The Many Uses of a Fork

I've decided that every week I go to group therapy, I will post my favorite quote of the night. This week's knee-slapper, said oh-so-casually: "I use a fork to eat with. She uses a fork to stab me in the eyes."

The Color Purple (the color, not the book, which I have never read)

On Friday I was making dinner, and my friend Lacey was sitting in my living room. Seemingly out of nowhere, Lacey said, "When I was younger, I didn't like the color purple, but now I like it."

I stopped what I was doing and thought, "Lacey has read The Color Purple? Maybe she's just seen the movie. Either way, it doesn't seem like a story she would like." Then I looked over and saw that Lacey was looking at my new shoes: a pair of purple Chucks.

Aren't they awesome?

I laughed and said, "At first I thought you were talking about the book The Color Purple."

Lacey laughed and said, "Oh, Anna, you know I don't read!"

Postmodern

I started going to a new group therapy a month ago. Last week, the therapist, a Native American medicine man (who also has a PhD in psychology from Cornell, for all you skeptics), worked with me for about an hour. He said that I am tricky to work with because I am so postmodern.

Postmodernism, as defined by the OED: "a style and concept in the arts characterized by distrust of theories and ideologies and by the drawing of attention to conventions."

A few days ago, I told my best friend, Shaant, what the therapist had said, and Shaant said, "I want to be postmodern! Can I be postmodern?" I said, "Don't worry, you're at least as postmodern as I am." Clearly he did not understand that this is a negative attribute in the pursuit of spiritual healing.

This week's quote from group: "Here's a tissue for your issues." I thought it was funny.

Sweetness Follows

Every Thursday morning at 9:45, three little elderly women come to the Provo Temple to do initiatories. I am privy to this as I spend more than half of my shift in initiatory, either organizing patrons at the desk or performing the ordinance. We were surprised and concerned last month when we did not see Sisters Nelson, Jenkins, and Ellsworth for three weeks. They rejoined us last week, to everyone's relief.

Sister Nelson is easily the strongest and healthiest of the three. She calls around 8 a.m. on Thursdays to schedule their appointment and drives them all to the temple. Her husband died a month ago, hence their absence.

Sister Jenkins is usually the first to shuffle slowly in by herself. She has poofy salt-and-pepper hair and her eyelids droop with age so that I can hardly see the whites of her eyes. I have never heard her say a single word or seen her smile, but today she leaned close to my chest to look at my name tag and then looked up, with her face close to mine, as though she were memorizing me.

Sister Ellsworth is my favorite. She had a stroke--I don't know when--she just says, "I had a stroke, but I can still come," and I am sure that Thursday morning initiatories are the highlight of her week. She thanks me every time I put my arm around her to help her stand and walk from one chair to the next for each part of the ordinance. I can't tell if she recognizes me from week to week, but she looks at me as though I'm someone special, and I wonder how she can think I'm special when she doesn't even know me. Her eyes look deep into mine and lock me in place so I cannot look away, and I know she sees me as a daughter of God, and I wonder how she can see that when I can't feel it.

Good Idea, Bad Idea

Good Idea: Moving to the front of the class when the Sunday School President asks everyone to move forward.
Bad Idea: Standing on your chair and snapping at the rest of the class for not moving forward. Telling Steve you don't care that it's his birthday--he still can't sit in the back.

Good Idea: Eating a bacon cheeseburger.
Bad Idea: Eating a bacon cheeseburger before going to water aerobics.

Famous!

In my dreams. Last night I dreamed that I was famous (the dream never specified why) and Tyra Banks was interviewing me in my home.

I lived in my current condo, but in the dream I owned it so it was decorated quite differently. The color scheme was based on the watercolor of Venice that my uncle painted for me: brick red, blue, and gold, with dark wood finishes. I had a rocking chair with one of those ottomans that rocks with the chair (I told Tyra it may be a little grandma-ish, but it relaxes me and I've always wanted one). I had a huge flat screne TV and a surround sound system from Bose. I lived there alone. Almost. There was a cat named Manhattan, which is my first choice name for a daughter someday. Not sure why I had a cat since I have no desire to ever own a pet of any kind. My apartment was also spotless, which was probably the most unrealistic part of the dream.

As I showed Tyra around my condo, I told her what a typical day is like for me. This included going to work at the treatment center for women with eating disorders, which impressed Tyra, of course, since the subject is so close to Tyra's heart, as she is a mentor of would-be models the world across (sarcasm here, if that's not clear). Then I told her about the chamber music ensemble I sing with (I don't actually sing with a group, though I often wish I did). I had to show her the vases I made in my pottery class (again, something I've always wanted to do). I glossed over the suject of my writing (I was working on my second novel) and then woke up.

Strangely, my dream, in which I had most of my superficial desires and a few of the deeper ones, made me feel like my life was worth getting out of bed for. Kinda made me want to buy my condo, too.

Do I like my job?

Can someone please tell me the real answer to that question? I think I might secretly hate my job, and by "secretly" I mean "subconsciously." Every time someone asks me how my new job is going, I say, "Oh, I love it," but I sound like I'm forcing down liver and trying to tell some young, unwitting child that it tastes good. Then I laugh and say, "I don't sound like I love it, do I? It's just draining." And I am sincere--I really do think I love it, but everything about my affect says otherwise. Today I woke up in a good mood (which was miraculous after my failure to apply any of my healthy coping skills during these several weeks of depression) but my good mood was ruined as soon as I listened to the voicemail asking me to work tonight. It's not like I had anything else to do. I cleaned the bathroom this morning, went to the temple, did laundry, bought groceries, and the only thing I planned to do this evening was clean the kitchen, so I'm not sure why I was so upset about working unless, of course, deep down in my soul, I hate my job. I don't know, I don't know.