New York City 2.0

We are (almost) all ready to go!

On Sunday, we started packing in earnest. Because Little Sister and I so enjoyed the American Girl Doll Place last time, and because we're secretly seven years old at heart, we decided to bring our American Girl dolls with us to New York City. The six of us are going to get makeovers together!

Accordingly, we unearthed Little Sister's doll Samantha (from Edwardian America), Baby Sister's doll Kit (from the Great Depression), and my doll Molly (from WWII). None of us has played with them in years, so they were all a bit dusty and whatnot. We cleaned them up and dressed them in cute clothes. We even looked for their little hats and purses and Molly's glasses. Baby Sister then did their hair so nicely that it almost killed the point of the upcoming makeovers.

This is essentially how I dressed Molly for the trip. Baby Sister put the CUTEST braids in her hair!

Besides the American Girl Doll Place, features of this trip will include Coney Island, Central Park (again!), Chinatown and Little Italy (again!), the Union Square farmer's market, delicious food (of course), and four-probably-five Broadway musicals!

This is the last y'all will hear from me for a while, but I anticipate reporting on the trip in great detail upon my return. Ciao!

How My Religion Affects My Everyday Life

I (try to) wake up early in the morning, because the scriptures and leaders of my religion recommend it.

I pray, read my scriptures, and write in my journal every morning. Members of my religion are taught to pray and read our scriptures so that we can ask God questions and receive answers. We're encouraged to write in journals to create a personal history for ourselves and our posterity.

I don't drink coffee with my breakfast, because in my religion we believe that coffee is addictive and very bad for you.

When I dress, I wear some types things and not others. Members of my religion believe that men and women should dress a certain way in order to show respect for themselves, for God, and for those around them.

I groom myself. It's recommended by my religion that we keep our appearance tidy, for various reasons. I was never all that interested in brushing my hair or wearing makeup as an older child or younger teenager, but I got onboard the grooming train when I realized that having a tidy appearance increased my self-confidence, which, among other things, increased my ability to feel the Spirit throughout the day.

I go to work. When I'm at work, I try as much as possible to focus on my work and try my hardest. To me, it's a matter of honesty and integrity, values that were taught to me by my religion.

When I talk, I don't use words that some of my coworkers use. I avoid talking about subjects that I feel are inappropriate. I try not to say anything that I would be embarrassed to say in the presence of God.

When I eat, I eat fruits and vegetables. I don't like them, but I know they're good for my body, and I've been counseled to take care of my body.

On my way home from work, if certain songs come on the radio, I turn them off. I was taught in religious classes as a kid that songs about not-so-good things can get those not-so-good things stuck in your head. As an adult, experience has only confirmed that to me.

If I watch TV or read a book after work, I try to avoid things that are vulgar or inane. That's hard to do in today's world. But I was taught to avoid not only some kinds of songs but also other, similar media. I understand why now. What you take in is what you put out into the world.

At some point in the day, I exercise. I like exercising far more than I like eating fruits and vegetables, but again, it's only something I started doing because the scriptures counsel me to care for my body.

I might go out and do some kind of activity. Usually activities involve people. I tend to not like people very much. So whenever I am kind to someone, or smile at them, or help them with something, it's because I know that they are God's children and He wants me to...not because I feel naturally inclined.

When I go to sleep, I (try to) go to bed fairly early in the morning. Again, this has been highly recommended to me by various religious sources. And I tell you what, I've learned for myself that it really feels a lot better than going to bed super late and arising super late.

Over the course of each day, my religion influences everything I do and every decision that I make. As you can see, it influences how I dress, what I eat, how I talk, how I work, how I interact with others, how I entertain myself...and the things I've mentioned in this post only scratch the surface. That's why I get so confused when people say that religion should be kept out of politics. That I should leave my religion out of my politics. (Yes, I do have some politics. Even though I try to avoid politics as much as possible, I still hold some strong political beliefs.)

