My mom is cool like that

I know I am pretty lucky that I have such a great relationship with my mother. And this is not only because I am aware that many people cannot claim this reality or would never want it, but also because my life has taken me down paths that are far from the future my parents imagined for me. 

Rather than beat around the bush, I'll just be clear: I am no longer an active member of the church to which the rest of my family is devotedly faithful.  To most of the world, this isn't such a shocking experience. Commonplace, in fact, for many families. Except that the religion which formed the foundation of the first 19 years of my life is Mormonism. And if you're not a Mormon, then you probably won't understand the difference.  But if you are, then you will understand why this was a very significant alteration of my life and why I profess gratitude for the closeness my mother and I share. 

In truth, the early years of this new direction were difficult for my family. But I guess that is a whole other story, and likely one that I won't share publicly. But suffice it to say, the fact that my mother and I came out on the other side with a genuine friendship, in addition to mutual respect, is one of life's little miracles. I've always believed that miracle was indisputably aided by the opportunity we forged to work together closely as co-owners of our Curves clubs. However, I suppose family relationships just as easily have been destroyed in joint business ventures. 

What I do know is that my mother is a loving, kind person, and she soon deemed her relationship with me, her daughter, to be more important than reiterating pious disapproval.  Another important piece of our happy little puzzle is that my choices were not born of a desire to rebel. I was not trying to upset my parents, rather I wanted them to understand and love me in spite of our differences. I would venture a guess that I am not your typical "ex-Mormon" because I still appreciate the culture, value the traditions, and even respectfully attend my niece and nephews' baptisms and the occasional Relief Society activity (the fun ones, tee hee). Even though I don't go to church and say my prayers and read scriptures, I am still a good person and live my life with values remarkably similar to those I learned in my parents' home. Which probably makes it easier for my mother to accept. 

This whole introduction grew more sentimental than intended--I was planning on just telling you an amusing anecdote from Chicago illustrating my mom's "cool" factor.  But I like what I've written, so it stays. And here is the story:

We spent a few days touring Chicago with my cousin and her mom (my mom's sister). Rachel is only 20 days older than me, and we were very close as children. I think she grew out of our relationship before I did, and these days we only communicate a few times a year, but when we do we still laugh about our old inside jokes and childhood memories. 

It's not my place to describe the private details of my cousin's life, but maybe you can draw your own conclusions from these facts: 1. She is single and does not plan to have children. 2. She lives in West Hollywood, CA. 3. She also no longer attends church.  From what I understand, the tension with her own mother resulting from her personal choices has never quite lifted, and sadly, arguments about it often ensue.

In Chicago, Rachel made plans one night to meet up with a girlfriend who lives in the area. She invited me to go, but I was hesitant to accept because a) I was exhausted and would have been just as happy to read my novel in the comfy hotel bed, and b) I did not want to risk accepting a "courtesy invite" and be an unwanted third wheel.  While the plans were being laid for where/when to meet, Rachel checked to make sure that her mom wouldn't be upset by her going out--a thoughtful gesture I thought, since this was kind of a mother-daughter trip.  The moms were getting ready for bed anyway, so she gave her consent. 

The next thing I know, I am hearing the louder half of an argument going on in the bathroom, and it seems that maybe my aunt is not as comfortable with the idea as she first let on. This is about the time that I decided to go, because I thought it might help if Rachel wasn't going out into Chicago at night all alone. My mom was a bit surprised when she noticed I was dressed and grabbing my purse, but not alarmed or upset.  I said jokingly, "Yeah, someone's got to keep Rachel out of trouble!"

During our exhilarating run along the Chicago River the next morning, Rachel explained that her mother was upset upon learning that she was going to a bar. We both laughed at the thought: "where else would you go to meet friends at 11:00pm?"  Apparently her mother wasn't able to sleep until we returned. I can't say I disagree with Rachel's frustration over her mother's protectiveness when they are together (Rachel has taken to getting a hotel room when she visits home for this reason), since I'm sure my aunt doesn't suffer from insomnia every other night of the week. You know, when Rachel is at home in L.A. with her friends...  I assure you, a few cocktails at a bar is quite a tame evening. 

We also mused at the possibility that Rachel's mom was being extra critical because my mom (her big sis) was there. No one wants to look like a bad parent in front of her own sister, and my aunt might operate under the mistaken assumption that I am some sort of righteous individual who would never stay out late drinking with guys I don't know and didn't want my mom to view Rachel as a bad influence on me. It was only natural for Mama Bear to emerge and present the audience with a convincing case of her disapproval.

