It Seems Like a Lifetime Ago

I often get nostalgic at this time of year. The last musical that I was in took place in January of my senior year of high school. I was also in pep band, so for two or three weeks straight, when I wasn't at performances or rehearsals, I was playing my clarinet at a basketball game.

There's one night in particular stamped in my memory. After that night's basketball game, Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and I went to a Wendy's. Some other band members were there, including Runner Bean. (This was shortly after this disaster.)

There's a picture of us on my bedroom bookshelf from that night—Etch-a-Sketch and I on one side of the table, Best Friend Boy on the other. Our food is pictured too: Best Friend Boy bites into a sandwich; Etch-a-Sketch puts a chicken nugget in her mouth. The sandwich that Best Friend Boy kindly purchased for me sits unwrapped before me.

Runner Bean isn't pictured, but he was the focus of my evening. I remember how that one of the girls in our grade sat next to him. She was chatting at him...stealing his fries...at one point, she even ran her fingers through his hair. I remember how I felt then. What was an otherwise great evening soured, and a sick feeling condensed into a deadweight ball sitting in the middle of my stomach.

I wasn't that girl. I wasn't the fun, flirty girl who stole fries and ran her fingers through a boy's hair. I was too earnest and too intense for that. No guy I knew ever said that the thing they hoped most for in a girl was earnestness and intensity. Thus I quickly became discouraged not just about Runner Bean, but about all of my future romantic possibilities...or rather, what I feared was the lack thereof.

Yes, I know, it seems a silly thing to let one evening cause me to question the nature of my entire existence. But like I said...intensity.

The next day, as I changed into my costume and put on my makeup for that night's performance, I found that I had an unsolicited text from Best Friend Boy.

Best Friend Boy: I'm sorry Runner Bean is liked by so many girls. But he's liked for very good reasons and that is why I think he may be worthy of a daughter of [God] such as you.

That text left a deep impression on me...as you can probably tell due to the fact that I recall it at all. So much has happened since then that it feels like it happened to someone else, and I merely heard about it from a friend or read about it online somewhere. However, if my sporadic records of text messages I received in high school are to be trusted, it really did happen.

It's strange how you simply can't forget some small, seemingly insignificant things, isn't it?

The Grateful (Not-)Dead

We just had Thanksgiving, so it's time to talk about what we're grateful for! Which is very cliché, no? However, let's start off by talking about some not-grateful things first.

This isn't quite where I imagined being at this point in my life. I really did think that I'd be married by now and maybe have a kid. Now, I don't think that my value is defined by my ability to find a romantic relationship, but the fact of the matter stands that having a family is the most worthwhile thing I can of to do with my life. That's where the sadness at my current circumstances comes in.

Some months ago, it was my birthday. It just so happens that the Seamstress and I have birthdays on consecutive days. I proposed having a joint birthday open house. Not a party, mind you. I didn't want to have any planned activities. I just wanted to be free to talk to people and not have to worry about entertaining them. (Don't worry; we did provide dinner so that our friends got something out of it.) I invited all of my lifelong friends. Most of them were able to come.

At one point during this birthday open house, I paused and looked around at what was happening. There was the Seamstress; there was Pepper, each talking to different guests. A friend from our ward was coloring in coloring books with Etch-a-Sketch while Mr. Etch-a-Sketch tended to his and Etch-a-Sketch's infant. I was chatting with Best Friend Boy while La Petite, curled up around Mr. La Petite, was deep in conversation with Viola. Some of these people had hardly met each other before this evening, but all of them were joined by the common bond of caring about either the Seamstress or about me or about both.

In that moment, I had an epiphany. I have made a family of my own in my adult years. Not a biological family, no. But I have collected all of these people, and they make up an interim family to serve between stepping away from my parents' family and heading a family with my future husband. This interim family is one of the things that I'm most grateful for this year.

That really is cliché, I know! Yet it's also very true.

In Which I Gain Another Mother

It's catching up to me.

My penchant for over-scheduling, that is. It's catching up. Nay, it's caught up, and it's keeping apace of me.

Since I moved out, there have been four times where, instead of buying groceries and then cooking my own food, I have spent the week's grocery money on a large quantity of food at a Chinese or Indian restaurant, which I then eat all week long.

The first time was a year ago. The other three times...have all been in the last two months.

I'm working on making time to do normal things like cooking and grocery shopping, I swear. Things are working out so that hopefully I can actually have free time. As soon as next month, I expect to be able to do things like write stories, bake blueberry muffins, clean my room and the apartment shower, and put all of my photos from 2015 on Facebook. You know. The good stuff. But I'm not there yet, so yesterday after work I went to Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant.

I am a frequent visitor at Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant. The manager knows me on sight although (as I think I've mentioned before) Etch-a-Sketch and I bear a passing resemblance that confuses some. Etch-a-Sketch used to go to this restaurant with Best Friend Boy fairly often, then she and I started going there together occasionally, and Best Friend Boy and I went there together shortly after he got home from his mission. This has caused the manager to seemingly mix up me and Etch-a-Sketch somewhat. No matter, though—whether he thinks I'm me or whether he thinks I'm Etch-a-Sketch, he's always happy to see me and greets me warmly.

He was the one who took my takeout order yesterday. First I ordered a sweet and sour pork combo, a dish I often get there because it's delicious not as expensive as my favorite dish. The manager knows that I often order the pork, so he didn't seem surprised, but when I also ordered a combo with lemon chicken he jokingly said, "Who's that for?"

"Me," I said.

He seemed taken aback.

"I don't have time to cook this week," I explained, "so I'm buying food instead."

"Are you sure you don't just want to come back tomorrow?" he said doubtfully.

I said it was all right, and then I also ordered a strawberry chicken combo.

"Who's that one for?"

"Also me," I said. I felt like I might be blushing. He just seemed so concerned that it was making me feel embarrassed.

Doubtfully, the manager rang me up. He asked if he could at least put the sauce on the side so that the food wouldn't get soggy. I told him that was fine, and I paid for my meal. When I got my change back, I noticed that I'd been given a small discount.

As I was waiting for my food, the manager approached me again to ask if I was sure I wanted all that food.

"Have you done this before?" he asked.

I told him I had. I assured him that I had some vegetables at home to eat with the food, and that I'd be all right. Seeming mollified, he headed to the kitchen.

A minute later, he came out with a styrofoam box. He flipped up the lid and showed me the contents.

"Steamed vegetables," he said.

"Yes," I said, unsure of what was going on.

He told me that he was going to put the vegetables with my order, if that was okay. I thanked him, a little amused and completely astounded.

When my order was up, I noticed an extra takeout container in the bag. Sure enough, when I got home, I found not only strawberry sauce and steamed vegetables on the side, but also extra fried rice.

 

I was charmed. I had been, dare I say it, mothered to death, and it had been adorable. I'm a big girl who can take care of herself, but it's from time to time it's nice to have someone unexpectedly look out for me.

On the other hand, my days of living off Chinese takeout are apparently over. I can never order three dishes from Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant again if it's going to grieve the manager so. Next week, I'm going to have to start cooking again like a real adult.

Touched by a Dog

Context: This post is about the last day of my second New York City trip.

Sunday morning marked the last day of our trip, our farewell to 35 Fifth Avenue, and our return to Utah. As Older Sister prepared for church, we prepared for LaGuardia by rolling up the many sleeping bags and sleeping pads, reassembling our gigantic shared suitcase, and, in my case, repacking a pillow/Urban Outfitter bag combination carry-on.

There were three interesting things about the trip home.

Thing #1: We took an Uber to the airport! First time using Uber, everybody. It cost 1/5 of what the taxi had cost. Not a bad deal.