I can't leave my religion out of anything. It's not like some accessory that I take off and put on at will. It's an ingrained part of me. It will, and should, influence any political decision I ever make. I can't help but feel that, when people say religion shouldn't be reflected in politics, they are ignorant of what religion is. Religion is supposed to guide you in everything. That's what religion is for.

Of course, not everybody is a member of an organized religion, but everybody believes in something, even if the something that they believe in is not believing in anything. Some people, in my experience, have actually made their politics their religion. How they dress, what they eat, how they talk, how they work, how they interact with others, how they entertain themselves, and much more, is all reflective of their deeply held political beliefs. Wary though I am of most political things, I try to respect those who use politics as the framework of their belief systems. I hope they wouldn't ask me to leave my belief system out of my politics. That would be as preposterous as me asking them to leave their politics out of their belief system.

Tuesday's Child

At my cousin's baby shower, we played a party game where we filled in the missing words of nursery rhymes. One of the items was, "_____ child is full of grace."

I knew the answer to that. In fact, I was the only one who knew the answer to that. People probably wondered how I knew. I knew because that nursery rhyme scarred me for life.

When I was a wee lass, my mother bought a big book of Mother Goose nursery rhymes for her children. In fine British fashion, there were rhymes about horrible natural disasters like the plague and the burning of the London bridge. There were also nonsensical rhymes about talking bells, lambs that follow schoolgirls everywhere they go, and three men of various professions adrift in a tub on the sea. And then there were the moralistic rhymes, the ones that seemed determine to teach children some kind of important lesson.

One rhyme was about the days of the week. It told you about yourself based on the day you were born, like a stuffy British horoscope. Here's the entirety:
Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace;
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go;
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for its living;
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

Of course, I went to my mother and asked her what day I was born on. It turned out that I was born on a Tuesday.

A Tuesday? Me, full of grace? I've never been graceful. Videos of me dancing as a four-year-old accurately portray me as a giddy colt with no sense of physical awareness.

Finding out that I was born on a Tuesday and must either be graceful or fail to live up to my stuffy British horoscope was one of the bitterest disappointments of my life. It was worse when I found out that all four (at the time) of my siblings were born on a Sunday. All of them. They were supposed to be paragons of perfection. I was supposed to be, eh, light on my feet.

I was profoundly affected by this unfairness. For years and years, I felt much put-upon.

Then Baby Brother was born...on a Wednesday.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Finally, someone who is worse off than I am!

Father's Day Dinner

I thought I knew why I was so grumpy on Saturday.

The day before, I'd gone on a twelve-hour, in-state road trip with the fam. It was fun, certainly, but it left me profoundly exhausted.

That was why I was grumpy.

And achey.

And dizzy.

And prone to sudden fits of tears.

It wasn't until the next morning, when I woke up suddenly and had to race to the bathroom, that I realized the true culprit.

Stomach flu.

When I come down with any variety of influenza, my first impulse is to cancel my plans for that day...that week...the rest of my life. That leaves me free to lie abed and feel miserable.

This time, I found a substitute for my Sunday school class. I canceled my visiting teaching appointments. I gave up hope of spending a quiet morning writing in my journal and making corn chowder and instead resigned myself to agony.

There was only one problem... I couldn't cancel Father's Day.

More specifically, I couldn't cancel Father's Day dinner.

I was the one who was responsible for making Father's Day dinner. My mother, the hard-working RN, had to work a twelve-hour shift that day, so the lot fell to me. I'd planned the menu. I'd shopped for everything. I was supposed to prepare the main dish.

If Older Sister had been there, I would have handed the responsibility of making the chicken florentine to her. But Older Sister lives in New York City now, and she doesn't have a kitchen in her intern housing where she could prepare the chicken florentine, even if she could have found some instantaneous way to transport it to us.

Obviously, it would have been unthinkable to ask my father to make Father's Day dinner for himself.

That left my younger siblings. I'd recruited their commitment to making side dishes, but I didn't know if they could handle the chicken florentine. When it comes to cooking, they're all a bit...green.

Thus I resolved to wash my hands thoroughly, put on a brave face, and prepare the dish as if I weren't sick in the least.

