The End

I put this off by watching Bones with Pepper for like three hours. However, I told myself I would end the blog tonight, and that's what I'm going to do.

When the blog began, I was a college student with no idea how her life would go. I had no idea that over the next five and a half years, I would not only graduate from college, I would also find a professional writing job, serve in two Relief Society presidencies, move out of my parents' home, receive my Latter-day Saint temple endowment, serve as a temple worker, travel to Disneyland (twice), take a road trip to Illinois, go to New York City (three times), go to Arizona (twice), visit San Diego, buy a new car, and have my appendix removed.

Throughout all this, there were times when my life was scary and uncertain, and my belief was the only thing to fall back on. My religion has not been incidental but crucial to everything I've done. I've done my best to convey what it's like to live the ordinary life of a person of my background, and I hope you've enjoyed the experience.

Now it's goodbye. Once I figure out what I'm doing next, I promise to come back and add it to this post.

Finite.

New Roommate

Just as I was being wheeled down to surgery, my cell phone (which was plugged in at a bedside table) rang.

My mom hurriedly answered it. It was my landlord, wanting to talk to me about our new roommate.

"Hello? This is her mom; she's being taken down to surgery right now. She has to get her appendix out. No, she'll be coming home with us for a few days." I was literally being wheeled out the door. "I can't talk to you about this right now. I have to go."

I came home a few days later to find our new roommate, Sophie, all moved in.

It was kind of weird. In some ways, Sophie is similar to the Seamstress. In a lot of ways, she's not. The biggest difference is that Sophie is excited to have her own place. Pepper and I have become jaded and a little lax in our many years of apartment-habitation. Sophie, on the other hand, is eager to please. She's cheerful and pragmatic, and she cleans a lot.

We're still getting used to each other, but things are good.

Box Box Box

Well, the Seamstress is out for good. Pepper and I have been cleaning and redecorating up a storm, getting ready for our new roommate who's coming this week!

Because the Seamstress lived here for five-plus years, everything was set the way she liked it. Not that we had a problem with that, but it was very liberating once most of the furniture was gone and we realized we could basically do whatever we wanted with the space.

So far, the only big change we've made is cleaning out one of the storage areas. There were a lot of empty cardboard boxes in said storage area.

How many boxes, you ask?

Did I stutter?

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).)

My Physical Therapy Adventure

Remember how at the end of the summer I found out that I'm basically deformed? That was fun, right? Wrong. It wasn't fun. I literally cried for an hour because the sports med doctor told me that I should stop running for a month.

I mean, really? Really, sports med doctor? The nerve! It's like you got a degree in sports medicine and were being paid to figure out what was wrong with me and fix it or something.

The doc also said that I should get new running shoes (and stop running barefoot, which I'd already done—yes I run barefoot, long story, anyway—) and schedule myself some physical therapy appointments.

I didn't stop running because I was pretty sure that if I did that, I would spontaneously combust, Achilles tendon pain or no Achilles tendon pain. But I did get new running shoes, and, after some struggle, I did manage to find a time where my life schedule lined up with the physical therapy office schedule so that I could make an appointment.

Ay my first appointment, I met my physical therapist; he was nice. He asked me how my ankles felt (they felt quite good). He asked if I'd stopped running (I told him I hadn't). He examined me and concluded that while there was definitely an issue present, the sports med doc had over-exaggerated the weakness in my hips and legs.

We talked about what the goal of the physical therapy. I explained that my understanding was that the physical therapy wouldn't be corrective; there wasn't a way to fix the problem. But it could be preventive in helping me avoid and fix more issues in the future.

We decided that I would go to physical therapy for about a month and see how it went.

As we got to work stretching the muscles in my legs, the physical therapist made some observations:

1. A tangible goal for the physical therapy sessions could be getting me to be able to squat. Because, as I'd realized at the doctor's appointment, I can't squat worth...squat.

2. My ankles are very inflexible, especially the left one.

3. My calf muscles are apparently humongous.

4. I am noticeably more uncoordinated on the left side of my body than the right.

The calf muscle thing surprised me, although the inflexible and uncoordinated parts didn't. I always knew that. How could I not know that? When you're as inflexible and uncoordinated as I am, you're bound to notice. The only shock was that it was just on the one side.

Later the physical therapist also noticed that I run on my toes in such a way that definitely was not helping my Achilles tendons. He asked if the tiptoeing was because I'd done dance, and I said it was. (Yes, even as inflexible and uncoordinated as I am, I was in dance classes for 5+ years. That's how I discovered I was inflexible and uncoordinated.)

In any case, for a little over a month, I would go to the physical therapy clinic super early and meet with the physical therapist. The first few sessions, he massaged my ankles with some kind of butter to loosen them up. The first couple of times hurt but in a good way. The final time, he used a plastic scrape-y thing to perform the massage, and it hurt like the dickens. It took my full willpower not to kick him in the face. I had to send my brain to a happy place to handle the pain.