After enjoying our free breakfast at the concierge lounge (I never want to stay in a hotel without access to this glorious feature again!), my mom quietly asked me how our evening went and if we had, in fact, gone to a bar.  I responded this way: "Well, yeah, that's kind of the only place that would be open that time of night." My mother responded this way: "That's what I was thinking!" She proceeded to say that she knows we are both grown women who can take care of ourselves, and she's not sure what Auntie was so worked up about (that is my pithy summary, not her words). 

My heart swelled with pride, knowing that my mom is cool like that. 

My cool mom and me

Chicago ~ October 2010

Birth blanket

This is kind of a continuing of yesterday's Flashback Friday. I had read about the idea of a birthing blanket in a book, and decided to make one. The blanket is designed to be waterproof messproof in order to protect the bed or floor, while providing a soft place to labor. I also tend to agree with the sentiment that a "birth project" of any kind can aid a mother-to-be's preparation for the big day.

Common sense indicated that I would be throwing this blanket away after its purpose had been fulfilled.  So I knew it didn't need to be pretty. I found two flat sheets at Goodwill, but bought a new shower curtain because really--is there a used shower curtain in existence that isn't covered in mildew and soap scum? I'm no seamstress, but I've done a number of sewing projects, including a pieced quilt duvet cover and my "senior quilt" made as part of my church young women's program. A birth blanket is uncomplicated, like a senior quilt: the shower curtain is layered with the batting between the two sheets to create a watertight barrier. 

So I set about making the blanket in much the same way I remember making my senior quilt. For added liquid-catching ability, I rolled up the sides before clumsily stitching them shut. This blanket was for function, not beauty, remember? Then in order to secure the batting in place, I proceeded to tie the quilt with yarn, as I recalled having done so many times in young women. The needle goes through the blanket, tie a knot, then repeat over and over again all over the quilt, and cut the yarn between the knots to make the little ties that add flair to your finished blanket. Ta-da! 

With my blanket complete and a table in my bedroom covered with supplies like sterile gloves, disposable blue underpads, garbage bags, and flashlights, I was ready to have this baby. 

And I did. Which you'll be able to read about next Friday. 

But you may have already figured out the inherent flaw in my birthing blanket's design. Because YOU are clearly a much more intelligent human being than I, whose mind the error never crossed until it was too late. All those HOLES I poked in the blanket with a quilting needle resulted in a failure of its waterproofing capabilities. So directly under the place where Madelyn was born, we have a lovely dark red stain on our memory foam mattress' pillowtop. I'm sure my brother who owns a carpet/upholstery cleaning business loved trying to clean that up. Ha ha, Bryan. That's what you get for putting nooses on my stuffed animals and flying them around on the ceiling fan.

Don't judge a book by its cover

I joined some girlfriends in a book club several months ago. I've read a few of the books, but unfortunately have only been able to attend discussion for the one I hosted due to scheduling conflicts. The gal who selected our options for this month recently ran into a local author at the park. Apparently this author, Christina Berry, had attended one of the group's gatherings a couple of years ago as a guest, and offered to attend our book club gathering again to discuss her brand new debut novel if we were interested.

All of my friend's suggestions for this month's read were appealing, but the description of Ms. Berry's book (from Amazon.com) definitely intrigued me:

Craig Littleton's decision to end his marriage would shock his wife, Denise . . . if she knew what he was up to. When an accident lands Craig in the ICU, with fuzzy memories of his own life and plans, Denise rushes to his side, ready to care for him.

They embark on a quest to help Craig remember who he is and, in the process, they discover dark secrets. An affair? An emptied bank account? A hidden identity? An illegitimate child?

But what will she do when she realizes he's not the man she thought he was? Is this trauma a blessing in disguise, a chance for a fresh start? Or will his secrets destroy the life they built together?

I love the mysterious concept, and the opportunity to have an author speak with us about her work provided an exciting prospect. I think most of the active participants in our group agreed, and I ordered my copy of The Familiar Stranger by Christina Berry.

Since I had a deadline to finish this one, I set aside the other novel I had started and dove in. The story captivated me right from the beginning, Chapter One being divided into a His and Hers narrative of the same scene from the husband and then the wife's perspective. The entire novel then follows this scheme of alternating point of view, but since the man suffers from amnesia after the accident, the truth is always just out of the reader's reach. The action proceeds swiftly, so I had a hard time closing the book that first night.

The next day, I arrived early to pick up my daughter from school and decided to sneak in a few pages on a nearby bench. One of my friends who is also in the book club noticed me and asked how I was liking the book so far. I answered honestly that I found the story rather absorbing.

Her response went something like this: "Yeah...it's okay. I've only read a couple of chapters, but all the God stuff bugs me."