At first, everything went off without a hitch. I had a butter-burning scare early on, but the burnt butter didn't ruin the first cream sauce in the slightest. When I realized that I couldn't tend to the cream sauce and prepare the spinach, I called in Baby Brother.

Baby Brother was supposed to help Baby Sister slice squash later on. But, figuring that slicing squash was really a one-person job anyways, I instead put him on spinach-washing and stem-plucking duty.

Baby Brother was willing, but he said that he didn't really know how to wash the spinach.

I said something like, "So you put it under the water...and you wash it."

Baby Brother put one spinach leaf under the water.

"But you should probably do more than one at a time!"

While I stirred the cream sauce, Baby Brother washed and de-stemmed the spinach. When it was ready, we threw it in the cream sauce and watched the leaves shrink and shrivel to green goop.

"Now we've made creamed spinach, something that neither of us like," said Baby Brother, master of sass.

The chicken was cooked. The spinach was creamed. That left making the second cream sauce and then baking the whole thing to perfection. Since the cream sauce was but the work of a moment, I preheated the oven and called in the other siblings so that they could start on their side dishes.

Three things happened then. One, the cream sauce didn't thicken...and didn't thicken...and didn't thicken. Which it had time to do, because the three younger siblings took their sweet time coming to the kitchen, which was the second thing to happen. Or, more accurately, not happen. The third thing to happen was that, what with the oven preheating and multiple stove burners going, and what with my parents' air conditioning being broken, the temperature in the kitchen shot to about ninety degrees.

Please remember that I had the stomach flu. Please remember that I'd barely been able to eat anything all day. I had been weak and dizzy before, but now I thought I was going to pass out. I pulled a child's step stool into the kitchen and, in between checking the sauce, I would sit on it. And suffer.

Finally, my younger siblings arrived. Baby Sister was supposed to slice squash for steaming.

I got out a cutting board and told her to wash the squash and slice it.

She wanted to know how to wash the squash.

"So you put it under the water...and you wash it."

"Should I cut it a certain way?"

"Just not too thick," I said. I turned back to the cream sauce for just a moment, and when I looked again, she was cutting the squash so thin that you could read Shakespeare through it.

"I'd make it a little thicker than that!"

The cream sauce still wouldn't thicken. The kitchen was still sweltering. My ability to stay upright was still in question. I was amazed that I hadn't keeled over.

In the meantime, Little Sister and Little Brother were making bacon-wrapped asparagus.

All of my siblings are talented at everything, so I was surprised that they weren't naturally excelling at cooking. They were, however, naturally excelling at overthinking my instructions and wanting to know how to wash vegetables.

"You put it under the water...and you wash it!"

"What do we put it in?" Little Sister asked.

"A pan."

"But what kind of pan?"

"A cookie sheet. Or a broiler pan."

"Whinch one of these is a broiler pan?"

By the time the sauce had finally thickened, my younger siblings had gotten the hang of what they were doing. I was grateful to them for making the side dishes, but I had also worn my nerves thinner than the squash slices or the unthickened cream sauce. Once I'd gotten the chicken florentine placed in the oven, the bread sliced, the steamed squash tender, and the bacon-wrapped asparagus cooling on the stove, I threw myself onto the couch and tried in vain to not feel so overwrought.

Happily, the meal turned out well. And even though I could only consume some bread and steamed squash, everyone else seemed to enjoy themselves immensely. So although I had that strange flu feeling that I would at any moment fly apart at the seams, I had the pleasure of knowing that my work—well, all of our work—had paid off.

Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to plan for dessert.

FAMILY: Instead of dessert, let's pop popcorn and watch Finding Nemo!

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You do that. I'm going home to die.

My Sixth Stitch Fix Experience

Between my fifth and sixth Stitch Fixes, Pepper decided to try Stitch Fix. Except not really because she decided to go through another box company that she felt would better suit her needs. When said box came, she followed my usual Stitch Fix tradition of reading aloud the note to me and the Seamstress and then showing off the clothes. Except, as she read the note, instead of referring to the company by its name she simply called it "Not Stitch Fix."