Thing #2: Our layover was in Philly! I've always wanted to go to the City of Brotherly Love. We didn't get to see anything outside of the airport, but at least I ate this Philly roll while there:

Thing #3: I almost died!!!!!1!

The little sisters and I were separated on our flight home. They had seats together; I was all alone. At least, I was all alone for a few minutes until my seatmate boarded.

When you sit next to a stranger on an airplane, you always wonder if your seatmate is going to be, like, your new best friend. It became clear within about fifteen seconds that my seatmate did not want to be my new best friend. She seemed way more interested in shoving a humongous duffel bag under the seat in front of her than in me.

I wondered why she didn't put the duffel bag in the overhead compartment, where it would fit a lot better. I was even more bewildered when she told me that she needed me to move so that she could get the bag under the seat more easily.

As soon I stood up, I got a better look at the bag. It was not a bag. It was a kennel.

All I could say was, "Uhhh..." Because I was surprised to see that a dog would be sitting next to me on an airplane. I guess I assumed that if someone brought a dog onto a plane, the airline would let the other passengers know. Or at least let the person sitting next to the dog (me) know. But this, apparently, was not the case.

"Are you allergic to dogs?" the lady asked.

I said "Yes," which was easier but less accurate than saying, "Sometimes."

As a kid, I got mildly itchy eyes around cats and dogs. Then, when I was a teenager, I stopped reacting. I would go to Etch-a-Sketch's house and be near the her family's pets, or I would go to Best Friend Boy's house and sit on furniture that had cat hair on it, and I would not react at all. I still had to change my clothes as soon as I got home—Mom and Little Brother had allergies so severe that they would get a reaction just from being near someone who'd even looked at a cat or dog recently. I, on the other hand, stayed hale and whole no matter how many canines and felines I looked at or was exposed to.

If I thought I'd outgrown my allergies, though, I assumed too much too soon. When I hit my twenties, I started to react to cats and dogs again...only the reactions were more like Mom's and Little Brother's. My throat would swell up, and I would have a hard time breathing.

The lady said, "My sister is sitting in seat __." She told me that I could trade seats with her sister.

I agreed, mainly because I couldn't see another solution. I walked up the aisle, found the sister, and explained the situation to her. She gave me her seat and with it her seatmate. Hello, possible new best friend. I sat down.

The frustrating thing about having pet allergies is that most people who own pets don't have pet allergies, and people who don't have pet allergies don't really understand the danger their pets might pose to other people. They'll tell you that their pet doesn't shed, or that they always vacuum up all the fur, or something. Unfortunately, that's not really how it works. A person who's allergic to an animal can have an allergic reaction to allergens in animal dandruff or saliva, which is regularly but not only found in fur. Pets who spend time with their owners regularly leave animal dandruff or saliva on said owners. Those owners might, blissfully ignorant, go to a movie theatre and sit in a cushy red chair. If the next person who sits in the cushy red chair has a pet allergy, that person could easily have an allergic reaction to the allergens that the pet owner left behind. And that's just one example. I'm not saying that it's necessarily a pet owner's job to strip their body of allergens whenever they leave the house, but I am saying that most pet owners seem to be totally unaware that it's that easy for their pet's allergens to spread. These owners also seem to be totally unaware that some people have severe enough allergies that they could die if they don't receive treatment quickly enough.

I remembered this too late.

Not long after I sat down, my eyes started itching. And I started thinking about how, if I were a person who had a dog, and if I had that dog with me in an airport during a layover, I would probably play with said dog during said layover. And, if my sister were on said layover at said airport, I would most likely invite said sister to play with me and said dog during said layover at said airport. And then said sister would probably have said dog's fur...and dandruff...and saliva all over her person. And then, if I were a person who owned a dog and had no allergies and therefore was not aware of how allergies work, I might send my allergic-to-dogs seatmate to trade seats with my sister, and then my allergic-to-dogs seatmate would sit right down on the seat covered with traces of dog hair and touch the armrests that bore traces of dandruff and saliva and then...and then...

And then what???

Once, Pepper and I talked about a theoretical series called Touched by a Dog, where people with dog allergies are forced to interact with dogs because the dog owners don't take others' allergies seriously. Unable to reach their medicine in time, these allergic people die tragic and untimely deaths. I felt like this could be a follow-up to Over the Garden Wall; Wirt seems like the kind of person who would be cursed with severe allergies. Each episode would be a PSA written by Wirt as an effort to alert the general public to the plight of the average person with allergies. Wirt would always play the person with the allergy who dies and his brother, Greg, would always play the dog.

We decided early on that one of the episodes would take place on a plane. Because, I theorized, what could be a more unfortunate circumstance than to be stuck on a plane with a dog but no allergy medicine?

I soon discovered just how unfortunate a circumstance it was.

Like I said, I went for years without having any allergic reactions. My mom (who is one of the people who easily could die if she sat in a cushy red seat recently used by a pet owner) carries allergy medicine, inhalers, and EpiPens with her everywhere she goes; I've never felt the need. So I was wholly unprepared for my own personal episode of Touched by a Dog.

"Your eyes aren't really itching," I told myself sternly.

"Your throat isn't really swelling up," I told myself strictly. "You have an overactive imagination."

"You're being ridiculous," I told myself firmly. "Even if you are having an allergic reaction, it's probably very mild, and you will be just fine for this five-hour flight."

At this point, we were about half an hour in. I'd never reacted so quickly after being exposed to an animal before.

I shuddered to think where I would be in five hours.

I was starting to worry.

I needed to take some kind of action.

I definitely couldn't ask my new seatmate for help. Shortly after takeoff, a flight attendant had told us that since the third person in our row hadn't showed, we didn't need to sit right next to each other. Immediately, my seatmate moved to the aisle seat. "I'll make this easier on both of us," she said, but she didn't sound like she was making a joke. She sounded like she didn't like me, and she thought I didn't like her.

Apparently, she would not become my new best friend, either. But that was okay because come to think of it, I had Viola and wasn't really in the market for a new best friend.

I also didn't feel like I could ask the flight attendants for help. I thought that they probably had allergy medicine somewhere, but I had no idea had to handle this kind of social situation. First of all, I have issues with asking people for help because when I ask people for help, I feel like I've failed or done something wrong. Knowing that I didn't have very much experience with my own allergies, that I had no idea what might happen if I didn't get medicine, that I didn't know how severe my reaction might get or how difficult it might become for me to breathe, definitely spurred me to disregard that particular barrier. But on the other hand, I couldn't figure out how to ask the question...logistically. The flight attendants were all coming up and down the aisle with little carts. How could I possibly talk to one? Walk up behind one and say "Can you help me?" in her ear like a creeper? Wait until they came by with the carts and, when they asked me what I wanted to drink, say, "I'd like a ginger ale, and also some allergy medicine if you have it, and please hurry because I am in some kind of respiratory distress?"

No, there was no way. There was no way. I was never going to work up the courage to ask for allergy medicine. Maybe I would be fine, but maybe I wouldn't be. Maybe my throat would keep swelling. If it kept up, I might not be able to breathe. Traditionally, when you're unable to breathe, you die.

What dumb luck! What a stupid way to go.

As is my habit, I started to pray. Sometimes, in situations like this, God tells me to suck it up and get over myself and do the difficult social thing. But sometimes, He provides a path that is more aligned with my personality.

After praying, I had an instant idea. Baby Sister had a cold at the beginning of the trip, remember? My mother the RN gave her a bag of cold medicine to take on the trip. I was pretty sure that I'd seen allergy medicine in there, too. I felt like I should go ask Baby Sister if she had any allergy medicine.

It took me a while to work up the courage to ask my own sister for help. By the time I stepped past my surly seatmate as politely as I could and headed to my sisters' seats, we were an hour and a half into the flight.

