Mormon Girl/ Atheist Girl

As most of you probably know, I was raised Mormon. And now I'm a half-queer, liberal atheist. So, some things have changed.

Anyway, my history is a tangled knot of complicatedness which forms my very clear ideas about my life and I'm sure someone finds that interesting. At the very least, I always find that people really like it that I'm completely open and honest about my religious upbringing, mostly because Mormons are a secretive bunch and especially now that Bishop Richie Rich is running for president.

With regards to the latter, I always find myself bringing up my background as a way to provide my own context and legitimate knowledge and also because I'd rather we argue the facts and stop talking about magic underwear and secret temple orgies where they slaughter unicorns. At least one part of that is made up. Guess which! (Pst! It's not the unicorns.)

A couple of my friends have expressed the idea that I should write a book on my story, I guess a Mormon girl turned atheist is a unique one? I'd guess it's probably more common than you'd think. It's just no one talks about it. Well, this got me thinking that I do want to talk about it. I want to start writing my story and maybe that turns into a book and maybe it's just a cathartic experience and maybe someone gets some insight into a huge American institution which outsiders still find totally mysterious and weird.

Of course to me, Mormons are still like my dorky big sister. I get to make fun of them and crack jokes about lime jello and CTR rings. But what I don't want to come out of this are the people who just want to make fun of Mormons. Ask me any questions you want. Open up dialog. Criticize what you honestly don't agree with. But I won't tolerate any cruel and attacking comments.

You probably don't know that I get attacking comments already on this blog, mostly because I just delete them. I've also been considering not allowing anonymous comments anymore. To sum up, be nice. It won't hurt you to just be nice.

Here's the first chapter of my story:

Neither of my parents were raised Mormon.

My mom was actually raised Catholic and, until I studied religions in college, my only impressions of the Catholic church were my mom's, which were completely overblown and held on a higher pedestal than any other Catholic I've ever met. This is because whatever my mom does, she does with gusto. She thought the nuns were like the coolest women every to walk the planet and totally wanted to be one. When she was thinking about being baptized into the Mormon church at 19, she evidently went to confession every day for it. But that should explain the kind of Mormon she was. I say was because I'm pretty sure she doesn't leave the house anymore.

My dad, on the other hand, he just kind of goes with the flow. I don't know that he was raised any religion. When my grandma died, she had some kind of Christian funeral, but fuck if I know if it was Methodist or Lutheran or whatever. I'm pretty sure she never went to a church when she was alive. And my grandpa was an abusive alcoholic. My dad started smoking at like 12 or something and he's never had any intention of quitting whatsoever and he'll probably be like George Burns and smoke until he dies at the age of 157. He also has a large cup of coffee every single day, no matter if it's 120 degrees outside, which it gets damn close to where he lives in the desert.

Needless to say, he wasn't exactly a model Mormon. I wouldn't say he was "Jack" Mormon, because he gave up drinking and was baptized when they adopted me in 1980. But he was just bad enough to never have a temple recommend or receive certain levels of the priesthood (this is an area I actually don't have much of a memory about, being a girl I guess). But he has a calling as the choir director and so he goes every week and conducts the music. I also imagine that he still sleeps on the stand, his head bobbing around shamelessly, something I found mortifying as a young teen.

So, no, my parents weren't married in the temple and never got sealed, a fact which my mom tried to make him feel guilty about every single damn day. She did eventually go to the temple on her own, but that was before she was a prescription drug addict.

At this point, I guess I explain why some people go to the temple and some don't. But I think I'll leave that for another day, because I want to stick to my childhood for now.

My parents' marriage, that one tiny detail, was enough to set me enough apart from the rest of the Mormon kids, enough to tell me I just wasn't quite good enough, just didn't "partake in the same blessings." Which taught me pretty early on that there are hierarchies within this culture and, if you start at the bottom, you have to struggle to fit in. I was also an only child, something you can imagine is very odd for Mormons. My best friend, who I met when I was like 14, also came from a different family model and she also felt the sting of being different in the Mormon church.

I can't tell you how many times I was told how special I was. But I didn't want to be special; I wanted to fit in. I never would, so instead I made up for it by, at first, trying to be perfect. Then, when it was clear I wouldn't be perfect (for anyone, but especially my mother), I became a rebel, I got my own ideas and opinions, I questioned everything, and, most of all, I made people laugh. People tend to be less on guard and less disapproving when you're making them laugh. And I think my spunk bought me time to be rebellious and wild while I was questioning everything I'd been told. I really did get away with so much.

