Grace

A few months ago, La Petite turned to me and said something like, "It seems like for you, the last couple of years have been nothing but bad things. I wouldn't blame you if you just felt like giving up."

And Best Friend Boy said, "Something good has to happen to you soon."

But God said, "Haha no." Repeatedly.

I just went to a campout for my stake. At that campout, it seemed like almost every speaker's sermon was for me. One of those speakers was a well-known LDS teacher named Brad Wilcox spoke. He mentioned that my generation may be the most anguished generation to date. Then he talked at length about grace.

He said that grace is a divine power, and it's how God engages with us. He said it's not what we call tender mercies, and it's not when we receive an answer to a prayer (unless, I suppose, we're praying for grace). It is, however, a product of Christ's Atonement.

Then he said a few things that struck me. He said, "Strength too easily won is not strength."

He said, "Change without challenge is not change."

He said, "Time is the medium for the power of the Atonement."

Somehow, right then, I got a tiny flash of what God is up to. Have I not asked for the power of Christ's Atonement in my life? Have I not asked for the circumstances to change? Perhaps the only way is fraught with difficulty and takes time.

The Lost Socks

The Blogger app is finally kaput. For a while there, I was having an excessively rough time getting photos off my phone and onto the Blogger platform for your perusal.

After poking around in a few alternatives, I landed on using a photo-sharing Google feature to get the photos loaded directly from my phone to my Blogger library. Pretty neat!

One of the recent photos on my phone is these socks:

They're a strange medley of frogs and hearts, and they've been sitting on the counter in the laundry room for about three years.

I'm pretty into weird socks, and my mom often buys her kids Valentine-themed socks for Valentine's Day, so there's a chance that they're mine.

BUT I don't recognize them. Like, at all. And I'm pretty sure I would.

There's also a chance that they were left behind by La Petite or Snacktime. Probably more likely to be La Petite's than Snacktime's, since I replaced Snacktime in the apartment and I didn't see the socks around until a while after I moved in.

They could also be the Seamstress's or Pepper's, but since both of them have lived here without claiming them for three years, that seems not likely.

If you have any ideas of they could belong to...or if they belong to you...let me know. I won't ask questions, even if there's no way they could possibly belong to you. *wink wink*

...

...

(In case it's not clear, I'm basically saying that YOU CAN HAVE THE SOCKS FOR FREE IF YOU GET THEM OFF OUR HANDS (OR FEET, RATHER).)

Dude, We're Getting the Band Back Together! I Mean Presidency.

You might have noticed that I've been feeling down lately.

This past summer was a real slugger, and there wasn't much of a chance for me to hit back. So it was kind of like I got punched in the face over...and over...and over again. After everything, I just felt restless, overwhelmed, and discouraged. There was a lot of "Woe is me!" going on inside my head.

In the midst of this grand pity party, I felt I needed to serve others more. I tried to look for opportunities to do so, and that seemed to help. Then the bishop of my ward asked if he could meet with me. He inquired if I would take on a new calling, and even though my entire life felt like a giant mess, I agreed.

It just so happens that four years ago exactly, I wrote about being a counselor in my ward's Relief Society presidency. Well, today, I'd like to share that as of about a month ago, I am the ward's Relief Society president.

For those of you who don't know, the Relief Society is the largest women's organization in the world. Among other things, the organization tends to the sick and the poor, first inside its local congregations and then without. A Relief Society president and her counselors and secretaries are kind of like women's ministers. They help the women in the congregation both spiritually and physically and take care of all the administrative stuff, such as assigning someone to visit each sister in the ward so that no one is left out or overlooked.

The ten months I served in the presidency with Madam President and La Petite were some of best but most challenging months of my life. So while I was excited for the opportunity to serve again, I was nervous about a lot of things—for example, time management, or the fact that the Relief Society president who preceded me is just about a literal angel. She's sweet, compassionate, and thoughtful. I feel that I tend to be abrasive. Maybe even obnoxious and disliked à la John Adams. I could go on, but you get the idea. However, in our church we believe callings are from God. I could only conclude that a) I'd have divine help to manage my time and b) my God either was okay with my abrasiveness or giving me an excellent chance to learn how to refine my personality.

