Exhibit R: Our Fashion Sense

When I look back over the years at the things we have worn, I cringe. It goes beyond living through the eighties.  When I was young my mother, a mediocre seamstress, made most of our clothes. Our clothes had a distinctly home-made look. We also often wore hand-me-downs from friends, neighbors, or each other. I had a brother and sister just older than me, so I inherited their hand-me-downs. I got mocked, often, for wearing boy’s clothing. Most of our clothes were bought second hand. I remember only once shopping with my mother for new clothes. A pair of jeans that she bought in the boy’s department because they were cheaper. A pair of tan Levi’s. But none of these can explain our continuing bizarre way of dressing.

Home made clothes

My Mother’s “Style”: Of course, when she was at work, she would wear mostly normal professional clothes. But, when she’s anywhere else, she prefers comfort over fashion every single time. I’m convinced she would wear flannel pj’s to church if she thought she could get away with it. My mother’s most hated chore is clothes shopping for herself. As a result, she wears each article of clothing until it is thread bare. She couldn’t care less if she matches or fits in as long as she’s comfortable. To test my theory I bought her an awful sweater with a cat

floating in space that she was not only grateful for because she didn’t have to shop for it, but she wears it often because it is comfortable.

Borted Jim Fashion: If there is anyone who cares about fashion less than my mother, it’s my father. On any given day, depending on the activity, I can accurately predict what my father will wear. Camping: cutoff shorts, t-shirt with a wolf, tube socks, sandals and his “boonie” hat. Church: button-up polyester shirt, wolf tie, black tube socks with sandals, cargo pants. Perhaps you are picking up on a theme. I’m convinced my dad begrudgingly wears clothes since they are a construct of society, but does his very best to make sure that being clad is the only way he is conforming.

Sister (I’m not naming names so as to protect their identity) Flair: The remarkable thing about my sister’s fashion sense is that she prefers to wear clothes that are all the same color, it is not unusual for her to be wearing teal from head to toe. Until very recently she wore many of the same clothes that she did in the eighties and early nineties. Then skinny jeans and onesies came back in style, so she gave them away (I'm not entirely sure this is the reason, but her timing was remarkable).  Although, most often, she is in uniform and so her fashion flamboyance is muted.

Brothers’ I-can’t-believe-you-wore-that-anywhere Wardrobe:  One of my brothers got sent home from school for wearing a cloak with a hood. One of them has sported leotards, on multiple occasions. One of them wears tight shirts to show off his muscles, although he is otherwise stylish. The other one is slowly turning into my father. If seen altogether, it's predicted that their fashion opposites would collide to form a singularity. So they try to keep their distance.

My Grandad

This isn't an ordinary post. Yes, my grandfather was quirky, but that's not why I share this. This summer marks four years since he passed away. I think of him often and wanted too pass on the tidbits of knowledge he gave me. This is, slightly altered, the talk I gave at his funeral. He requested that it not be a gloomy funeral.  I did my best.

Lessons my Grandad taught me

                I moved in with my grandparents when I was eighteen. I was a smart-alecky somewhat awkward teenager ready to be on my own. You should know that up until this point I was a little bit scared of my grandad.  But beneath his somewhat stern exterior he is a sweet, mild tempered man, who is something of a tease. Luckily for me, I can give as good as I get when it comes to teasing.  I  thought I knew just about everything. And like the cocky teenager I was, I would remind them often how lucky they were to have such a fantastic granddaughter living with them.  It didn't take me too long to realize that I was the lucky one. Lucky that they loved me, fed me and worried about me when I stayed out too late. My grandpa even drove around looking for me when I wasn't home on time. Instead of asserting my independence by moving out, I had simply traded one set of parents for another.  With love and patience, my two grandparents set about teaching me the things I needed to know to get along in the world.  I'd like to share a few of the things I learned from my Grandad with you. 