Huh? I sifted through my recollection of the seven or eight chapters I had read to look for any weird religious significance or hidden messages. I knew that the central characters were church-goin' folk, as the initial conflict arises from the husband's confession that he will be skipping church to go hiking in the Gorge (although we are privy to enough of his thoughts to know that is not his actual plan). I vaguely recalled italicized phrases meant to convey the female character's internal prayers to God, but I was sure those didn't start until later in the book. Based on previous hints and discussions with this particular friend, I think my notions of spirituality are quite similar to hers. But any religious implications encountered so far I had only attributed to situational relevance or character development.

Hesitantly, I explained my perspective, wondering if my acuity had failed amidst the gripping storyline. My friend announced that the novel was written by a Christian author, and felt that her intended audience was obvious.

I personally reflected on the Twilight series, a well-known collection of vampire romance fiction written by a Mormon. My husband (who read the entire series before I even started it--and I love that) sometimes tried to draw associations between Stephenie Meyer's plot choices and her religious affiliation. But I personally consider his accusations (for lack of a better word) to be a stretch. I found the Twilight series dark and sexy and gritty, and while yes, the author deliberately created a scenario in which the primary duo resisted their very apparent sexual urges until after marriage, I did not find her means to that end unnatural for the story or morally condemning.

So I think it is possible to read the words on the page with a bias strong enough to assume a hidden meaning. Looking back over the first two chapters, I don't see any prayers or overtly Christian messages. The family is getting ready for church, but again, I didn't think twice about that being any major influence in the story beyond setting the scene of the action. Nothing in any descriptions I read, or anywhere on the cover indicated that this book was written for Christian readers specifically.

After the conversation with my friend, these glimpses of spiritual significance appeared on the pages in what seemed to be increasing frequency. At first I was annoyed that I had talked with her about it, believing that if I hadn't been aware of the implied religious affiliation, I could have continued blissfully engrossed in the story without a second thought to any hidden messages. But the little italic prayers and allusions to churchly goodness began to gradually saturate the text. My assumption that a heightened awareness falsely generated that impression began to lack sustainment and I realized that I certainly would have figured it out on my own.

I can imagine reading along in this adulterous tale of betrayal, coming to this passage:

"Jesus is with me...all this time." Samantha wove the tissue through her fingers. "When Dad would have to leave...when he couldn't be with me...he'd pray and ask Jesus to hold my hand."

How could a teenager possess such great faith? I had my health, my husband was recovering his, we had a home and family and friends...and still I questioned whether the Lord was with me or not. Still, I felt alone. Still, I felt the need to misrepresent myself to Samantha, to lie, to manipulate the situation so I could feel in control of my fate.

Lord, give me faith like a child. Let me reach out and trust You to hold my hand.

And it goes ON like this. I would shut the book on my lap. Stare at the ceiling. And think to myself, "What the hell is this?" But I would keep reading because the plot was just thickening then. And because although I don't necessarily subscribe to precisely the same beliefs as these characters or this author, I choose to respect them as I hope they would me. All over the world there are different words for and images of "God" and "prayer" and "church." Sure, if I had known this book was a piece of Christian fiction, as freshly confirmed by other friends in the know, I might not have picked it up on my own. But it was a fun book to read in spite of a few eye-rolling moments of pious virtue.

I also want to add that Portland-area landmarks make heavy appearances in the novel, and it was really fun to read a story with authentic images of the Multnomah Falls bridge and I-5 traffic to form the backdrop of many scenes.

I will go to this book discussion, and might respectfully ask how she thinks secular readers would respond to the evident religious nature of the book, or if marketing to that segment of the population is even of any concern. But I promise to zip my lips about the rest.

Flashback Friday: Stranger in the dark

For a good portion of my teenage years, my father was the Bishop of our Mormon ward, or church congregation. This is just a little fact you need to know for the punchline of this story, which takes place on a dark (but not necessarily stormy) night during my awkward Junior High School years.

My entire family was watching a movie in the family room at the back of our house, adjacent to the kitchen. All of the lights were off, and the seven of us were splayed across the L-shaped couch arrangement and scattered over the floor with heavy blankets, fixated on the glowing TV screen positioned in the corner of the room.

We rented a lot of movies in my youth. Let's face it: theatre tickets for a family of seven would never support my dad's successful quest to be The Millionaire Next Door. My family has always enjoyed the liberty afforded by small-screen viewing by taking full advantage of the freedom to move around or get up and fix a snack.

This inability to stay focused on a movie from start to finish is a trait that has remained with most of my family members, and also one that drives my husband crazy. He prefers not to watch movies at my parents' house because they seem to lack the capability to watch attentively, and it is distracting. My mom often does projects or irons during movies (she trained me to be a multi-tasker too, what can I say?), my dad usually drifts in and out of the room, and since there are usually children in the house, interruption for a snack request or bedtime infraction are inevitable. Sometimes my dad gets a hankering to make a mid-movie treat, and we push pause while the blender whiiiirs up a delicious milkshake. This disruption I don't usually mind.

