RIP Tabitha

With a great deal of difficulty, I managed to keep Tabitha alive until the beginning of July. I tried everything to save her little pansy life. We had a few weeks of weather that was consistently 90 degrees Fahrenheit or so. To protect Tabitha, I brought her inside to live on the windowsill, but that arrangement didn’t work out so well. Tabitha was a terrible roommate. She never did any chores or helped me with dinner or anything. She just sat there like a lazy lump on a log and dropped leaves and petals everywhere and waited for me to water her.

Plus, even when she was living in an air-conditioned apartment, her health still declined. The flowers she produced were smaller and smaller with every batch, and her stems grew all brown and crispy and droopy. So I decided that if she was going to die one way or the other, it would be better for her to die out in nature, where she belonged.

She passed away around the Fourth of July. Every time I come home, I see this at the bottom of the stairs:

I miss her.

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.

The Runaway

What ho, you landlubbers! I doth have the pleasure of informing you that I have reached 250 blog posts.

You may ask, "How do you do it, Awkward Mormon Girl? How do you write two and a half hundred blog posts in less than two and a half years? How is it that you haven't run out of things to write about yet? Especially considering that this blog is mostly about your everyday life?"

To which I say, "Heaven only knows. One of these days I will run out of these to write about, and this blog will have to close down its doors. Metaphorically speaking, of course. There are no doors here."

In other news, I've run away. I'm in a Marriott hotel in a small city multiple hundreds of miles away from Hometown. Older Sister came here for a good reason, and I tagged along for no good reason except to clear my head, to write, to meditate, and to think.

I have very few actual plans of what to do while here. I think this is the first actual vacation I've ever been on.

So far, so good. Our dad in an elite member of the Marriott rewards thingamajig, so when we stayed in New York the staff at the hotel were simply falling all over themselves to please us. It looks like it will be much the same here. Generally, I have no need for people to fall over themselves in my presence, but every now and again, it makes for an interesting change.

High Societea

The Seamstress isn't normally a terrifying person. She likes waltzing, and fairy tales, and baking brownies and muffins and bread.

But then occasionally, she says something terrifying.

THE SEAMSTRESS: Twenty people are coming to our apartment on Saturday for games and fondue!

And they did. And the Seamstress made three kinds of fondue, including one made of special apple cheese and apple cider. We dipped apples in it. Obviously.

At the time, I thought that fondue-game-night-for-twenty-people was the most ambitious thing that the Seamstress could cook up. But oh, how wrong I was.

It started innocently enough, with this innocuous announcement:

THE SEAMSTRESS: I've invited some people over next Sunday for a luncheon so that I have an excuse to use my china.

Over the following week, small details were mentioned.

THE SEAMSTRESS: We're going to have cucumber sandwiches because that sounds fancy.

THE SEAMSTRESS: We're going to drink water with fruit in it, so hopefully it tastes good.

THE SEAMSTRESS: I think we'll have mini cheesecakes for dessert.

Then, one day, the Seamstress said, “I’m going to make roses out of tomatoes for the luncheon. I found a YouTube tutorial.”

And I was all, “This sounds like it could get dangerous.” But then I was all, “But how dangerous can it be really? It’s just a YouTube tutorial. She’ll be fine.”

Little did I know that tomato roses are the gateway drug to fanciness! Because the Seamstress made the tomato roses, as promised. But when Pepper and I came home on Saturday night after a fine evening with the improv troupe, we discovered that not only tomato roses but also lace tablecloth! And sliced cucumbers that had been raked with a fork! And real roses, fancy pink and white ones, in a beautiful vase! And the table was already being set for an event that was still a good sixteen hours away! 

 
And the Seamstress, who is usually cheerful but pragmatic, was scarily euphoric. “Just don’t run into my china,” she said happily to me as I did my daily exercises. She didn’t whistle as she laid out the china, but she was probably whistling inside.

In addition to the china, she pulled out some glass goblets. “I only have enough teacups for six people,” she said, “but I lost track and I think I invited twelve.”

It was quickly becoming clear that the Seamstress was, indeed, in a terrifying and ambitious and fancy mood.

The next morning, when I got up to get ready for church, she was already joyfully slicing the fruit for the water. And when I came home from church, she was slicing bread and pulling out flavored cream cheese that she had apparently prepared the night before because it’s not like she was busy making tomato roses and slicing cucumbers and setting tables or anything.

And Pepper and I were all, “Can we help make the cucumber sandwiches?”

And the Seamstress was all, “Yes, we are making three different kinds of cucumber sandwiches because I found three recipes and I wanted to try them all!”