The angel Relief Society president gave me some counsel. She said that she felt like her flaws were visible every day in her calling and that she had to learn to be patient with herself. Both of those things have been true for me x10. Every day, I realize that I fall short one way or another. Happily, I've been blessed with great counselors and secretaries: Flower Child, Vix, Valiant, and Rebecca. They have a lot of qualities that are sorely needed but that I don't have.

All in all, I'm doing very well. I don't say "Woe is me!" anywhere near as often because I don't have as much time to think about myself. I've been able to let go of a lot of things and entrust them to Heavenly Father. I feel really blessed, and I want to help others feel the same way.

My Funeral

I don't mean to be morbid, but there's something that's been bugging me for a while. I think it started a couple years ago when I bought life insurance, and it was only reinforced when I was promoted and got a ton more life insurance. I started thinking more about how if I suddenly died (which I have no plans to do, but nobody plans to suddenly die; if it were planned, it wouldn't be sudden), then there would probably be a funeral. I have concerns about this funeral. I'm worried that without me there to supervise it, it's going to turn out all wrong.

I've been meaning to write this post for a while, but over the past year or so, many of the people around me (and myself, come to think of it) have lost loved ones. It seemed terribly blasé to be giving out funeral plans in the midst of such things, so I've waited, and now I finally think it's a good time. And I'm posting them online, so that everyone knows what I want at my funeral so that everyone can be held accountable for it going off correctly.

Location and Music: These things are tied together, in my opinion. I kind of want music that's not church music at the funeral. Like, there can be some church music, but I really like Jim Henson's memorial where his friends sang a medley of his favorite songs. I'd rather have that. But that would mean that the funeral couldn't be held in an LDS chapel. That would mean extra hassle for my parents, and also my experience with funerals is that another venue might not be large enough. So I guess that's really up to my family and whether they would find church music more comforting. But for the record, my favorite song is probably "Pukka Pukka Squeetily Boink."

Speakers: I've decided that for speakers, Viola, Best Friend Boy, and La Petite should speak, in that order. Following that, a church leader of my parents' choosing should speak.

Other Funeral Requests: Everyone attending the funeral should write a letter and put it in my casket. Please and thank you. I'm going to be at my funeral in spirit, and I'm going to read everyone's letters over their shoulders so that I can find out everything they ever wanted to say to me but didn't. So this is very important.

Headstone: I have especially particular opinions about headstones. Here's what should be on mine: 1) my full name, 2) my exact birth and death dates, and 3) a quote. A good quote that encompasses my life or my personality or something. I know that having words on headstones is expensive, but there's no use having a headstone with no quote so there better be one.

Food: Please, for the love of all that is holy, no funeral potatoes at my funeral. Funeral potatoes are disgusting. You'd think it wouldn't make a difference to me because I'd be dead, but it does.

That's it. Those are the most important things that cannot be messed up. Hopefully, nobody will have to worry about this because I plan to live for a long time. I've never even been kissed, for crying out loud, so I have to at least do that. But just in case, these plans are readily accessible should they be needed.

My Migraine

I've been planning to write this post...with this title...for literally three years.

WELL HERE I AM.

During my first year of college, I started getting dizzy on occasion. I would become disoriented, and I'd see rainbow splotches on my vision. The splotches were beautiful, but also scary, because human vision isn't supposed to rainbow splotch.

But nothing ever came of it. It would last for an hour or so, and then it would go away. No big deal.

You might remember that throughout most of college, I worked in fast food. Just typing those words makes me recall the smells of French fry grease and bleach water; the weight of the long, perky ponytail dangling down my back; the way I would sob into the soapy water with which I was deck-scrubbing the dining room floor at one a.m. when I still had to finish a paper before going to bed. (Actually, I don't remember now if I actually physically sobbed. Probably not, since the assistant manager was right there. But I was sobbing imaginary tears, I promise.)

We got free kid-sized drinks every day at work. I almost always got water. One day, though, I filled my little cup with Dr. Pepper, because I had a headache.

It started off small, that headache. Instead of going away, it got worse. Then it slowly wrapped around my head and bore down into my brain.

My mom often has migraines. I suspected that this was one.