I don't remember exactly what I said, but as I was distressed and on the verge of tears it was not particularly eloquent.

Baby Sister said that she didn't think she had any medicine left in her carry-on, allergy or otherwise. "I'll check," she said. She rummaged around and came up with a single adult multi-allergy symptom pill.

Hallelujah.

I took the pill back to my seat. All I needed was some liquid to wash the pill down, and everything would be fine. Luckily, the flight attendants were still (slowly) making their trips with the little carts.

A flight attendant with a cart soon came. I was all geared up to order my ginger ale, but this flight attendant only had biscotti. There was another cart still coming with the drinks.

I choked down the biscotti. Traditionally, biscotti are dry, but these ones seemed particularly hard to swallow. I hoped it was just my imagination and not a symptom of my swelling throat.

I waited for the drink cart...and waited. About half an hour had passed since I'd gotten the allergy pill from Baby Sister.

The only thing I could think of that would be sadder than dying of allergies on a plane because I wouldn't ask for allergy medicine would be dying of allergies on a plane while holding an allergy pill in my hand.

I swallowed, checking the tightness of my throat. Should I try to take the pill without liquid? Plot twist: I choke to death on the pill. Maybe that was a bad plan.

Just as I was about to panic, the drink cart finally showed up. I finally got my ginger ale. I stuffed the pill in my mouth and washed it down into my esophagus. Within five minutes, my throat had loosened, and my eyes were no longer itching. The rest of the flight passed without event.

And so I returned to Utah safe and sound.

Thus ended my second New York City trip. Like I said in the post before this one, I don't know if I should hope I'll have time for more travel or if I should hope to have other preoccupations. But either way, Older Sister has made an executive decision that she's not coming home to Utah at the end of the summer; she's going to stay in New York if she can find a job. So even if I find myself with other life commitments, I may still have to go back if I want to see my sister. We'll see what happens.

The Dragon Dance

Usually, when my roommates and I go to dinner, we go to the second-best Chinese restaurant in Hometown.

I call it the the second-best because it is, and it is on account of there's another Chinese restaurant in town that's better. Their food is fantastic, but so are their prices. And so are their lines because they're only open a few hours a day. If I were feeling wealthy and exclusive I would go to the best Chinese restaurant in town, but I hardly ever feel wealthy and exclusive so I usually go to the second-best Chinese restaurant in town.

Best Friend Boy and his family goes there a lot and knows the manager fairly well. Etch-a-Sketch used to go with them a lot, so she also knows the manager fairly well. And now I go there so much that the manager knows me as well. Or he's confusing me with Etch-a-Sketch, since we've gone there a few times together and people commonly mistake us for each other due to similar hair and body structure.

Whether he thinks I'm me or whether he thinks I'm Etch-a-Sketch, the manager usually comes to personally talk to me whenever I'm in the house. A few weeks ago, when Pepper and I came for dinner, he encouraged me to come to the restaurant for their Chinese New Year's celebration.

Since I'm a sucker for Chinese food and celebrations and interesting things that I've never done before, I agreed, and on the night of the celebration I showed up for a 6:30 reservation with Pepper, the Seamstress, and Goldfinger in tow.

The restaurant was pretty crowded with couples and families. Little red envelopes hung from the ceiling. There was one near our table that was hanging alongside a bunch of lettuce.

We ordered from the special New Year's menu and settled in to wait.

Pepper was excited because her grandmother is Chinese and used to take her to a Chinese restaurant for a similar New Year's celebration. She was so excited that she brought us all gifts for the occasion: notebooks!

PEPPER: Read the words on the front, because they mean something.

The Seamstress's notebook said, "Reach for the stars." Goldfinger's notebook said, "Make mistakes." This is what mine said:

Obviously, Pepper knows me well.

Shortly after our food came, a drumming started within the restaurant. It was a compelling, steady drumbeat, and everybody started moving in time to it. I kept bobbing my head back and forth because I just couldn't help myself. Goldfinger was bobbing his head, too. The waiters were stepping in time.

Then the dragon came out! We all craned our heads eagerly to look... buuut this lady from the table next to us stepped in front of us so that she could take a video. So we were left in suspense while she videoed. But then finally, finally, she moved, and we could actually see the dragon.

It was the real deal, too. The dancers in the dragon costume pranced up and down and all around the restaurant to the beat of the drum. They were accompanied by a dancer wearing a mask and carrying a fan, and another dancer in a monkey mask and costume. It was just like in Fraggle Rock when they dress up as the Weeba beast and dance and shout "Weeba weeba!" Except nobody shouted "Weeba weeba!" Not even me, even though I really wanted to.

The kids in the restaurant couldn't get enough of that monkey. I couldn't get enough of that monkey. He hopped around, crouching on the ground and poking his head through the cutouts in the partition walls. He monkeyed his way through the aisles, which we enjoyed watching... buuut then the lady from the table next to us stepped in front of us again so that she could take a video. Again.

After about twenty minutes of this, the dragon began a different kind of dance. It lifted its head up to one of the red envelopes hanging from the ceiling, close its giant dragon mouth around it, and gulp it into its gut. Envelope after envelope it swallowed, even the one hanging next to the lettuce. In fact, in its haste to eat the envelope, it also swallowed the lettuce. And then it danced around the restaurant and threw the lettuce up onto the ground. Because apparently, dragons like red envelopes but not lettuce.

All the while, the drums kept beating. They made me feel like I had to get up and do something, but there was no room in the restaurant to do anything. The only thing to do was to keep eating, even though I was stuffed with food from the very filling special New Year's menu.

Soon the whole thing was done. We applauded, paid, boxed up our food, had an obligatory conversation with my BFF the manager, and left. I couldn't help feeling kind of hopeful because a) the excitement of the drumbeat had gotten into my soul. Also b) Pepper had said that we should use our notebooks to make New Year's resolutions because, as far as she was concerned, it was like New Year's all over again. And since this was a lot more exciting than what I usually do for New Year', I liked the idea of starting 2016 over with this other beginning.

Then we got home, and the Seamstress looked up our zodiac signs.

THE SEAMSTRESS: (to Awkward Mormon Girl) Apparently the year of the monkey is supposed to be really bad luck for you!

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...NO.

The Christmas Dance

A few weeks ago, Baby Sister went to the annual Hometown High Christmas dance. Which she apparently has time to do when she's not being a lead in a musical, doing face painting, or getting nominated for Best Supporting Actress by the Utah High School Musical Theatre Guild of People Who Nominate Other People. Or whatever they're called.

Basically, you will never be as cool as Baby Sister so you should just stop trying. The end.

For the dance, Baby Sister donned a teal velveteen top with a brocade skirt, a combination of her own devising. I took her to buy gold jewelry at Target and she did her own hair and makeup because, again, she's cool enough and skillful enough to do that. She looked like a million and one bucks.

All of this dance prepping reminded me of when I was Baby Sister's age and went to the Hometown High Christmas dance.

The Christmas dance is the only dressy uppy girls' choice dance at Hometown High, so you better believe I was careful about who I asked. I decided to ask the Good Guy, for reasons that you probably understand from the moniker that he is herein given.

On the day of the day of the dance I, like Baby Sister, wore teal. I'd borrowed this pretty dress from Bessie, who'd worn it to Homecoming the year before. The dress's best feature was arguably a strip of black lace around the waist. I wore it with silver jewelry and my official school dance shoes, which were black and satiny heels with little bows on the front. I was pretty excited to wear this ensemble. I was also very conscious of the fact that it was a borrowed dress, and I was determined not to get it dirty.

Now, the weather had been pretty bad that day. Not as bad as the weather earlier this week, but bad enough that Shutterbug's parents insisted on picking us up after dinner and driving us to the dance themselves.