I also did exercises at the clinic. These exercises featured such delights as stretching against a wall, doing squats with an exercise ball, doing squats with a chair, putting a gigantic rubber band that smelled vaguely of chocolate around my ankles and scuttling sideways like a demented crab, and pushing off on a counter to rise up and slowly lower myself down.

I practiced these exercises every night at home. Pepper said, "Isn't the stereotype that people don't practice their physical therapy?" That sounded like a waste of money to me.

To be honest, though, it was kind of...fun. Mentally soothing, too. It was nice to feel like there was a problem in my life with an actual straightforward solution.

After doing four sessions over about five weeks, we shook hands. Physical therapy was over. My ankles were doing great. I'd conquered my Achilles tendons. Which is a nice metaphor if you think about it.

Our Big Move

There's a film that came out when I was a kid called Max Keeble's Big Move. I've never seen it, but I've seen the previews in front of other Disney feature films. Basically, within the first few seconds of the preview it cuts away to Max Keeble talking to his parents, saying, "We're moving?!" And then Max Keebler decides that since he's moving, he's going out with a bang, and the trailer shows him causing all kinds of shenanigans at school on his last day.

Real moving is nothing like that. There's no time for shenanigans because you're too busy putting everything you own into boxes. So that you can shortly thereafter take everything out of the boxes. It's madness.

In our case, we had even less time for shenanigans because we had to find a place to live. Our landlord's house wasn't yet on the market, so we had time, but we didn't know exactly how much. The house could sell right away, in which case we would then have thirty days as the sale was going through. But the house could also be on the market for weeks or months, as had happened to several houses in our neighborhood.

"I don't think we have to worry," I informed my roommates. "Maybe the house won't sell. Maybe the buyers will want to rent to us still. I feel like everything is going to be okay."

But, understandably, that wasn't a huge comfort to my roommates. So we started holding roommate councils on Sunday nights. Soon we had a good four rental house walkthroughs lined up. Yes, you read that right...rental house. We decided we might as well rent our own place while we were making a change.

Here's what happened while we were house hunting: We looked at some very nice and not-so-nice houses. We met a potential landlady who made us uncomfortable by sharing weirdly personal information with us. We asked questions about microwaves, swamp coolers, garden boxes, parking, and bolting bookshelves to the wall. We got Indian food. We made lists. We were charmed by a early 20th-century home with an upstairs window alcove, but we couldn't get around the fact that the only bathroom was literally in the middle of one of the bedrooms. We sent each other links of other potential homes to visit, including some that we decided were kidnapping scams. Half our walkthroughs were rescheduled or canceled.

Towards the end of the preview for Max Keeble's Big Move, it cuts away again to Max Keeble talking to his parents. This time he says, "We're not moving?" Then he has to go back to school the next day and handle the fallout from all of the shenanigans he did on his intended last day of school. That always confused me. Even as a child, I knew that it was pretty unlikely that you would be moving one day and the next day suddenly not be moving.

But one other thing that happened while we were house hunting was that our landlord came back and said, "Just kidding. We don't think we're moving."

So they haven't moved...and neither have we.

FALSE ALARM.

Should have trusted my feelings on this one.

In Which I Sleep in the Back Seat of a Car

You're probably thinking, "Oh my gosh, Awkward Mormon Girl! Why did you have to sleep in the backseat of a car?"

The story goes like this:

-I went to a ward camp out because I'm on my ward's activities committee.

-So many of the people on that ward camp out own dogs.

-My sleeping bag was exposed to some dog allergens.

-When I snuggled down to go to bed, my throat started tightening.

-I'd taken allergy medicine earlier that day, but it didn't seem to be working.

-Luckily, I'd brought my inhaler.

-Unluckily, it turned out to be not my inhaler but only the aero chamber which I attach to the inhaler.

-The camp out was at a national park where there was no reception and whose gates closed at 10 p.m. If I left to grab medicine, I wouldn't be able to get back in.

-Thus Pepper kindly drove me all the way home.

-I used my inhaler and changed my clothes. Instantly I felt better.

-We slept at home. The next morning we drove all the way back so that I could complete my activities committee duties.

-Since the tent was already infected with allergens, I spent the second night in the backseat of Pepper's car.

-It was very comfortable.

-I would do it again.

-The End.

More Mothering

The manager at Hometown's second-best Chinese restaurant has continued to take a vested interest in my well-being.

There are two dishes I commonly order at this restaurant. The most common dish that I order is the sweet and sour pork. It's delicious and inexpensive. The second most common dish that I order is the walnut shrimp. The walnut shrimp is actually my favorite, but it does cost significantly more than the pork.

A few weeks ago, I got dinner with Pepper. I ordered the walnut shrimp. Presently, the server brought out Pepper's chicken and pot stickers, but my shrimp? Nowhere in sight. It was taking significantly longer than usual.

While I was waiting, the manager brought out a small bowl of sweet and sour pork for me to eat.