I felt terrible. My head hurt so bad, and I was a little nauseated. Then I started getting dizzy. You'd think that might be a big cause for concern, but I figured I just needed to make it to the end of my shift, and then I could go home and rest.

I tell you, I almost made it. I had less than an hour left. A man walked up to my register and ordered a chicken basket. I started punching things on the register and suddenly realized that I could barely talk, barely stand, and that I had no idea how to get this man's chicken basket rung up. I smiled at him and told him I needed to step away for a moment. I walked into the back office and declared that someone needed to help the man at the counter because I was going to pass out.

I didn't pass out, but that wasn't much comfort to me. My face was numb. I could barely talk, barely remember words. La Petite, who worked with me at the time, said she thought I was having a stroke.

BOSS: You need to eat something.

I found enough words to tell her that I didn't have any money. I was probably exaggerating, but not much. The price of food at my place of employment was far too much considering how much money I allotted myself to spend each paycheck.(That amount was 20%, though I would cap my funds at lower amounts on the rare occasions I made a paycheck that was, say, $150-plus. During the school year my two-week paycheck was often around $60, meaning I had $12 to spend on entertainment for the next two weeks. I know that sounds terribly tightfisted, and it was, but I managed to fund my own trip to Europe that way so don't sneer.)

My boss bought me a chicken sandwich and watched me eat it, which was a struggle. Then she made me call my mom, which was also a struggle. I went home, took a nap, threw up, ate a bunch of ice cream, and watched Fraggle Rock with the Fearless One.

And that, my friends, is how I found out that I am one of the rare humans who get basilar migraines, which is a fancy name for migraines that come with a whole slew of debilitating symptoms.

Yay.

During my last year of college, I left the fast food business and accepted a job tutoring kids in a tourist-trap city half an hour from College City and an hour from Hometown. To reach my workplace, I had to drive through a twisty, snowstorm-ridden canyon, sometimes in the dark.

One day, I was scheduled to go to work right after my afternoon class. During my morning class, I came down with one of my lovely basilar migraines.

I happened to bring my journal to school that day. Here's what I wrote: Geez. I'm having a crazy dizzy spell. I get these sometimes, and it's scarey because I have to drive to wWork cCity in two and a healf hours. Hopefelly it will clear up fore before I han head out.

Migraines are not conducive to flawless spelling.

By that point, I had learned ways to help mitigate the symptoms. I took headache medicine, drank a lot of fluids, and ate a copious amount of food. The dizziness abated enough for me to drive safely. However, my head pounded like someone was knocking on the inside, trying to get out.

When I arrived at the picturesque, expensive building where my workplace was situated, I was informed that my first appointment had been canceled (that would happen sometimes, but I still got paid). I knew what I had to do! I stuffed Quits inside my already-bulging backpack and headed towards the picturesque, expensive Italian restaurant next door.

Like the town, the restaurant was a tourist trap. It was such a tourist trap that the prices were posted on a glass-encased parchment-y piece of paper displayed outside, like in European vacation spots and at Disneyland, but the restaurant was still relatively nice. It was the kind of place you would bring a business client whom you were hoping to mildly impress.

Mind you, I didn't make a habit of dressing nice for school. Even if I had, I was exhausted, I hadn't been home in about ten hours, and I felt terrible. I must have looked a sight. Yet I lugged my fat backpack into the relatively nice, picturesque, expensive restaurant where a few people were meeting with business clients they hoped to mildly impress, and I asked to be seated.

The waiter obliged. He treated me most civilly, though he could easily have chosen to disdain me. I sat heavily at the highly polished table and unceremoniously dumped my backpack on the seat opposite. Then I proceeded to spend almost all the money I was earning from my canceled tutored session on a Dr. Pepper and an order of focaccia.

I was expecting a small plate of focaccia. Instead I received an entire focaccia pizza. Eight pieces. Plus my frosty, delicious Dr. Pepper.

In the two hours before my next tutoring session, I ate all eight slices of focaccia and drank all the Dr. Pepper. I do not normally do such things. I couldn't do it now. I wouldn't advise trying it at home. But I stuck my head in one of the Chronicle of Prydain books and, using a slow and measured pace, I worked my way through the entire focaccia pizza and the entire soda.

