goes something like this: "With guys, you just have to (fill in the blank)."

Variations on this advice: "When it comes to guys, you should never--" "You should always--" "Try this and it will work like a charm--"

While there may be some truth to each of these pieces of advice, there are several billion men on this planet. I find it hard to believe that they all respond the same to the same conditions.

It took me a few years to realize that, actually. There's this idea that's prevalent in female culture that if you properly do X, Y, and Z any guy you choose will like you back. He has to. He can't resist your feminine wiles and womanly perfection. And if he doesn't like you, then there must be something wrong with him. He's a wimp, he's evil, he's "not worth it."

The truth of the matter is that sometimes a guy doesn't like you. Yes, perhaps he's a bit daft not to realize how great you could be together. Yes, sometimes there is something wrong with him. But sometimes he's just fine and he is worth it but he just doesn't like you that way.

The other thing I'd like to note is that it's not good to compare your story to someone else's. Sometimes things go the way you expect: you meet the guy, he asks you out, you like each other, things naturally progress and then, at long last, you get married.

That's the way some stories go, but not all. I don't believe in moral relativism, but after years of observation I have come to believe in romantic relativism. Different things work for different people. Romance is a crazy thing, and you never know what's going to work.

That's all. Awkward Mormon Girl out.

Black Friday

I never went Black Friday shopping before today.

To be truthful, every time someone mentions Black Friday I think that they're talking about some Catholic feast day. Ash Wednesday. Palm Sunday. Black Friday.

Then context happens. Shopping and Thanksgiving are mentioned, and I remember that Black Friday is not a Catholic feast day but an American retail phenomenon.

I'd never partaken of this retail phenomenon. The closest I'd ever come was when Baby Sister and I went shopping on the Saturday after Thanksgiving two years ago. She begged me to take her and I didn't understand why until I saw the two- and three-dollar shirts and then I asked myself, "Why are they having this incredible sale?" and then I remembered Black Friday and realized I was looking at its remnants. Its carcass, if you will. And Baby Sister and I were the vultures picking over it after the hungry herd had moved on.

Less poetically, we got lots of cheap clothes that day.

Well, since I've moved out on my own, it's been a trial to find winter clothes because I do so hate parting with my money. But clothes cost money. So to avoid parting with my money, I've avoided buying them.

Eventually I thoroughly tired of wearing the same eight shirts to work over and over. I set a budget and headed to my favorite lightly-used clothing store. It was newly closed, and the other lightly-used clothing store only had one shirt I liked.

In frustration, I asked myself how I could get nice clothes inexpensively.

And then I remembered.

Black Friday.

Baby Sister agreed to go with me. I lured her with the promise of lunch. At 12:30 in the afternoon, we arrived at our first store.

Let me tell you. There were a lot of people there. And they were buying a lot of stuff. I wanted to tell them that they were ridiculous except I was there too, so, you know.

Everything was going well. Baby Sister and I were finding stuff to try on and discussing the merits of tank tops when I made a dreadful mistake. I left Baby Sister on her own while I tried on a sweater. When I came back, she was gone.

I walked around the store. She wasn't there.

I called her. It went to voice mail. Baby Sister's phone is never on nor on her person.

I was beginning to realize that I really should not have left her alone. I mean, okay. Baby Sister is now a teenager. She can date and she's almost as tall as me. And I admit, she had me fooled into thinking that she could take care of herself while I stepped away for a moment. But the longer she was missing, the more I remembered that she was as defenseless and vulnerable as a newborn puppy. She couldn't possibly survive in this clothing store without me!

"How can you think about shopping when my baby sister is missing?" I yelled at everyone around me. Loudly. But in my head.

I searched the store a second time. I was beginning to be afraid that maybe there was a Black Friday bandit who walks off with kids while everyone is distracted by bargain prices.

They say you should never get between a mother animal and her baby. I've never been a mom so I don't know about that. But it's my personal opinion that you should never get between the big sister animal and the little sister animal, either. It had been ten minutes and I was ready to tear apart the store and everybody in it to find my sister.

Then I checked my phone.

Due to the amount of junk in my purse, I had not felt it vibrate when Baby Sister had sent me seven chirpy messages from her iPod in three minutes.

Baby Sister: Awkward Mormon Girl

Baby Sister: I'm in line it's super long

Baby Sister: You should probably hurry

Baby Sister: So cool

Baby Sister: Ps turn in your phone

Baby Sister: I'm dead seious

Baby Sister: You need to learn to turn on your phone

And I was like, "EXCUSE ME? Who needs to learn to turn on their phone, exactly?"

By the time I found Baby Sister in line, I wasn't sure if I wanted to hug her or hit her.

Also I'm not sure if I want to hug or hit Black Friday.

Giving Thanks

Upon the event of La Petite's marriage, we got a new roommate, Pepper.

Shortly after moving in, Pepper left a bag of paper leaves in many fall colors on the our kitchen table with a note that said, Write something you are thankful for. It will make you Harry.

That really excited me, because who doesn't want to be an orphaned boy wizard and also have people say to them, "Happy Christmas, Harry," every Christmas?

I became less excited when I looked more closely and saw that the note said, "happy," not "Harry." But since the day of thankfulness was upcoming and also because Americans and happiness go together like America and "Made in China" stickers, I decided to participate.

For the past several weeks, I have frequently written something I'm thankful for on a leaf and taped it to the window frame.

Last Thanksgiving season, I made a list of six things I was grateful for. This season, I helped to fill an entire window frame with a lovely leaf border of thankfulness.

There's a lot to be thankful for. And it does make me happy.

Though I would still appreciate it if people would say, "Happy Christmas, Harry," to me on Christmas.

A Lazy Day

It's just one of those days.

I was planning to leave the house for three things today. One, to clean my church building. Two, to practice a work presentation in front of my family. Three, to pick up a coffee table from my grandmother's house.

Then when my alarm went off this morning I decided to hit snooze twice. Then I just went back to sleep for real and woke up an hour later. Then I lay in bed thinking for another two hours.