                1.  How to be a good sport.  Every night we would play a game of Mah-jongg on the computer against each other.  It is a Japanese tile game where you match tiles to remove them from the board until they are cleared away (meaning you beat it) or you are stuck.  It takes a little bit of logic and a little bit of luck.  We would each play the same board, one after another and write down the number of tiles remaining.  It was a lively competition.  The first time I beat it I came out of the room doing a victory dance and chanting that I beat the game.  My grandparents hadn't played yet, and my grandad said something like, "oh well now it's no fun because we have to go in there knowing we can't beat you."  I smiled smugly and went on dancing all the way to bed.  The next night my grandad played first, when he came out of the room he was hanging his head dejectedly all the way to his bedroom.  I said something very gracious like, "Ha! It looks like another win for me."  And I went to take my turn.  When I turned the screen on there was a large banner that read, "Congratulations, Dick Say, you have won the game!"  With fireworks in the background.  Grandad poked his head in the door and said, "Gotcha!"

                2.  How to swear like a sailor.  One day, not long after I moved in, Grandad was replacing the patio doors.  It was early in the morning, and I was in the kitchen, he was working on the patio.  Through the window I saw him carrying a heavy glass door and it slipped and landed right on his foot.  From the look on his face it was pretty painful.  I knew he had been in the Navy and since he didn't know anyone was watching I braced myself for a string of obscenities.  What I heard was this: "Well what in the sam hill!  Dad gummit!"  I teased him for his foul language for the next 10 years.

                3.  How to cure common ailments with household items.  Now, he taught me all the typical remedies for things, like if I had a sore throat he would make me gargle salt water, or drink a hot mixture of squeezed lemons and honey, which I vastly preferred to the salt water.  And then there were the more unusual remedies.  Like the time I came home from work to find them watching tv.  Not unusual.  I think the show they were watching was Walker Texas Ranger.  Also not unusual.  What was unusual was that my grandpa was watching it while sitting in his chair with a brown paper bag over his head.  It had two holes cut out for the eyes.  They were both acting as if this was a perfectly normal way to behave.  At first I thought maybe they were playing a joke on me.  But after a few minutes decided that wasn't it.  Finally I said, while trying to suppress my giggles, "Grandad, what on earth are you doing?"  Slowly, the brown paper bag turned to look at me.   "Laugh all you like," it said, " this is the only way to cure the hiccups."  So now you know.

                4.  How to cook.  After a while they decided that I needed to start earning my keep and so it was determined I would cook dinner once a week.  They would gamely try my experiments while I became more confident in the kitchen.  I don't know how much I improved, but with my grandad's help there were a few things I perfected.  For instance, I can whip up a batch of lumpy gravy every single time.

                5.  What to look for in a husband.  Now, it was apparent pretty early on that my grandparents were eager for me to find a husband.  I'm not sure if this was because they wanted me to be genuinely, eternally happy or if they were just trying to get rid of me, but I think it was probably a little of both.  Naturally, a perfect husband is as much like grandpa as possible.  According to my gramme, he swept her off her feet on their first date because he drove up in a fancy car wearing his sailor's cap and she thought he was, as she puts it, "handsome, rich and debonair."  Certainly, at over six foot with dark hair and a contagious smile, my grandad was handsome.  Despite this, I only heard him comment on his physical appearance twice.  Once he came home and sort of strutted into the room and cleared his throat.  "Notice anything different?" He asked.  After intense scrutiny, I was still drawing a blank.  Then he said, "I got my hairs cut.  Both of them."  The other was a few years ago when I was out visiting him he told me the physical therapist had him going to the gym.  "See?  I have a muscle." "Just the one?" I teased.  "Yep."  Not only handsome but a humble man as well.  A rare combination.   Rich.  To my knowledge my grandad has never been wealthy.  But he lived a rich life, full of family, friends, travel and love.  And debonair, my favorite.  No one could argue that my grandpa didn't know how to treat a lady.  In the years I lived with them, I never once heard him raise his voice to my grandmother.  They would often hold hands, and sometimes steal kisses, although he would always act properly embarrassed if I walked in the room during a kiss on the cheek.  He would exclaim, "oops, she caught us!" and run back to his chair.  When I came to see him after the heart attack, he held my sweet gramme's hand, raised his voice and said, "I want you all to know, I love this woman with all my heart."  If that isn't debonair, then I don't know what is.  Fifty some years later and he was still trying to sweep her off her feet.  Handsome, rich and debonair to be sure.  With such a high standard set for me it is little wonder I had a hard time finding someone who would measure up.