Naturally. 

“And we are also going to turn the tomato roses into sandwiches!”

Naturally. What’s a Sunday-luncheon-turned-tealess-tea-party without four kinds of sandwiches? A disgrace, obviously. 

 
“And also prepare the mini cheesecakes, which shall be topped with raspberries!”

Not that she said “shall.” But in my mind she did. Also, in my mind, there was a manic glint in her eye.

We quickly got done to business at slicing, chopping, spreading, and sprinkling lemon pepper and mint and dill liberally on everything except actually only on sandwiches. All three of us stayed in our church skirts, because of course you must wear a pretty skirt to such a fancy party. 

We finished and arranged everything just as our guests arrived. Our guests were also wearing mostly skirts. They were delighted by everything that the Seamstress had thought up and then put into action with her own two hands, including the tasty cucumber sandwiches. 

 
We had a rousing discussion about said cucumber sandwiches (“The bread is mostly air, and the cucumbers are mostly water,” said the Seamstress, “which is why they could only be an aristocratic food,”) and about our favorite colors and about passages of scripture we enjoyed. Everyone went back for seconds. I kept my pinky extended the entire time.   

It was delightful. It was the fanciest thing I’ve ever helped host. And after the afternoon came off as a success, the terrifyingness of the Seamstress’s obsession with the perfect tea party faded down into a glimmer of satisfaction. She was back to normal.

Until next time. Something like this is bound to happen again. So in the meantime, I am going to try to convince her to love sushi so that the next time she whips into a frightful frenzy, it’s over making homemade sushi and hand-carved chopsticks. And then she’ll probably sew us all kimonos. And take us to Japan. 

 
P.S. If for some reason you should need any sliced cucumbers, we have approximately 30,000,000.

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.

Merry Birthday, Harry

I'm wishing Harry Merry Birthday because Ron already wished him Happy Christmas so these things need to even out somehow.

Here are a series of unrelated Harry Potter facts for you:

-I first read the seventh Harry Potter book almost exactly seven years after I first read the first Harry Potter book. My journey with Harry really did last literally seven years.

-I try to convince everybody I know to take the Sorting Hat quiz on Pottermore. My family is very diverse in terms of sorting. I'm a Gryffindor. Baby Brother is a Hufflepuff. Dad, Little Sister, and Little Brother are Ravenclaws. I'm still trying to convince Mom, Older Sister, and Baby Sister to take the quiz.

-This year, we celebrated Harry's birthday by drinking butterbeer, watching the third movie, and doing the BeanBoozled challenge. There were vomit-flavored jelly beans involved. Also actual vomit after eating vomit-flavored jelly beans.

-Two years ago for Harry's birthday, the little brothers and I made this ridiculous, completely improvised Lego film.

Famiglia

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

A word before we begin.

I like to travel. I want to see the world. But I will never be one of those true adventurers who can leave home for weeks at a time or who can go away to someplace where you can't call or email or write.

I discovered this when I left home all by myself, no family or friends, for the first time. I took my life savings and went to Europe for two and a half weeks. I loved it; oh, how I loved it. But the whole time, with each experience that I had, I couldn't help but think things like, "Little Sister would love this," and "I wish Mom were here," and "I want to show this to Baby Brother." I became my family's eyes; I wrote them long, detailed emails about Europe so that they could experience it, too. I got souvenirs and chocolate for everybody. When I bought a scarf in Italy, one of the other girls on the trip asked me whom it was for. "It's for me," I said.

"Good," she said, "because I don't think you've bought anything for yourself this entire trip. It seems like everything you've bought is for someone else."

The point is, I've discovered that I like my family too much to ever leave them for long or go too far away. And while New York City was different--part of my family was there, and I called and FaceTimed the rest of them often--I still thought of my siblings and parents often and saw so much of the city through their eyes. And as our trip drew to a close, I found that I was ready to go home.

So. Our last 24 hours in New York City started with a Broadway tour. We saw a ton of theaters. We learned about the history of West Side Story, one of my favorite musicals. Apparently, when it first opened, the kind of gangsters on which the characters were based came to the show. They were offended by the rhythmic, imitation gang speak that the creators of the show developed in lieu of using curses and real slang. "We don't talk like that!" they said. "We don't dance!" And to prove that they were tough, they broke into a costume shop and killed some people. These murders were then also turned into a musical, according to our tour guide. Pretty interesting stuff. My only question is how poor, first- and second-generation immigrant teenagers could afford tickets to a Broadway show in the first place.

