Little Brother is supposed to write a book report, the fancy kind where you turn the book you read into a movie.
Little Brother, our mother, and I were in the family room while I raided the bookshelves, looking for good books that were suitable for book reports.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Okay. Here are three books that you would probably like. You should read Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites; it's funny. Wringer and The Key Is Lost are both depressing.
MOM: Funny would be funny, for a movie. (Translation from Momish: Funny movies are more delightful.)
LITTLE BROTHER: But depressing wins more Oscars.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Friday, February 27, 2015
One for the History Books
Someday, I could tell my grandchildren this story:
"I remember where I was that day. I was in my first apartment, going about my business as usual. Everything seemed quiet. Normal. Fine. Just another day on the internet. Then suddenly, without warning, the chaos began.
"A user of the internet posted a picture of a dress and asked if it was white or blue. It was the shot heard round the world. Nothing would ever be the same again.
"Immediately, people began to choose sides. 'I fight for the white,' they said. 'I fight for the blue.' They bore their colors proudly, defending them against the naysayers and the hatemongers in the Facebook comments. They knew they were right, they knew their cause was just, and they were not afraid to stand up for it.
"White or blue? Blue or white? The war raged on; the casualties piled up. Families were ruined, friendships broken, relationships splintered into a thousand tiny little pieces. It was a dark and terrible day, children, one the world will never forget. It was the day of the dress."
Or I could, you know, tell them a story about something that actually matters.
"I remember where I was that day. I was in my first apartment, going about my business as usual. Everything seemed quiet. Normal. Fine. Just another day on the internet. Then suddenly, without warning, the chaos began.
"A user of the internet posted a picture of a dress and asked if it was white or blue. It was the shot heard round the world. Nothing would ever be the same again.
"White or blue? Blue or white? The war raged on; the casualties piled up. Families were ruined, friendships broken, relationships splintered into a thousand tiny little pieces. It was a dark and terrible day, children, one the world will never forget. It was the day of the dress."
Or I could, you know, tell them a story about something that actually matters.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Please Take Me Away From Here
I've lived within a few square miles my whole life. I've never left for more than a few weeks. Some of the places I shop at, eat, and recreate are places I've shopped at, eaten, and recreated since I was a toddler. Most of the people I associate with have also lived within the same few square miles all their life and have been shopping at, eating, and recreating at the same places I have for as long as I have or longer.
This usually doesn't bother me. I've never wanted to live anywhere but here. But this week, I have been pondering what will become of me if I never get married and have a family. Would I stay here? Would I be happy here alone? If I leave in the near future, will that increase my chances of finding what I'm looking for?
Yesterday, I took these thoughts with me to a tub of my favorite ice cream, Campfire S'mores by Dreyer. I have never had my own tub of ice cream all to myself, so it is with great delight that I have been eating it straight out of the container. I have done this while reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and, in the back of my mind, stewing over my worries.
"Well," I said to myself after a particularly vicious wave of troubling thoughts. "If you want to go somewhere else, you can. There's nothing to keep you here. Nothing except your family...and friends...and a great job...and a ward you are invested in...and an improv comedy troupe...and a crazy nice apartment with crazy low rent and crazy understanding roommates...and fry sauce. But other than that, you are completely footloose and fancy-free. You could go anywhere."
"Oh, come on, Awkward Mormon Girl," I said back to myself. "You are happy with where you are right now. You don't actually want to go anywhere; you're just worried. Besides, it's not like your life is that predictable."
Then Timehop told me what I posted on Facebook that same day last year:
Clearly, I need more ice cream.
This usually doesn't bother me. I've never wanted to live anywhere but here. But this week, I have been pondering what will become of me if I never get married and have a family. Would I stay here? Would I be happy here alone? If I leave in the near future, will that increase my chances of finding what I'm looking for?
Yesterday, I took these thoughts with me to a tub of my favorite ice cream, Campfire S'mores by Dreyer. I have never had my own tub of ice cream all to myself, so it is with great delight that I have been eating it straight out of the container. I have done this while reading Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and, in the back of my mind, stewing over my worries.