By the time I was done thinking, it was far too late to go clean the church. So I exercised, ate late breakfast/early lunch...and decided it was much too depressing weather outside to go pick up the coffee table. So I did some housework and then decided that I didn't really need to practice my presentation in front of my family because I didn't quite yet know what I was saying. So I read a book and laid around and before I knew it, it was late o'clock.

I gathered the trash from the trash cans and then I was like, "You know what? I haven't stepped outside all day and I'm not going to start now." Whereupon I made a public service announcement that I would not be taking the trash to the garbage can outside just then.

My roommates were surprisingly cool with that, for which I was grateful. So grateful that when the Seamstress, who was making fondue, needed two tablespoons of cornstarch and there was none in the apartment, I volunteered to obtain some for her.

I wish I could say that I sacrificed my conviction to not leave the house in order to purchase some cornstarch for the Seamstress. But actually I called my dad and asked him to bring some over.

Hipsterland

Older Sister complained that I call everything hipster, after a shopping trip in which I called a restaurant, a sweatshirt, and two pairs of Sesame Street socks "hipster."

Now the Sesame Street socks were legitimately hipster. Like, they had hipster glasses Cookie Monster and hipster mustache Elmo on them. As for the other items, I stand by my labels.

Hipster is the new thing. Everything constantly proclaims how fresh and different and original it is. The new mainstream is the non-mainstream.

Whilst putting together our Halloween costumes, the brothers and I ran into some roadblocks. Little Brother couldn't find a Johnesque nightshirt, so he found a pair of pajamas instead. Baby Brother had to wear red footie pajamas instead of pink ones. And for a while, it looked like I would not have a proper costume at all.

Out of desperation, Little Brother and I hatched a plan consisting of a skirt, some lady's boots, and a bucket hat. "Sort of a hipster 1920s Peter Pan," we said, which somehow meant nothing yet perfectly described the resulting look.

Little Brother, who constantly thinks in cinematic terms, began scripting a movie out loud in which all the Peter Pan characters were hipsters. "It will be called Hipsterland," he said.

Now, I know that Baby Brother is a genius but I admit that still I sometimes underestimate him. I assumed he did not really know what a hipster was and that he did not fully understand the Peter Pan hipster jokes that Little Brother and I were cracking.

So I was rather taken aback when Baby Brother announced that he had a hipster joke for Michael. "I wore pink footie pajamas before everybody else did. And now that everybody else is wearing them, I wear red ones."

Spoken like a true hipster.

Adventures in Housekeeping

The first week in my apartment, I resolved to vacuum the whole place.

The Seamstress had just bought a new vacuum. Very shiny, with a retractable cord. I was enamored of it because vacuum cords are the bane of my existence. I happily vacuumed the apartment, pulling the entire cord out of the vacuum.

Disaster struck when I tried to retract the cord. For the cord would not retract.

Understandably, I panicked. "I am a horrible person who has just ruined my brand-new roommate's brand-new vacuum and I deserve a terrible fate and why am I that person?" I sobbed over the lifeless vacuum cord. "Oh, WHY?"

In a final act of desperation, I began to feed the cord, centimeter by centimeter, into the cord retractor. It would not go in.

In a final final act of desperation, I hit the cord retractor button one more time. This time it worked, saving my honor, pride, and probably also soul from a terrible fate.

A few days later, I found myself out of clothes. It had come time to do that which I dreaded most: laundry.

This may surprise you, but although I had folded and unloaded many a load of laundry, I had never before sorted, loaded, or chosen washing or drying settings for one.

"Did your mother never teach you?" you may ask, aghast.

The truth of the matter is that my mother tried to teach me, but it never quite worked out the way she was hoping.

MOM: Colors. Whites. Light. Dark. Hot. Cold. Delicate. Sturdy.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: So doing laundry is essentially an episode of Sesame Street?

MOM: ...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Or since we're Jewish... Shalom Sesame.

When I moved out, my mother was very concerned about my lack of absorption of her lessons in laundry. I wasn't, because helloooo. Age of Information. I could just look it up on the internet.

Coincidentally, the washer and dryer in our apartment were brand spanking new. They had moved to the apartment after I had. La Petite had purchased them just days before and they had washed only a few loads.

I emptied my laundry basket and sorted it according to the internet.

So far so good.

I took my first load to the washing machine and put it inside. After some minor confusion about how laundry soap works, I selected the proper settings, poured in the soap, and turned on the washing machine. It started humming, and.

And...nothing.

I frowned in concern. Little though I knew about the machines of washing, I was pretty sure I remembered immediate cascades of water in our machine at home. There was no waiting, and there was no humming.

"But," I consoled myself, "this is a different brand of washing machine. It probably just needs a minute to warm up."

After five minutes: "It just needs ten minutes to warm up."

After ten minutes: "It just needs fifteen minutes..."

After twenty minutes: "Half an hour..,"

After an hour: "I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON WHO JUST BROKE MY ROOMMATE'S BRAND-NEW WASHER AND DRYER."

In desperation, I poured through the internet, looking for information about humming-no-water washing machines. By all accounts, this was not a good situation to be in.

"The machine was working fine yesterday," I sobbed as I read one dire account of broken washing machines after another. "La Petite did a ton of laundry! Why, oh why, do I ruin everything I touch?"

After appropriate hand-wringing and feelings of wretchedness, it occurred to me to ask La Petite if there might be something I, the laundry novice, was doing wrong.

I sent her a text telling her I could only get the washing machine to hum. Was there some trick to using it?

A few minutes later, La Petite responded.

La Petite: Is the water on?

...

Awkward Mormon Girl: It is now.

Follow-Up Post

There are a few posts that I've been meaning to follow up on but haven't yet. So I thought I'd knock 'em all out with one combo post.

First off, Little Sister brought it to my attention that in Sleeping Beauty, they say "Skumps," not "Scrumps." I'm just gonna say that's not what I remember from when I was three years old, but whatever, Little Sister. If you insist on me being accurate.