I thought this gesture was sweet but also a little hilarious. I don't know why this man is so nice to me, though I am grateful for his kindness!

St. Valentine's Day

As a Perpetually Single Person, I'm apparently supposed to hate Valentine's Day. However, I actually really like it...and have pretty much my whole life.

See, to me Valentine's Day is about all love. In certain South American countries, they actually call it El Dia de Amor y Amistad, otherwise known as the Day of Love and Friendship. I'm all over the "and Friendship" part, and I don't really feel like I'm missing much on the Love part. But maybe that's a blessing of being a Perpetually Single Person instead of a Sometimes Single Person: I've never had a romantic Valentine's Day, so I don't really know the difference.

I have a lot of fun Valentine's Day memories. When I was in first grade, my mom made me take Valentine's cupcakes to an elderly neighbor I didn't really know. He was (weirdly, I thought) touched, and he kissed me on the cheek. Then, late that night, he and his wife came by with three Beanie Babies! Apparently they knew that my parents had a bunch of little girls, and they'd heard Beanie Babies were all the rage for little girls. And that was how I (and Older Sister and Little Sister) got my very first Beanie Baby!

Another, less fun Valentine's Day memory is the year that I was in fourth grade. I was so excited for Valentine's Day that I made decorated envelope mailboxes to put on my sisters' and parents' bedrooms. Then, the night before Valentine's Day, I put valentines in everybody's envelopes. What fun!

Apparently I'd just assumed that everybody in my family would be on my same brainwave. To my severe shock and disappointment, there were no valentines or treats of any kind in the envelope bearing my name. I was crushed. My parents, belatedly realizing how very seriously I was taking the whole thing, quickly announced that we wouldn't look in our envelopes until that night. Sure enough, when I went to bed, there was a lollipop, a Valentine's Day pencil, and at least one valentine in my envelope. I felt better, but I'd had a rude awakening that not everyone was like me. Not everyone wanted an excuse to shower people and be showered in tangible emblems of love.

This year was nowhere so dramatic, but it was oh-so-fun! Among other things, I bought French macarons from Rosebud to give to friends and family.

Cute, huh?!

A little plug for Rosebud's macarons...they are great! And maybe it's just that the only other places I've bought macarons are California and New York City, where everything is tres expensive, but I thought these ones were very reasonably priced.

I also got roses from my parents!

Yellow roses...the kind I've always wanted someone to give to me! Plus red, pink, and orange. Little Brother helped my mom pick them out.

The Seamstress made brownies and wrote notes for me and Pepper, and Pepper gave me and the Seamstress necklaces and homemade cards.

Earlier this week, Best Friend Boy and I were talking about gifts. He said of people who give me gifts: "At least if it's Harry Potter related they can probably rest assured that you liked the gift."

All in all, a great day! I'm sad that we have to wait a whole 365 days to do it again.

P.S. One upsetting thing did happen...I brought my family their valentines in the morning, before  went to work. Baby Brother wasn't home, so I left his valentine on his bed. When I returned to my parents' home that evening, I asked Baby Brother how he liked his macarons. He said, "What macarons?"

Baby Brother had never found the valentine on his bed...and he had apparently gone all day thinking that I'd brought valentines and macarons for everyone in the family but him! He handled the perceived snub pretty well, but I kept having flashbacks to empty envelopes.

New Things I Did in Disneyland

The last time I went to Disneyland, I wrote about how you can never do everything there. Sure enough, even though this was my tenth or eleventh trip to Disneyland (I'm not sure exactly how many times I went as a small child), I still did things I'd never done before! Like:

1. Rope drop
Rope dropping is going to the park before it opens. You squish into a mass and wait for the rope to drop…literally. As soon as the rope is down, the eagerly waiting people diffuse into the park. We rope dropped on both the second and third days. Happily, the parks weren’t too crowded until Friday night, and combining that with our getting in early for the rope drop, we walked onto quite a few rides during our day in California Adventure.

2. See new shows
Little Brother was quick to inform me that the Christmas parade was the same one that had been going the last time we were in the park for Christmas, but neither of us had ever seen the Paint the Night parade, which is essentially a more finessed version of the Main Street Electrical Parade. If you haven’t seen the Main Street Electrical Parade, you can look it up. It walks a fine line between being very cool and very annoying. The first time I remember seeing it was at the tender age of two. We’d gone to Disneyland for Older Sister’s birthday. Older Sister fell asleep before the parade started, but I was awake for the whole thing, munching on the lavender bag of jelly beans our grandmother had bought me. At two, I found the parade to only be very cool. The very annoying part didn’t register until years later, when I listened to the parade song on a Disney soundtrack and realized that the music is a) very repetitive, b) lasts forever, and c) is synth. I don’t care much for synth unless it’s Owl City-style synth. Happily, the Paint the Night parade takes the electrical concept of the Main Street Electrical Parade but pairs it with a much less repetitive Owl City song.