"Well," I said to myself after a particularly vicious wave of troubling thoughts. "If you want to go somewhere else, you can. There's nothing to keep you here. Nothing except your family...and friends...and a great job...and a ward you are invested in...and an improv comedy troupe...and a crazy nice apartment with crazy low rent and crazy understanding roommates...and fry sauce. But other than that, you are completely footloose and fancy-free. You could go anywhere."
"Oh, come on, Awkward Mormon Girl," I said back to myself. "You are happy with where you are right now. You don't actually want to go anywhere; you're just worried. Besides, it's not like your life is that predictable."
Then Timehop told me what I posted on Facebook that same day last year:
Saturday, February 21, 2015
The Slaughter of the Clams
First off, please be aware of the difference between mussels:
and muscles:
Otherwise, you will be very confused by this post.
Since moving out, I have taken advantage of my status as a single working person with exclusive rights to one-third of a kitchen to learn to cook all the things I've always wanted to cook, but never had the time or money to do so. I've tried my hand at various kinds of meat, fish, appetizers, pasta, rice, and soups. So far, it's been a successful experience. (The more notable exception was a casserole I made using a cookbook written the year my parents married. My parents married in the eighties. The casserole tasted exactly like I imagine the eighties would taste, except I couldn't taste the Fraggle Rock. In any case, I should have known better than to use a cookbook in which MSG was a prescribed ingredient.)
My local grocery store often stocks fresh mussels, so last week, I decided to try my hand at cooking mussels.
Again, mussels:
I looked up a recipe that looked simple, yet delicious, and set off for the grocery store.
At the grocery store, I picked up white grape juice and shallots in which to cook the mussels. Then I went to the seafood counter to purchase my seafood.
Plot twist! For the first time in several weeks, the grocery store was not selling mussels. They were, however, selling clams.
Since I already had all the ingredients for mussels in my cart, and since mussels and clams are not dissimilar, I decided to purchase some clams and cook them as if they were mussels.
Just to make sure that this plan was a reasonable one, I began to peruse the facts of cooking clams versus cooking mussels. As I did, I noticed one thing: the recipes all said that the shellfish are cooked when they're dead.
And I was all, "Excuse me?"
I have eaten many clams and a fair amount of mussels in my time, but I have never thought about how the whole process works. As it turns out, fresh shellfish of this sort has a muscle:
that keeps its shell tightly closed. To access the actual meat, one would have to wrench open the shell with something pointy and unpleasant. So instead, what one does is one cooks the shellfish alive. Once the shellfish passes, the muscle automatically releases in death and the shell will open up. Which seems rather unfair. How would you like it if your last act before death was to yield up your body to be devoured by your murderer?
Armed with this knowledge of the shellfish life cycle, I chopped the shallots and then took the bag of clams out of the fridge.
As I removed the clams from the bag, it became clear to me that had I touched them before, I would have known they were alive. They bore the curious weight of a living thing. It was like I could feel their little clam souls pulsing inside the shells.
I gently scrubbed the clams' shells with soap and water, talking to them all the while. "Time for a little bath," I said. "Time for one last-"
Suddenly, I felt like a jerk.
One of the clams was already slightly open, which meant it was dead.
"Sorry," I said as I threw it in the garbage can, "but you aren't fit to eat." Then I wondered why I was apologizing for that.
I cooked the shallots in butter, then added the white grape juice and some parsley. Then I placed the clams in the saucepan and put on a lid to let them steam.
The lid was see-through, and so I watched as, one by one, each clam opened wide in a silent death scream. All except for one stoic clam, who opened only wide enough to have a casual conversation.
When the clams were done, I placed them in a bowl and gazed at them. I thought about explaining the circle of life and/or the food chain to them before I ate them, but they were dead, so what did they care?
I ate my violently-gained dinner, then went to the laundry room for what can best be termed the Battle of the Washing Machine. But that's a story for another day.
In the meantime, I recommend this poem by Shel Silverstein.