Secondly, I mentioned an impending surprise meeting with a professor. Whatever did he want?

As it turns out, he wanted to discuss a group project I'd participated in where not all of the group members had not, shall we say, pulled their own weight. I half-composed a post about how professors should know better than to assign group projects because, apart from being super inconvenient, they have no application in real life. Of course, now I have a job where I essentially do group projects. Go figure.

Finally, over a year ago I mentioned my family's great confusion at Baby Brother's insistence on calling bullies "mayonnaise." This confusion was further compounded by his insistence that the reason he did this was to be British.

Several months after the initial incident, Baby Brother happened to say (this time in an actual English accent) "You're all mayonnaise!"

AND SUDDENLY I REALIZED THAT "MAYONNAISE" IS ENGLISH ACCENT FOR "MEANIES."

The Post That Took Me Three Months to Write

You've probably heard that song, "Human." It's, like, annoyingly popular. It's on the radio all the time.

There are a few lines in the song that I particularly relate to:

I can do it
I can do it
I'll get through it
I said something very much like this to myself at the beginning of my junior year of high school. I was taking two AP classes. I was in drum line as well as in regular band and I did two musicals, one right after another: I had the script for the second one before the run of the first one was even half over. In addition, I had to start thinking about my future, for scholarships and college applications loomed large on the horizon and I'd just come of an age where it was appropriate to date.

Add to that the typical responsibilities of family, friends, and church. Add to that all the little dramas and discouragements of being sixteen years old, and you'll perhaps see why by the end of the first semester of that year, I was in deep clinical depression.

Optimism and perseverance are usually not the cause of depression, but in this case, they were. When I was stressed out, instead of taking time to talk it over or relax I would tell myself, "No worries. Tomorrow will be better." I was so focused on the someday when everything would work out that I didn't take care of myself in the meantime.

I could do it. I could do it. I'd get through it.

Just before Christmas, an emotional disaster completely toppled my house-of-cards-like well-being. I was a wreck. A car wreck, a train wreck, a plane wreck--pick whichever you please. I was just as mangled and tragic as any.

I'd like to describe that time of depression to you in specific detail, but I can't. Most of those days felt the same. Things were gray. I cried a lot. I had little motivation to do anything, and most emotions were beyond my reach. So a lot of my memories of that time have melted over the years into a gray, weepy haze with all the variation of a flatlining heart monitor.

It was awful. I highly don't recommend it to you. However, I am forever grateful that I went through the experience. I was completely torn apart and then stitched back together again--and the new stitching was stronger and of better quality than the stuff that used to be there.

Later I discovered that my experiences with depression gave me the courage and tools that I needed to face other difficult situations and help people with similar experiences.

The Lord. He works in mysterious ways.

P.S. The title of the post is accurate. I've known for a while that I needed to make some posts about this stuff. It's just surprisingly hard to get started.

Pictures of My Halloween

Showing off my costume.

 

Little Brother freaks out.
 

Heading out to trick-or-treat!
 

Little Sister wears a fashionable hat.

 

Baby Brother perpetuates Native American stereotypes.

Simply A-Maze-Ing

My singles ward went to a corn maze for an activity. I had only ever been to one very small corn maze in my life, so I decided to attend and see what all the fuss is about.

Really, though. Corn mazes make no sense when you think about it. If you want to be hopelessly lost, I'm happy to blindfold you, dump you in an alley somewhere, and tell you to go find your way home. That would be way more challenging, not to mention free. Yet something tells me you wouldn't go for that. Kind of like how some people pay lots of money to jump out of airplanes for fun but would probably be traumatized if they had to jump out of a plane in an emergency.

Humans are weird.

Well, the corn maze was a ways away from Hometown, so it was necessary to carpool.

Now I'd forgotten that it was October. That is, I knew it was the month of October but I'd forgotten that October means it will be cold. In my defense, there wasn't a cold evening all month until this evening where I planned to spend a few hours lost in a bunch of corn. Love you too, Utah weather.

Joyfully, my parents' house happened to be on the way to the corn maze. The driver of my car pool offered to swing by so I could get something warm. I ran inside, grabbed a tam o'shanter and a pair of gloves, and ran back out.

We got on the freeway. Within ten minutes, we were lost.

There was a GPS. There was a smartphone. We'd find our way eventually. I took advantage of the lull to pull on my tam o'shanter, then turn my attention to my gloves.

"I think we need to go a little farther east," the passenger was saying.

And the driver was saying, "Let's pull over and figure out where we are."

And I was asking myself, "Why are these gloves stuck together?"

Upon close inspection, I saw that the gloves were sewn together through the fingers.

"Look at this map. This road runs perpendicular-"

Sewn together with a button to secure it all.

"But we passed that long ago-"

A heart-shaped button no less.

"Let's keep going-"

I thought perhaps the gloves were sewn together for a reason, so I tried to put them on while they were still sewn. However, the fingers were too thoroughly blocked. There was nothing for it. I'd have to rip out the stitches and the button, too.

"Let's turn around-"

I'd ripped out the stitches and was pulling the gloves on when my finger pricked something. Concealed in one of the fingertips of the right glove was a jeweled pin with a bird on it.

Seldom have I ever been as confused as I was by those gloves.

"We'll get there eventually," the driver and the passenger, unaware of my deeply bewildering glove struggle, finally decided.

And they were right. We found the corn maze eventually. Someone got a paper map and we all strode in.

My ponytail was pulled jauntily to one side to accommodate my tam o'shanter. My gloves were freed of buttons and birds and were securely upon my hands. I was ready.

This is what being in the corn maze sounded like:

"I think we need to go a little farther east."

"Let's stop and figure out where we are."

"Look at this map. This path runs perpendicular-"

"But we passed that long ago-"

"Let's keep going-"

"Let's turn around-"

And I was like, "Um, guys? Does anybody else realize that this is exactly what we were doing before we got here?"