The forgettable movie ended, and the lights flicked on. It only took a few moments for our eyes to adjust and discover that there were now eight people in our small family room. The bright lights revealed that the cream and brown striped glider at the exposed end of the couch was now occupied, but not by a restless member of our family. He was a young man, attractive, but a complete stranger to everyone in the room.

Someone cautiously greeted the stranger, probably my ever-friendly mother. One of my ultimate fears involves someone breaking into our house, but the idea that this man represented such a danger never crossed my mind. After all, he politely watched the movie with us (How much of it? I can't help but wonder), and he looked about as confused as we must have.

I listened curiously as the puzzle was slowly pieced together. The man said he was looking for the Bishop's house. My parents exchanged a comprehending glance.

"I'm the Bishop," my father said tentatively. He may have been, as I was, wondering how this strange young man had found his home, and what help he could need so desperately that he would seek it from him at such a late hour.

The man only looked more confused at my dad's response. It turns out, he wasn't looking for the Bishop's house. He was looking for the Bishops' house. The careful placement of an apostrophe can make a giant difference, however verbally incommunicable.

I learned that night that our next door neighbors' last name was Bishop. The young man wasn't very familiar with their home, and accidentally wandered into ours by mistake. He quietly slipped into an available seat, then graciously remained unobtrusive until the credits were rolling. Our customary shifting around explains why nobody noticed the new arrival during the movie, but it is still a bit unnerving that a stranger wandered through our unlocked door and joined our company utterly undetected. Perhaps the movie's plot was outrageously compelling.

The coincedence of their name makes the experience that much more entertaining, but I doubt if our accidental visitor really got that part of the joke. I just hope that the Bishops weren't worried about their friend for too long before he made his tardy entrance...with quite a story to tell.

Flashback Friday: What happens in Vegas...

...eventually gets posted on my blog for your entertainment, it would seem.

Some of my best vacation memories are from the one I took after my freshman (only) year of college with my cousin Emily and her mom. My Aunt Linda invited me to join them in Las Vegas to celebrate Em's 22nd birthday...her treat!

Emily and I were basically Siamese twins during my stint at BYU. I moved out of the on-campus housing into her apartment building for the second semester. Although I was lucky enough to live in Heritage Halls, the more apartment-like dorms on campus, it all still felt like an extension of high school where you are forced to live with your pretentious classmates. What could be worse?

I was much happier living in a real apartment with real college students. Now that I'm thinking about it, I have lots of fodder for the Flashback Friday fire from that semester. But today, we're talking about the Post-finals Vegas Vacation.

One night, while Aunt Linda entertained herself with some blinking, clinking machines, Emily and I went out on the town. At this time in our lives, our priority at any given moment was to meet and flirt with cute boys. During the Bellagio fountain performance, we set sights on our prey: a couple of normal-looking guys staked out a short distance down the concrete railing who looked as though they might have a similar goal for the evening. Naturally, we struck up a witty and charming conversation, and soon learned that Dave and J.J. were both returned Mormon missionaries. We were confident that of all the men we could have picked up on in the middle of the Las Vegas Strip, these two would be a pretty safe bet. What a strange coincidence.

The rest of the evening was spent wandering through the Hot Spots of Las Vegas nightflife flirting innocuously with our new friends.

J.J., Emily, Kristen, and Dave in V Bar at the Venetian on the coolest couch ever. The only other sofa like it is owned by Madonna.

The pinnacle of our risque evening came sometime in the wee hours. We thought it would be amusing to find a wedding chapel, I suppose just to take some hilarious pictures. Not a drop of alcohol had been ingested, so there were no intentions of using the facilities for a regrettable purpose. A spontaneous wedding would be representative of a truly wild Vegas night, so I guess poking fun at it is the kind of thing a bunch of Mormon college kids do for ironic fun. When you don't drink or gamble, what's left to do in Vegas?

We meandered down to the lower level of some casino where we found the wedding chapel, nestled tastefully between storefronts, including the Harley Davidson store and a souvenir shop offering an unrivaled collection of refrigerator magnets. Unfortunately, the chapel was closed in the middle of the night. This was an unanticipated snag in our plan, considering tales of impulsive mid-night unions in Vegas abound. I guess those take place at the Church-of-Elvis types, not in chapels associated with the fancy resorts.

We weren't about to relinquish our scandalous objective though, so Dave and I posed for this intrepidly romantic photo:

Much to J.J.'s dismay, Emily was too chicken to kiss a stranger. Or at least her sense of moral integrity was more persuasive than mine. That thrill is the sort I lived for once upon a time. And this photo would have made another good schocker to send to my mom.