"Hi Pepper, thanks for trying Not Stitch Fix! We'd like to welcome you to Not Stitch Fix!" etc. etc. I found this to be hilarious, although I may be the only one.

Anyways, my sixth Fix of Stitch came, once again, not on a Thursday (it came on a Monday which ???). This time, in my note I had tasked Jessica V with the dubious honor of finding me cute clothes to wear in New York City.

Here's a photo of all she sent, bundled nicely on top of my Peter Pan puzzle:

Hi Awkward Mormon Girl! Your upcoming trip to NY sounds like a fun one, I took a look at the weather and it looks like it's going to be pretty warm but the possibility of rain so make sure you pack a light jacket!

A) I don't think I actually told you what days I would be in New York, you stalker you, but B) thanks for the tip, Mom.

I saw the denim skirt on your Pinterest and was excited you pinned that because I thought the KFTK shirt would be a great piece for your trip, this will look cute with the 41Hawthorn Blouse that has a similar fit to the pink blouse in your last Fix. Try out the Skies are Blue blouse with the pink pants from the last Fix. I had two great dresses to send you, they are both sleeveless but I think they will pair well with a cardigan or a denim jacket. I had no luck with the hunt for polka dot jeans, I will stay on the lookout! Have a great time in NY! Best, Jessica V

Kut From The Kloth Miley Button Front Denim Skirt: I was excited to see this skirt, because as Jessica V noted, it is very similar to one that I'd pinned. It was a little loose on me, coming to my hips instead of settling at the waist. But my sisters assured me it was flattering regardless, and I so wanted it in my possession. Verdict: Keep.

41Hawthorn Canda Split Neck Blouse: I liked this blouse well enough. It was very similar to the one I purchased in the last Fix, but I can always use more short-sleeved work shirts. Also, the pattern and color were very fun. Verdict: Keep.

Skies are Blue Highland Lattice Detail Blouse: I wouldn't normally go for something like this, but after trying it on I found that I really liked it! I didn't like the flamingo-colored blouse with the denim skirt, but I did like this one with it. And, as Jessica V recommended, this blouse went really well with the pink pants from last time. Verdict: Keep.

41Hawthorn Sugar Dot Print Dress: This dress had a spinny skirt and was excessively flattering. I was worried it would be too short, but it squeaked by at the minimum length I can and would feel comfortable wearing. Also, it looked very good with a red cardigan that I've never known what to do with. Verdict: Keep.

London Times Rilee Lace Dress: This delicate periwinkle confection tied with the denim skirt as my favorite item in the Fix. I wish I could show you a picture of me wearing it, because I think it looked oh so elegant. In any case, because the top was sheer, when trying it on I had to wear a white tank top t-shirt versus a cardigan. But I was pleased nonetheless. Verdict: Keep.

Yes, another five out of five Fix! With my buy-five discount, the prices on the items worked out to be satisfactory. I've already worn some of the clothes at work, and I'm excited to take them with me to the big city in a few weeks! Jessica V deserves a medal. Maybe an Olympic medal. If that could be contrived.

The Seamstress said that this Fix made her want to try Stitch Fix again. If it's having the same effect on you, go ahead and sign up with my referral link. It would be an exaggeration to say I'm having the time of my life with Stitch Fix, but it's been very exciting nonetheless!

Squad Prom

There is a small but significant percentage of wealthy people in the Hometown High student population. Sometimes people would say to me, "You're so lucky! Your school must get a ton of money from those rich parents."

Maybe the rich parents give money to Hometown High, but if they do, they don't give it to the science department, with its outdated Bunsen burners and goggles. They don't give it to the band, which is obliged to throw a big swing dance fundraiser every year to earn their keep. And they don't give it to the musical theatre program, with its inferior sound system and tiny stage. Possibly they give money to the athletes, who had a new weight-lifting room my junior or senior year. But that's it.

This lack of funding is particularly evident in the school dances. Four of the six annual school dances are held in the gym, decorated by the tireless student body officers.