"Oh well. We'll get there eventually,"

"Just me? Carry on, then."

We Won't Grow Up

I hope you are as excited to see my Halloween costume as I am to show it to you.

First, some explanation. Every summer, my family goes camping in the mountains. And every summer, I pretend that I am Peter Pan and that my younger siblings and cousins are my Lost Boys.

I do not know how this came am about. Actually, yes I do. It was my idea.

Ever since Favorite Cousin grew up and stopped coming camping with us, I've had quite the solitary time camping. There's been no one for me to take a quiet hike and discuss Lord of the Rings, so these past few years I've been sitting among the trees reading instead.

Anyways, one camping trip I grew intolerably bored. I ambled out to the children's hideout in the woods and suggested that we play the part of Peter Pan where they build a house for Wendy. I would be Peter Pan, of course, and...

...and it hasn't stopped since. Summer after summer, it's all the same. We sing our homemade Lost Boys' medley, make beds out if grass, build a house for Wendy, and have a pine cone war with the pirates and Indians (aka our parents) before going to the Indians' camp for a victory feast (aka tinfoil dinners).

Once before the feast, I told the others that we needed to dress up. "I will put this feather in my hair," I said grandly, placing a strand of grass in my hair and then scooping up Pixie Cousin to help her back to camp.

"That's not a feather," Pixie Cousin informed me, giggling. "You cwazy, Peter Pan!"

She thought I was crazy for pretending some grass was a feather, but she had no problem believing I was an obnoxious, pre-adolescent boy who can fly. Go figure.

Anyways, this summer, in the midst of the usual Lost Boy shenanigans, Little Brother was all, "For Halloween I'll be John, Baby Brother will be Michael, Baby Sister will be Wendy, Little Sister will be Tinker Bell, and you'll be Peter Pan."

And I was like, "I'll believe it when I see it." Because Little Brother is a schemer, a dreamer, someone who thinks big but can't always deliver. I know the type because I am one.

But this year, Little Brother delivered. He put together smashing costumes for everyone. He even convinced our parents to get costumes to be Mr. and Mrs. Darling. And he and Baby Brother kept saying, "What about your costume?"

Then I realized that this was really happening. And that although I'm not Peter Pan, to these kids I might as well be. They think I can do anything and that I'll never let them down.

So I made myself a costume. Green tights, green skirt, green polo shirt. Hat, belt and shoe covers from a costume my mom bought for Little Brother once from Disneyland. The shoelace of one of my hiking boots.

And the final product:

I made this with my mad costume skillz. And now I'm excited. So very excited.

Halloween can't come soon enough.

Trick or Treat

The year I was Wembley Fraggle for Halloween, I was seventeen. Nobody outside of my family appreciated my costume, and I was considerably older than the other trick-or-treaters.

"I think," I said to myself, feeling generally uncomfortable, "that this will be my last year of trick-or-treating."

And it was. Until my younger brothers and younger sisters and I decided to dress as the cast of Avatar: The Last Airbender for Halloween.

Little Sister was Katara. Little Brother was Zuko. Baby Sister was Toph, and big-eyed Baby Brother was Aang, the avatar himself.

In assigning characters to each sibling, we came across a problem called Too Many Male Characters or Our Parents Had Twice as Many Daughters as Sons. There were three boys in the cast of Avatar and only two girls, while we were three girls and only two boys.

The moral of the story is that due to the dearth of men, I ended up being Sokka, the meat and sarcasm guy. I converted a blue dress and a shredded white dress shirt into this outfit:

More or less.

After working on our costumes like underpaid child laborers in a sweatshop, the younger siblings and I were loath to split up and diminish the recognizability factor of our costumes. Thus I chaperoned the children around the neighborhood.

They'd go to the doorstep, ring the bell, and say "Trick or treat," and collect their candy while I hung back several feet, waiting awkwardly on the lawn.

Something curious happened at most housed. The adult who answered the door would look beyond the kids and see that, under my puffy winter coat (it was a cold Halloween, and while Sokka is from the South Pole, I'm definitely not), I was wearing a costume. And I guess they either thought I was still a kid or took pity on me, because they would then say, "Don't you want some candy?"

At first I would politely say, "No thank you. I'm just chaperoning."

And then they would say, "Are you sure?"

I wasn't sure. By the time we'd gone around the block, my coat pockets were filled with candy. I gave up on adulthood, ran home to get a pillowcase, and spent the rest of the evening saying, "Trick or treat!" on every doorstep.

It was fun, but nobody outside of my family appreciated my costume (all the folks answering the door were advanced far past the Avatar age), and I was considerably older than the other trick-or-treaters.

"I think," I said to myself, feeling generally uncomfortable, "that this will be my last year of trick-or-treating."

So the next year, I swore I would leave the candy to the kids. To keep myself from being tempted, I didn't even get a costume. I got scheduled to work Halloween night, and that was fine with me.

Well, the fast food joint wasn't exactly hopping that night. I got home a little earlier than expected, just in time to commence the annual Halloween visit with my grandmother.

Once there, my mother suggested I take Baby Brother trick-or-treating around my grandmother's neighborhood. I don't remember why the rest of the kids weren't around, but they weren't. I seem to remember that Baby Brother's evening of trick-or-treating had been rather disappointing, candy-wise. Whatever the reason, I agreed to take him up and down the street.

There were only the two of us, and I couldn't very well force my tiny little brother to knock on strangers' doors alone while I stood back and supervised from a distance. So I walked right up to every door with him and said, "Trick or treat!" for him. Then I would subtly push him forward to accept his candy.

Except at every house, the person who answered the door would hand me a piece of candy, too. These were old people in a neighborhood that didn't get many trick-or-treaters, so the candy was always above-average. King-sized candy bars. Movie theatre boxes of Junior Mints. And people were just handing these treasures out to me like it was nothing, no hesitations, no questions asked.

