My Favorite Mormon Ever

I'm claiming Porter Rockwell as my Most Favoritest Mormon Person Ever. I love that he was a little crazy, definitely different from other Mormons. I love how tough he was, and how he went in and got the job done. I love how he could be criticized by others, yet still remain entirely devoted to Joseph Smith and the gospel.

I wonder: did he ever feel like a square peg trying desperately to get into a round hole, as I do when I'm at church? Did he ever crave the acceptance and approval of other Mormons? Did he, like me, try to change everything about himself that ever bothered another Mormon, only to find that they hated him all the more for his simpering people-pleasing? Did he, like me, give up the fight and resolve to serve God while being precisely, utterly who he truly is whether they hate him or not?

I admire his courage most of all. I've been inactive for years now because I dread to dirty looks and the harsh whispers I get from other Mormons. I just can't make myself go anymore. It feels like high school to me. I got into church and have to confront a lot of people who already have their established cliques and family pews. I can't fit in because of some nuance of my hairdo or my makeup or the way I talk. I flee as soon as sacrament meeting is done because of a nasty remark someone made about me, and have to sit of the back steps crying because I just can't do it anymore.

I try to will myself to just go anyway. I should be tougher, right? I should understand that we're all just there to praise God and to worship Him, and he'll hear my prayers just the same while I'm wearing red lipstick. And I already know it won't do any good for me to just wear a different color lipstick. I've tried that. I'm a red lipstick girl. Red is my shade, and when I change myself to fit in, people seem to sense it and they regard me with even more contempt than before.

Anyway...Porter Rockwell. He was stranger than I am. If I wore a long black coat and carried a gun, I bet people would think twice before saying something nasty to me! But he must have encountered serious opposition, even in the early church when people hadn't yet socialized each other to behave like clones. He must have had the same sort of thoughts about how he got along with non-Mormons much better. He probably could have gone into any rough frontier town, had a few drinks and smoked a few cigars around a poker table, and gotten by just fine. But he chose to stay where he wasn't really welcome, out of his faith in the gospel and service to Joseph. In my craven heart, I wish I had his fortitude.

I truly believe I would feel more comfortable around him than I do around many of the preppy, backcombed, self-righteous Mormons I've met. (Disclaimer: I'm not saying all Mormons are evil. But the truth is, I seem to fit in better with others who feel out of place in church much more often than not.) I usually feel an instant kinship with others who don't belong. For instance, once I stopped in Mesquite for gas, and a very rough-looking biker with shaved head, goatee and silver-studded leather chaps got off his Harley and opened the door for me with a smile. I looked him in the eye, smiled back, and said thank you with utmost sincerity. He didn't frighten me a bit, nor do goth kids or emos or homeless people. I usually get along with them just fine. It's the middle-aged women with short hair who appear in church with no makeup, wearing bizarrely ugly pink pinafore dresses, that send me running for the door. Or the younger women with their hair so backcombed they have square heads, wearing sensible khaki skirts and way too much makeup, struggling to corral a herd of tiny children and snorting with derision when they see me. Or the home teachers with the confident, arrogant, condescending smiles that convey both pity and revulsion. These are the people who frighten me.

Of course, there's no guarantee that Porter would have wanted to be my friend. He might have seen me for the milksop I am and regarded me with the same polite condescension most other Mormon men do. But since he's not here to pass judgement, I'd like to believe he and I could have been friends, and he might have understood me as most "normal" people don't. Check it out -- I'm trying to befriend a dead man. Good job we believe in life after death.

So the upshot of all this is that I think I'm going to be stealing the name Porter as a baby name. For...whenever we have a baby. Just in case the name can imbue greater courage on my offspring than what I enjoy myself.

The Coffee Monster Lurks In The Shadows

It's no secret that I wasn't raised LDS. My mom and my aunt introduced me to coffee for the first time when I was twelve. They came home from an outing and presented me with a mocha (part coffee, part hot chocolate) with all the aplomb that an LDS parent might present their child with, say, a surprise milkshake. But there was another element too. Another layer of the present. It was sort of a coming-of-age milestone ritual. Today I am allowed to drink coffee. I am twelve and I have reached that point in my growing up where I can have an adult beverage. It wasn't just a surprise gift, but an introduction to young womanhood.