That story is pretty fun all on its own, but for the cherry on top, let's fast-forward three years. I had been dating Gary for about a year when his mother became engaged to the man who had been like his Step-Dad since the tender age of eight. Bonnie and Dale decided to get married in Vegas, and Gary and I took a fun road trip so we could be there to support them. Walking through the mall level of Ballys Resort brought some hazy memories to the surface. When we reached the chapel, I saw a white vinyl emblem on the window identical to the one in the photo above, and realized that Gary's parents had chosen to solemnize their marital commitment at the precise location where my rebellious teenaged escapade transpired. I took pleasure in reflecting on some treasured memories that weekend, but I don't think I ever mentioned the bizarre twist of fate to my future in-laws.

Starbuck's v. Coca-Cola

For 19 years of my life, I was a faithful member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Even though I no longer go to church or practice the religious doctrine, I continue to live by many of the guiding principles and values I was taught. I retain great respect for Mormons and am very appreciative of my religious upbringing. I won't be discussing my spirituality today; that subject is way too complex, and at this time, still too personal.

But even while I was devoted to the gospel doctrines, I was a little confused about one bit of the Word of Wisdom. Apparently this is a common debate, even amongst Latter-Day Saints, but please don't roll your eyes. I am not trying to Bible-bash or question anybody's faith. My intentions are honest, and I feel that it is a valid question.

The Word of Wisdom is contained in the Doctrine and Covenants scripture, a book regarded by Mormons to be revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith from God. In simple terms, it is a "health code" by which Mormons live, and for the most part consists of recommendations that many medical profesionals would also suggest to promote optimal health (no tobacco, no alcohol, eat meat sparingly, etc.).

There is one verse, D&C 89:9, which says only, "And again, hot drinks are not for the body or belly."

In my tenure as a Mormon, we were taught that this statement refers to coffee and tea, and thus were commanded not to drink those beverages. I always assumed the rule was in place because caffiene is an addictive drug. Yet there is no official church doctrine prohibiting consumption of other beverages or foods containing caffiene. I knew Mormon families who forswore caffienated cola. Usually that's what my parents would buy too. It was never a concern for me because I have always hated cola--of any brand--and still do to this day. But you won't go to a Relief Society potluck without plenty of brownies laden with the forbidden drug.

Several years ago, I was attending a business training with my mother and sister. During a break, my mom left the room to buy a Coke. She specifically mentioned her interest in getting a little something to wake her up for the remainder of the meetings. After she left, I calmly asked my sister about it. With genuine interest in the doctrinal basis, I asked why coffee is not allowed by the church, but cola is okay. Without skipping a beat, my sister vehemently blurted her response: "I don't drink Coke!" If it were 1992, I totally would have gone, "Reer!" I've never had the guts to ask anyone about it since then, realizing it is either a sensitive subject, or a lack of understanding of the principle prevents the formation of an intelligent answer to a sincere question (the latter being a probable cause of the former).


Then the other night, my husband and I were gathered with two of my siblings and their spouses (all active members of the church). An appropriate segue in the conversation lead Gary to ask about this particular church directive. As would be expected of a caring, intelligent adult, he was very respectful and showed a genuine interest in learning the truth without criticism.

I was glad that my brother-in-law Randy took some time to provide a thorough explanation (although it did not, in the end, answer the question). He shed some light on the history of the Word of Wisdom that I did not know: this revelation was the result of Joseph Smith's annoyance at the cloud of smoke at their priesthood meetings and his wife's complaints at having to clean their filthy chew off the floor. Here it is according to Brigham Young.

Randy provided more facts on when which prophet said what about the Word of Wisdom, and how today it is generally accepted that coffee and tea are forbidden, while the choice to drink other caffienated beverages is left to the individual. But I gathered from his explanation (and the fact that no one else chimed in with additional information) that they don't really know why it's coffee and tea and not Coke and Pepsi.

There is an unsubstantiated rumor that the reason has to do with the church "owning" Coca-Cola, or investing in large shares of its stock. Of course the Mormons don't own Coke. Although it wouldn't surprise me a bit for such a wise and wealthy organization to invest in this successful company. Of course their portfolio would be diversified enough that such an investment would not warrant distinguishing cola from coffee when their potential for health-impairment is so similar. In fact, if you consider the carbonation and sugar in cola, vs. the beneficial antioxidants in coffee, I'd wager that coffee is the lesser of the "evils."