For the first few houses, I was extremely confused. Why did people keep giving me candy like I was a trick-or-treater? I was acting very parent-ish, wasn't I? I wasn't looking longingly at the candy, was I? No! I wasn't even carrying a candy bag. I wasn't even wearing a costume...

"Oh," I said, looking down. I was still wearing my work uniform. Apparently, people thought I had dressed as a fast food employee for Halloween.

"Well," I said to myself, "whatever," and since it appeared to be my destiny to always be given candy on Halloween, I bravely accepted said destiny and also all the candy I could carry.

Finding Kathryn

"I'm not sure if I have the right number, but I think I do. I'm looking for a Kathryn Ramin or a Kathryn Atwood--she went by both names. Um, this a family member. Can you call me back at xxx-xxx-xxxx? Again, xxx-xxx-xxxx. This is California, Beverly from California calling. Can you call me back either way and let me know if I got the wrong number? This is--this is really important. Thank you very much and have a nice day. And it's 3:40 California time."

I've mentioned Kathryn before.

When I got my first phone, I was terribly excited. I mean, what's not to love about cellular phones? Making phone calls is terrifying, but nobody uses their cell to call people anyways so there was nothing to worry about. I was free to worship and adore my new phone.

Except apparently some people didn't get the memo that cell phones aren't for actually calling people. It wasn't long before a call came in.

Who could possibly be calling me? I wondered. Hardly anyone had my new number.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Is Kathryn there?" the person on the other end asked.

I told the person they had the wrong number and hung up, assuming that would be the end of it.

But it was only the beginning.

For six years, I've received urgent calls for Kathryn from various financial institutions. From people who are probably friends. From people who probably aren't.

I've gotten voice mails from a guy who said Kathryn had to meet with him "or else." I even picked up a call from a guy who'd found a Frisbee with my number on it.

"Do you want me to mail it to you?" he asked, sounding all sorts of proud of himself for going to such great lengths to safely return this lost item.

"It's not mine," I said.

"But it has this phone number on it," he said. I had a very hard time convincing him that I'd never owned a Frisbee much less lost one.

As I hung up, I thought, It's probably Kathryn's.

This has been going on for six years. It's partly annoying, partly entertaining, but overall very mysterious.

Who is Kathryn? Why did she cancel her number six years ago and never let her bank, her friends, or her Frisbee know? Is she on the lam? A technology fast? The moon?

I never thought I'd ever get any answers about Kathryn.

Then I got that voice mail from Beverly from California.

I hardly ever respond to messages for Kathryn left on my phone. My voicemail recording is very clear about what my name is. People leave me messages for someone else at their own risk. But how could I not respond to this?

Within minutes of hearing the voice message, I returned the call.

Ring ring ring. The phone was picked up.

"Is this Beverly?" I asked.

'Twas Beverly, indeed.

"You called me looking for someone named Kathryn."

The disappointment was heavy in Beverly's voice when she realized that I, clearly, was not Kathryn.

I wanted to ask why Beverly needed to find Kathryn so desperately, but I was saved the trouble of inquiring when Beverly began to tell me herself.

Beverly explained that her nephew is looking for his father, whom he's never met. Beverly hired a private investigator to find the nephew's father. Because the nephew's father is also Kathryn's father, the private investigator had turned up Kathryn's phone number and given it to Beverly.

The problem with that plan is that Kathryn's number is, of course, not Kathryn's number but mine. Which obviously was frustrating to Beverly because now how the heck is she going to find Kathryn to find her nephew's father?

And I was like, "I know how you feel. I can't find half the people on my visiting teaching list myself."

Anyways, after the conversation with Beverly, my curiosity about Kathryn was more deeply stirred. Because I fancy myself something of a detective, I got online and searched the social media sites for a likely-looking Kathryn/Katherine/Catherine Atwood-or-Ramin.

No such luck. Not even when I used key words like "Utah" or "Frisbee."

The conclusion of this story is that no one knows where the heck Kathryn is, except hopefully Kathryn herself. So I think I'll do an internet shout out right now, just in case Kathryn ever happens upon this blog.

KATHRYN! KATHRYN ATWOOD-OR-RAMIN! IF YOU READ THIS, BEVERLY FROM CALIFORNIA IS LOOKING FOR YOU. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HER LAST NAME IS. POSSIBLY HILLS. BUT YOU SHOULD CALL HER. THAT IS ALL.

*Since it's a shout-out, it has to be in all-caps to make it look like I'm shouting.

The Plan

Upon a few occasions in my life, I've received hints from guys I liked that they liked me back.

Hints are good. There's nothing wrong with hints. But if something's going to develop between two people who like each other, then hints alone will not suffice. At some point, action needs to be taken.

I don't know why human beings are so bad at this. On more than one occasion I've known of people who liked each other, who were fairly secure in their knowledge that their affections were returned, yet who never summoned up the courage to make things official. The opportunity passed them by, and none of them ended up together.

I guess everybody ever is super duper afraid of rejection. When we don't know for 100% positive that someone likes us back, we're scared to say something about it. Which is a problem when usually the only way we can know for 100% positive is by saying something.

I'm no better, I'm afraid. I try to be honest with people in my actions and say things that need to be said. Yet I, too, am often scared.

One time, I developed a brilliant plan to tell a man I was interested in him. I decided to wear my glasses instead of my contacts. Then when he said, "I like your glasses," (because of course he would) I would say, "I like you."

It was smooth. It was clever. It was kind of dorky but that's just how I roll. Best of all, it was very risk-free, comparatively speaking.

I saw the man. I was wearing my glasses. He said, "I like the glasses," as I'd known he would. It was all going according to plan.

So I said...

..."Thanks."

Alas. Are we all cowards at heart?

Disasters in Dancing

Best Friend Boy is the best dancer I know.

I used to dislike partner dancing pretty strongly. The first time a boy tried to teach me to swing dance, he stopped the lesson to specifically say, "Just relax. I'll take care of everything."