California Adventure also did a new thing this year called the Festival of Holidays. This consisted of performances from all kinds of winter holiday traditions. There was a Jewish band called Mostly Kosher and Diwali dancers on the pier. There was also a street show called Viva Navidad that featured the three caballeros. It was mostly Spanish and Spanish-speaking holiday traditions…with a little samba thrown in as a nod to caballero Miguel. Not quite tapas and samba, but still somewhat culturally confusing.

3. Try new foods
Let me offer you some sound advice: if you’re going to go to Disneyland, you’ve got to shell out the money for the food. Don’t be a cheapskate. If you’re not going to eat, you might as well not go. Most of the food there is amazing, and it’s all part of the experience.

Because of the Festival of Holidays, there were temporary food booths all over the pier at California Adventure. These booths offered food from countries around the world. For lunch on the second day, we all dispersed and grabbed crab cakes, lamb and rice, turkey pot pies, sliders with cranberry sauce, tarts…all kinds of things.

We also tried lots of food at other locations. We went to a few of my family’s tried and true favorites, but overall we tried to go new places. This meant getting bacon-wrapped asparagus skewers at Safari Skewers; sandwiches, soup, hot chocolate, and pastries at the Jolly Holiday (a place my parents have never taken us because it looks pretty fancy, but it was actually cheaper than some of the burger joints in the park); and chowder and bisque at Harbour Galley. We grabbed churros with caramel dip at the Cozy Cone Motel. Little Brother tried a pickle and a corn dog. The Seamstress told us that she’d never had a Dole whip; she wanted to try one. So we avoided the super long Dole whip line by instructing her to purchase one from inside the Tiki Room waiting area.

“This is a Dole whip?” the Seamstress asked, surprised. She hadn’t realized Dole whips are an ice cream treat!

Also, on our last night, we had reservations at Café Orleans…and everybody ordered his or her own plate of beignets.

”…you guys do realize that each order comes with five, right?” our waitress asked.

We assured her that we did. It wasn’t until we actually each had a plate of five beignets in front of us that we realized maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Luckily, our waitress kindly (and without saying, “I told you so,”) provided boxes so that we could carry the fried cakes throughout the park with us.

4. Go on updated/new rides
Peter Pan, the Little Mermaid ride, Space Mountain, Haunted Mansion, Star Tours, the Matterhorn, Soarin’, Alice in Wonderland, Jungle Cruise, Big Thunder Mountain…all of these rides had been updated since last we were there. My favorite updates were 1) the temporary Star Wars update to Space Mountain and b) the updates to the Peter Pan ride! John, Michael, and Wendy actually flew!!!

In addition these updates, we checked out a few rides we’d never tried before. The Golden Zephyr, a little bullet plane-type ride, was one of them. We also tried Luigi’s Rollickin’ Roadsters, a ride where cars dance to Italian music.

5. Disney bound
Disney bounding means casual cosplay. You wear normal clothes that are reminiscent of a Disney character. On our last day, we all Disney bounded. I was the sorcerer’s apprentice in a red dress, blue tights with stars and moons, and yellow sneakers. Little Brother was Peter Pan, the Seamstress was Kim Possible, and Pepper was Moana.

6. Meet new friends
We met Moana! In case you were wondering how adorable she is…she’s very adorable. Although she took over the Aladdin’s Oasis area for her meet and greet, which was strange, but I suppose it’s only fair payback after Iago took over Disney World’s Enchanted Tiki Room.

We also met someone who frankly was almost more special. See, my parents have this VHS that we Obnoxiouses watch whenever we need a Disney fix. It’s called A Day at Disneyland. It was filmed in the early 90s, I think. There’s a segment at the Big Thunder Mountain Barbecue where a man dressed in an Old Western outfit plays the fiddle and sings a song that goes, “Turkey in the straw, ha ha ha. Turkey in the hay, hey hey hey!” He’s only in about 30 seconds of the whole show, but he has such a distinct voice and makes such funny faces that it’s an iconic moment for us.

A few years ago, when Little Sister went on a trip to Disneyland (with the Ladies’ Man family no less; Little Sister and the Ladies’ Man’s little sister are friends), Little Sister saw a guy playing the fiddle in Frontierland and mentioned the video to him. He said that he was the same guy and even played the song for them! Then he asked where they were from. When they said, “Utah,” he asked them if they knew any “Utah songs” and started playing Primary songs (songs that LDS children sing at church). It seemed to be his way of sharing that he, too, was LDS…since cast members aren’t supposed to talk about religion with guests and vice versa.

After that experience, we found out that this fella’s name is Farley. Farley the Fiddler.

On our first day in the park, we were walking through Frontierland on our way to Adventureland when we noticed a man with a fiddle talking to some other guests. He looked vaguely familiar…

We convened in hushed whispers. Was that Farley? Was it not? Should we ask him? Should we ask for a picture with him?