But more on that later.

the epic and severely overdue catchup post

Look at me! Posting on my blog! Hallelujah praise baby jeebus.

Seriously though, I can hardly be blamed for skipping writing for, oh I don't know, a MONTH, because life has been totally insane. Yesterday felt like the first relaxed and free day I've had in a million years.

First, I had that ten days in California, which was so jam packed and whirlwindy that I so needed a vacation when I got home (and more on that trip in a bit). But it was right back to work and then to a work retreat, which I planned and organized and which I'm not complaining about because I love doing that stuff, but was another busy, whirlwindy time.



And I felt like I was battling a bug before that trip and I kept on fighting it on through the whole next two weeks, during which time I helped coordinate an office reorganization (like physical reorganization, like office and cubicles and phone lines and shit) and which I worked on today as well.

Last Thursday was the denouement of sorts of my mystery flu. I woke up Thursday with an insane migraine and it just got worse and worse as the day progressed and I ran around and lugged boxes and shit. By the time I left work, I was dizzy and nauseated and felt like death, pure death. I started feeling a teeny better about 8 or so that night, slept and slept and woke up Friday feeling fantastic.

Soooo clearly I'd excised my demons. I've never had an exorcism, but I'm pretty sure that's what it feels like. Plus, imagine how powerful I am to have done it on myself. All bow to my power.

And like I said, I worked some hours this morning, but I finally have a moment to sit down and write. Ahhhhhh.

So, let me back up. The California trip! I'll just give you some highlights.

First bit of drama was at PDX airport. I had to check a bag, so I decided to just check in at the airport. I go check in, get my boarding pass, kiss my boyfriend goodbye, and get into the long line to security. I get up to the first TSA guard who checks to see if your ID and boarding pass match and he goes, "This isn't your boarding pass." And then I had a heart attack. Turns out, the lady at Alaska switched my boarding pass with some chick named Rachel (which is funny, because that was my name for the two months before I was adopted, though I doubt TSA cares about that). Luckily, one of the guards took pity on my about-to-bawl-if-I-miss-my-flight face and took my to the desk to get my real pass and let me cut back into my place in line. Shout out to the guard at PDX! Sweetheart.

And I made my flight.

You all know I was there for my cousin's wedding right? The best thing was renting this deliciously pretty lens for the trip. I now must make this lens my own. I must. It's my precious and I can feel body deteriorating without it. I hate my other lenses now, my shitty, pathetic lenses. The losers.



So first, I did several things all wrong. I was trying to save money because I'll need some dough when I go to India in December, so I didn't rent a car or get a hotel room. And I know my cousin kept telling me I wasn't a problem and wasn't getting in the way (and, admittedly, I did clean house and make drinks and food, so I think I was a big help), but if I'd sprung for a hotel, I would've been one less body in her house. And I really really really should've found a way to rent a car. It would've been helpful on my cousin, but it would've also given me more freedom and I could've spent more time with other friends and fam. But oh well. Live and learn right?

The other thing I should've done was find a way to take my boyfriend with me. Because the last trip down with a guy was so disastrous, I had decided a long ago that I wouldn't take a date to the wedding. But then as Eminem and I were doing great, I realized that I did want everyone to meet him and he won't have another chance for a long while. Plus, I missed him like crazy and I really did need someone there for me, someone to keep me sane when I was getting super stressed out. He was great and was texting me sweetness the whole time. But I really did need him there. But I lived, so, oh well.

I did get to my best friend's house in the desert and got to meet my new nephew Lucas, aka the youngest old man in the whole world with the puffiest, pinchiest cheeks you will ever ever see.



I really wish I'd gotten more time with them, but I will get to see them at Christmas. At which point, Lucas will probably be a foot taller and riding a bike and reading and shit. Sigh. Such is life.

I did get to see my dad, though, and I was struck by just how OLD he's gotten in the last year. The man always looked like Einstein, but now he looks like Mark Twain, his hair is so white! He and I also used to make fun of old people who would read all the signs out loud. Yeah, he does that now. He shuffled around the mall with me and he announced all the signs. 50% off sale. Hot Topic. AT&T. Pretty Nail.