Even though these gym dances are a little ghetto, I still had lots of fun attending them when I was in high school. One of my favorite memories was at the Halloween dance my senior year. I went to the bathroom. When I came out of the stall, a junior boy dressed as Draco Malfoy and a junior girl dressed as Harry Porter were standing near the sinks.

HARRY POTTER GIRL:(to me) Wait right there! Wait right there!

She went out in the foyer. The boy dressed as Draco Malfoy started sobbing over the sink.

HARRY POTTER GIRL: (bursts in brandishing wand) Sectusempra!

I started laughing. They were reenacting the Harry-curses-Draco-in-the-girls'-bathroom scene from Half-Blood Prince!

So that was dances when I was in high school, but these days all is not well in the land of Hometown High dances.

At our cousin's baby shower a few weeks ago, Baby Sister mentioned Squad Prom.

LITTLE SISTER: Wait, Squad Prom? What's that?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh, I remember you mentioning this. What happened?

Baby Sister told us the story of Squad Prom.

So a few months ago, one of the kids with rich parents in the current crop of Hometown High students decided that he didn't want to go to prom.

Based on what Baby Sister said and what I've gathered from social media, it sounds like the kid was influenced by a combination of wanting to make the administration mad, wanting to make the the student body officers mad, and wanting to not follow the rules of prom such as no drinking, smoking, sex, moshing, grinding, or coming clad in a negligee or a shirtless, oiled torso. So he decided to throw his own prom. Paid for by his parents. Called Squad Prom.

Talk about a temper tantrum revolution.

We, the squad, hold these truths to be self-evident, that not all proms are created equal and ours will be better.

Essentially.

Well, that's one thing. But it wasn't enough to hold their own prom. They decided to set up said prom in direct competition to the school prom. Same day, same time. They wanted everyone to come to Squad Prom and not go to Hometown High's prom at all. So they advertised it at school. They texted people. They create a hashtag and plastered it all over Twitter. They drove around the school parking lot, yelling and throwing fliers out the car windows.

Other students at Hometown High were mad. They complained that if prom weren't well-attended, the school would think that students didn't care about dances and would cancel them in the future. Rants were posted online. Sides were taken. Lines were drawn, crossed, redrawn and crossed again.

At this point in the story, Little Sister and I were in hysterics. This was like a Disney Channel movie. Except in a Disney movie, the Squad Prom kids would be portrayed as the underdogs, when really, they were potentially ruining future school dances for everyone else. Which, granted, wouldn't be the end of the world (because school dances aren't a big deal), but at the same time...why would anyone ever feel the need to do something like that?

We got on Twitter and looked up the #squadprom hashtag.

People were saying things like "#squadprom was so lit!" and "#squadprom will go down in history!" And there were a ton of photos of them at their parent-funded venue (which was way nicer than the school's prom venue).

LITTLE SISTER, AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: So what happened at the school prom?

BABY SISTER: Actually, it was way better than normal prom because all the stupid people were at Squad Prom! But now the juniors are saying they're going to Squad Homecoming. The school says if they keep throwing squad dances, they'll cancel normal Homecoming. So I don't know what they'll do, because parents won't be able to fund every school dance.

We shook our heads at the folly of youth. Then, deciding we were too cool for the normal baby shower, we took some #squadbabyshower selfies.

The Parable of the Pizza

The when I got to my institute class this week, I found a basil leaf stuck to my scripture case.

But Awkward Mormon Girl, why would there be a basil leaf on your scripture case?

Because my scripture case was sitting on my passenger seat. The same passenger seat upon which I dumped basil leaves just a few days ago. Clearly.

I don't get it.

I'll explain.

I am now the chair of my ward's book club. Before this calling, I'd only been part of one and a half book club and was not terribly familiar with them. But my impression of books clubs—now hear me out—was that they are adorable events where everyone gathers in an adorably decorated home and eats adorable treats and says clever, possibly adorable things to each other. After, of course, having read an adorable book.

With those items in mind, I proceeded to plan my first book club meeting as chair.