Since moving out, I have taken advantage of my status as a single working person with exclusive rights to one-third of a kitchen to learn to cook all the things I've always wanted to cook, but never had the time or money to do so. I've tried my hand at various kinds of meat, fish, appetizers, pasta, rice, and soups. So far, it's been a successful experience. (The more notable exception was a casserole I made using a cookbook written the year my parents married. My parents married in the eighties. The casserole tasted exactly like I imagine the eighties would taste, except I couldn't taste the Fraggle Rock. In any case, I should have known better than to use a cookbook in which MSG was a prescribed ingredient.)
My local grocery store often stocks fresh mussels, so last week, I decided to try my hand at cooking mussels.
Again, mussels:
At the grocery store, I picked up white grape juice and shallots in which to cook the mussels. Then I went to the seafood counter to purchase my seafood.
Plot twist! For the first time in several weeks, the grocery store was not selling mussels. They were, however, selling clams.
Since I already had all the ingredients for mussels in my cart, and since mussels and clams are not dissimilar, I decided to purchase some clams and cook them as if they were mussels.
Just to make sure that this plan was a reasonable one, I began to peruse the facts of cooking clams versus cooking mussels. As I did, I noticed one thing: the recipes all said that the shellfish are cooked when they're dead.
And I was all, "Excuse me?"
I have eaten many clams and a fair amount of mussels in my time, but I have never thought about how the whole process works. As it turns out, fresh shellfish of this sort has a muscle:
Armed with this knowledge of the shellfish life cycle, I chopped the shallots and then took the bag of clams out of the fridge.
As I removed the clams from the bag, it became clear to me that had I touched them before, I would have known they were alive. They bore the curious weight of a living thing. It was like I could feel their little clam souls pulsing inside the shells.
I gently scrubbed the clams' shells with soap and water, talking to them all the while. "Time for a little bath," I said. "Time for one last-"
Suddenly, I felt like a jerk.
One of the clams was already slightly open, which meant it was dead.
"Sorry," I said as I threw it in the garbage can, "but you aren't fit to eat." Then I wondered why I was apologizing for that.
I cooked the shallots in butter, then added the white grape juice and some parsley. Then I placed the clams in the saucepan and put on a lid to let them steam.
The lid was see-through, and so I watched as, one by one, each clam opened wide in a silent death scream. All except for one stoic clam, who opened only wide enough to have a casual conversation.
When the clams were done, I placed them in a bowl and gazed at them. I thought about explaining the circle of life and/or the food chain to them before I ate them, but they were dead, so what did they care?
I ate my violently-gained dinner, then went to the laundry room for what can best be termed the Battle of the Washing Machine. But that's a story for another day.
In the meantime, I recommend this poem by Shel Silverstein.
Friday, February 20, 2015
The 200th
Welcome to the 200th post of Awkward Mormon Girl!!!
First post: The Beginning
100th post: The Deluge
It appears I have set a convention for these posts to be titled "The __."
I thought I had somewhat more to say, but as it turns out, I don't. So...here's to another 200 posts!
First post: The Beginning
100th post: The Deluge
It appears I have set a convention for these posts to be titled "The __."
I thought I had somewhat more to say, but as it turns out, I don't. So...here's to another 200 posts!
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Give Me a Hint
We call the inability to decide "wembling." And by "we," I mean me and the fraggles. And by fraggles, I mean fraggles, the most delightful of creatures save hobbits. (Actually, I'm fairly certain that fraggles and hobbits are related somehow, because they have very similar cultures. But I digress.)
My favorite fraggle, Wembley, is so indecisive that he was named after his indecisiveness. He is so indecisive that he has difficulty choosing between two almost-identical shirts. He is so indecisive that when his best friend asks, "What do you want to do?" Wembley responds, "Can you give me a hint?"
Now, I am not an indecisive person.
I know what I want. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I just know. I was built with a homing device, it seems, that leads me to my desires like a bee to its hive or a salmon to its ancestral spawning ground.