There was snow and ice everywhere when Shutterbug, Etch-a-Sketch and I went to pick up our dates. The Good Guy lived on a fairly steep hill, so we went carefully, carefully up to get him.

Shutterbug pulled into the driveway cautiously. I stepped out of the car cautiously and took a cautious step.

Cautious, but tractionless. My official school dance shoes went one way, my torso went another, and suddenly I was sprawled on the Good Guy's driveway.

I heard the car door open. "Are you okay?" Shutterbug said.

I was okay. And the boutonnière I'd brought for the Good Guy was also okay. But the front and side of the borrowed teal dress were all wet.

And so, in my awkwardly wet dress, I trekked up the driveway so I could go inside and awkwardly complete one of the most awkward rituals of all time aka pinning a boutonnière to a boy's lapel while his parents are watching. And taking pictures.

Recently, the Good Guy found a picture of us at the dance on Facebook and shared it. You know, to be all, "Ha ha, do you remember that, Awkward Mormon Girl?" That kind of thing.

And I was all, "Ha ha DO I EVER."

Sugar Rush

Seeing the title of this blog post may have misled you to think that this is a post about Wreck-It Ralph. Well, it's not, so don't get too excited. Instead of discussing a great Disney movie with you, I am going to warn you.

About SUGAR!

It all started a few Sundays ago, when I was feeling down. Whenever one of the roommates is having a bad day, the Seamstress likes to whip up a batch of brownies. And these are homemade brownies. Sometimes she flavors them with extract. And when she has lots of time and we're feeling really sad, she makes super-brownies laden with cream cheese and marshmallows and homemade frosting. They are, in a word, glorious.

This Sunday, the Seamstress did not make make me super-brownies, but she did make me some rich brownies with chocolate chips and hazelnut extract. I love all things hazelnut, so you better believe that I guzzled those things like I'd never see a brownie again.

The next day, we went to the state fair to see the Seamstress's quilt. This year, the Seamstress made an amazing jean quilt. And she decided, somewhat on a whim, to enter it into the state fair. And it won first place. So even though it sits on our couch every day, we naturally had to go see it during its stint at the state fair too. And while we were there, we naturally had to also stop at the three-dollar ice cream social where for three dollars we could eat all the ice cream our hearts desired.

My heart desired quite a bit of ice cream.

And then on Wednesday, I came home from the temple to discover that the Seamstress had made pumpkin chocolate chip cookies with some kind of amazing penuche-like frosting. So I had to eat many of those.

That Friday was Etch-a-Sketch's baby shower. The invitation to the shower literally said that we would be eating "sweet treats." The invitation was not wrong. I ate many sweet treats and drank even sweeter substances.

And then Saturday was National Talk Like a Pirate Day. Pepper, the Seamstress, and I woke up at a decent time, dressed as pirates, and went to Krispy Kreme to get free doughnuts. First they gave each of us a fresh, hot doughnut that they literally pulled straight off the conveyor belt on its way out of the glaze machine. So good. Then, they handed us each a box of a dozen, completely free doughnuts.

That's right. Between the three of us, we had three dozen doughnuts.

By the time I made it to Viola's apartment for some hang-out time, I was tired and in a stupor born of the excess of sugar that I had consumed that week.

Viola and I had planned to spend an evening writing together. But my sugar coma had killed my creativeness, and I felt considerably unable to contribute. So in the end, we watched a chick flick and four or five episodes of anime.

Then I went home and slept for a million years and did my best to cleanse myself of all sugar. BECAUSE TOO MUCH SUGAR IS BAD FOR YOU.

Please don't ever let me do that again.

Five Weddings

I. The First
Although Etch-a-Sketch is not the friend I have been closes with the longest, she is the friend I met first. We went to preschool together and reunited in high school. She is also the first of my friends to get married.

I was terribly excited for Etch-Sketch's wedding. We went wedding dress shopping. I gave suggestions for decorations and helped glue the centerpieces together. The day of the wedding, I spent the morning at the reception venue, helping to get things ready. Then it was off to the temple to see Etch-a-Sketch and her new husband emerge, beaming. I beamed back at them. Then it was another mad dash--this time to prepare and serve the luncheon. I friend corn chips to put on the Cafe Rio-style salads like I had been born into the world for that purpose. After the luncheon, a short break. Then we set up for the reception. I made and served miniature cheesecakes and ran to the store for more chocolate syrup. I didn't leave until after Etch-a-Sketch and Mr. Etch-a-Sketch had driven off to start their life together as husband and wife.

II. How Are You?
I met Shutterbug in high school band class, and I thought I knew her from somewhere. Her name and her face and her amazing red hair all seemed familiar to me.

We would talk occasionally. Then we became band trip roommates, and soon were friends.

When I saw Shutterbug at lunch and between classes, she would often say, "How are you?"

One day, I retorted by pointing out that we not only saw each other almost every day, we often saw each other multiple times a day, and "How are you?" is something people should only say to each other when they don't see each other often and sincerely don't know how the other is doing, and so therefore could we please greet each other in some other manner?

From then on, we made a point of never saying, "How are you?" to each other. If one of us slipped, they received a severe chastisement.

Then one year, Shutterbug went on a date on my birthday. Things became Facebook official while I was in Italy, and they married the day before Thanksgiving. Shutterbug and her husband made their home in a city not too far from Hometown, but not too close either.

Now, when Shutterbug and I see each other, we say, "How are you?"

III. Saying Yes
One day, the bishop called me into his office and told me that we were getting a new Relief Society president, and that she felt prompted to ask me to be her first counselor. Would I accept this calling?

"Yes," I said. Yes to the calling, yes to serving Heavenly Father, and yes to loving and helping and being the right-hand woman of this new president, whomever she was.

I went to the temple that week. A girl that I'd known in junior high and who had recently joined our ward was there.

She came and sat by me. I let her. I'd always thought she was nice and, besides, I knew that being in the Relief Society presidency would require being extra friendly and conscientious of the women in my ward.

We did baptisms for the dead. Afterward, the girl from junior high school cornered me and began to spill out her soul.

"I've just been having such a hard time," she said breathlessly, then launched into a long explanation.

I listened politely, but I was a little taken aback. I didn't remember her being so...randomly-share-personal-stuff with-almost-strangers-ish.

"-and then this calling-" she continued.

"Oh." Comprehension had dawned. "You must be the new Relief Society president!"

We returned to that temple often, Madam President and I. And we visited and served and talked and laughed and loved together. We visited and talked and laughed and loved a year away. And at the end of that year, I went to that temple once again to witness Madam President be married and sealed for time and eternity, for she had said yes to a calling even more demanding and rewarding than Relief Society president.

IV. Meant to Be
It appears that Heavenly Father very much wanted La Petite and I to be friends, on account of He gave us so many opportunities to do it.

First, we attended the same junior high, although we never did meet.

Then we ended up in the same ward, although we never did talk.

Then I applied to work at the fast food restaurant where, unbeknownst to me, La Petite was employed. We talked occasionally, and after a year starting becoming truly friendly and then friends.

Then we both served with Madam President. La Petite was the Relief Society secretary, the person who kept us organized. The three of us served endless hours together, as a presidency, as sisters in Zion, as friends.

When La Petite begged told me that she would force me if I didn't asked me to move in with her and the Seamstress, I accepted, because after spending so much time with her in so many different capacities, I knew we were definitely compatible as roommates.

I moved in. Three weeks later, she was engaged. She wanted to stay with us and get married, but as those things aren't compatible, she married and moved out.

At the reception, someone said to me, "Oh, so you're her roommate?"