But I couldn't relax. Yeah, I have been in fourteen musicals, but I was never cast for my beautiful dancing. I'm not one of those people blessed with natural bodily awareness. I have to think really hard to get my body to do anything even vaguely resembling a dance. So to relax while dancing is hard for me.

Well, Best Friend Boy changed all that. I can usually relax when I dance with him. He's great at leading me through the dance and doing the heavy lifting (metaphorically and less metaphorically). All I have to do is smile (musical theatre habits die hard) and try not to step on my own feet.

A few months ago, Best Friend Boy and I met up at Hometown High's annual swing event.

It's always a good time, this swing event. Some people dress up quite lavishly for it.

I decided to dress in a sort of business-casual style. For footwear, I considered the merits of heels, sneakers, and flats...and chose flats.

It was good that I didn't wear heels but bad that I didn't wear sneakers. For as it turned out, the flats had no traction. The soles were, indeed, flat. As I soon discovered when Best Friend Boy twirled me over the Hometown High dance floor and I promptly fell over.

"Too fast," Best Friend Boy said, and adjusted his speed accordingly.

The rest of the night went well...until Best Friend Boy proposed we do some kicks. He taught me how. We started off slowly, and then the music went into double time.

Best Friend Boy's legs also went into double time. Not about to be outdone, I cried, "I can keep up with you!"

But my flats couldn't. As I kicked my left leg, my left shoe flew from my foot and hit a couple dancing beyond us.

Best Friend Boy, always the conscientious dance partner, ran to get my shoe while I sank to the dance floor in laughter.

It was mortifying and hilarious at the same time. I suppose we could call it mortiflarious.

Or actually, not. I really don't want to make that a thing.

Does This Blog Even Exist?

Do you know the solipsists? They live on Drury Lane. With the muffin man. Possibly. Who the heck even knows?

Solipsists are people who believe that nothing exists outside of the mind. There is no objective reality, say the solipsists. It's all inside your mind.

95% of the people who I can think of off the top of my head would say that's absurd. I'd say it is absurd and yet isn't. After all, the stickiest sticking point is that there's no way to prove a solipsist wrong. If we looked at everything around us in a manner most scientific and objective, it all supports solipsism just as much as it supports realism. There's no way to demonstrate that it exists outside of the mind.

I learned about these delightful solipsists a few days ago, and it's been messing with my mind ever since. Does the chair I'm sitting on actually exist? Does this iPod? Does this blog? Do you? Or are they merely all brain-induced sensations?

There you go. Go think on this and give yourself a ready-made migraine (or a brain-induced sensation of one). I'm going to go eat some Oreos. Supposing that Oreos actually exist. Which at this point is debatable.

Meet the Mormons

You may have heard of this movie, Meet the Mormons. If you're reading this blog and you're not LDS, will you please go see it?

What's the movie about?It's a documentary that discusses the lives of six Mormon families around the world.

Will this movie tell me more about what you Mormons believe? Yes, a little bit. More than that, it will show you what our lives are like. Spoiler alert: We all lead very different lives. The only common bond between us is the tenets of our faith.

You mean this movie won't answer my question about Church history/doctrine/practice? No, probably not. It's not that kind of movie. These people are not here to convert you or answer your questions. They're just trying to say, "Hi, I'm a Mormon. Here are some of my experiences, and here's what my current life is like. I want you to hear my story from me and not approximate it from someone else's false portrayal of Mormons."

This movie does take opportunities to clear up a few misconceptions about our doctrine. However, that is not the focal point. There's a reason the movie is called Meet the Mormons, not Mormons Tell All or Bible Bash.

I'm not comfortable with buying a ticket when the money benefits the Mormon church. That's okay. The proceeds actually go to the Red Cross.

Why should I see this movie, anyways? In my first post, I said:

...people are wondering about the LDS Church right now. They want to know what we're all about. If I'm not willing to tell people what I'm all about, then someone else will. And the things that someone else says about me and about my church--well, they might not be true or fair.

That's why I'm here. I'm here to represent.

Meet the Mormons is basically a movie version of this blog. Real Mormons telling real stories about their real lives. Except the movie is less awkward and more heartwarming. And in the movie, there are martial arts. There are no martial arts on this blog. Yet.

Anyways, go see the movie. And then come back and tell me all about it and geek out with me over the martial arts? Capisce? Good. This is a good plan.

Something Exciting

Every now and again, one of my younger siblings says something to me like, "I was searching for your blog and Google suggested its name to me!" or "You can find your blog on Google if you type in this certain combination of words!"

And I'm like, "Cool. That's great." But, remembering that every time they turn up my blog, it's on a computer or an iPod that they've used to read my one hundred and sixty-something blog posts multiple times over more than eighteen months, I have been appropriately skeptical that the blog is really that easy to find. More likely their devices just remember the blog.

Well. This morning, I was thinking about this, and I wondered what would happen if I searched for my blog on a computer that I nor anybody else had used to look for, read, or write a post for my blog.

So before starting my tasks for the day, I took thirty seconds to type into my work computer, "awkward m."

"awkward mormon girl" was immediately suggested by Google--as the third option.

Hey, that's pretty good I thought, pleased that enough people had typed the words "awkward mormon girl" into Google that it was turning up so quickly.

But let's give credit where credit is due. The people who are typing "awkward mormon girl" into Google are people like you. Nay, they are you. So here's a pat on a back and a thank you from me.

Thanks, guys. Also, it would be cool if you kept it up... ;)

Family Joke Night

Short anecdote of the day: prophets have counseled us to set aside an evening a week to spend with our families. The prescribed evening is Monday. My family, however, has always had Family Home Evening (as it's called) on Sundays.

When I was small, Sunday night FHE included family joke night during dinner.

My dad told most of the jokes. Being children and therefore easily entertained, we made him tell us the exact same jokes every. Single. Sunday. And then we would tell them to him every. Single. Sunday.

And then, slowly at first and then suddenly, family joke night was dead.

Why?

I'll tell you why.

Little Sister, that's why.