We already had an adorable book. The previous chair had chosen The Wednesday Wars, a book that I really like. It's deep and exciting and also, yes, very adorable. Check.

An adorably decorated home? My apartment is classy and comfortable, but not adorable per se. The bishop's second counselor's wife volunteered her home, which is all cute picture frames and crafts and matching furniture. Check.

Adorable treats? Check! "I'll make cream puffs," said the second counselor's wife. Cream puffs are a plot point in The Wednesday Wars.

That left saying clever, adorable things was, apparently, my job as chair. I made a list of possible discussion points. That would have to do.

Then I decided to bring pizza. Pizza is not a plot point in The Wednesday Wars, but the book takes place on Long Island. And what also takes places on Long Island? Brooklyn and all the things that happen in Brooklyn take place on Long Island...including the creation of delicious margherita pizza.

Why did I want to bring pizza? It's hard to explain. My whole life has been a struggle between knowing that I don't need people to be happy and wanting to interact with them anyways. A struggle between being able to describe exactly what I'm thinking when I'm writing but never being able to say what I want to say when speaking. A struggle between being confident in who I am but not knowing how to show that confidence in the way I present myself. A struggle between feeling like I wasn't made to be social but, as a human, being a naturally social thing.

I go to social events. And I try. But I'm not good with people. And I'm not good at putting together adorable things like cutely decorated homes and cream puffs. I don't get that stuff. But I do get food. And so, to make up for my lack of skillz in other areas in which a book club chair should have skillz, I was going to make food. I was going to make a darn good pizza!

At least, that was the plan. I'd never made a pizza by myself before. So the week before the meeting, I practiced my mad pizza skillz.

The best way to make a margherita pizza, according to a combination of advice from the Food Nanny and my father, is to use a pre-made crust, a bunch of tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and a little basil plant you can leave on your windowsill. You bake the pre-made crust a little to make it nice and crisp. Then you chop the tomatoes, mix them with some olive oil, some salt, and some pepper, and spread them on the crust. You put the crust back in the oven. Then, when the tomatoes are nice and bubbly, you slice the fresh mozzarella on top. You put a little parmesan cheese and a little more olive oil with salt and pepper on top. You bake it some more, until bubbly. Then you pluck some fresh basil leaves from the plant, wash them (because you're not a barbarian), and toss them on top of the pizza. And then you have a margherita pizza, fresh and warm and tasty and ready to be consumed with a bottle of root beer.

That's the theory, anyways. My trial pizza ended up being a little burnt around the edges. But, all in all, a job well done.

After making the trial pizza, I had one pre-made crust, some fresh mozarella, some parmesan, and some olive oil left over. I figured I could use them to make the real pizza a week later. I also still had the little basil plant.

It was the kind of basil plant that you close in a plastic box and then don't touch it and it takes care of itself. This confused me to no end, truthfully. The plant came with no instructions whatsoever. At first I opened the plastic box because I thought it would be better, but then the basil plant (whom I'd named Basil) shriveled up.

So then I looked online to learn more about the care and keeping of basil plants in plastic boxes and learned that the plastic box was, in fact, Basil's greenhouse that kept him alive.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh, a greenhouse! Obviously. How could I not have guessed that?

I put a little water on Basil's roots, shut the plastic box/greenhouse up again, and nursed the little guy back to green, leafy health.

So far, so good.

For a week, I lived in a constant state of anxiety about the pre-made crust. I poked it almost daily, making sure it hadn't gone stale. I kept checking Basil, too, to make sure that he didn't shrivel up again. But the crust stayed supple, and Basil stayed unshriveled, and soon the day of the book club meeting arrived.

With care, I removed the pre-made crust from the pantry. It had become inexplicably cracked, but (I confirmed again) not stale. I spread the chopped tomatoes with olive oil (which I'd mixed the night before) over the crust and placed it in the oven to bake.

Then everything went wrong.

As I chopped the fresh mozzarella, I realized that when it's a week old, fresh mozzarella is no longer fresh. Not that the cheese was rancid or moldy, because it wasn't. But the consistency was a little different than it had been when I'd first bought it. I hoped that wouldn't be a problem.