This was strange to me, that when La Petite and I were students together, in the same ward, coworkers, friends, and also in the Relief Society presidency together, I should be addressed by the title of "roommate," when that title had been acquired but lately and been fleeting indeed.

V. The Last
My BFF Viola and I met at a pivotal time of life. We quickly became best friends, meaning, of course, that I would clearly someday attend her wedding.

After many years of friendship, the day that was once only hypothetical became a reality. Viola's wedding day came upon us.

Nobody formally "gave" Viola "away" at the wedding. But informally, a wedding is always a giving away. Especially for dear friends who give the care and keeping of somebody they love away to someone that they hope loves her as much as or more than they do. They give her away to a new life, knowing their place will be different in it. That's as it should be; that's as marriage should be. But even when it should be, different is still different.

I cried at the ceremony. I smiled at the reception. I just didn't know what to do with myself. So I took up a pen and gave myself over to that ambitious human pastime: trying to explain exactly what you are feeling.

Blessed

Life is hard right now.

Life is usually hard, but right now it's more forcefully hard than usual.

But I can tell you that every time something hard has happened to me, I have received blessings greater than my hardships.

My junior year of high school, I sank into a deep clinical depression. I felt very sad, and very lonely. The quality of everything I did took a nose dive. And when I say everything, I mean my schoolwork, too.

I would not be able to go to college without a scholarship; my parents couldn't afford to help me. Every day, every night, whenever I had a moment where I could feel something other than apathy of depression, I was anxious about my future. I wanted to go to college. Would I be able to go?

But blessings were given to me. More than blessings--miracles. Provisions had been and continued to be made for me in a most wondrous way.

A few months before I became depressed, I took the PSAT, or NMSQT, test. I scored in the 98th percentile, which qualified me as a contender to be a National Merit Scholar. And although my individual grades were slipping, my overall GPA remained healthy enough and my portfolio of activities was impressive enough that in spite of the Cs, I was chosen a year later. And because schools with National Merit Scholars receive extra funding, suddenly all these colleges basically offered me a degree for free. At Nameless Utah College, I paid for my books and fees, but I didn't pay a red cent of the actual tuition. My education was assured without me having to do much of anything.

That was one amazing blessing. Another one was that one day, for no reason in particular, I felt promoted to seek out Best Friend Boy. But at the time, he was only Friend Boy. We weren't super close. I liked him, and Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug a lot, but I was sort of a free agent at school. I didn't really have a "group." I felt like I had enough close friends outside of school and I didn't need any more.

However, I decided to confide in Best Friend Boy some of the difficulties of my depression. I can only attribute this weird decision to divine intervention, and I have been grateful for said divine intervention every day since. There is no doubt in my mind that the love of Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug changed my life. Without that depression, though, I never would have been humble enough to accept that love and friendship.

Life was difficult, but what I needed was provided to me...even when I didn't know that I needed it.

A year and a half ago, some other issues of great personal import which I cannot share here arose. And on top of that, I was in my last semester of college, and the pressure was mounting to do all the necessary things that must be done in the last year of college, like find a real job that was in my field which I could support myself with. And on top of that, the interim job that I had decided to take was in a city an hour away. And on top of that, I was in the Relief Society presidency, devoting much of my free time to serving Heavenly Father. We would go visit women in our ward at least one day a week, among other duties. And I couldn't just show up for these visits; to be effective, I had to really be present. And on top of that, I became very sick for seven weeks. I was always sick to my stomach and had no appetite, and what I did eat did not stay put. I went to doctors and specialists, but they had no idea what was wrong. And on top of that, I became an insomniac, lying awake at night and wondering how I could possibly get through all of this.

The obvious blessing here is that I did get through it. I scarcely remember doing homework, but somehow it got done. And things got better. I received a blessing of healing from my father, and my illness went away. I graduated successfully and found a job in my field, which I wasn't expecting. Creative writers don't get creative writing jobs. They either get rich writing novels or are forced to work in another field or starve to death while trying to live on freelance work and particularly vivid descriptions of food. My insomnia ceased. And best of all, after everything cleared up, I was able to go to the temple to be endowed. This has been the greatest blessing of all.

I said in a previous post that I hadn't yet received many blessings out of my current trials. But what I guess I really meant was that I haven't received the type of blessings that would mean my current trials are coming to an end. Because I have been so blessed. I have a family that I love so much. I have the knowledge of the true gospel in the end of days. I have good friends, supportive roommates, a good job that gives me what I need and more, a healthy body, wonderful church callings, yellow shoes, all three seasons of Avatar the Last Airbender, and so much more. At the moment, I don't have everything that I hope for, but I have so much to thank God for every day. I know that He loves me, and I know that in time, the deepest desires of my heart will surely come my way.

The Novelist

The summer after Best Friend Boy left on his mission, I was lonely. I was uncertain of the future. I missed Best Friend Boy, and I knew I would not see him again for two years. I was somewhat distressed, and so I decided to write a novel.

I spent most of the summer isolated, locked in my room with my laptop. And while Viola and Etch-a-Sketch and Shutterbug and all the rest dealt with their own lives, I dealt with the lives of fictional characters. I spun my own problems into a tale whose plot doesn't represent my life at the time yet somehow encapsulates what I was thinking and feeling perfectly.

You probably wonder where I'm getting at with this. What I mean to say is that right now, I'm lonely. I'm uncertain of the future, and I'm somewhat distressed.

Maybe it's time to write another novel.

Another Anniversary

It was 10 o'clock pm on March 24th when I made a phone call from my California hotel.

Ring ring.

Viola answered. Groggily.

Had I awoken her?

Yes, I had.

Wasn't it 9 o'clock back in Utah?

No, it was actually 11 o'clock.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry," I said, breathless and embarrassed. "I just wanted to let you know that I decided that I like Runner Bean."

Viola gave me her official best friend approval. Then she went back to sleep and there I sat, alone with my phone, reveling in the quiet excitement of crushing on Runner Bean.

ONE YEAR LATER
"My anniversary is coming up," I explained to Etch-a-Sketch and Best Friend Boy. "It will be one year since I decided I liked Runner Bean. Therefore, I need an engagement ring."

They couldn't argue with logic like that. So one night, after a stake dance (a dance thrown by the Church for fourteen-to-eighteen-year-olds), Best Friend Boy drove me and Etch-a-Sketch all across town in search of an engagement ring.

The quest kept us up fairly late into the night. At some point, all three of us affected British accents, which we used for the remainder of the night.

"How did your parents meet?" I asked my friends in my British accent. That curiosity called marriage was on my mind.

I was in the back seat and they were in the front, so they twisted around to tell me their parents' tales. It wasn't the most exciting conversation we'd ever had, but I remember how it made me feel. Something about the combination of the nighttime drive, and the British accents, and my friends' support of my ridiculous desire to buy an engagement ring to mark one year of unrequited love made me simultaneously giddy and utterly content with my lot.

We looked at every one of those machines that vends little prizes in little plastic space saucer egg things in hopes of finding a sparkly ring. We looked and looked, but we couldn't find one. I ended up buying a garishly huge ring at the Princess Faire on a Disneyland trip a few days after.

ONE YEAR LATER
Best Friend Boy texted me.

Best Friend Boy: Happy Anniversary!

Awkward Mormon Girl: Haha. Thank you very much on behalf of myself and Runner Bean!

ONE YEAR LATER
Someone else was on my mind.

The day after my anniversay, I wrote in my journal, "A girl can only hang on to someone who won't let her in/she feels unable to let in for so long."

PRESENT DAY
Crushes aren't fun anymore.

Surprise! Or Not.

I decided that for my thirteenth birthday, I would like to have a surprise party.

I like surprises, but the problem with them is that you can't give yourself surprises. They depend solely on other people.

Well, theoretically, anyway.