That, my friends, is the kind of aplomb with which I handle my basilar migraines.

Tell All

Yesterday, as I was perusing my Facebook, I noticed something interesting. A fellow who went to college with me got married a few weeks ago in Taiwan. He was married to his wife in a temple after the normal LDS fashion, but it looked like there was also a huge celebration before or after the temple ceremony...or both.

Immediately, I started composing in my head exactly what I would say to Viola when I told her about it.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Viola, remember so-and-so from Nameless Utah College? The one from Virginia I would have gone out with if he'd asked me? Well, he just got married in Taiwan because apparently his wife is Taiwanese. It looked like they had what I assume was a bunch of traditional Taiwanese wedding traditions. From the pictures it looks like the bride had at least four different special wedding outfits. And it looked like one of the traditions involved so-and-so dressing up as a squid before the wedding. I kid you not, he was wearing a squid headpiece. Now I'm really curious about Taiwanese weddings. I actually read an article a few days ago about how in certain parts of Indonesia, funerals are more expensive, festive, and important than weddings. Isn't the world interesting?

And so on and so forth. It's funny how when we develop a bond with someone, we want to share everything with them. All week, I've been storing up words in my head: descriptions of the cupcakes my mom brought me at work on Wednesday and of my Thursday doctor's appointment. Quick, pointless anecdotes about the four hours I spent today with Little Sister, Mr. Little Sister, and Baby Sister in our grandmother's basement, painting the shelves in the basement so that they're ready when Little Sister and Mr. Little Sister move in after their wedding. A meandering explanation of my psychological reaction to having to plan a party. I store them all up in readiness to give away to the right person. The right person will think they're valuable. The right person will look at me and think how great it is that I want to share with them, even though what I'm saying isn't interesting in the least. If you've ever talked at length to a small child, you might understand what I mean. Small children tend to go on and on, but we find them fascinating and count ourselves lucky that they would trust us enough to share their words.

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.

Kathryn's Return

Do you remember Kathryn?

I've had the same phone number for eight years. Since day one, I've gotten many phone calls for somebody named Kathryn. Most of these calls indicate that Kathryn is in some kind of financial and/or legal trouble, which maybe is why she changed her phone number without telling anyone.

Two years ago, I got a phone call from someone claiming to be Kathryn's half-brother's aunt, Beverly. Beverly had actually hired a private investigator to track Kathryn down so that Kathryn could in turn help the nephew track down their father. The private investigator dug up my phone number but not, it would seem, anything that would actually lead to Kathryn's whereabouts.

That was the last thing I heard about Kathryn for a while.

"She's probably dead," La Petite said when I told her about how no one in the world seemed to know where Kathryn Ramin-or-Atwater (which were the two last names Beverly said she uses) was.

That was a likely guess, but one I nonetheless hoped wasn't true. I wanted Kathryn to be alive so that I could someday find out more about here. That was a story here, and I wanted to hear it. There was a mystery; I wanted to solve it.

Almost two years have passed since Beverly called me, and I haven't heard much about Kathryn since. But, finally, this week, I got a phone call from a number in Ohio.

"Hi, my name is Barbara. I'm calling from PDS Mediation Services for Kathryn Ramin regarding your direct involvement of an account that will be filed in my office against you. I do need to speak with you regarding this matter. So the number for you to return my call is ___. Have a good day."

Well.

Well well well.

It looks like Kathryn is alive and kickin' (and in Ohio?). And it looks like she's still causing problems. I looked up PDS Mediation Services, and it seems to be some kind of legal firm.

I am astounded at Kathryn's ability to somehow avoid detection just by giving out the wrong phone number. Is it a clever ploy? Or a complete accident? Maybe she has no idea that so many people have somehow ended up with this phone number. Maybe she is unaware of the face that she's in trouble with various groups because the groups are never able to reach her and tell her that she's in trouble. Maybe.

Either way, I think I sounded a little too jubilant when I called Barbara back. I explained the situation, and Barbara said that she wouldn't call me again, but I kept babbling.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It seems like nobody's been able to find her, so...good luck with that!

Maybe I should have said, "And let me know when you do!" but Barbara seemed to really not want to talk to me anymore.

