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

Time Passes: Diane Helen DeLucia Jensen

My Dear Reader,

I apologize for being a day behind; I was traveling yesterday and couldn't get to a computer. I also apologize for being too late.

I've been meaning to write this post for a very long time, because I believe that I have a unique experience that, once shared, can comfort others. I have delayed writing it because I know that putting my feelings into words will be very painful for me, as it is a topic that has already hurt me very much. As I hardly know what to do with my own feelings in this case, I will understand, Gentle Reader, if you feel the same way. Let's get through this together.

I've mentioned that my grandmother, Madre's mother, suffered from Alzheimer's. It's a fairly publicized disease, so I'm sure that you know about it. What you don't know is what it feels like on the outside, because experience is the only way to learn that truth. I hope that you never do.

I must start out by telling you that my grandmother is one of the greatest influences on my life. In fact, both of my grandmothers are. Throughout my life, I was always very grateful for the women that my Heavenly Father gave me to be my parents' mothers. All of my Madre's family lived within thirty minutes of where I grew up, so I was lucky enough to spend a lot of time with Madre's mom. She is half-Italian, and her heritage has contributed greatly to the culture of my extended family. I remember making raviolis with her by hand as a child. I remember having chicken caccitore every Christmas. I loved how Italian my grandmother was, and I always wished that I had more Italian in my blood, if only to be more like her. She was the successful mother of seven, raising each to value God, family, and virtue over everything else. She was also an artist, who sent me a beautiful water-colored birthday card each year that she had made herself, just for the occasion. She spent thirty years directing musicals for the local Mormon community, having such a great impact that you could tell at a glance who was in my grandmother's stake and who wasn't by their passion for the arts. She believed that children made the world better, and had a rich, personal relationship with each of her thirty-four grandchildren, making each of them feel loved and wanted. She never stood still, always working, always fighting in her own way to better the world around her. She was so beautiful, and so strong. She was everything that I wanted to be. I cannot express to you how much I admire that woman. The only other person that I have ever admired as much has been my Padre's mother, who shares many of the same qualities. These two women are my heroes.

I didn't believe HermanaMayor when she first told me that my hero had contracted a crippling disease. I didn't want to believe it, and I tried to deny the reality for as long as possible. It wasn't until I watched a movie with my grandmother and had the same conversation five times in as many minutes that I admitted the truth to myself. She was slipping. By this time, I was going to school in Utah, while she was living in California, still in the home where she raised my Madre. I only saw her once or twice a year, each time getting a snapshot of a vanishing soul. She would ask the same questions over and over again, never satisfied with the answers. She was constantly agitated and anxious, moving from one place to another, never sitting down for more than a second, always acting as if she was awaiting some horrifying news. In short, she was in constant agony.

My grandfather was always there for her, and when asked, he told us that his wife of fifty years had done so much to care for him in his lifetime that he was humbly grateful for the opportunity to return the favor. There are few in this life who are called upon to suffer as greatly as he has. He lived with the pain that I only came to terms with on a semi-annual basis--watching her suffer without the power to help her. Soon, she was unable to take care of her own hygiene, and he dressed her up in a baseball cap to hide her unkempt hair. Her yellow, greasy nails grew so long that they looked like talons on an animal. In a few years, she was no longer my beautiful, tidy grandmother. She was not the strong woman who faced challenges head-on without showing a hint of fear. She was an impostor, someone who has taken over my grandmother's brain and was holding her for ransom deep inside the recesses of her mind. A harsh blow came the day that PetiteSoeur and my brothers went to stay with them for a day. She turned to my grandfather and said, "There are kids in the house," in the same manner as if she were informing my grandfather that a man in a ski mask had a gun to her neck. He told her that my siblings were okay, that they were her grandchildren, and this seemed to calm her down a bit, though she obviously didn't understand.

I stood there across the street that day, watching her hover around my grandfather as he was putting up Christmas lights, and was unable to stop myself from crying. PetiteSoeur hugged me and comforted me for what seemed like forever. It was just too much. This was my grandmother. This was my hero. She was the strongest person that I knew, and she was gone forever, her soul trapped somewhere inside a rapidly deteriorating shell. It would get worse as time passed, and only weeks ago she was confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak or even chew food, and being spoon fed baby food and Ensure by my wonderful aunts. How are you supposed to handle that? How are you supposed to help her, like fixing her glasses when they fall down as she gazes vacantly at the television, without dying inside?

I'm not a crier. I don't cry in movies, though I feel moved, or anything like that; it's just not the way I express most things. I especially don't cry in front of people, much less on the curb in front of a stranger's house. But I knew, as well as my family, that we were watching her die, and there were a lot more tears to come. We also knew that out of all of the people in the world, she deserved this the least. She didn't deserve to be in so much pain, to be so confused and alone, not when she had her crowning achievement, her family, standing around her with outstretched arms. But if I know God, and I do, I would think that He wouldn't have done this unless there was something that we were supposed to learn from it. And if I know my grandmother, and I do, I know that she would give her whole soul if she knew that it would be for our benefit. I don't pretend to know what the lesson is, but it's there. I know it is.

My grandmother, Diane Helen DeLucia Jensen, died on Saturday, January 17th, 2009 in the arms of her loving, devoted husband, Willis Boyd Jensen. I had the great honor of attending her funeral on January 23rd, to see her for one last time, and to go to the place where she was finally put to rest. My brothers were her pallbearers, along with my uncles and grandfather. It was a strange experience, from watching my uncles cry to seeing how confused the little cousins were with all of the sadness around them. My youngest cousin is only a year old, and I feel a pain in my heart thinking of how they will never know her, and how my future husband and children will never know her either. But the funeral really helped. We were able to celebrate her life, and we were given an opportunity to truly mourn her passing. HermanaMayor felt my grandmother's presence there, and I felt a spirit of love and companionship that permeated the entire ritual.

