Short Story "Blind Date"

My Dear Reader,

I apologize for missing my post last Tuesday. The truth is that I found out about the tragic loss of a friend just before I sat down to write my post and, well, it just didn't work out. I hope that you will instead enjoy a light-heearted story I wrote over the weekend. I often write stories to help me get over things, and this story acted as a kind of therapy to help me through an unrelated (and essentially trivial) circumstance. I'll see you again on Tuesday.

"Blind Date"

By Cecily Jane
The way that Wilbur’s sweaty head shone in the yellow porch light made it resemble a serving of mashed potatoes, smothered in butter and surrounded by a meager helping of black gravy. Sweat was seeping out of his hands, so that salty beads were casually weaving their way down the stems of the carnations he was holding. He could run right now and no one would know, except her. Even then, she would probably think that he hadn’t come at all. He could go right back to work tomorrow and tell Cheryl that everything had worked out just as terribly as he had warned her that they would, and then give her enough disappointing details to make her buy it. Heaven knew that his brain was concocting a new horrendous scenario a second.

It took him a full five minutes before he mustered the courage to dry his hands on his khaki pants, leaving a thick, dark streak in their wake. He knocked on the door. The sharp yapping of a dog started before Wilbur could bring his knuckles back to the flowers, and it was the kind of barking that came from a dog that would bite.

He was opening the door to the passenger side of his Buick before he knew it. What did she say her name was? He should write it down somewhere, just in case. She had a hard time getting in at first, and had to recline the seat a little to fit. He was relieved to see that she was about as heavy as he was; one less thing that he had to worry about. He usually reclined the seat a little, too. He waited for her to buckle her seatbelt before he started the car and pulled out to the empty street.

“You didn’t put your blinker on,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your blinker—you’re supposed to put it on when you merge into traffic.”

“Oh.”

There was silence in the car before Wilbur managed a strained, “So how do you know Cheryl?”

“We used to work together,” she said. Wilbur could see a scowl start to form on her face.”

“So where do you work now?” he said.

“At the DMV.”

“Doing what?”

“Drive tests.”

“Ah,” Wilbur said, making sure that he had turned his headlights on and checking his mirrors an extra time. He could tell by her voice that she really wanted to work just about anywhere else.

“How do you know her?” she finally asked.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Cheryl.”

Wilbur gulped loudly. “I work with her now.”

“At the capitol?”

“That’s right.”

The wheel was starting to get slippery in Wilbur’s hands, and he hoped that she wouldn’t notice as her eyes periodically darted towards his speedometer. As they went down a hill, he saw her clutch the armrest out of the corner of his eye. He checked his mirrors again.

The stop at the light wasn’t as smooth as Wilbur meant it to be, and he closed his eyes for a second so he wouldn’t see her shake her head at him.

“It’s green,” she said. She hadn’t loosened her grip on the armrest.

“Oh, thanks.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” she more demanded than requested.

“Well, I . . . I . . .” The wheels squeaked a little.

“Are you purposely staying in that van’s blind spot?”

“No, I . . .”

“Slow down! You’re going forty in a construction zone!” she shrieked.

“Um . . .”

“Did you just change lanes in an intersection?”

He let off the gas, but the car kept going faster, and faster, and somehow the steering wheel melted away as he tried to put on the break, but the car was screeching out of control even louder than his date was. And then, though the car was speeding up, time seemed to slow down. He saw the intersection come closer and closer, but he couldn’t do anything about it. They were doing to die.

When the blue Buick collided with the side of the Chevy, Wilbur could hear the scratching of metal against metal. He could smell the burned rubber. He could even feel the impact throw him against his seatbelt. But more than anything, he could hear the incessant screaming that came from the passenger seat. If only he could close his ears.

***

Wilbur opened his eyes to find himself still on the front porch, holding carnations and sweating like a pig. It had all been in his head—the woman, her job, the crash. Realizing how long he had been holding his breath, Wilbur took a deep breath and hailed a cab.

-Cecily Jane

Sister Moments: When Your Little Sister Gets Married before You . . .

My Dear Reader,

When your little sister gets married before you do, you have to be a bridesmaid.

And when you have to be a bridesmaid, you have to go buy a dress.

I know what you may be expecting: that I'd be jealous because my younger sister is getting married first. The truth is that I'm not really the jealous type. It's also true that PetiteSoeur is going to marry a guy that I'd very much like to have as a brother-in-law, and while I won't go into the -they're-so-good-for-each-other brand of mush, believe me when I say that I could. And it's an honor to be bridesmaid, of course. I just find the whole process a lot less comfortable than I expected. And I hate buying dresses.

I'm just not cut out for this, I think. It involves two things that I hate most: being told what to wear, and wearing a dress for longer than one hundred and eighty minutes. Oh yeah, and there's the whole "look good for the pictures" aspect of it, which could get pretty ugly. I'm the kind of girl who likes to watch musicals, read Jane Austen, and bake things. I leave all of the other girly things to my sisters, and they generally have no problem picking up the slack. Unfortunately, there's no time for that when a wedding is involved.

I don't want you to think the wrong thing, Gentle Reader: PetiteSoeur isn't any bridezilla, not by a long shot. But when one sister is the bride and the other is the maid of honor, and you are the kind of person who doesn't get pushed around, there tends to be a lot of tongue-biting that goes on, from each side. And when the bride, the maid of honor, and the mother of the bride have conflicting ideas about things, the last place you want to be is in a dressing room, half naked and listening to some overly-fluffy eighties faux-music. Can you die from an overdose of estrogen? I just might.