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

I told, I told you three years ago that JULY was still a magical Harry Potter month. I held onto hope, and that hope was rewarded with more fun Harry Potter times.

You know what I'm talking about, right? Last week, at midnight on Harry Potter's birthday (also technically midnight on Neville Longbottom's birthday, Baby Brother pointed out, if you count midnight as the bridge between days), a new play called Harry Potter and the Cursed Child was released.

I had mixed feelings about this play. I couldn't decide if I was going to buy it. I knew that I would read it at some point, but I couldn't decide when that would be. See, next-generation stories are so hard to do, and when the original author isn't the one doing most of the work—well. It's dangerous, that's all.

But all of my reasonable reasonings went out the window when I saw that Barnes and Noble was having a midnight release party. I texted the link to Viola.

Awkward Mormon Girl: Would you ever consider...

She considered it. We decided to go.

See, midnight releases for Harry Potter books are sort of our thing. Viola and I went to the Barnes and Noble release parties for Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows. The Half-Blood Prince party was the year of the treacle incident. Incident recap: we tried to make treacle. We didn't follow the instructions. The treacle was terrible. Yet we maintained a fascination with the stuff and a desire to try some that had been properly made. You could say that we had unfinished business with treacle. Unfortunately, we were not able to finish up the unfinished business during the Deathly Hallows release party due to going with a large group of people who had no interest in helping us make a dessert of murky British origin. We ended up talking about Twilight with them and quoting Harry Potter Puppet Pals instead.

Finally, on July 30th, 2016, we were able to finish our unfinished treacle business.

For my birthday, La Petite and her husband gave me The Unofficial Harry Potter Cookbook. It contains a treacle recipe, which Viola and I followed to a T.

The result? A caramel-ish fudge.

We tried it. We were all, "Oh, that's what treacle is. Well, let's go to the party now."

It was pretty anticlimactic, really.

The party was fine and everything. Astoundingly, I won a drawing for a t-shirt. Viola and I talked some good talks and ran amok in the Barnes and Noble. (Running amok in a Barnes and Noble consists of sitting on the floor in whatever aisle you choose and eating gummy worms. And if you decide to get up and move to another aisle for no reason, then you just do that, son. It's wild.)

All of that was good and fine, but it was really all just a way to pass the time until they let me get my copy of the play at midnight.

I was maybe the fourth person to get a copy. I really wanted to read all night, the way I did with the sixth and seventh books, but adulthood got in the way and I didn't.

But I read it all in one sitting the next day. And here are my thoughts:

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child is no Harry Potter book. But it was also fun. Here are some things that stood out... (Minor, vague spoilers ahead.)

I know a person whose main criticism of the Harry Potter books is that someone should have just used a time-turner to kill Voldemort or save some of his victims. He thinks that's a plot hole. I don't think it's a plot hole, because a) the Ministry of Magic clearly has strict rules and regulations about time-turners, b) using a time-turner to save the life of a hippogriff and help a man escape from jail is much different from using a time-turner to save the life of a person; as lovely as Buckbeak is, he doesn't have the same agency as one of the series' more sentient species, and his death or lack thereof would not affect a timeline the same way a person's death or lack thereof might, and finally c) using a time-turner to go back a few hours to change time is not anywhere near as dangerous as using a time-turner to go back multiple years to change time. More things in a timeline would be affected by changing an event that took place years ago and has had time to compound. For example, if someone went back in time to kill Voldemort before his rise to power, who's to guarantee that his absence wouldn't allow someone even worse to take his place? All of this has always seemed obvious to me, but in any case, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child goes to the trouble of spelling it out: wizards should rarely, if ever, use time travel to fix problems, no matter how good of an idea it may seem.

On the other hand, while the basic premise of the plot made sense, the details were not quite clever enough. At one point, all of the characters were operating under an assumption that I felt would turn out to be false. However, apparently the assumption was true, which threw me for a loop. It just seemed like something that couldn't be true without a lot of explanation.