I know what I want, unless I don't. Because after every ninety-ninth moment of decisiveness, there is one moment of indecisiveness. I am unused to indecisiveness; therefore, I do not handle it well.
So when some kind souls gave me a $50 Amazon gift card for Valentine's Day, and when I subsequently realized that I couldn't think of a single thing I truly wanted, it triggered my indecisive skillz, big-time. I have become nothing but a mass of floundering, wembling jelly.
I could get a new dress. There's this dress on Amazon that I was, indeed, eyeing a few weeks ago. But I decided to buy a different dress that was less expensive and which I could try on and buy, personally, from a physical store. To buy another dress would be overindulgence, and not the pleasant kind, but the wasteful kind.
There's this orange toaster on Amazon which I kind of like. But it seems terribly anticlimactic to spend such a thoughtful gift on a boring kitchen appliance.
I don't have many DVDs, so I could get one of those. But I did get three new movies for Christmas, and besides, I spent my last Amazon gift card on the first two seasons of Rocky and Bullwinkle. It would be better to get something different this time.
Best Friend Boy said, "Get a book." But I have so many books. Not that you can ever have too many. It's just that every time I splurge, I buy myself a book. Shouldn't I spend a gift of $50 on something I wouldn't normally be able to afford?
Porch said, "You could buy groceries." Lol no.
I need help. I need lots of help. What should I buy? In the words of Wembley Fraggle, give me a hint. Ready...go.
My favorite fraggle, Wembley, is so indecisive that he was named after his indecisiveness. He is so indecisive that he has difficulty choosing between two almost-identical shirts. He is so indecisive that when his best friend asks, "What do you want to do?" Wembley responds, "Can you give me a hint?"
Now, I am not an indecisive person.
I know what I want. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I just know. I was built with a homing device, it seems, that leads me to my desires like a bee to its hive or a salmon to its ancestral spawning ground.
I know what I want, unless I don't. Because after every ninety-ninth moment of decisiveness, there is one moment of indecisiveness. I am unused to indecisiveness; therefore, I do not handle it well.
So when some kind souls gave me a $50 Amazon gift card for Valentine's Day, and when I subsequently realized that I couldn't think of a single thing I truly wanted, it triggered my indecisive skillz, big-time. I have become nothing but a mass of floundering, wembling jelly.
I could get a new dress. There's this dress on Amazon that I was, indeed, eyeing a few weeks ago. But I decided to buy a different dress that was less expensive and which I could try on and buy, personally, from a physical store. To buy another dress would be overindulgence, and not the pleasant kind, but the wasteful kind.
There's this orange toaster on Amazon which I kind of like. But it seems terribly anticlimactic to spend such a thoughtful gift on a boring kitchen appliance.
I don't have many DVDs, so I could get one of those. But I did get three new movies for Christmas, and besides, I spent my last Amazon gift card on the first two seasons of Rocky and Bullwinkle. It would be better to get something different this time.
Best Friend Boy said, "Get a book." But I have so many books. Not that you can ever have too many. It's just that every time I splurge, I buy myself a book. Shouldn't I spend a gift of $50 on something I wouldn't normally be able to afford?
Porch said, "You could buy groceries." Lol no.
I need help. I need lots of help. What should I buy? In the words of Wembley Fraggle, give me a hint. Ready...go.
Monday, February 9, 2015
In Which I am Friends with an Arsonist
Best Friend Boy and I were conversing through text when all of a sudden...
Best Friend Boy: See you at the city offices?
Awkward Mormon Girl: Yes...? Are we protesting something?
Best Friend Boy: Ha ha not quite. Evidently I not good at checking which conversation I'm in.
We confirmed the plans we had been making and wrapped up the textsion (text + session. Which is not a thing and I've just decided never will be because it sounded much catchier in my head).
Awkward Mormon Girl: Don't do anything too crazy at the city offices!
Best Friend Boy: I won't. But if you hear about a fire... it wasn't me.
Best Friend Boy: See you at the city offices?
Awkward Mormon Girl: Yes...? Are we protesting something?
Best Friend Boy: Ha ha not quite. Evidently I not good at checking which conversation I'm in.