Of course, I have considered that the problem behind this mess might be my unwillingness to let go of PetiteSoeur, but there's not enough time to worry about that. I have a wedding to be part of. In three months.

Regards, best wishes, and solidarity,

-Cecily Jane

I Say We Boycott!

My Dear Reader,

As you may recall, I posted my English wish list a few months ago, chock full of some things we could add to our lovely language in order to make it even better than it is. It has also occurred to me, however, that we might improve our language just as well by taking some things as we might by putting some things in. And so, Gentle Reader, I will now present to you a small list of linguistic habits that we should boycott, if only for the greater good of our language.

BOYCOTT:

• Rhyming "friend" with "end."
  
  I believe that we've reached that statute of limitations on this one. It has been used so many times that it's been worn out. This makes no sense at all, since according to Rhymezone.com there are somewhere around fifty other words that rhyme either "friend" or "end." I don't care if "you're such a great friend and our friendship will never end" is a good sentiment or not; you don't always have to express the same feelings with the same exact vocabulary! Otherwise, we wouldn't have word like "portend," for one. And by the way, here's some advice just in case you happen to be an aspiring poet or lyricist: explaining something that has been explained the same way before in exactly the same way equals bad writing.
  


• "Putting a smile on his/her face."
  
  Ugh. This phrase is so sappy that I feel all sticky inside whenever I hear or read it. And I mean sticky in the worst possible way. On the inside. Not only is it over-used, essentially meaningless, and the earmark of a pansy, but it makes less sense the more you think about it. After all, doesn't using "put" imply force? Physical force, even? Because when you put a tray of assorted cheeses on a table, you are physically forcing the cheese to be in that tray and on that table. And if somebody reached over to you, grabbed both sides of your mouth, and forced them into an upward position, wouldn't you be the opposite of happy? I don't know about you, but anytime someone tells me how to smile I get that tingly feeling that always accompanies a very strong urge to punch the offender's teeth out. I mean, how dare they try to tell me how to feel? But maybe I'm over-analyzing that one.
  
• "Prego," "preggers," "baby bump," and the like
  
  Okay, I know that this might make me sound a little snobby, but I honestly believe that children have the right to be treated with respect, even before they are born. I also fear for anyone who uses these words to describe their own child(ren)-to-be, for I would think that s/he probably doesn't know that pregnancy results in babies and not American Girl dolls. It is also possible that the person in question does not know the difference between a new born and Samantha Parkington. I can only imagine that delivery day would only bring disappointment for all involved.

That's all for now; feel free to add more boycott items in the comments!

Regards, best wishes, and languistic sanity,

-Cecily Jane

The Mormon-Other Faith Dictionary, Young Women Edition

My Dear Reader,

If you would like to learn a little about Mormonism, or of you are looking for a way to explain your faith to those who believe otherwise, I have compiled a list of some terms and explanations that should ease the process. This first batch contains the definitions that relate to the Young Women of the Church, and there is more to come.

The Mormon-Other Faith Dictionary: Young Women Edition

Deacon: N. 1. The lowest office in the clergy, an unpaid position. 2. A Mormon male who is generally twelve or thirteen years old and is found worthy to be ordained into the office. 3. Someone of the male sex who is unbelievably immature.

Teacher: N. 1. The second-lowest office in the clergy, also unpaid, and rarely requires teaching. 2. A Mormon male who is generally fourteen or fifteen years old and is found worthy to be ordained into the office. 3. One who teaches, as in a lesson.

Priest: N. 1. The office higher than Teacher in the clergy, also unpaid. 2. A Mormon male who is generally sixteen or seventeen years old and is found worthy to be ordained into the office and is in charge of things.

Young Women: N. 1. Mormon women who are older than eleven and younger than eighteen. 2. The organization which encompasses these young women, offering a compulsory one-hour meeting on Sundays and compulsory one-to-two-hour meetings one night during the week.
Beehive: N. 1. A Mormon female who is twelve or thirteen years old. 2. Someone of the female sex who is unbelievably immature, esp. if she is irritatingly peppy and talks too much.
Mia Maid: N. 1. A Mormon female who is fourteen or fifteen years old, "Mia" being the initials the old name of their organization, the Mutual Improvement Association.
Laurel: N. 1. A Mormon female who is sixteen or seventeen years old, esp. if she believes that she rules the world.
Calling: N. An unpaid position in the Church, usually at the local level. Every Mormon over the age of eighteen is supposed to have one calling or another, though some get them earlier. All callings are technically considered equal, despite the fact that the church is comprised of imperfect people living in a class-conscious environment.
Beehive Presidency: N. Beehives who have absolutely no authority or responsibility whatsoever, except for giving ideas about selected activities. This position exists primarily so the beehives will stop whining about adults running and ruining their lives.

Mia Maid Presidency: N. Mia Maids who have absolutely no authority or responsibility whatsoever, except for planning two activities a month. This position exists primarily so the Mia Maids will stop whining about how lame the activities are.
Laurel Presidency: N. Laurels who have the responsibility of planning activities, conducting meetings, and deciding who gets to pray. This position exists primarily in the hope that these girls will learn something about responsibility.
EFY: N. Especially For Youth, a week-long Church camp held at college campuses across the nation in which the more pretentious Mormon youth can be among their own kind. Attending EFY is very desirable for Mormon youth who want to be around other Mormon youths, but is even more desirable for parents who want their Mormon teens to see what good kids look like.
Seminary: N. 1. A four-year-long program in which Mormon high schoolers are forced to take time out of their daily schedule (usually during the "sleep" portion) and go to a class five times a week, with the main purpose to encourage them to finally do some serious studying of the Scriptures.
Regards, best wishes, and teen girls,
-Cecily Jane