I have to say that I loved the way Ron and Hermione were portrayed. Now, I don't think this play got the characters quite right. Harry needs to be a little more sassy; Hermione needs to get flustered and start talking in that "shrill" voice that she uses when she's upset; Ron needs to be more clever, more sharply sarcastic, and less vaguely goofy. Yeah, I get that they're adults now, but that doesn't mean they should lose all of their character traits.

That being said, I thought the overall treatment of the characters was way better than the movies. There's a scene in Cursed Child where Ron is the first to volunteer himself for danger to spare Hermione and Harry. It was "If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us, too!" all over again. It was a great way to highlight Ron's key character trait: his deep love for and devotion to the people he cares about. The movies pretty much ignored that part of Ron, leaving him as nothing but the comic relief. And the more they took away from Ron, the more they added to Hermione, until movie Hermione became a sort of perfect goddess who can do nothing wrong. In Cursed Child, though, they showed that Hermione is flawed! They reminded us that without Harry and Ron to mellow her out, Hermione is uptight and humorless.

The kids were fun. Some of them (Rose) were just like one of their parents, while others (Scorpius) were delightfully different. I was disappointed that there wasn't really room in the story for Teddy Lupin, for Albus's siblings, or for the many Weasley cousins. I would have liked some Weasley cousin shenanigans. Maybe they should write another play that is just Weasley cousin shenanigans. Maybe I could write another play that is just Weasley cousin shenanigans. All I have to do is become a famous playwright, and soon.

Anyways, if you're wondering whether you should read this play, I give you a hearty, "Yes!" Just take it with a grain of salt. It's far from perfect, but it's still enjoyable.

Wanted: Polka Dot Jeans

Yes, I know I wrote about striped shorts yesterday, and now I'm writing about polka dot jeans. Apparently, all I want to write about this week is pants.

Those of you who have read my Stitch Fix posts are familiar with my desire to own polka dot jeans. In fact, apparently everyone I know constantly thinks about this. Over the weekend, I was at a baby shower for my friend Jumpin'. Shutterbug was there with Baby Shutterbug (soon to be known as Baby Shutterbug #1, since Shutterbug is expecting another bug this summer). Baby Shutterbug #1 and I got along pretty well at this shower, except for when I tried to get her to take a picture with me. Then I suddenly became horrible and terrifying and someone to escape from.

Anyways, Shutterbug had brought for Jumpin's daughter, among other things, a pair of baby-sized polka dot jeans.

SHUTTERBUG: (to me) I thought of you when I bought those!

And then, today, while I was at a movie, Snacktime texted me.

I have been wanting to mention Snacktime at various points over the past three years, but it just never happened. Snacktime is a delightful person. She was roommates with La Petite and the Seamstress before I was, and when she became engaged she and La Petite persuaded me to take her place in the apartment.

Besides being a person who found me a place to live, Snacktime apparently has an ambition to become a person who also finds me polka dot jeans. In her text, she told me that she had found "two pair of some very cute" polka dot jeans at Hometown's Deseret Industries.

So I went to Deseret Industries. I found the polka dot jeans. One pair was much too big. The other was just the tiniest bit too small. I wriggled in these too-small jeans, trying to make them fit. I told myself that I could live with the slight squeeze in my calves. But, when they slid halfway off when I tried to sit down, I had to concede that they weren't going to work.

So, in spite of my friends' and Jessica V's efforts, I still don't have any polka dot jeans. But if everyone keeps up the hard work, surely one day all of my polka dot-jean-related dreams will come true.

Harry Potter, Now with More Harry Potter!

I saw an article with this headline: "Chrissy Teigen and John Legend had their baby and her name will thrill 'Harry Potter' fans."

First I tried to remember who John Legend and Chrissy Teigen are; I'm not one for keeping up with the popular things. After I'd correctly identified John Legend as the guy who sings that "All of Me" song that's both soul-wrenchingly beautiful and annoyingly repetitive, I wondered what Harry Potter name they'd given their baby. Ginevra Legend? Minerva McGonagall Legend? Hermione Hermione Hermione Legend?

The answer was: Luna. Luna Simone Stephens (so I guess "Legend" is a stage name? I knew it was too cool to be true).