Please correct me if I'm wrong on this one, but my research concludes that the church has never officially declared that caffiene is the reason coffee and tea are prohibited. If that is true, then the argument about why chocolate and cola are allowable is a moot point. But if caffiene isn't the culprit, then it doesn't make any sense that herbal (caffiene-free) teas are acceptable. For what other reason could coffee and tea be outlawed besides caffiene? The verse specifies "hot drinks," so perhaps we should all be avoiding mulled apple cider and hot cocoa. Caffiene affords the most logical explanation, but that leads us back to the original question: why are cola and chocolate not included in the prohibition? If the answer has to do with the relative amounts of the drug, then we could get into a whole new discussion about serving sizesand frequency. And most Mormons I know wouldn't even consider a taste of coffee or a sip of wine, which would be less harmful than a large Coke any day of the week.

I understand that church leaders advise against substances and even activities (gambling) that have addictive qualities. But I don't understand how cola or chocolate are less addictive than the "hot drinks" from which I was always instructed to abstain. Case in point. I personally witnessed a woman struggle through a very difficult time "quitting" her Diet Pepsi addiction. She was miserable, and difficult to be around. That isn't an unusual situation. On the other hand, I know plenty of people (gasp! I am one of them!) who enjoy an occasional Starbuck's Cinnamon Dolce Latte (etc.) and aren't in danger of becoming slave to the drug.

There is a difference between having a glass of wine during a special dinner and being an alcoholic. There is a difference between an infrequent coffee date with a friend and requiring 3 cups o' joe in the morning to reach basic functioning capacity. There is a difference between getting a Coke with your Big Mac on occassion and driving around with a 42-oz. Big Gulp every single day of work to remain alert. And yeah, I guess that means there is also a difference between passing a joint among friends in college one night and getting high so often that it impedes your ability to live a normal life.

Perhaps all these musings answer the question. I finally discovered this official statement made in 1972: “With reference to cola drinks, the Church has never officially taken a position on this matter, but the leaders of the Church have advised, and we do now specifically advise, against the use of any drink containing harmful habit-forming drugs under circumstances that would result in acquiring the habit. Any beverage that contains ingredients harmful to the body should be avoided.” (Priesthood Bulletin, Feb. 1972, p. 4.)

Okay. So that makes sense. Admonition against using drinks containing habit-forming drugs under circumstances that would result in acquiring the habit. The trouble is, individual predispositions toward addiction vary. So I suppose to be safe one can just rely on the last part of the message, and avoid all ingredients deemed "harmful." But it stands to reason that if a person enjoys an occasional mocha, or even goes wine tasting with friends once in a while, they shouldn't necessarily be ostracized.

The modern interpretation of the Word of Wisdom generally promotes a healthy lifestyle. Once again, I understand the physical benefits of avoiding unhealthy substances, or at least exercising some degree of moderation. But I am still curious about why coffee and tea were specifically chosen as the special "hot drinks." And my research into the Word of Wisdom (conducted solely on LDS-sanctioned and neutral sites, no anti-Mormon propaganda) unearthed several other jewels, which I won't get into now except to say it's interesting how much interpretation and time can alter words. I'm not trying to convince anyone to start drinking coffee or wine. People who are curious about Mormons often ask me questions like the one I posed here. If nothing else, perhaps by sharing my investigation, I have offered some substantive information with which to build a comprehensible response to such a question. But there is always the angry, self-righteous way too.

Flashback Friday: Scantily clad teens in distress

Last week I told you a story from Girls' Camp 1997. Today I'll be exposing a tale from another quintessential Mormon teen experience during the very same summer.

Between our sophomore and junior years of high school, my cousin Rachel and I took part in a program called Especially for Youth, or EFY. The session we attended was hosted at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. The premise is similar to Girls' Camp, chock-a-block full of spiritually uplifting activities and wholesome camaraderie, except EFY attendees typically reside in college dormitories instead of cabins or tents. The most fundamental difference between the two events is that while one would never consider attending Girls' Camp intending to meet cute boys, that is the primary motivation of a teen heading across state lines to EFY.

Possibly due to the logistics of flight schedules, or possibly because our parents couldn't wait any longer to be rid of us, Rachel and I arrived on campus a day early. For a couple of moderately rebellious nearly-16-year-olds, the freedom was exhilarating. The campus was deserted, as it was summer term. Our parental release forms stated that there would be "minimal supervision in the housing area" for early arrivers. Awesome. We hit the local convenience store to stock up on necessities such as Cheese-Whiz and Twizzlers, and decided that we also couldn't survive the week without a couple of ringing toy cell phones filled with gumballs. This was back before children had their own cell phones, so they undoubtedly held the mystique of novelty.

My embarrassing scrapbook says that we stayed up until 3 a.m. “decorating” our dorm room. Corresponding photos indicate that the decorations consisted of collages of our high school friends and ROXY magazine ads, a Simpsons poster, and copious hand-written signs Scotch-taped to the painted cinderblock walls. The signs are barely legible in the small photos, but I can make out the words “Top Ten” on several, presumably homage to David Letterman, and I speculate that the rest are Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey.