I was able to spend some time with my sisters and my cousins Rachel, Katie, Julia, and Ciara and discuss all of this over lunch, and let me tell you that we all share the love, admiration, and respect for my grandmother that I have expressed to you. We talked about how we, meaning my entire family, had given everything we had to help her, but it wasn't enough to cure her, and it barely scratched the surface when it came to repaying her for her service to us. That said, it was comforting to know that her suffering was over, and that she was in the arms of the Supreme Healer, her Creator, and that she was being taken care of. We still miss her, though. Most bitterly.

My greatest comfort stems from my faith in the prophet Joseph Smith and his teachings, as well as the teachings of the prophets that followed him. They have taught us that family bonds, through blood or marriage, are stronger than death. They are so strong, in fact, that they remain in tact after civilizations have crumbled and millennia go by. This means that not only is my grandfather still married to his wife, but that I still have two grandmothers, and nothing can take Diane Helen DeLucia Jensen away from me. Our bond is stronger than this separation, though it will be a long, long while before I see her again. But I will. We all will. And I know, without any doubt, that the next time I see her she will be stronger, working even harder, and even more beautiful than she was in this world.

Even as I write this, I wonder if I don't know what a tiny part of that lesson is supposed to be: love. If I have learned anything from this experience, besides the meaning of suffering, it is the meaning of love. Watching my grandfather sacrifice everything for a wife he could never heal, I have learned that romantic love is more than a physical attraction or an enduring obsession. It is essentially loyalty, but of the highest and purest quality. It takes countless years of careful nurturing to develop, and though it is found at the greatest cost, it also produces the greatest, sweetest rewards. If you aren't willing to sacrifice everything, even yourself, and if you don't get the same level of sacrifice in return, it isn't love. This goes for every other kind of love as well, one of the most important lessons being that love is so precious and so necessary that we need to do whatever it takes to surround ourselves in it, at any price. The purest and best kinds of love will give you a harvest of the price you paid, a hundred fold. A thousand fold, perhaps. That's what my grandparents did, and that's how they created the kind of family I am very blessed to have.

It's really a miracle.

In loving and solemn memory of the greatest grandmother and grandchild could have,

-Cecily Jane

The Jolly Green [g]od

My Dear Reader,

Our celebrity class is one of the most morally corrupt groups of people on Earth. We all know it; the evidence is there every time we turn on the television, or read the newspaper, or get on the internet. When it comes to morality in the celebrity class, things are topsy-turvy with respect to the rest of the nation: deviance is the norm, morality is the minority. In this day and age, you have to go looking for the decent people among the celebrities. We watch them spit on religion, drink until they vomit, sleep around, cheat on their spouses, divorce-remarry-divorce, do drugs, beat their girlfriends, and break the law in more ways than we knew were possible.

So why do we let these people tell us what to do?

Why do we let these people tell us how to vote or what to buy?

Why do we let these people tell us that we are bad people of we don't do what they want us to do?

I bet you could come up with plenty of ways that these same celebrities (and remember, the more morally corrupt ones are the ones who get the most attention) influence us. But recently these people have come off their sets and catwalks and have planned a new way to get into our heads, and it just flabbergasts me. They have decided that they are all going to come together and tell us that we are bad people if we don't, as they say, "go green."

Now, I'm not anti-green. In fact, I believe that one thing The Holy Bible teaches us is that God gave us the Earth and charged us to take care of it (Genesis 1:26-28, 2:15). I just think that there are limits. Bruce Wayne knows what I'm talking about:

Yeah, that's right: people come first, lady. You tell her, Bruce.

Anyway, without debating the merits of the green movement itself, I have to say that I've been concerned when I see that those who are the most vocal about going green just happen to be the worst offenders in the morality department. It probably wouldn't bother me if they didn't get all high and mighty about it, as if they had the credibility to tell us the difference between right and wrong. According to them, if you don't buy the right light bulbs or put your thermostat they they want you to, you're a bad person. It's like getting a lecture on the merits of chastity from a person who is in the act of committing a bank robbery. No thanks, buddy. I'm not taking directions from that moral compass.

After all, the green movement isn't a substitute for the kind of moral structure that is traditionally found in religion. There's not some jolly green god that says that it's okay to drive drunk if you do it in a hybrid. These are the people that told us not to judge them on their choices. These are the people who told us that we weren't allowed to tell them how to live their lives. If we did that, we were bad people. So when did it become okay for them to judge us, and say that we're bad people because we don't all have solar panels?

Whether global warming is was it's supposed to be or not, it's incredible (read: unbelievable) that we give certain people a free pass, only to let them come back and wag their fingers at us. I say that we don't let them. I say that we make our decisions on our own, and not because they told us what to do. I say that if they ignore our way of life, we're free to ignore theirs, if we want.

Of course, I also think that they should have just done the right thing in the first place, but that's just me.

Oh, and am I the only one who's gotten sick of the word "green" already?

Regards, best wishes, and making good choices at all times, in all things, and in all places,

-Cecily Jane

Country First

My Dear Reader,

Out of respect for the historic inauguration of the first man of color as the President of the United States of America, I have decided to postpone the post I was planning to make today, which is of a decidedly different nature than the festivities which are taking place in Washington D.C. today.

Let it be said that despite my personal political leanings, I feel honored to see the day when the thickest, highest color barrier on Earth was shattered, and I congratulate President Barack Obama for making it happen. You have earned your day, Mr. President.

Regards, best wishes, and a renewed commitment to equality,

-Cecily Jane