And I was all, "Luna? How does them calling her Luna even justify mentioning Harry Potter at all, much less in the headline?" Because yes, one of Harry's good friends is the oh-so-delightful Luna Lovegood. But I'm not sure that's the automatic association that people have with that word. After all, it means "moon" in both Spanish and Italian. It was the name of a character on Bear in the Big Blue House. Luna is the name of the space colony in the very-popular Lunar Chronicles. It's the name of my great-grandmother. So why only mention Harry Potter?

It's because everyone loves Harry Potter. This isn't the first article I've noticed that flaunts the phrase "Harry Potter" in the headline when there's only the loosest of connections. I don't think it's coincidental that when Alan Rickman passed away, most of the articles I saw used a picture of him as Snape. The news people know that like 90% of the world is like 90% more likely to click something if it references Harry Potter. Harry Potter is beloved throughout the world, and hardly anyone dislikes it. It transcends languages, countries, cultures, religions, and political parties. Romeo and Juliet would have ended much differently if Harry Potter was around in Shakespeare's time. The play would have ended with the Montagues and the Capulets reconciling their differences through their common love of Harry Potter.

On a related note, La Petite is just barely discovering the joys of Harry Potter. She had never read it until I forced it upon her and Madam President a few months ago. La Petite read the first book with some hesitation but tore right through the second, third, fourth, and fifth. She texts me about Harry Potter, speculates to me about the sixth and and seventh books, and regularly pins Harry Potter pins. She's obsessed, and I love that she's obsessed. Obsession is the funnest when it's brand new.

To indulge her obsession, I brought some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans to share with her and Mr. La Petite. We giggled and exclaimed as we tried the different flavors. Then I put the half-full box in my purse and forgot about it.

The next day at church, I was looking for a breath mint. I instead found Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans scattered about the bottom of my purse.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: One of these might work on my bad breath.

Completely forgetting to proceed with caution, I popped a yellow one into my mouth. I thought it was lemon.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Nope...rotten egg.

On Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day was named after St. Valentine, but nobody seems to care about that guy these days. So that leaves me in a grammatical crisis: do I call it "Valentine's Day" as in the day that belongs to Valentine? Or "Valentines Day" as in the day of the giving of the valentines? It's a puzzlement, I tell you.

I actually really like Valentine's Day. Obviously we should let people know that we love them more than once a year, but I do like the idea of a day honed particularly for that expression.

People tend to associate the day with romantic love only. They moan, "I'm single again on Valentine's Day?" Well, my friend, if you're one of those people, allow me to point out that at some point in life a great many people get married, and then from that point on they have someone to spend Valentine's Day with forever and ever. So actually, your number of Valentine's Days as a single person are probably limited. I would suggest making good use of these special-edition days. Since you don't have a romantic interest to focus on, maybe you should look out for other people who would appreciate gestures of platonic or familial love from you. Make as many people in your sphere of influence feel loved and appreciated on Valentine's Day as you possibly can within reasonable limits of expense, time, and effort.

Example: on what turned out to be her last Valentine's Day as a single person, La Petite brought me a card, a treat, and a stuffed frog. I was really excited that somebody had thought of me and tried to make my day special. Next year, you could be somebody's La Petite.

One last thought for you today: I'm not married. I've never been married. But I do know a lot of married people and so I've been speculating about what it might be like when I get there. Here's a thing I wrote in my journal that perhaps some other human in the world might find to be a useful perspective:

The truth is, is when marriage takes place you take all your flaws and insecurities and mistakes and sins and place them on the altar. Your spouse does the same. And you say to Heavenly Father, "Make us better than we are. We give away all these things to you. We sacrifice them all on this altar, so that we might be charitable and humble enough to become one and work together as one."

Anyways, happy day that belongs to St. Valentine and/or the day of the giving of the valentines. Whichever interpretation you prefer.

The Rant

Today I was fifth-book Harry.

I love the fifth Harry Potter book. It's so fun. But I don't love fifth-book Harry, because fifth-book Harry is some rough times.

Today, I was rough times.

It all started when La Petite and Madam President came over for a while. We were supposed to talk about the first Harry Potter book. (La Petite and Madam President are not acquainted with the joys of Harry Potter and I have convinced them to try it.) We did talk about Harry for a while, but then we talked about some personal stuff.

