Yep. I Did That.

Today I very responsibly took back the DVDs I had rented from Hastings and went on about my day. Later, I opened the CD tray on my computer and lo, there was one of the movies I had rented. Then, Shayne opened the DVD tray on our TV's player, and there was the other one. Yeah. I had taken two empty DVD cases back to the store.

In other news, I'm seriously considering going back for a second bachelor's in pre-veterinary medicine so as to eventually become a vet. I would get a lot of the studying done here, and then it would take me back to Washington to study at WSU. And then, since nearly everyone in the Seattle area has pets, I would simply drag Shayne back there. And it would get me more money than, say, working at call centers.

Sorry, I Don't Work Here.

I didn't know it was unusual to be hit up to do things or find things at stores where I don't work until I mentioned it in passing to Shayne and saw his response. I mean, I understood that it might be a little unusual for old ladies in Walmart to ask me to reach things down off the high shelves, but then, not everybody is as tall as I am. I'm really ridiculously tall, and I'm used to being put to work in this way. Fetching things from high places is part of my service to humanity.

Shayne thought it was crazy, not only that people ask this of me, but that I just take it in stride. He thought it was very weird. Why didn't this happen to him, as he is taller than I? I've hypothesized that maybe the old ladies find me more sympathetic because I am female. Whatever the reason is, I feel that someone else must have this experience sometimes. It can't just be me.

But besides this, I feel that I get to be mistaken for an employee at whatever store I happen to be shopping in far more often than is my due. Once, when sopping in the Redmond, WA Fred Meyer, I discovered a display of cute little ruffled aprons. I selected a red one with black polka-dots and cupcake applicees, and put it on just to see how it felt and how long it was on my tall frame. It that moment, another customer appeared at the end of the aisle and began explaining in detail some item she wanted, that I had never heard of. Had I know where to find the item I would have just told her, but instead I had to cause us both embarrassment by letting her know I didn't work there and I had just been trying on the apron. She snorted her derision and stalked off with an expression of disgust on her face. I wanted to ask her if she really thought a Fred Meyer employee would be caught dead wearing such a kitchy apron, but the answer was obvious. The fact that it was an apron at all meant I was an employee.

Just a couple of days ago, I was pushing my cart through the kitchen tools aisle at Walmart and I had just placed an item in my cart that I wished to buy when a lady came up beside me and told me she had a random question and she was getting ready to go to Home Depot for the item she wanted. It was one of those plastic refrigerator soda can dispensers where the sodas roll down and you grab them at the bottom...you know. My parents have one, (my mom has one, now that my dad is gone) but I never had a use for one. I suggested the sodas section of the store, or maybe the hardware section. She had already looked in those places, and she said she would just go to Home Depot. She thanked me politely and left.

After I left the store, I realized she must have thought I was an employee. I carefully considered my outfit: light blue jeans and a navy blue grandpa cardigan that was unbuttoned to reveal a yellow-green shirt beneath. Had she thought I was an employee just because I had on a blue cardigan? Had she missed the large, red patent-leather purse in my cart, or the stylish yellow-green shirt with the subtle yet striking bronzy metal studs?

Anyway. It seems like this happens to me all the time. Shayne wears his actual blue and khaki walmart uniform to walmart in his off hours and doesn't get asked questions. He says it's because he's not wearing his name tag. Go figure. I, on the other hand, wear something that gestures vaguely toward an employee uniform and people assume I work there.

And another thing -- why do people only ask, "Do you work here?" when the person obviously does? They don't ask me if I work there. It's weird.

Dear Disgruntled MacDonald's Breakfast Enthusiasts

Dear Disgruntled MacDonald's Breakfast Enthusiasts:

I understand how much you love some MacDonald's goodness in the morning. No, really. I do. Maybe you promise yourself that if you just get out of bed, you can have breakfast at MacDonald's. Maybe you come in with your mouth watering, yearning for your sausage or bacon or yummy, yummy hotcakes. I get it.

I want to assure you that when we switch over to the lunch menu at 10:30 am on weekdays and 11:00 am on weekends, the purpose is not to ruin your day and deprive you of what is rightfully yours. I agree that it's an outdated custom. It used to be de rigeur for diners and restaurants of all kinds to put away their breakfast ingredients and serve an entirely different menu for each meal of the day. Nowadays, with places like Denny's , IHOP, and Jack In The Box serving breakfast all day, the old way seems antiquated in the extreme.

But really, are you honestly surprised? It's always been this way at MacDonald's. When you toddled into MacDonald's, holding onto your mom's finger, and sat in a high chair to destroy parts of an egg MacMuffin, MacDonalds' menu changed over at 10:30. When you were a college student and never got to eat breakfast at MacDonald's because you couldn't get up early enough, this was still the case. Even now, when you come in at noon and ask for your food without looking at the menu, you're still too late.

I'd like to let you know that MacDonald's employees are not particularly intimidated by your anger. In fact, we rather enjoy it. It's amusing to us when you plead your case ("I really had my heart set on a MacGriddle!"), receive your firm refusal, indulge in your tantrum and then storm out in a huff. When our coworkers call us to the back of the kitchen to describe the scene you made, we will recreate your histrionics in detail, complete with hand gestures. We will mock you. We will laugh at you and comment on your stupidity, getting yourself all worked up over a MacMuffin.

If you simply cannot remember the ironclad deadline of 10:30 am, I recommend a reminder of some sort. A post it on the dashboard, or a cell phone alarm to let you know that you are too late and must go to IHOP. If you choose to come to MacDonald's any way to insult the minimum-wage-earner behind the counter and register your disapproval of our outmoded custom... well, that's your prerogative. But I want to let you know it will do no good, and to be honest? You look really funny when you're mad. Sorry, but you do. And once you're done venting your frustration, we will amuse ourselves by predicting your death by premature heart disease, brought about by a combination of your short temper and your fast food diet.

Thank you for your understanding.

Bwahahahahaha!

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.)