He could probably hear us, because he walked over and started talking to us. Sure enough, it was Farley! He asked us where we were from. When we said “Utah,” he asked, “Have we ever sung the Utah songs together? Let’s sing the Utah songs together.” Then we sang “Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree” and “Once There Was a Snowman.”

Then Farley invited us to help him do a rendition of “Twelve Days of Christmas” on his fiddle. He fiddled. We sang and did the silly actions he told us to do.

After we were over, he said, “You had fun with Farley! So what do they get?” he asked the guests he had been talking to before we came over.

“A sticker!” they cried. Sure enough, Farley gave us his own themed stickers. Wow!

7. Explore nooks and crannies
I got to see a couple new areas of the parks that I’d never seen before. For one thing, I’d never had to get fast passes before, because my parents usually do that. I hadn’t realized that the fast pass areas were like little themed grottos. At one point, I left the rest of the group to grab fast passes for Haunted Mansion Holiday.

Guess what? The fast pass area for the ride is legit creepy! There’s a wrought iron fence around it…tall shrubbery…and cemetery-style statues enclosing the fast pass kiosks. There’s also weird chiming music. I got in…got my fast passes…and got out!

We also found something that not even Little Brother knew about. First of all, you should know that my family has one particular Disneyland tradition that we honor above almost any other: Splash Mountain at night.

Hardly anyone goes on Splash Mountain at night. Getting soaking wet late at night is a cold experience, even in California. Plus, Fantasmic is usually playing on the Rivers of America, so the rides in the Frontierland/Critter Country/New Orleans Square area tend to be empty. Fantasmic wasn’t playing right now due to construction. However, as it was December (and a frigid fifty-something degrees), Splash Mountain was still empty. We went on it three times in rapid succession. My roommates, who initially seemed hesitant about the idea, seemed to be loving it by the time we slogged off the ride. (You have to slog when your shoes are that wet.)

It was ten minutes to close at that point. On our way out of the park, we stopped at bathrooms on New Orleans Square. While we were there, we heard a pre-recorded conversation that was playing from one of the false apartment fronts over the shops. Little Brother had told us that a lot of the buildings had recorded noises coming from them. However, during the day it’s too busy and loud in the park to hear most of them.

Well, we could clearly hear this conversation in the quiet of the closing park. It seemed to be a dramatic exchange between two people cooking a chicken. And it was hilarious. We’ve been quoting it ever since: “…the chicken that I entrusted to your care!” Little Brother has researched it since we got home, but he hasn’t found anyone online who has reported hearing that same conversation.

So there you go. Even I, a person who has gone to Disneyland many, many times, did things that I’d never done before. I’m telling you, you’ll never run out of things to do there. It’s simply not possible.

Adulting, First Class

I'm a fraud.

I've been an adult for years, and I still have no idea what I'm doing.

A few months ago, I decided to buy a new product with which to clean my shower. I had been using the generic cleaner that I used on the bathroom sink, but it didn't seem to work on the shower very well. I had no idea what to put on my grocery list, though. I was leaning towards, "Something to clean the shower with but I don't even know what people use for that so yeah."

When I had to sign up for benefits for my full-time position, I could hardly understand a word in the retirement program package. It was all, "Blah blah you should save this much unless you plan to be in a higher tax bracket when you retire in which case you should save this much." What? How does one plan to achieve a higher tax bracket? How would I even know I'd achieved a higher tax bracket? I don't even know what tax bracket I'm in now!

I just don't feel like I'm actually an adult. I feel like I'm in a perpetual state of audition to be said adult, and that any moment now somebody with a clipboard is going to come up to me and say, "Sorry, we've decided not to cast you in the role of Adult. You can leave now." Except that keeps not happening. But nobody gives me a script, either. But if I'm ever like, "Wait, what's happening? What are we doing?" then all of the other people in the role of Adult are like, "Ha ha! You've been doing this for years. You should totally know what we're doing!" and then proceed to not explain anything. (Except for my parents, who are pretty understanding of my lack of adultness, probably because they still see a child when they look at me because I will always be a child to them because parents.) It's like it's all one humongous charade, and it's terribly blasé to point out that the charade is indeed a charade.

Does anyone else know what I mean???

When you know that you don't know anything about being an adult, you start to question the validity of adult things you do. When I say adult things, I mean things that you don't realize you have to do until you are an adult and you realize that someone has to do them or they don't get done. For example, when you go to Disneyland, somebody has to buy the plane tickets, book a ride from the airport to the hotel, book the hotel, arrange for a ride from the hotel to Disneyland, buy the tickets for Disneyland, make any Disney dining reservations, and so on and so forth. I was the person who did all of those things except book the hotel and arrange rides to Disneyland (Pepper booked the hotel, and the hotel happily had a shuttle going directly to Disneyland). This meant that, as our Disneyland trip drew nearer, the more convinced I became that it wasn't going to happen. After all, I'd never bought plane tickets or booked a ride from an airport or bought Disneyland tickets before. I'd never had to be the responsible adult who did that. I was vastly unprepared to be the responsible adult who did that, and thus in my total inexperience I must have done something wrong. You follow?