Oh, I drank that mocha. I loved it. If I were Homer Simpson, my pupils would have dilated and all sorts of dendrites in my brain would have fired simultaneously with drooling as a potential side affect. It was. So. Good. Mochas and lattes became a special treat that I enjoyed throughout my teenage years, carefully nursing my drink so as to enjoy that wonderful flavor as long as possible. In high school I joined a coffee of the month club and enjoyed a hot cup after school. Despite the caffeine, the coffee was wonderfully relaxing and fortifying. I loved the rich, roasted flavor, offset by the slight sweetness of the sugar and milk. After a cup of coffee (or three) I could face that essay that I knew I'd be working on late into the night. I could memorize my lines and endure the thought of going back to school the next day. Like spinach to Popeye, coffee was a comfort and a strength.

I was eighteen when I decided to be LDS and gave up coffee with the intention of never drinking it again. And it was several years before the old addiction started to creep back, little by little. I think I was twenty-four when I succumbed to a grocery-store frapucchino. When I got into my upper-division coursework at SUU I used a lot of Red Bulls during finals week. I despised the flavor of Red Bull. A lady in one of my classes suggested that coffee would be healthier than the energy drink, and I found it plausible. As it turned out, a cup of Starbuck's drip coffee was also a couple bucks cheaper than the Red Bull. My student frugality worked with my old addiction. Soon I was going by Starbuck's a couple days a week, as long as I had some money. I wasn't at the point of buying my own coffee pot yet. That would be like embracing it fully.

Ok, so I struggle with ongoing urges to drink coffee. I tell myself it could be worse. I mean, it could have been heroin. Or meth. Or alcohol. On the list of substance addictions, coffee is really kind of laughable. But to a Mormon person, this is a rich mine of guilt. I didn't purge the desire to drink this unholy beverage. I returned to my sin like a dog to its vomit, so to speak.

This past week, while I've been struggling with strep throat, I've really been fighting off coffee cravings. I wanted that strength to keep going, keep enduring. I didn't give in. I still haven't, but when I woke up this morning and began reading and watching the reminders of 9/11 and returning to what I felt that day, I found that I wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch with a steaming cup. It's so comforting to wrap my hands around the warm mug and feel the new energy singing through my veins.

Instead of drinking coffee, I worked out. I took a shower and put on a dress. Now it's too late in the day to really enjoy it, because I know I would never sleep (I'm not used to caffeine anymore.) Still...I want it. The coffee monster is there, and I'm starting to realize that it will always be there. I will always want coffee when I am sad and frightened and in need of encouragement. And what will I do when the cravings come again? I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Happy TMI Thursday! (This post contains what many would consider to be an overshare.)

I've had strep throat for the last several days, and it basically shut me down. I haven't had energy or willpower to do much more that sit on the couch, watching food network and playing sorority life and bejeweled blitz. No sewing, no job applications. I've mostly been eating Top Ramen, sometimes yogurt and herbal tea, making sure that my food is warm and soft so it won't hurt my throat.

Well. Yesterday I woke up with my horrendous sore throat as well as a splitting headache. I trudged into the bathroom and discovered that my period had started during the night and had soaked right through my pajamas. So then I became desperate to eat something so I could take my pain meds, because strep and cramps at the same time is enough to inspire some very colorful swear words from me. So I got my top ramen breakfast, took enough pain pills (seven ibuprofen tablets) to take the edge off the pain (I could still feel all of it), and settled in to endure the day.

As time went on, I perceived the development of a new problem. Diarrhea. Probably the result of too much ramen. Ugh.

The good news is that after a day like that, the next day is likely to be better, and it is. I think the infection in my throat is going down, my terrible headache is gone, I feel able to eat things more substantial than ramen, and, well, my period always gets less painful as it goes along. Today I had energy to read! maybe tomorrow I can sew up the laptop case that's been cut out and languishing on the living room floor for the past week, while I've felt neither the energy to finish it nor the inclination to put the supplies away.

For this bout of strep I decided to just endure it rather than go get antibiotics because I'm sick of getting this same infection over and over. So if my evil plan comes to fruition, I will have the antibody to this bacterium and maybe I won't have to get it again! (Cue maniacal laughter.)

Afghans!

So, I'm totally loving vintage afghans. I understand that lots of people (read: stylish people) don't care for afghans these days, but to me they are magic. I mean, they're handmade, for one thing. Somebody touched and manipulated every inch of yarn in each one. And because these blankets are so labor intensive, they are made with lots of love. Usually, it's a grandma making them for grandchildren, like the one on the right, which came from Shayne's grandma. The middle one is from DI and the one on the right I ordered from etsy.com, so I don't actually know any of the people who made these. The love with which they stitched these afghans wasn't directed at me, but it's still so comforting to snuggle up with something that contains so much affection.