We also learned about the brewing possibility of Wicked someday being turned into an animated film, an idea that I strongly approve of. Of course, on modern Broadway, you can't avoid talking about the musical The Book of Mormon. And of course, once our tour guide started, it came up that the four of us were Mormons. Surprise, fellow tour group people! Our tour guide gave us one of the more unusual compliments I've ever received, which is that the people of Broadway really respect the LDS Church because of the way we've handled the existence of a musical that is pretty offensive. The Church has taken advantage of the negative publicity and found ways to make it positive publicity, including taking out an ad in the program and sending missionaries to the theatre with copies of the actual Book of Mormon.

After the tour, dinner at Carmine's. Dr. Godfather recommended this place to us. They serve Italian food there, family-style. So for the second night in a row, we sat down to delicious Italian food: a big plate of angel hair pasta in oil and garlic and a platter of chicken piccata.

Our servers were friendly and funny. One of them, when we told him we were from Utah, made a joke that he could marry all four of us. He told us when we ordered the garlic pasta that it would discourage us from kissing, but made an additional joke that he would give each of us a kiss before we left. If he was our age, this would have been creepy, but he was more of a grandfather age and delivered these jokes in a way that just made us laugh.

As we got ready to leave, he said, "I told you I'd give you each a kiss!" and handed us some Hershey kisses.

What was there to do after dinner? Why, a show, of course.

We'd originally planned to go to only three shows. But as we narrowed down our choices, Older Sister cried, "I just want to see more!"

So we chose four shows. Then we bumped that number up to five. But after the tickets were bought, Older Sister said, "I really wish we could see another one."

That was one of the reasons why she was so loathe to go to Queens; she wanted enough time on Wednesday to stand in line at TKTS to get discount tickets. But on Tuesday, at the end of our SoHo, Chinatown, and Little Italy tour, our tour guide mentioned that she knew an app called TodayTix that lets you purchase discounted tickets without waiting in line.

Older Sister fell in love. Madly, deeply in love. And so it was that her new love, the TodayTix app, got us rather inexpensive tickets to Something Rotten! As in, in the state of Denmark.

Something Rotten! is a brand-new musical, and it's great. Great actors, including Christian Borle and Brian D'arcy James. Great costumes, great set, great music. Great concept. And it was wildly, incredibly, almost unbearably clever. My one complaint is that the show goes out of its way to make inappropriate jokes. What I mean by that is that if I go see a show about, say, two people having an affair, then that show is obviously going to be inappropriate. I should know what I'm getting myself into, and vulgarity is to be expected. It's another thing entirely when I go see a show about subject matter that isn't necessarily inappropriate and the writers feel the need to riddle it with dirty jokes. Does vulgarity have to be introduced into everything?

Either way, Something Rotten! was our last big hurrah in New York. The next morning, we packed up, checked out, and did one last round of leisurely sightseeing.

Our last real stop was Carlo's Bakery. Carlo's Bakery is run by a man named Buddy Valastro and his family. You may otherwise recognize him as the star of Cake Boss. His original bakery is in New Jersey, but they have a second location on Times Square.

We'd passed the bakery a million times over the week we were in New York. "Stop in," the sign read. "You're famiglia!"

That sign had two effects on me. First, I was obviously thrilled that Buddy Valastro would consider me to be part of his family, because the Valastro family seems to be even more obnoxiously wonderful than the Obnoxiouses. The second effect was to make me think about mia famiglia and how much they love Cake Boss and how they would all give, like, their left hands and probably their earlobes or something to join us eating cannoli in Carlo's Bakery.

After Carlo's, it was time to bid farewell to New York City. We reversed our trip from our first day in the city: took our luggage to the subway, selected the train that would take us to Jamaica Station, took an air train to the airport, and boarded our flight back to Salt Lake City. By this time, we were experts in the public transportation system, and nothing untoward happened except that one of security people at the airport grew suspicious of my ankle and pulled me out of line so that she could pat it down. All she found was my polka dot sock.

And so we said goodbye to New York City. There's nothing like it. But then we headed home, and there's nothing like home, either.

We arrived before midnight. Glory left with her boyfriend; our dad picked us and our suitcases up in the family Mormon Assault Vehicle. We burst into the house. Mom was waiting up; so were the children. There were souvenirs all around, almost a hundred dollars' worth of birthday presents for Baby Sister, and a box of cookies from Carlo's bakery for everyone. There were hugs. There was excited chatter. There was laughter.

And so ends our trip to New York. P.S. Older Sister is already talking about when she's going back.