When it was my turn, I exploded.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL AS FIFTH-BOOK HARRY: My life is so hard! I do so much difficult stuff that Dumbledore doesn't even trust me!

FRIENDS: Um, are you sure you're not making this harder than it needs to be-

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You don't know me! You don't know my life! YOU WEREN'T EVEN THERE WHEN VOLDEMORT RETURNED!

Then I went for dinner with Pepper and another member of our improv troupe. Basically, I ranted the whole time and they listened to my rant.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: You don't know how hard it is to be the Chosen One and have the fate of the entire wizarding world resting on my shoulders.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: And midi-chlorians are a terrible father.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Wait. I'm turning into Hayden Christensen Anakin Skywalker. That's worse!

Luckily, everyone was very patient and supportive of me, and things didn't escalate to a point where I tried to kill my Jedi master and melted my face off in some lava.

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.

Giving Thanks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adventures in Housekeeping

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MOM: ...

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

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

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

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

So far so good.

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

And...nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few minutes later, La Petite responded.

La Petite: Is the water on?

...

Awkward Mormon Girl: It is now.

Rockin' Around the Christmas Chair

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On My Knees

You know what's great about Christianity?

In Matthew, and in Nephi, and in the Doctrine and Covenants, we're asked to endure to the end.

Basically, it's the scripture version of this:

La Petite and I were speaking today of how discouraged we are about a multitude of things.

Now, La Petite and I do not have awful lives. Far from it. We're two darned blessed individuals when you get down to it. But we have our trials and tribulations, and we face the daily complications of even the most humdrum of existences.

Sometimes we get sick of it all. Today, we were sick of it all.

Today, I find it necessary to apply the reminder of enduring to the end.

One of the greatest pieces of advice I've ever received is that when discouragement comes knocking on my door, I should get on my knees and pray for the strength to keep going.

Guess what? It works.

Also, posters of kittens don't hurt.

Return of the Nosebleed

I have been blitzed by nosebleeds several times since Utah's 2013 performance of the winter magic trick of transforming from the Sahara into Siberia.

Many a morning here in Hometown it's been between five and twelve degrees Fahrenheit. When the temperature finally rose above twenty, I stepped outside barefoot with no jacket, and La Petite rolled her car windows down.

This ridiculous weather has adversely affected my nose. It bleeds even more frequently than usual. My nose, that is. Not the weather. 'Cause weather doesn't bleed, you silly. Not even in Siberia.

I went to help my grandmother set up Christmas decorations in her gimonstrous house. This mostly consisted of hanging red velveteen bows from the greenery strung on the windows all year long.

Now, these bows are some twenty-five years old, and for every year of their existence they have been placed on the window greenery before Christmas and removed promptly after.

Apparently for the past twenty-five years my grandmother has been practicing witchcraft. I have zero other explanations for how she ever managed to get the bows in the greenery before her back got so bad, because I simply could not do it. Those bows would not stay where I put them.

My grandmother also desired me to pin certain parts of the greenery higher up on the wall with thumbtacks. However, the greenery was thick and the thumbtacks were tiny and the bows got in the way and I was standing on a stool, trying to force the tacks into the wall and the greenery over the thumbtacks and bows onto the greenery, sweating and snarling like a feral husky while my grandmother watched from her couch and rued the fact that roughly a quarter of my genes come from her.

And then, nosebleed.

In Which a Doughnut Makes Me the Most Powerful Being in the Universe

I walked into ward prayer on Sunday night and sat next to my friend La Petite.

LA PETITE: Did you nap after church?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Yes...

LA PETITE: That would explain why you're so much more mellow now than you were earlier.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: What do you mean?

LA PETITE: Well...
Flashback to church
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I only slept for four hours last night.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: This morning I ate a chocolate doughnut. You know how when you eat a chocolate doughnut, you feel powerful?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I ate the chocolate doughnut, and I was like, "I am now the most powerful being in the universe."

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL (to choir pianist) Play what you wanna play. I WANNA SEE YOU BE BRAVE.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Turn to page seis.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Pagina seis.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I just decided to be bilingual.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Sporadically bilingual?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: I'm going to put that on my resume.

Flash forward to ward prayer
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh. I see.