We opened our plastic phones and smacked away on the neon spheres of gum within. For some reason I felt that the sticker representing my phone’s buttons and screens was impeding my ability to fully enjoy it. This sticker was a stubborn one, so I attempted washing it off in the dorm room sink. The effort was minimally successful.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, in what can only be explained as an attempt to increase our defiance quotient, we put on our bikinis. Our motivation for doing so is one piece of this memory tapestry that made no lasting imprint.

The teenage gaiety carried on: comparing photos of our boyfriends and discussing which swear words were cool and which were just going "too far.” Then all of a sudden, my imitation cell phone, previously drying peacefully near the sink, started ringing. And ringing. The tinny, electronic tune kept repeating over and over again. We jumped up and started pushing all the buttons, pleading with it to shut up. It soon became evident that there would be no stopping the foul beast. A couple of minutes passed, with the irritating song playing again and again. At last we couldn’t take it anymore.

Rachel snatched the miserable piece of black plastic from the carpet where it was last stomped upon, threw open our door, ran into the hall, and hurled it down the hall against the opposing cement wall. With a loud crack, the horrid, whiny refrain ceased, and brightly colored gumballs spewed in every direction. The candy-fiend in me instinctually sprung into action, sprawling across the floor to retrieve the errant bits of gum.

Suddenly, and at the very same instant, my cousin and I froze in the hallway. Turning toward our room we saw the heavy, automatically locking door slowly swinging shut, ready to seal our fate: having to wander the religious-school campus in bikinis, shoeless, searching for someone who could let us back inside. Powered by fear and adrenaline, I catapulted my half-naked body from its position scooping up cheap candy on the floor toward the quickly narrowing gap between the door and its critical latching point.

Like something out of an epic adventure movie, my hand slipped in and caught the door a mere fraction of a second before it would have been too late. Rachel and I slunk back inside our well-adorned quarters, laughing hysterically at our reckless situation. But the gravity of what nearly occurred quickly sank in. A couple of teens wandering BYU campus in the middle of the night wearing naught but bikinis would surely have warranted a very awkward phone call to our parents.

And just because it's fun to embarrass my friends on the internet:

Bridget, Julee, Kristen, and Rachel at EFY 1997

Flashback Friday: Origins, also Cootie Ghetto

Back in August, shortly after I created this blog, I found myself wondering what the heck I was going to write about week after week. My life doesn't seem very interesting most days.

At the same time, I was finally getting around to turning the guest room where our Japanese exchange student had lived for ten months back into the all-purpose storage/craft/gift-wrapping room that it was meant to be. I lack the capacity to simply shove boxes onto shelves without first establishing some semblance of order within them and determining their best organizational groupage category. Sifting through boxes of old photos and memorabilia, it occurred to me that my past is freckled with plenty of entertaining stories that would make great blog entries. Specifically, I was chuckling about some memories from church Girls' Camp in my teen years. But it seemed so random to just start writing about instances having no current relavancy. The solution to this conundrum, of course, would be to initiate a recurring flashback feature...possibly repeating on a regular day of the week. But I did not consider myself disciplined enough to establish the expectation to write a certain element each week, so I filed the idea away in my brain for future reference.

The very next day, I came across Bridget's first installment of her now well-established "Flashback Friday." And guess what: her first flashback was a story from the same Girls' Camp about which I was reminiscing when I had the same idea. I felt like I was in that twilighty show about that zone.

That was ten weeks ago. Now, with the help of NaBloPoMo forcing me into writing submission, I'm jumping on the Flashback Friday bandwagon (don't worry, Bridget invited others to participate, so I'm not stealing her idea (which she stole from me)).

So does that story count as today's flashback? It probably could, but I'd better keep the Girls' Camp tradition alive and tell you a story about a little piece of Heaven called the Cootie Ghetto.

All of us 16-year-olds were preparing to attend our 5th year of Girls' Camp, which is the year where for some reason we are allowed to be counselors--in relative charge of half a dozen or so impressionable pre-teens. Counselors work in pairs, and Bridget and I were a great match since we didn't take the whole thing too seriously and--while maintaining respect for the solemn--liked to gently push the boundaries of some of the more laughable processes.

A few months before camp, a meeting is held to announce the theme for the year, around which all camp activities, decorations, and lessons will be designed. Past themes included Wide World of Sports, Noah's Ark, and Saturday Morning Cartoons. The theme for 1997 would be...(drumroll)...The Game of Life. Each set of counselors must select the name of a board game by which their cabin group will be known. In order to avoid any hair-pulling brawls over the decidedly "best" games, we were assigned numbers and made our selections from their list in chronological order. Bridget and I were something like number 17 out of 18. As all the good choices were plucked from our grasp, we started thinking outside the box. There was no way we were going to try to create cool decorations and nametags etc. from a game such as Pick up Sticks or Backgammon when our friends had Candyland and Operation. It would be an exercise in futility, not to mention ensure that our campers would spend all their time with another (cooler) group. So we scoffed at their list and chose our own game: Cooties. The camp leaders weren't too supportive of our idea, but I guess we presented an acceptable argument.