Little Sister didn't understand jokes at all, but she insisted on telling them anyways.

Dad would tell this classic: "Knock knock."

"Who's there, Dad?" Older Sister and I would shout.

"Olive."

"Olive who?" We were now at a fever pitch of excitement. We'd already heard the joke 1,342,569,986 times, but somehow we were still on the edge of our seats.

"Olive you!"

Hysterical.

"Knock knock," Little Sister would then say.

"Who's there?" Dad obliged.

"Pizza."

"Pizza who?"

"Olive you!"

At first it was kind of cute when she did that. Then it was mildly annoying. Then it was terribly, horribly, mind-numbingly boring. We wanted to hear corny jokes, not Little Sister ruining corny jokes.

"Knock knock," she'd say.

"Who's there?" we'd groan.

"Banana."

"Banana who?" (With much rolling of the eyes.)

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Banana."

"Banana who?"

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Apple!" Little Sister said triumphantly.

"Apple who?" we asked, already cringing. We knew what was coming.

"Orange you glad I didn't say banana?!"

Rockin' Around the Christmas Chair

Please ignore the title of this post. This post has nothing to do with Christmas. I was just explaining to La Petite that writing titles is the hardest part of blog posts, which is why most of my titles are quotes or song lyrics, and then I didn't have any song lyrics about chairs so I adapted.

And why was I counseling with La Petite about blog post titles? Because she's sitting next to me. And why is she sitting next to me at ten o'late in the evening? Because we're roommates!

Me, La Petite, and our other roommate the Seamstress. It's been a party and a half.

As you know, I'm a writer. La Petite and the Seamstress are a social worker and a financier, respectively. "A writer, a social worker, and a financier live together." It sounds like the beginning of a great joke. I haven't come up with a punch line yet and I'm running out of time, because it has transpired that La Petite is going to leave us and get married.

But in the meantime, she lives with us. So does her stuffed caterpillar named Alfie that is taller than her fiancé and which lives in our living room.

The other day when I built that box fort, La Petite helped me knock it down with Christmas ornaments and stuffed animals. And then we turned the boxes into a tall tower (though not as tall as Alfie; we checked) and knocked that down with Christmas ornaments and stuffed animals.

(I forgot there would be Christmas ornaments in this post. It actually does have something to do with Christmas. Sorry for the false advertising in my attempt to correct my false advertising.)

Then we cut all the liquor boxes up and used colored folders and packing tape to turn them into a beautiful chair that matches Alfie almost exactly.

Alfie and the chair. Which would be an excellent band name btw. Also, there's a matching footrest.

We are going to throw a party and make people sit in the chair and also compliment it.

I don't even know how the Seamstress can stand us how cool we are.

What's With Mormon Temples, Anyway?

I recently went to the temple to be endowed.

You may or may not understand that sentence. Let me break it down for you.

The temple is the House of the Lord. It's pretty much literally what it sounds like: Heavenly Father's house. Like your house or mine. If someone wanted to be near me, the surest way to find me would be to come to my house. When you want to be near God, you go to His house. It's the surest way to feel Him and His Spirit.

Inside the temple, we perform ordinances. Saving ordinances are ordinances that have to be performed in order to return to God's presence after death. These are baptism, confirmation, receiving the priesthood (for guys), initiatory, endowment, and sealing.

Last week in the temple, I did initiatory and then an endowment session. Together, these two ordinances are known as "being endowed" or "going through the temple," "receiving your endowment."

Obviously, it doesn't make sense for only members of one religion to receive the ordinances necessary to return to the presence of God. He loves all of His children. That's why in the temple, we not only perform ordinances for living people but also perform ordinances by proxy for dead people who did not receive these ordinances while upon the earth. The spirits of the dead can then choose to accept or reject the ordinances done on their behalf.

When a member of the church is twelve years old, they can interview for a limited use recommend. This recommend allows them to do baptisms and confirmations on behalf of the dead in the temple. In order to do further ordinances on behalf of the dead, you interview to receive another recommend, which I will explain further.

The endowment process starts with the bishop. If you decide to be endowed, you talk to him first.

Now, there are three reasons a person might get endowed: mission, marriage, or maturity. The third is the hardest to pinpoint. If you haven't gone on a mission and you haven't gotten married but you feel like you have reached a sufficient age and maturity to be endowed, you go and talk to your bishop. That's what I did.

Actually, I am a little younger than most who go through for reasons of maturity. But I knew there was nothing wrong with asking, as long as I was asking for the right reasons and was willing to accept that the answer might not be what I was hoping for.

I went to my bishop and counseled with him. We decided it would be appropriate for me to move forward. So I started studying and then I went in for a temple recommend interview.

At this point, I should explain that the same levels of worthiness are required for either type of temple recommend. The distinction between a limited use recommend and the full recommend is that when you have a limited use recommend, you don't make covenants in the temple. That's why you have to have a certain maturity to get a full recommend. Twelve-year-olds can have the same worthiness as adults who are getting married or going on missions, but they probably aren't ready to understand sacred promises, let alone make them.

Some people are critical that there are worthiness requirements to go to the temple at all. I'd like to make two points on this matter. One, you aren't going to be accepted into, say, Harvard Medical School if you aren't qualified. If they accept you but you aren't qualified, you aren't going to do well in your classes or be a very good doctor.

That's kind of how it is in the temple. Letting you into the temple when you aren't worthy makes about as much sense as letting you into Harvard Medical School when you aren't qualified. It would be pointless. It wouldn't do you any favors.

The second point I'd like to make is that the temple is not supposed to be exclusive. Actually, the idea is that everyone on earth should be temple worthy. Everyone on earth should be able to make covenants with God and be near Him. We're working hard to make that happen.

Receiving my endowment was one of the best experiences I've ever had. It was very much as it literally sounds--I was endowed with knowledge and felt endowed with power. I came away having a better understanding of my own purpose and identity as a daughter of God, a better understanding of God's purpose, identity, and love, and a better understanding of the atonement of Jesus Christ.