This last story I hesitate to share and I'm holding back many of the details until it unfolds. Okay, here goes:

My aunt (the mother of the bride) is alllll about geneology. She's like way into it and has done tons of work on our family. Anyway, so this aunt was giving me a ride and she needed some part on her car, so she and I are sitting in the waiting room of a Subaru (you know, the official state car of Oregon) dealership and chatting as two ladies are wont to do. We got to talking about my biological family (I'm adopted) and I told her how years ago, I found out my parents' names, etc, but never could find any more info. I also haven't opened my records or anything.

So she pulls out her iPad, signs into her Ancestry.com account, types away, and after a little search, finds my mother. Seriously. And right there on the screen is a photo of my biological mom and sister. Right there. And I they looked like me, which is the craziest feeling if you've never ever seen what a blood relative looks like. I'm not sharing that photo yet because I just feel like that's wrong somehow. I'll explain in a sec.

So then it took off from there. Turns out my mom died when I was little, though I don't know why yet and I'm going to order her death certificate to find out. we did a ton of research on my family and I have a notebook full of genealogical history from my mom's side. And then we found my sister, like I have an address and a recent photo of her and everything. From some of the info we found, I think she's aware of me, but the ball is clearly in my court because she'd have no way of know who I am. So, I'm going to write her a letter. I admit that I haven't even started it and while I don't want to waste much time, I do want to write it carefully and find the right words. That's partly why I want to wait to share the photo; I don't want to find her through this blog, because I want to contact her myself.

Here's a baby picture of me instead:

Crazy right? The best way to describe how I'm feeling is cautiously excited. I'm nervous to be sure, but way more curious than anything. Wish me luck!

I'm also coming up on two big events. Next week, I'll turn 32 and Eminem and I will have dated for six months. I'm totally happy about both.

Aaaaand scene.

Lindsey & John: The Wedding

Guess what? I was in California last week for my cousin's wedding. It was an insane whirlwind of a trip, which I'm sure I'll blog about later, but for now, the dessert first!

I have many, many photos of the bridal shower and the wedding prep and rehearsal, but I know what you really want are the wedding photos.



The wedding was small and lovely. Very vintage and beachy and sweet. And everyone cried.

A Hobbes Story: Scratchy Scratchy

Last year, after Jete´ died, I bought Hobbes a scratch pad because he was scratching everything in sight. The scratch pad is meant to hang from a door handle and, at first, he wanted nothing to do with it.   But when I put it on the floor, the boy fell in love and that scratch pad is now his very favorite thing on the planet.

He not only scratches that thing, he plays with it, he cuddles with it, he practically makes love to the thing.

A couple weeks ago, I hung it up while I was vacuuming and forgot to take it back down. That night, I awoke to the sound of a cat making the most horrendous sounds you could ever imagine a cat could make. These sounds were worse than a female cat in heat. They sounded like he must be dying some horrid death, like it was the end of the world and Hobbes was keening its very end. Turns out, he was upset he couldn't get to his beloved scratch pad.

Then the other day, I was getting dressed and dropped my skirt on top of the scratch pad. Not 15 seconds passed before Hobbes ran over in a panic meowing about the end of the world yet again. You guessed it. He was upset I'd covered his favorite thing. I moved my skirt and he instantly laid on top on the thing, I assume to protect it from further capture or assault.

Again, special needs child, that one.

The Men in My Life

Have I mentioned I'm the best daughter ever? I am.

A month ago (ish) was my pop's 65th birthday. To give you a better understanding of my dad, he told me, "I'm a officially old." Yup. That's my dad.

Anyway, that's a big birthday and so I wanted to do something special for him but I live all the way up in Portland and he's in Southern California and I'm now, how you say, rich. He also hates presents. My mother fills their house with enough crap to fill the Louvre so the man doesn't want or need any "stuff."

So I thought and I thought and with the help of a few key people, decided I'd send him a pie. Because he likes pie and it would be an unusual gift and I love the unusual. Still, finding a place that both made pie and would deliver was a challenge and I didn't want to ship one myself because that pie would be decimated, I guarantee it, and I didn't want my dad to get a mangled pile of pie in a Fed-Ex box on his birthday.