In the months leading up to my birthday, I would occasionally comment on how much I liked surprise parties and, gee, wouldn't it be great to have one? I thought I was being fairly transparent about this, but I guess my mom was only catching on in some ways. Little Sister told me she and Mom had this conversation:

LITTLE SISTER: You do know Awkward Mormon Girl knows about the surprise party, right?

MOM: No, she doesn't.

LITTLE SISTER: There's a note on her rehearsal calendar from her friend Viola, asking if she can hang out on Saturday. Awkward Mormon Girl literally wrote, I can't. My parents are throwing me a surprise party in response.

MOM: If you say so, Little Sister.

LITTLE SISTER: The calendar is hanging on the kitchen bulletin board if you want to see for yourself.

MOM: I can't. I'm too busy planning this surprise party for your sister.

When my sixteenth birthday approached, I dropped hints to Viola and Little Sister that, hey, sixteen is pretty special, and wouldn't it be nice to have a surprise party to commemorate the occasion?

There was many a discussion after this manner:

VIOLA: If you had a surprise party, what would you want to eat?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Pizza is cheap and easy.

VIOLA: If you had a surprise party, would you want people to be invited by phone or through invitations in the mail?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Invitations, of course. The phone is the devil's way.

VIOLA: If you had a surprise party, who would you want to come?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You, Little Sister, Baby Sister, the Chess Master, the Fearless One, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Best Friend Boy, and, let's see...Porch.

Porch and I had known each other for years, but he is an elusive sort of human, and he didn't spend much time with anyone, myself included. Still, if I was going to have a surprise party, I wanted him there.

I decided that the most anxious-making thing about birthday parties is not knowing what sort of present to get the birthday person. It seemed that if Porch knew exactly what to get me for my birthday, the likelihood of him coming to the party would be increased. So, during our World Civ class, I laid the foundation of an ingenious plan.

A FEW WEEKS BEFORE THE PARTY
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Wow, Porch, is that pencil you're using to do your schoolwork sparkly? That's pretty cool.

A WEEK OR SO LATER
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I wish I had a sparkly pencil like yours.

THE WEEK I ESTIMATED THE INVITATIONS WENT OUT
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: For my birthday, I'm going to ask for sparkly pencils of my very own.

Finally, the long-awaited party arrived. I went to Viola's on some fool's errand, and when I arrived...

"SURPRISE!!!" Everyone jumped out from hiding places.

Viola, Little Sister, Baby Sister, the Chess Master, the Fearless One, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Best Friend Boy, Porch, and a quantity of pizza were all there!

Oh good I thought. This all went exactly as planned.

PORCH: Surprise! I got you these sparkly pencils for your birthday.

Ready or Not

It's been a busy summer.

Right now I am undergoing some major life changes (which I will expound upon further in future posts), which means that I spend approximately 24.78 hours a day coordinating said life changes and praying that I won't spontaneously combust.

The user picture on my laptop is a photo of me, Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, and Shutterbug at our high school graduation. I uploaded that photo right before starting college and have never gotten around to changing it. Mostly I don't even notice it anymore, but as I was logging on just now I randomly rediscovered its existence.

When I randomly rediscovered the photo's existence, I remembered the day it was taken. High school graduation is another time of major life changes. When we graduated from high school, all four of us had an idea of how our lives were going to go.

All four of us were (to varying degrees) wrong.

It's a good thing we didn't know it that day--how wrong we were. Making those major life changes was scary enough when we thought we knew what we were doing. It becomes ultimately more terrifying when you realize that you don't have a clue.

It's so terrifying, in fact, that it can be paralyzing. Whenever another major life change comes along, it's tempting to stand at the precipice and ask yourself, "Am I ready for this? Am I ready for this?"

Which is fine--until the act of asking the question becomes so all-consuming that you find yourself unable to make the leap.

In the words of Lemony Snicket: "If we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives."

I don't know if I'm ready.

But here I come.

The Fate of the Known Universe or Actually Just This Blog

We did it.

One full year of blogging later, we have successfully transitioned from the first post to this one.

First order of business, please note this picture of Avatar Aang fist-bumping that I drew whilst at Etch-a-Sketch's place of residence.

 

Even I'm impressed.

Second order of business, I am hungry. I am hungry most of the time because I am a college student and I have a ridiculous schedule that doesn't allow time for little things like eating and sleeping. Please wait while I get myself a plate of cake.

Okay. Back. The cake is delicious.

Third order of business, the past year in review.

I knew in March 2013 that the upcoming year would be full of interestingness, but I never imagined it would turn out quite the way it has.

In March 2013, I was a distinctly frazzled college student in her third-to-last semester of college. Now I'm an even more distinctly frazzled college student in her last semester of college.

In March 2013, almost everyone I knew was on a mission. Now all of those people have come home, while a few others that used to be home are gone.

In March 2013, some of my friends were married. Now even more of my friends are married. Mazel tov.

In March 2013, none of my friends had babies. Now some of them do. Mazel tov again.

In March 2013, I was awaiting answers to many of life's most pressing questions. Now I'm still waiting. (Okay, to be fair like three of them have been answered. But apparently the answer to the other two billion and five is "You must learn more patience before you get this answer." Let's be honest--this would be a good thing for me to learn. I'm bad at patience.)

In March 2013, I had a pretty definitive picture of how things were going to play out in my life. And I was wrong. At least, I was wrong about the process. Whether I was wrong about the destination remains to be seen.

In March 2013, I was unsure what the future of this blog would be. Now I've gone through a year of distinctly frazzling college and missionary homecomings and farewells and friends' marriages and friends' babies and unanswered questions and three answered questions and no patience and a surprising process of arriving at an as yet-unknown destination--all of which have shaped me.

All of which have contributed to my decision to keep the blog.

I'm not saying that this blog will last forever. It won't. But I still feel like there's a lot more to be done with it. I've been really pleased with how things have gone so far, but I think they can get even better.

So stay tuned for danger. And by danger I mean more blog posts. But possibly also danger. Because around here, you just never know.

Happy anniversary, internet.

The Nosebleed Section

Everyone in my family but me had a cold last weekend. This has caused my personal RN aka my mother to inquire after my health thusly:

MOM: How are you feeling?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Well-

MOM: You wouldn't happen to have a (dramatic pause) COLD, would you?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...no...I'm feeling fine.

MOM: Because I can get you medicine for your (dramatic pause) COLD.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I don't need any medicine. I'm not sick.

MOM: Well when you need medicine for your (dramatic pause) COLD, let me know.

On Monday morning, I was getting ready for school, minding my own business and eating the citrus fruit my mother gave me to help my non-existent cold, when my nose started to bleed.

This happens on a regular basis because my nose hates me. Usually I get nosebleeds when I'm under a lot of metaphorical pressure, literal water or air pressure, or after I've had a sinus infection (which also happens a lot because my sinuses also hate me).

Sometimes, however, I get nosebleeds for no reason, like the one I got at Etch-a-Sketch's place several weeks ago. We were just sitting on her couch, watching Fraggle Rock, when my nose started gushing like an insincere woman. I got blood all over the bathroom sink and had to pull the kitchen garbage can next to me to better dispose of the box of tissues I was going through at a rapid pace. Etch-a-Sketch and Mr. Etch-a-Sketch had bought this box of tissues with their hard-earned newlywed money. In other circumstances it probably would have lasted them the rest of the summer.

This is what happens when I leave the house. People get bankrupted.

On Monday my nose was all bleeding and it was a problem because I had to get to school. I hung out in the bathroom for a while, trying to get the nosebleed to stop with the use of many tissues and pinching but not tipping my head back because that just drains the blood into the throat and who wants to drown in their own blood? Not me.

My mother heard me sniffing from the other room. "Do you want some medicine for your...COLD?"