I took the pizza out of the oven and covered the tomatoes with mozzarella. Then I sprinkled parmesan over the mozzarella. Except wait. Because although the mozzarella was not moldy, tiny sections of the grated parmesan were!

Rapidly, my fingers working like speedily pecking birds, I plucked the moldy bits of parmesan off the pizza. At least, I plucked off the bits that I could see. Because basement apartments are dark. And I'm legally blind. Even when wearing glasses and/or contacts, my vision is spotty at best. At least when it comes to finding grains of slightly moldy, light-colored parmesan on a bed of equally light-colored mozzarella. I think that even someone with perfect vision would have a hard time doing that.

I was running out of time. I shook salt and pepper over the layer of cheese! I drizzled olive oil on all of it! Then I threw that puppy back in the oven and started stripping Basil of leaves.

As I pulled off the leaves, one by one, I noticed something odd about them. Some of them had brown splotches. Was that concerning? Should I be concerned? I decided that brown splotches were probably a normal part of being a basil plant, but just to be safe, I tore off the discolored bits and threw them away.

I washed the basil leaves because, again, I'm not a barbarian. Then I brought the hot and wonderful-smelling pizza out of the oven and artfully arranged the leaves on the bubbling mozzarella cheese.

I may not be into making adorable refreshments, but I thought the pizza looked really good!

This isn't the pizza that I made, but the pizza shown here looks similar to mine.

I took off the apron I'd worn to protect my white shirt from the olive oil. Now to transport the pizza. But how? The pizza pan had little holes in the bottom, which meant that I couldn't just carry it without pizza grease getting all over everything. But I didn't have any sort of thing large enough to carry it in, either. I have a bench scraper in my kitchen. I have a lazy slotted turner! How could it be that I didn't have a pizza-carrying receptacle?!

I decided that it would almost fit on a large plate, so I transferred the pizza onto the slightly-too-small plate. Too late, I remembered the crack in the pizza crust! I almost tore the pizza in half. I definitely succeeded in making it look far less pretty. Then I decided that almost fitting on a large plate was not good enough, so I transferred the pizza back to the pizza pan. Definitely less pretty.

In this process, I touched the cheese and discovered that it was somewhat...rubbery. But I'd cooked the pizza perfectly! If anything, I'd cooked it somewhat less than I had during the trial batch...oh. Was this what happened when the fresh mozzarella was not-quite-fresh? Ah dear. Well...that was disappointing, but it would probably be okay.

By this time, I really needed to get going. I grabbed some dish towels and a sauté pan lid and contrived a way to carry the pizza pan without getting pizza grease on my white shirt. And that's when I took a better look at the basil.

When you put the basil on the pizza, it's supposed to wilt slightly. This basil had wilted...a lot more than slightly. It was almost completely blackened. It looked like it had given up all will to live.

Weird, to say the least.

I pinched a basil leaf from the pizza. I examined it. I put it in my mouth.

Disgusting!

I was in trouble. This pizza was in trouble. I needed new basil, and fast. There was no time to go the store. But luckily, I remembered that I'd seen a bigger basil plant in a plastic box on my parents' windowsill that morning during Little Sister's birthday breakfast.

I ripped all the basil from the pizza. I transported the pizza to my car, put it on the towel I'd set on the passenger seat, and quickly drove to my parents' house.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I'm literally here to take your leaves and leave!

I snatched a handful of leaves from their plant, washed them, and ran back to the pizza in the car. I started to put the new basil on the pizza...

...except...

...brown splotches. I put a leaf in my mouth.

Disgusting!

I tore all the basil off the pizza. It would have to be a plain cheese pizza instead of a delicious margherita pizza. It was too late to find non-splotchy basil. Tossing the leaves onto the passenger seat, I put the pedal to the metal and soon pulled up in front of the home that the second counselor shared with his wife.