As you've probably guessed, I did finally find a bakery in his small town that would make a pie and deliver it for a not small but not exhorbitant fee and had it sent to his work on his birthday (after confirming he'd be working and after calling his lab to make sure all his coworkers knew it was his big SIX FIVE and would embarass him thoroughly.

On the big day, I get a call from him, "Did you send me a pie?" I guess the bakery didn't include the message from me like I'd requested, but I love that he figured out it was me. He also didn't figure out that I was the one who told his coworkers because I guess he yelled at my mom that night. He was telling me what a narc she was the next day to which I had to gleefully and maniacally take the blame.

So many evil laughs were had.

Guess which one is my dad. 

The other day, Eminem and I were driving around Portland and we saw this guy walking on the side of the road. He wasn't limping exactly, more like walking very very carefully and he was carring a sleeping bag.

And Eminem goes, "He's not wearing shoes!" Which explained the careful walking.

And it's not like this guy seemed homeless. He was fairly clean-looking, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and the bare feet of course. Besides, most homeless that don't find or steal shoes would get big calluses on their feet I would assume. So if this guy was homeless, he was new at it.

So we started trying to figure out this dude's story. Maybe he was camping and was attacked my bears and escaped only with his sleeping bag. Nope, unlikely in the middle of Portland. And then I had it! He cheated on his wife and she threw him out, shoeless, and threw a sleeping bag at him from the upstairs window as a final move. Can't you picture it? It made total sense.

And Eminem goes, "I will always wear socks."

He's lucky he's so cute, I tell ya what.

Nonetheless, as you can imagine, we've been doing really great. I just never thought someone like him existed.

Yesterday, he made me gluten free fried chicken and I was watching him cook (something I've always found so attractive in a man) and thinking about how attentive he is and how conscientious he is of my dietary issues and just how he's so smart and funny and sweet and pretty much totally fucking wonderful, and I started crying.  I was just overwhelmed with happiness. I rarely cry when I'm happy. I really hope he's not reading right now because so far? He's everything I've ever wanted and I can't believe I'm actually saying that and I'm blushing as I type that right now. But I can't help myself. 

I've told you how much I love my cat right? My sweet, dumb Hobbes boy? I do. I love that big lug. But last week I killed him. I had to. The little shit.

I awoke to find that the brat had peed on my couch and a bunch of my clothes, which he's never done before. Needless to say, I was pissed. Literally.

It turned out okay. I washed everything in vinegar and nothing smells, and Hobbes hid from my wrath for a couple days.

But then a week later, I was brushing some fleas off Hobbes (He had an outbreak. I medicated. Is okay now.) as he was on my lap and I guess one must have bit him because he freaked out, tried to roll over quickly to bite it, got his claw caught in the couch, screamed like he was dying, and peed all over me.

Yup. That happened. So now I have a cat that gets scared and pees everywhere. Awesome.

And then today I discovered he'd peed all over my backpack too. Was he scared? Upset at me for spending the night elsewhere last night? I don't fucking know. And what the hell will happen when I travel? Will he pee all over everything? Do I need to cover my whole apartment in plastic? Fucking fuck fuck.

Damn cat. Don't ever tell me I don't know what it's like to have a special needs child. I have Hobbes.

Not a guilty face

Photo of the Day: Peony

Remember last week(ish) when I showed you that lovely Chrysanthemum that Eminem brought me? Well here's one of the peonies.

I ask you, is there anything more lovely than a peony? There's a reason that Feng Shui says to place peonies in the love corner of your bedroom. There's a reason that in the Chinese Opera, Peony Pavillion, a young girl falls asleep under peonies and has a dream that drives her to die of lovesickness.

You can have your long-stemmed roses. I'll take peonies, thanks.

Photo of the Day: Chrysanthemum

A few weeks ago, Eminem and I celebrated three whole wonderful months together. Truth be told, I can't believe it's been only three months, but still. It's been lovely and I don't think either of us can believe just how lovely.

Anyway, homeboy brought me my favorite flowers for our date: Peonies and chrysanthemums. Seriously. What man remembers your favorite flowers and then brings you some? What man? I ask you. I'd never before met such a man.

This is one of the chrysanthemums. Is there a cooler flower? I love how explosive it looks while it's petals are soft and almost ethereal in opacity. Next time? The peonies!