"I don't have a cold!" I managed to gasp-shriek between torrents. I dared to pull the tissue away from my face to check if it was working. It wasn't. A cascade of blood cascaded upon me.

Did I mention that I was wearing a white shirt?

With fifteen minutes left until I had to leave for the bus, I gave up on stopping the blood. One hand clamped firmly over my nose, I used my other hand to finish getting dressed, brush my teeth, and do my hair and makeup.

It was not a very successful venture. For one thing, it was too hard to put on my jeans one-handed, so I put on a pair of shorts instead. Socks and sneakers also proved most difficult and I slipped my feet into a pair of sandals in lieu.

The nosebleed slowed enough for me to drive to my bus stop, and soon it stopped as suddenly as it had started. I was left a wreck, with blood all over my person.

I was also left to discover that it was chilly outside. My oh-so-convenient shorts and sandals suddenly became less convenient as my knees knocked together. The temperature traveled through my feet and my legs to settle somewhere in my core.

Now I have a cold.

The Color of Things

There's this long-standing argument between Best Friend Boy and me about colors.

One evening many years ago, we were watching Cast Away. Cast Away is one of the most depressing movies of all time. This is not an opinion. This is a fact.

Depressing movies either make you want to cry or punch something. This one made me want to do both--simultaneously, repetitively, and immediately. However, I didn't want to cry in front of my friends, and there was nothing satisfying enough to punch except for Etch-a-Sketch's cat that was sitting on Best Friend Boy's lap. Had I punched that cat, Best Friend Boy probably would have punched me. So I didn't punch the cat, and instead started arguing with Best Friend Boy as an acceptable substitute for outletting the feelings of extreme frustration and loneliness that losing Wilson had evoked.

We argued about the nature of perception and reality. Best Friend Boy championed reality as, well, a reality. However, I maintained that reality doesn't matter that much.

"What people think about reality, whether it's true or not, is what's important!" I told him. "Perception can change everything."

Rebuttal from Best Friend Boy.

"Think about it," I said. "If I say your shoes are purple, it doesn't matter whether they are or not. I'll still interact with them like they are purple-"

"They're white," Best Friend Boy said.

"Nope, from now on they're purple."

Best Friend Boy implied that he wouldn't be caught dead wearing purple shoes, so I told him fine, they were orange. And I've called them orange ever since. Just to prove a point.

Now, at the time I wasn't being entirely serious. I was trying to burn off some of my excess feelings and also annoy Best Friend Boy because annoying Best Friend Boy used to be one of my favorite pastimes. The part of me that was, in fact, being serious thought only of how a positive attitude can work wonders or how faith in the face of overwhelming odds ignites miracles. "Perception is more important than reality," I said, but I didn't know how true that was until now.

There are people who live in a world created by perception. Every time they see white, they say it's orange. Soon orange is all that exists for them. I could take them to the top of a snow-covered mountain, and they'd look around at the pure, glittering snow and say, "Wow, it's so orange up here!"

This happens way too often for my comfort.

The twenty-first century is awesome. And by awesome, I mean awful. But also awesome. Because the way we're able to so totally and completely delude ourselves can't help but be awesome, right?

Right?

Maybe if I perceive it that way, I'll feel better.

Fortunately

The fortune said, "You will have many friends when you need them."

"And when you don't need them, they'll be nowhere to be found," snarked Best Friend Boy, who has returned from his LDS mission to South America and who came with me to fill my habitual craving for Chinese food.

He took the other fortune cookie, the one that I hadn't selected. The fortune within complimented him on his storytelling abilities.

"I think you took the wrong one," Best Friend Boy said.

"No," I said thoughtfully, reading my fortune a second time. You will have many friends when you need them. "I don't think I did."

A while back, my pal Shutterbug started dating the future Mr. Shutterbug. She invited me and Etch-a-Sketch over to meet him. Etch-a-Sketch was soon to be engaged, and Shutterbug and her man were getting pretty serious as well.

My friends were chatting excitedly about their men. Shutterbug told us more about her relationship with her boyfriend and praised him lavishly. Etch-a-Sketch expounded upon her upcoming engagement and bemoaned the brief separation while she was at Shutterbug's and her future fiancé was at work.

"Well," I said. "My imaginary boyfriend is a doctor."

Etch-a-Sketch and Shutterbug promptly responded with, "Ohhh, awesome," and "Tell me more," and "He sounds great!"

Shutterbug's boyfriend was confused by my use of the word 'imaginary.' "So... then are you guys just not really dating yet, or-"

"____," Shutterbug addressed him in the kind of delicate voice usually reserved for discussing terminal illness, "he doesn't exist."

"Ohhhh," he said, adopting a similar tone. In that moment I was reminded of how bizarre I can be and how many friends I have in spite of that and how my friends not only put up with me but learn to adapt to my quirky personality and isn't it kind of amazing?

Believing in my imaginary boyfriends is the least of it. Best Friend Boy deserves a medal for his superhuman kindness and support. I've cried buckets of tears during heartfelt conversations with Viola. For years the Fearless One has let me ride on the coattails of her assertiveness when I can't find it within myself.

I collect true friends like other girls collect shoes. At every turn in my life where I needed someone to help me take the next step in becoming me, I found them.

I've been very fortunate. I've been very blessed. I see the hand of God in each and every friendship that I have, for how else would I be able to always find exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it? Even when I didn't know what I needed.

Even when I didn't realize I needed it.

Slowly I'm coming to terms with the fact that I can't get many places worth going on my own. Companionship is key to progress. Without it, I'd stagnate and get so frustrated I would spontaneously combust.

Thanks, everybody, for helping me avoid spontaneous combustion.

In Which I Cause Violence at the MTC

Best Friend Boy was at the Missionary Training Center for a short time when a most unfortunate incident happened. And as is the case with far too many unfortunate incidents, the whole thing was entirely my fault.

It all started when we were seniors in high school. One day Etch-a-Sketch accidentally nudged Best Friend Boy in the face with her elbow. She apologized and joked, "It was a sign of affection."

This exchange pleased me. I turned to Best Friend Boy and announced, "From now on, when I'm being affectionate, I'm going to elbow you in the face."

And I did. Frequently. I would yell, "AFFECTION" and stick my elbow in his face. Gently, of course. I wouldn't have wanted to injure him. His severe discomfort was enough. Though he quickly grew used to it. People who are friends with me have to grow used to any number of things.

Time flew by, and before we knew it, Best Friend Boy left on a mission. Our goodbyes went something like this: Temple trip. Smoothies. Hugs. Finally, "AFFECTION! See you in two years."

For the next few months, it seemed like all I did was say goodbye to missionaries. Friends, guys who'd taken me on dates or who I'd taken on dates, kids I barely knew--all of them chose to serve full-time missions. Including Math Dude. Etch-a-Sketch and I went to hear Math Dude speak in church a few days before he headed to the MTC.

"If you see Best Friend Boy at the MTC," Etch-a-Sketch said to Math Dude after, "give him this from me." She hugged Math Dude.

"If you see Best Friend Boy at the MTC," I said, "give him this elbow in the face from me."

"Noooo," Math Dude said, backing away from my elbow. "That looks like it would hurt."

"It doesn't hurt," I said, and I tried to explain. However, Math Dude stood firm, so finally I just said, "Fine. Then give Best Friend Boy this hug."

We bid Math Dude a fond farewell and left his home for parts unknown aka our places of residence. Life went on, and the whole scene was promptly forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, by everyone but Math Dude.

A few weeks later, I was driving Etch-a-Sketch and myself to the temple when she feebly said, "Um, Best Friend Boy wrote me a letter."