Fast forward to our arrival at Camp Namanu. Before the girls who would be under our care arrived, Bridget and I had 9 hours to make our preparations, which mainly consisted of plastering our cabin with Cootie-related paraphernalia. To get the origins of Cootie Ghetto straight, I will forfeit my dignity and allow you to read directly from the embarrassing scrapbook I made:
The Camp leaders took issue with our haven of trash, and implored that we remove it. I recall we eventually reached a compromise where we cleaned up the actual garbage but were allowed to leave the more decorative duct tape and ghetto sign. Sometimes you have to make your own fun.

"COOTIES, Angela, COOTIES." I know this joke originated during our pre-camp preparations, but how? Help me out if you can, ridget.

----
Did you know that by replacing the word "choose" with "chews" you can create a catchy handout for almost any occasion? True. Just add any soft candy-type item and you've got yourself a winner.

This one was accompanied by a stick of gum. Very clever. Also good: "Chews" the Right with Snickers bar. If you want to make your handout extra cute, draw dots on the ends of every letter. And there's really no reason to over-think the rules of "quotation" marks. If you feel they are necessary, just "go" for it!

Holey me

For my 27th birthday last month, I got my ear pierced. My friend Lindsey suggested that I tell the story of my eight "after-market holes" mentioned previously. So here we go.

As a child, getting my ears piereced was a rite of passage. In my family, we had to wait until we reached the ripe old age of 12 in order to be considered ready for such a life-altering event. It was just like all the other age-bound privileges: baptism at 8, ears pierced at 12, date at 16, vote and smoke at 18, drink at 21...wait, scratch those last two. Anyway, I was a very lucky girl, because I was basically best friends with my cousin Rachel, who is 20 days older than me. It was determined that we could go get our ears pierced together, and the appointed date fell at least several days before my 12th birthday. Scandalous.

In case you don't know or haven't figured it out, I grew up as a Mormon. My mom doesn't approve of body piercing, mainly because it is a desecration of your "holy temple." I have never understood, then, why it is okay to pierce earlobes--one time each--but nowhere else. My first "unapproved" piercing was my upper left ear cartilage. It was very popular at the time, and Rachel (the aforementioned cousin) had one. I tended to get my fashion cues from her (she lived in Lake Oswego and her dad was a lawyer, what would you expect?). I must have been 18, because I didn't need parental approval, and I think Rachel accompanied me to a very nice piercing place--or at least she recommended it. That's about all I remember.

I got a second piercing in each earlobe during my freshman--er, only year at BYU. At that time I was attached at the hip to another awesome cousin, Emily. I did this on a whim at a shop in the mall akin to Claire's where they offer free ear piercing with those horrid needle guns. When I got my ceremonious first piercings at the same type of place, I do not remember the pain being as intense as it was this time. Professional piercing by hand with a needle is SO much gentler.

Number 6 is my favorite: the road-trip-belly-button-piercing. Also during college, Emily and I took a trip to Montana to visit my newly-married sister. Her husband is from Great Falls, and one of the guys in our ward was as well. We stuffed ourselves into his old and tiny Subaru Justy and drove for 10 hours. March 18, 2000 I entered Tattoo York's in Great Falls, MT to experience navel piercing in a not-so-classy establishment. My sister didn't approve, but her husband came in and provided moral support. This was the least painful piercing of all, probably because it was fat, not cartilage. The best part of this story is that I took the following picture with Jed, the piercer, and sent it to my mother along with a very sincere letter saying that I had met the most wonderful guy and felt like he might be "the one" and on and on like this. It was so fun to wait for that phone call!
Next I had my tragus pierced in Las Vegas while attending my first Curves International convention in November 2003. My very good friend Wiyaka, who was one of my Curves employees at the time, got her belly button pierced too.

When I started selling Cookie Lee jewelry as a hobby in 2005, I took out the body jewelry in my ears, as they didn't coordinate well with fashion jewelry. Over time, the holes closed up, which is very disappointing to me. I took out my navel piercing a few months after getting pregnant...bet you can guess why. Although I put it back in one day--just for fun--when I was 8 or 9 months along. I could get it through just fine, but it looked a little silly. Now my "mommy belly" isn't fit for that kind of adornment anymore.

This leads us to hole #8, in my right helix, which you can read about here. Perhaps I'll have a really great tattoo story one of these days. But I'm still seeking the perfect image worthy of permanent ink.