We confirmed the plans we had been making and wrapped up the textsion (text + session. Which is not a thing and I've just decided never will be because it sounded much catchier in my head).
Awkward Mormon Girl: Don't do anything too crazy at the city offices!
Best Friend Boy: I won't. But if you hear about a fire... it wasn't me.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
February 3rd
Guess freaking what??? It's February 3rd, that's what. And February 3rd is the day that dreams come true!
For several years in a row, something extremely exciting and often life-changing happened to me on February 3rd.
The first Anne of Green Gables practice aka the time I officially my BFF Viola was February 3rd. The day I took second place in the district Science Olympiad competition was February 3rd.
The day the Chess Master really looked at me for the first time was on February 3rd. And when I say he really looked at me, I'm not being adorably cliche. We'd sat next to each other in eighth-grade science for weeks and had hardly spoken. But on February 3rd, our teacher handed out nails, rocks, and hammers, and invited us to break apart the rocks with the hammers. (He also passed out safety goggles.) I was frustrated for one reason or another, so I, who never said a word in class, grabbed that hammer and broke apart a rock dangerously close to the Chess Master's face. I don't see how he could help but reexamine me after that.
February 3rd, people. It's a thing.
After those first several years of much excitingness on February 3rd, I began to expect the same on every February 3rd.
Then one year, the only unusual thing that happened on February 3rd was that my previously infertile cousin and his wife had a baby.
"Well," I said, "that is exciting. Just not what I was expecting."
Another February 3rd, I learned that Best Friend Boy's first niece was born. He had been very excited about her impending existence. I was pleased for him, but let down for myself.
Similar things happened on February 3rd after February 3rd. If something magical and exciting happened, it happened to someone else and not me. So it has been every year. Yet each year on this day, I can't help hoping... dreaming... and perhaps justifying.
Today, for example:
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (heads to work) It's raining, which means I don't have to scrape my car. That is so February 3rd.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (at work) I almost fell asleep reviewing this content. But I didn't. February 3rd, amirite?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (holding box of cherry cordial bark she bought at the store) Thanks, February 3rd, for providing this delicious candy for my enjoyment!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (tries a piece)
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Hmm.Tastes remarkably like cough medicine.
For several years in a row, something extremely exciting and often life-changing happened to me on February 3rd.
The first Anne of Green Gables practice aka the time I officially my BFF Viola was February 3rd. The day I took second place in the district Science Olympiad competition was February 3rd.
The day the Chess Master really looked at me for the first time was on February 3rd. And when I say he really looked at me, I'm not being adorably cliche. We'd sat next to each other in eighth-grade science for weeks and had hardly spoken. But on February 3rd, our teacher handed out nails, rocks, and hammers, and invited us to break apart the rocks with the hammers. (He also passed out safety goggles.) I was frustrated for one reason or another, so I, who never said a word in class, grabbed that hammer and broke apart a rock dangerously close to the Chess Master's face. I don't see how he could help but reexamine me after that.
February 3rd, people. It's a thing.
After those first several years of much excitingness on February 3rd, I began to expect the same on every February 3rd.
Then one year, the only unusual thing that happened on February 3rd was that my previously infertile cousin and his wife had a baby.
"Well," I said, "that is exciting. Just not what I was expecting."
Another February 3rd, I learned that Best Friend Boy's first niece was born. He had been very excited about her impending existence. I was pleased for him, but let down for myself.
Similar things happened on February 3rd after February 3rd. If something magical and exciting happened, it happened to someone else and not me. So it has been every year. Yet each year on this day, I can't help hoping... dreaming... and perhaps justifying.
Today, for example:
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (heads to work) It's raining, which means I don't have to scrape my car. That is so February 3rd.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (at work) I almost fell asleep reviewing this content. But I didn't. February 3rd, amirite?
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (holding box of cherry cordial bark she bought at the store) Thanks, February 3rd, for providing this delicious candy for my enjoyment!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: (tries a piece)
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Hmm.Tastes remarkably like cough medicine.
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