"Oh?" I said, intrigued, because while having Etch-a-Sketch get a letter from Best Friend Boy was not as good as getting one myself, it at least was a means to hear his latest news.

"Yes. And... he wants me to tell you something."

"Okay," I said, trying to sound appropriately serious in order to match the tone of her voice, a someone-may-have-died-or-at-least-is-going-bald voice. It was a tone grave yet timid at the same time.

So gravely yet timidly, Etch-a-Sketch began to recount Best Friend Boy's words.

One day at the MTC, Math Dude had come across Best Friend Boy. Math Dude told Best Friend Boy he had some messages to pass on.

"This is from Etch-a-Sketch." Math Dude hugged Best Friend Boy.

"And this," Math Dude said, "is from Awkward Mormon Girl" and he slapped Best Friend Boy in the face.

"So," Etch-a-Sketch finished, quaveringly, "Best Friend Boy said for you to be more careful about the messages you pass along-"

I couldn't help myself. I started laughing so hard, I almost drove us off the road.

Straightfaced

My friend Dostoevsky once told Older Sister, "I am friends with Awkward Mormon Girl because she can say anything with a straight face."

Dostoevsky is Dostoevsky, so he can get away with saying this. It would be utterly bewildering coming from someone else. That being said, I still don't entirely understand why he considers my ability to deadpan my most friendship-worthy characteristic.

But I can say lots of things with a straight face. Which is useful, as I do theatre and specialize in comedy, but which causes me problems in nontheatrical settings.

For instance, someone might ask me something like, "Would you like some potatoes?" And I might respond, just as a bit of teasing, "I hate potatoes." I would say this in an overly sincere tone of voice and with an eyebrow quirk to show that I'm kidding. However, about ninety-eight percent of the time the someone who asked if I wanted any potatoes would say, "Oh."

I would then realize that my delivery was perfect--too perfect. Quickly I'd explain that I was just joking and that I love potatoes. Then, to prove myself, I would proceed to eat so many potatoes it would be scary.

Of the people who initially take me seriously, maybe fifty-one percent quickly realize I am kidding. Then they kind of laugh or roll their eyes or whatever. But the other forty-nine percent are like, "What?" Or, "I thought you just said you hate potatoes!" Or they simply watch my potato eating with a look that says they're very, very concerned.

It's like they've never seen anyone eat six potatoes in rapid succession before.

Potatoes, however, are the least of my problems. I've seriously offended people I care about and chased away many attractive fellows simply because sometimes nobody can tell when I'm joking, and even when I flat-out tell people that I'm joking, half of them don't believe me anyways.

(I had to write that in italics because it's super-important. To me and to you and to the well-being of the world at large and to everyone taking the AP tests about now).

I guess I can understand people thinking that I'm being serious in real life. After all, I have mad theatre skillz which of course means that everything I say in person is automatically terribly convincing. Something like that.

My writing skillz must also be terribly convincing also, because I have an additional problem: sometimes people tend to take the ridiculous things that I write seriously, too.

Back in the day, I had an English teacher named Miss Kantspell. Miss Kantspell ran the school newspaper. That was all I knew about her on the first day of school. If I had known her better, I definitely would have written about recycling when she gave us the assignment of writing a newspaper article. Recycling is a safe topic. It's serious. No one jokes about recycling. Really, no one does. I mean, if right now you tried to think of a good recycling joke you wouldn't be able to.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

See? None. No recycling jokes. Not even Google has any. Recycling is the safest topic in the world to write an article on but, alas! At my tender age, I did not realize that. Nor did I realize the danger that would have made me choose a safe topic in the first place.

What I did realize was that while I liked being published, writing an article Miss Kantspell would consider worthy of publication was not my main goal. I just wanted to write about something interesting, have fun with it, and get the grade. Making people laugh was a plus, too. I've always liked to make people laugh. Publication, however? Eh. Who cared?

Unfortunately, I had zero ideas for this interesting, A-plus-worthy, hilarious article. I went about my usual business with a bit of brainstorming tension. Then, one day before drum line- oh. Yeah. I was in drum line.

Pretty much all my nontheatre friends from school were in the band: Best Friend Boy, Etch-a-Sketch, Shutterbug, Runner Bean, Porch, and all the rest. Of those, most were also in drum line. I played a bass drum and so did Etch-a-Sketch and Porch.

Best Friend Boy was the lone cymbal player. I don't think he loved playing the cymbals, but he did love the drum major hats stashed away in the band room closet. He would take them out and wear them during rehearsals until one day our director, Mr. Kermit, asked Best Friend Boy if he would please stop playing dress-up with the old marching band uniforms.

At a practice around the time he was forbidden to wear the hats, Best Friend Boy commented quite thoroughly on the setup of the band room and also scolded me for not appropriating the proper tone of voice within (sometimes I raise my voice without really meaning to. It comes with being an Obnoxious).

And just like that, I knew what I was going to write about.

I wrote it fast. That thing flew onto the page like it was alive. Satisfied, I looked it over. Right away I knew it was unfit for a newspaper. I mean, first of all, it wasn't news. Also, it was ridiculous. I was a little hesitant to turn it in because it was a bit cheeky, but I'd had teachers who rewarded me for my daring before, and I figured Miss Kantspell would be no different.

She rewarded me all right. Within a few short weeks, my article was printed up all nice in the school newspaper under the title, "Students Must Follow Band Room Rules."

The Hometown High band room is not only used for band practice. It is also a place where many students hang out before, during, and after school. What most people don't know, however, is that certain things are not allowed in the band room.

Best Friend Boy, the Hometown High School Band Council Treasurer 200*-200*, sheds a little light on the subject. "No yelling in the band room," he says, then amends, "Actually, no screaming in the band room."

Another thing not allowed in the band room is taking a nap where the trumpet players sit. At least, "I wouldn't recommend it." This limitation is for students' own good as trumpet players do tend to produce a certain amount of spit that ends up on the band room floor.

Many other things are also not allowed in the band room, apparently including but not limited to the drum line cymbal players wearing fancy drum major hats. Best Friend Boy personally does not support this rule but respects the fact that the band teacher, Mr. Kermit, has nixed it. Best Friend Boy says perhaps someday he will make a list so more people can be aware of what is and what is not allowed in the band room.

That's what it looked like, sitting in all its glory smack above Runner Bean's very much sincere piece, "The Band Plays With Power and Passion."

Miss Kantspell had not realized that the entire article was meant to be a joke. She thought this piece of ridiculousness was actually meant to be a legit piece of news. I'm writing in italics again to stress how REALLY important this is. This article cannot be taken seriously. How could anyone take this seriously?!

Miss Kantspell could, because, as I more fully learned later, Miss Kantspell was what we call "mind blind" to sarcasm, meaning that irony and humor were often lost on her.

Now, Hometown High is an oddball, as far as high schools go. The students there have always tended to be a little off-the-wall in their sense of humor, by which I mean they can laugh at anything and everything if it's delivered correctly. A ton of my classmates would normally have appreciated my article under other circumstances. But because it was printed as an apparently serious piece of news, it did not inspire laughter. Instead, it brought forth much confusion.

BEST FRIEND BOY: I saw your article. You do know that I was kidding about that band room rule stuff, right?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I was kidding too! It was a joke!

OTHER FRIENDS: That sure was an interesting article...

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was a joke!

CLASSMATES: Your article is, uh, well-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It was supposed to be a joke.

OLDER SISTER: I read your article.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: IT'S! A! JOKE! AUUUUUUUURRRGGHH! *spontaneously combusts*

The End

P.S. Miss Kantspell, if you're reading this, I didn't actually spontaneously combust. It's a joke. A JOKE. A JOKE, I TELL YOU! *DIES OF FRUSTRATION*

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(That was also a joke.)