I then discovered that the sauté pan lid had slid up onto the pizza during the drive, peeling the cheese away from the crust. Try as I might, I could not fix the lumps created by this mishap. And, when I was getting the pizza out of the car, despite the towels and the lid, I somehow got pizza grease on my white shirt. I was on the verge of tears. I didn't want to go inside. I did not want to go inside.

But I did.

When I walked into the second counselor's home, I looked around at the adorable kitchen area. I looked at the adorable tablecloth laid out for the meeting and the bottles of soda (bottles of soda are also a plot point in The Wednesday Wars) in the bucket of ice. The cream puffs weren't laid out yet, but I was certain that they would be adorable and as close to perfect as cream puffs could get. I looked at my pizza, and I felt depressed.

The second counselor's wife glanced at the lumpy, basil-less, stringy-cheesy pizza and said something like, "That looks delicious!" Then she offered the use of her oven to keep the pizza warm.

I was dazed and confused. I couldn't believe how gracious she was being, to accept the terrible pizza. Not only had she not disparaged it, she'd actually complimented it. She'd offered it the shelter of her oven, as if it were a prize-winning pie and not a paltry attempt.

I decided that maybe the pizza didn't look as bad as I'd thought. But wait until people tasted it! Then the truth would come out. They'd realize that the cheese was rubbery, probably the crust was stale (because even though I'd tested it eleven thousand times, I couldn't possibly be sure that it wasn't stale), the parmesan had been in a container with other, moldy grains of parmesan, and shouldn't this pizza have basil on it?

Ward members arrived for the club. We blessed the food and began to eat.

Everybody took a slice of pizza. I cringed.

Everybody ate their slice of pizza. I waited. But no one said anything. No one said anything. A few people scraped some of the tomatoes off their slices, but nobody seemed averse to the crust...or the mozzarella cheese...or even the parmesan cheese.  And when Pepper arrived a little late, the Seamstress said, "I almost finished off the last of the pizza, but I decided to leave some for you."

They actually liked it. Because the pizza didn't match up to what I wanted it to be, I thought it wasn't good. Yet nobody else thought that. Nobody had a problem with the pizza but me.

And then I realized...maybe I am a pizza. I am a pizza, and social events are a book club. I think that the people at the book club don't like me, but really I don't like me because I think I should be what I want me to be. But nobody else wants me to be other than what I am. People are fine with me. Nay, more than fine with me. They want to eat me, probably.

You know?

Like most people, I learn things about life, then forget them and have to relearn them. For the meantime, though, I've learned this lesson well. Two days after the book club, I went to Jumpin's baby shower. The hostess had asked me to bring "cute cookies or cupcakes."

Knowing her, when she said "cute," I knew that she meant "cute." "Cute" being just another one of the many synonyms of "adorable." "Adorable" still being something that I struggle with.

I bought some Milanos. Two flavors. Milanos are classy and delicious. I even arranged them in a circle on a plate.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: And that's as cute as it's going to get.

But you know what? I didn't really care. I didn't care when I jostled the plate and the nicely arranged circle became scrambled. I didn't care when the baby shower turned out to be oh-so-perfectly decorated and color coordinated. I didn't care when it turned out that some of the Milano filling had melted. I didn't care when someone discovered that I'd taped the plastic wrap to the plate too tightly and we were unable to get it off without turning the whole thing over, so people had to stick their hands under the plastic wrap awkwardly and grasp cookies and get melting Milano filling all over their fingers.

I didn't care, because I knew I was a pizza at a book club, metaphorically speaking, and people would like me even if my plate of cookies wasn't the best or the cutesiest. And by "pizza" I mean "Milanos." And by "book club" I mean "baby shower." But the sentiment remains the same.

Clarisa-Lina

I've been working feverishly on a post for a few days. Because I was suffering from writer's block, I went to my parents' house for a change of scenery in hopes that would make a difference.

As I write, Little Brother has been sitting next to me and dressing up this Barbie:

He named her Clarisa-Lina.

LITTLE BROTHER: (as Clarisa-Lina) One arm, one leg, no worries! I can do anything a normal human can do!

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What about play Twister?

LITTLE BROTHER: ...shut up.