A Pithy Summary of My Life as Given by Baby Brother

It's true that I no longer live in the Obnoxious residence. I now live a whopping three minutes away. Which means that it's a separation in name only, because I still see my family several times a week.

However, technically losing my citizenship in the family home apparently means losing my rights as a member of the family.

I came over for dinner the day after I moved out. When I offered my two cents during the typical Obnoxious family banter, Little Sister said, "Well...you don't live here anymore, so what you think doesn't count!"

My other siblings have started saying that, too. It's gotten old. It was old before they even started. But my brothers and sisters think it's as new and entertaining as the iPhone whatever-number-we're-on-now.

Last week, I took Baby Brother to a work party. The conversation in the car went as follows:

BABY BROTHER: Why am I in this car with you, you weird girl?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I'm not a weird girl. I'm your sister.

BABY BROTHER: No you're not. You don't even live in the same house as me.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Whatever. I'm taking you to a party.

BABY BROTHER: You mean you kidnapped me to go to a party?

BABY BROTHER: That's why you kidnap people. To take them to parties.

BABY BROTHER: The only way you can get people to go to parties with you is to kidnap them.

Thank you, Baby Brother, for summing that up.

Eighteen Months

Well, well, well.

I am eighteen months older and wiser than when I started this blog. So are you. So are the hobbits. In fact, it's Frodo and Bilbo's birthday today! Cue the confetti, balloons, and noisemakers.

I love you all, people who read this blog. Probably. Maybe not. I don't know half of you half as well as I should like. And I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve. And yes, I do quote Lord of the Rings every chance I get. So sue me. Except not really because suing people won't solve your problems. Are you listening to me, America?

In other news, I've been trying to train myself so that I will eat carrots as snacks instead of eating sugary things as snacks. Whenever I am successful in eating a carrot, I give myself another carrot as a reward.

It is not actually very motivating.

Moving Out

Moving really is a strange thing.

I mean, think about it. First, you obtain a great deal of cardboard boxes. Then you take every single solitary thing that you own, put them in said boxes, transport them to your new residence, and take them out of the boxes. Then, you dispose of the boxes you went to such trouble to get.

It seems pointless when taken out of context.

Also, within context.

I started packing a week and a half before moving out of my parents' house. The process began with my beloved books. I figured that I would stack them alphabetically in the large cardboard box that my pots and pans had come in.

This was a good plan, except for not being a good plan. And it wasn't a good plan due to two unforeseen (by me) problems.

First problem: I have too many books. Except not really, because there's no such thing as too many books. But I have enough that they cannot all fit in one large cardboard box. As I soon discovered.

Second problem: Cardboard is stupid.

"A cardboard box can't hold that many books anyway," said my mother (whose mother skillz allowed her to foresee this problem). "It will rip. You're going to have to divide your books between several boxes."

Which was cool and all, except I didn't have several boxes. I had failed to complete the first task of moving: obtaining a great deal of cardboard boxes.

Word on the street was that boxes were free at the State Liquor Store. It was a pretty sweet deal minus the fact that my relationship with the State Liquor Store is exactly like my relationship with Alaska.

I've never been to Alaska.

After a week of not being able to progress with packing because I had no boxes, I finally took my journey to the uncharted territory of the State Liquor Store.

Immediately when I walked in, I knew something was amiss. It was me. I was amiss. (And also a miss.)

"Yes, yes, Awkward Mormon Girl," you say patiently, "We all know that you don't drink and that you've never been to the State Liquor Store or Alaska. That's why you were amiss. And you're an unmarried woman, which is why you are a miss. We all know this. Do stop being so dramatic."

To which I say, no. You do not understand. As I entered the store, the gravity of everyone's focus readjusted to include me in its orbit. I could feel people's eyes darting towards me and away. I could almost hear them asking themselves, "What are we going to do?"

They thought I was a teenager.

I look like a teenager. I do. I worked at a fast food restaurant when I was in college. Patrons frequently asked me which high school I was attending. A sixteen-year-old coworker hinted that he would like to date me--until he found out my real age, after which he only spoke to me to ask me to cover his shifts.

My youthfulness can be annoying, but it's not a real problem...unless I'm in the State Liquor Store.

Somehow I made it to the cash register without being carded.

"Yes?" said the cashier, looking at me warily.

"I just need to get some boxes," I explained. I swear everyone in the store gave a collective sigh of relief.

I filled my car with as many liquor boxes as it could hold. Obtain a great deal of cardboard boxes = check. Now I could properly move onto the next step: put every single solitary thing I own into cardboard boxes.

Baby Brother helped me. And by "helped" I mean "helped but mostly sat on my bed and critiqued my packing techniques." Because Baby Brother is an expert on packing, Rubik's cubes, and mortality (among other things).

The night before I moved, I spent six hours straight packing. I stayed up late packing. And then woke up early the next morning to finish packing.

I had never packed up all of my possessions before. I've always thought that I don't have very much stuff or very many clothes.

Packing showed me that I was wrong. Wrong. WRONG. I had four boxes full of knickknacks. Why do I have four boxfuls of knickknacks? Knickknacks don't even do anything. And I had some dozen pads of notepaper, like a million clothing items, and a mysterious bounty of shoes for a girl who doesn't even like shoes and has never bought herself a pair in her life.

I was all, "Wow. I'm so over this materialistic stuff. I'm going to go live in the mountains with just a knapsack and these Eeyore socks that have been in my dresser for ten years but don't actually belong to me."

But by the time I finished packing up my boxes, I had no desire to also pack a knapsack, so I decided that I would go ahead and move into my new apartment and worry about enlightenment later.

I was done with packing just before the time I was scheduled to arrive at the apartment. My family and I and one of my future roommates transported all of the millions of boxes to the apartment. Upon completion of which act I began to unpack all the stuff I'd packed just hours before.

It took three days. When I was finally done, I congratulated myself on completing this rite of passage into adulthood.

Then I built a box fort in the living room.