In short, I was a nervous wreck up until the last minute possible.

I was a nervous wreck while packing.

I was a nervous wreck as I printed off our Disneyland tickets, our flight itineraries, our SuperShuttle itineraries, and our reservation information. Were all of those things accessible from my phone? Absolutely. But I wasn't about to take any chances, not even when I had a portable phone charger with enough juice for two full charges.

I was a nervous wreck 24 hours before our flight, when I discovered a strange error on my and my roommates' plane tickets. Instead of being separated (like this: Awkward Mormon Girl Middle Name Obnoxious), they were squished together (like this: AwkwardMormonGirlMiddleName Obnoxious). I called the airline (which ugh ugh ugh). The particular airline worker to whom I was connected proceeded to call me "honey" throughout our interaction.

I told her that our names were showing up weird and obviously I had to fix that or else our boarding passes wouldn't match our IDs and then nobody would let us on the plane because they would think we were terrorists.

The worker brought up our flight information and informed me that, apparently, our first and middle names had been squished together because they were too long and they wouldn't fit on the boarding passes otherwise.

"So it won't be a problem?" I asked.

"No, honey. They can look at your passenger data and see your real names there."

I went to bed, cheered, and then realized that I should not be cheered. Problem or not, it was still one more thing to worry about!

The next day, at the airport, I had like seven fits of anxiety about what was going to happen. You'd think I could just relax, knowing that I had prepared as much as I possibly could, and leave well enough alone. But I couldn't leave well enough alone, because by arranging most everything I had made myself the mother, father, orphan-raising big sister, and other assorted legal guardians of the entire trip. I was responsible for everything.

"We're fine," I said over and over. "Everything is fine. There's no reason why anything should go wrong." And yet I kept expecting that something would.

However, the Seamstress, Pepper, Little Brother, and I were on time for the airport. I'd remembered the papers with our confirmation codes. Everyone had their ID. There were no problems with our boarding passes, nobody was accused of being a terrorist, Little Brother wasn't accused of being an adult trying to pass as a teenager, I wasn't accused of being a teenager trying to pass as an adult, we found the right gate, and the weather was great. The plane didn't crash on the way to Cali, either. When we got to LAX, we found my luggage and the shuttle pickup without too much trouble.

And lo and behold! The weather was...pleasant. The natives were all bundled up in big coats, but we were enjoying the balminess of the breeze. Our shuttle took us to our hotel, we checked in, we found our room. Lo and behold again! Our room was one of the nicer hotel rooms I've stayed in.

I was exhausted, what with the long day I'd had at work and the travel and the amount of anxiety I had exerted over the past 24 hours. I went to bed as soon as I was able...and hardly slept all night. It was anxiety again. But this time...it was good anxiety. I was as excited as I get the night before Christmas!

Finally, it was time to wake up. It wasn't long before everyone was washed, dressed, groomed, fed, and waiting impatiently on the curb for the Disneyland shuttle.

As we waited, it was now Pepper's turn to be anxious. As I said before, Pepper was the one responsible for this portion of the trip, and she started to worry that the shuttle wasn't going to come as expected. "I know everything is fine," she said, "but..."

Apparently, the greater portion of adulthood is knowing everything is fine but worrying about it regardless.

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.

And My Next Destination Is...

...not New York City.

New York City is Little Sister's next destination. She and Rosebud are going to spend a few days with Older Sister and see some shows. I'm sad I won't be there with Little Sister, since we had such fun on our NYC trips together, but she's going to bring me back some macarons from Baked by Melissa so that will almost make it better. Plus, she won't even be there long enough to see the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, so how jealous of her can I really be?

No, my next destination is D to the I to the S-N-E-Y land!!!

I essentially told my roommates that I wanted to go to Disneyland and that they were welcome to come along but that I would be planning on vacationing in the frantic, frenetic Obnoxious family way. Surprisingly, they still wanted to come. The original idea was to go in September, but life got in the way. So I proposed that we go during December. Christmastime at Disneyland is amazing, and not too crowded. Plus, if we went early enough in December, kids would still be in school, which would mean that it would be even less crowded. Once I had explained just how magical it is, my roommates were keen on the idea.

Last month, I bought the plane tickets. It was a moment of celebration and jubilation because, now that our plane tickets were purchased, there was no going back! What had once only been talked about was now a reality.

The only problem was that there were three of us. Disneyland is best with even numbers. That way everyone can have a buddy on the rides.

Now, I don't know if I've conveyed this clearly before, but Little Brother. Loves. Disneyland. He was the one I consulted with as I planned the trip. When we were thinking of going in September, he told me all of the special attractions going on at that time. When the trip moved to December, he enthusiastically explained what he knew of the new Christmas World of Color attraction and told me what rides would be closed while I was there.

So, when I was later bemoaning the lack of a fourth person, my roommates asked if Little Brother might like to come. They even offered to help pay for Little Brother to come. That is the kind of love that Little Brother has for Disneyland. Other people actually want to pay for him to go to Disneyland because he loves it so much.

I said that the issue was not so much money; I might even be willing and able to pay for Little Brother to go if my parents couldn't. The real problem was that Little Brother would be in school during our trip, and it wouldn't be prudent for him to miss.

A few days later, I mentioned to my mom that my roommates had invited Little Brother on my trip. I mentioned it because I thought it was amusing, not because I thought there was any chance that he would be able to go. But Mom sort of stared off into the distance and got thoughtful.

"I might let him go," she said.

And a few days later, it was all settled. Mom and Dad would pay for Little Brother's Disneyland ticket and give him spending money, while I would pay for his plane ticket and let him stay in the hotel room for free. In trade-off, he would receive only small Christmas presents from me, the parents, and Santa on Christmas Day. Little Brother was over the moon, which is an expression that doesn't always make sense, but which totally worked in this situation. Little Brother was so happy he was practically floating, and it was not inconceivable that he could float right through the atmosphere and into outer space.

Actually, it would have been useful if he could have floated straight to Disneyland, because getting his ticket turned out to be a hassle.

I'd booked the tickets for myself, Pepper, and the Seamstress on Expedia. It was but the work of a moment to log on late one night and find the same flights we'd reserved. I then proceeded to book a ticket for Little Brother.

Except not really, because, as Expedia so graciously informed me, I couldn't book a ticket online for a minor flying solo.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: He's not flying solo! He's flying with his sister and his sister's roommates.

But that didn't seem to matter to Expedia. So I did the thing I dread so much and called Expedia up. When I finally reached a human person, the thickly accented girl asked me for my name.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: It's Awkward Mormon Girl.

EXPEDIA GIRL: Okay, Miss Awkward Mormon Girl. What can I do for you?

I explained that I needed to add a minor to my flight plans, but that I couldn't on Expedia's website.

EXPEDIA: Okay, Miss Awkward Mormon Girl, I completely understand that you want to take your child with you to California.

Normally I might have let that slide, but given that I was dealing with an airline who had all of my information and who would, if they were paying attention, quickly figure out that it was biologically impossible for me to be Little Brother's mother, I decided I'd better say something in the interest of transparency.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Oh, uh, I mean, you can probably see from my information you have pulled up there that I'm too young to—he's actually my brother.

After a very long and taxing conversation, I was informed that Expedia couldn't help me, but that if I called Delta directly, they could book Little Brother's ticket for me.

That led to another very long and taxing conversation.

DELTA GIRL: And which of the individuals in the flight plan will be bringing an infant?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Uh...so he's actually my brother.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: And he's a teenager.

After quite a bit of back and forth, of being put on hold, and of being asked Little Brother's personal information such as name, birthdate, blood type, and Hogwarts house, I was finally able to purchase a ticket.

Before I hung up with Delta, a thought struck me.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: And will this ticket be round trip, like mine?

DELTA GIRL: Your ticket's not round trip.

I quickly realized what was going on.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: So you're telling me that because the return ticket I purchased through Expedia is with a different airline, I will have to call that different airline and book a separate return ticket for my brother?

DELTA GIRL: Yes.

If I were the fainting type, I probably would have fainted right then.

One more phone call and another half hour later, everything was finally in order. Not long after, Pepper booked the hotel. Then I booked the Disneyland tickets. All we need now is reservations for transportation to and from the airport, and we'll be all set! It's going to be magical.

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.

My Sixth Stitch Fix Experience

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Parable of the Pizza

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

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

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

I don't get it.

I'll explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So far, so good.

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

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

Then everything went wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weird, to say the least.

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

Disgusting!

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

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

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

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

...except...

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

Disgusting!

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

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

But I did.

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

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

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

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

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

Everybody took a slice of pizza. I cringed.

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

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

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

You know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

If My Life Were a Georgette Heyer Novel

The Seamstress has been lending me her Georgette Heyer novels. Georgette Heyer is a twentieth-century writer who wrote many books about the Regency and before. I never got much into Jane Austen, but I've gotten very into Georgette Heyer. Many of her heroines are far more sensible and palatable than today's average heroine. Give me Mary Challoner over Bella Swan any day! Also, on average, her books tend to be far more exciting than Jane Austen's. Most Georgette Heyer books contain a duel, an elopement, and a lady who has, through no fault of her own, come into circumstantial situations that demand she be married at once or her reputation will be ruined! Also, about half of them feature cross-dressing. All of this high adventure and drama is written with a wry hand, allowing the reader the option of not taking it too seriously. And oh, I do like books that don't take themselves too seriously!

I've been thinking that if my life were a Georgette Heyer novel, it would probably go like this: the Seamstress would be the terribly practical female character, I would be the one prone to cross-dressing, and Pepper would be the goodhearted one with a romantic streak that causes her to dream of eloping with a handsome French pirate. Instead of being our landlord's tenants, we would be the charges of him and his wife. Instead of working at our various professions, we would spend our days horseback riding and receiving visitors and our nights attending the theatre and society balls. Of course, we would all have to find love interests before the story ended.

The Seamstress would put the dashing playboy character in his place with a severe scolding. He would be outraged at first, but eventually he would realize his passionate love for her and give up his disreputable ways. They would go live in the country and be perfectly content forever.

I would be the girl whose reputation would be ruined. If my cross-dressing were not discovered, my occasional late-night walks with Porch would be. Porch would be very put out at the idea of marrying me, but surely upon hearing that I was going to marry Porch, there would be another fellow of my long-standing acquaintance who would realize suddenly that the idea of my marrying someone else made him sick with jealousy! He would offer for me, of course, and I would accept.

Pepper would be betrothed, under her family's direction, to a very boring gentleman expected to bring additional wealth and dignity to the ancient and noble House of Pepper. Pepper would fight it, tooth and nail, but in the end would embark on an elopement with the same gentleman whom she had so disdained originally.

As for the duel—well, I think that the thing that would inspire Pepper to marry the boring gentleman would be to learn that he was much more fiery than she had at first suspected. Yes, I can see it now. In my cross-dressing disguise, I would make some disparaging remark to Pepper that's fine between female friends, but the veriest of insults from a gentleman to a lady! Pepper's betrothed, much indignant, would challenge my male alter ego to a duel. Pepper's family, horrified at the scandal, would call off the engagement, but the good sir would go through with it anyways. Unfortunately, not being very good at fencing, he would perform even more horribly in the duel than my untrained self, and would be wounded. Pepper would be touched by this display of devotion to her as well as excited by the discovery of the hitherto unknown adventurous nature of her betrothed. She would decide that she would marry him after all. So, to circumvent her family's objections, they would immediately elope to Gretna Green. Because, of course, we would be living in England. Obviously.

The more I write, the more I kind of like this idea. Maybe instead of writing teen fantasy, I'll become an author by publishing Regency novels? Is there a niche for that anymore? Besides Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I mean. I'll have to look into it.

Renewal

I was going to post on Saturday night; I really was. But then technical difficulties happened, so here we are.

Speaking of Saturday night, as I was heading out to sleep over at my parents' for Easter, Pepper gave me a little Easter basket she had put together. This chocolate egg was included:

 

It's so fancy, I'm afraid to eat it!

When I got to the parents' house, I made up a little bed on the downstairs couch. Baby Brother came to join me. Before we went to bed, he read me an entire book about Easter bunnies (except the book referred to them as rabbits, which I found odd). Actually, Baby Brother kept insisting that he was making up this bedtime story for me rather than reading from the book hidden in a blanket on his lap. Baby Brother is a weird one sometimes.

The book bedtime story Baby Brother was telling was mostly about the ways in which Easter bunnies deliver eggs. But every now and again, there would be a line like this one: "When they get old enough, Easter rabbits go on dates and get to know other rabbits. Then they get married and raise Easter rabbit families." ...All righty then.

In the morning, Baby Brother and I went upstairs to Little Sister's room, where Baby Brother told Little Sister the exact same story, word for word. Then we looked at the little goodies in our Easter baskets and dyed eggs as a family. We made some cool marbled eggs as well as your typical kit-dyed eggs.

Please note the Avatar Aang egg (from Avatar the Last Airbender) and the Rock Facts rock egg (from Over the Garden Wall). 

Also, my mother the RN, who worked in a bakery before she was an RN, made a fun bunny cake. Baby Brother and I added a face :

On a more serious note, over the years I have posted some Easter posts to talk about what Easter means to me. There are certainly statements more eloquent than mine. But I say what I can.

The aspect of Easter that has most been on my mind is renewal. The Atonement makes it possible for us to start over new. After sin, yes. After terrible heartache and pain, yes. But even with people.

I really do believe that relationships are forever. Family and romantic relationships, yes, but also friendships. Well, I give up on these eternal things far too easily. Someone makes me angry...so I give up. I make them angry...so I give up. I think I might have made them angry...so I give up. Maybe you've been there, too. Maybe you've been in an argument with somebody, and as you walk away it hits you...how are you and your friend going to get past this one? Are you going to get past this one? You don't know if you're going to be able to get past this one.

That's where the renewal comes in. If, like me, you've ever been in a situation that you felt might ruin a relationship, then you might have also, like me, been in a situation where you're surprised at how very not ruined the relationship was. What saved it? Usually forgiveness was involved, and humility, and a mutual agreement to move past it and start over. In a word, renewal.

That renewal wouldn't be possible without the Atonement. The Atonement is the source of all change, all improvement, and all healing. The resilience and hardiness of the human spirit stems from it. All forgiveness flows from it. It can, and should, be used often. Daily, even. Multiple times a day.

Happy Easter.