                6.  How to catch a man.  As the years passed the situation became more desperate.  I was about to graduate BYU unmarried.  I had received advice from both my grandparents about what I should do about it. My biggest problem, according to them, was that I would not stop wearing pajamas in public.  My grandad often got after me about it.  One day he tried a different tactic.  "You know, Marion, you should wear more skirts," he said.  "Why would I want to do that?"  I asked.  "Because," he said, "I don't care how old I get, or how much you think times have changed since I was young....I know this is still true, a man likes to see a little bit of leg."  As you can imagine, I was shocked.  I turned to my gramme for some support.  “Did you hear that?” I said.  “Sure,” she replied, “I know it.  Why do you think I liked to play tennis?  So I could wear those short little tennis skirts.”  Now I was downright scandalized.  I had no idea she was such a flirt.  I shared this story with my husband a year or so after we were married.  He looked at me and said seriously,  "Marion, your grandfather is a wise, wise man."  Despite this sound advice, I didn't get married or even engaged while I lived with them.  Now just because they wanted me married, didn't mean they approved of every man that came along.  And they let me know it when they didn't.  It goes without saying that my grandad was a little protective of me.  So, naturally, when a strange man called a few months after I moved away asking for my phone number, my grandad gave it to him without a moment's hesitation.  Luckily for grandad, and for me, I married that strange man about eight months later.  His recklessness with my personal information has brought me the greatest happiness of my life.

                I have been blessed to have many good men in my life.  Men of strength and kindness, men of service and integrity.  Certainly my Grandad, is one of these good men.  I would even say that he is the best man that I know.   Maybe not the best Mah-jongg player.  But definitely an example to all who knew him of kindness, humility, service and integrity.  I love you Grandad.   We love you.  We always will.

Exhibit Q: Unbelievable Social Awkwardness

I recently attended a high school reunion. I arrived late. Looking around the room at a hundred or so of my former classmates trying to figure out where to sit, I felt like the new kid in the cafeteria all over again. Insecurities I hadn’t felt in 20 years came rushing back. I am the most extroverted in my introvert family but that’s not saying much; I struggle with small talk and crowds make me anxious.

It’s hard to explain to anyone who isn’t an introvert or who doesn’t have social anxiety what this is like. But I will try.  I have to put in a sincere effort to make small talk not awkward. Partly this is because I am blunt. Partly because beyond exchanging pleasantries and talking about the weather I can never think of what to say that won’t be too personal. I also don’t want to be rude. But I most likely don’t care about who did your Botox. Small talk is, by its very nature, superficial and dull. And when things get deeper, introverts get uncomfortable. And when we get nervous we say/do weird things to distract you or get out of the conversation.  Weird things like:

“I can fit a whole orange in my mouth.” -me, on a date

Suplex someone -Beadle

“Excuse me, I need to go see if the drinking fountain works.” –me

Play nearby instrument loudly to encourage conversation -Sneet

Burst into spontaneous song. – Nana

Maintain eye contact while picking nose –Pooker

“Excuse me, I need to go feces” –I can’t source this, because I will be murdered, but it happened.

“Do you watch Stargate?” -Sneet

Pass out –Gummy

“Would you like to look at my anime sketches?”-OR Tire

So, if I saw you at the reunion and we had a normal conversation that didn’t end in me putting an orange in my mouth, I really enjoyed talking to you, although I was probably nervous the whole time. My father, alone, does not feel awkward making conversation. His particular skill is making everyone else feel awkward.

Don’t get me wrong, introverts like having friends. It’s just harder for us to let our walls down. It’s the making friends that is hard.

Things we have done to get out of public speaking:

Sprayed self with pepper spray immediately before dissertation. –my mom

Yelled “I hate you!” at husband, hoping to start a fight and miss event –me

             When asked, replied "I'd rather drive a toothpick under my nails" -me

             Faked injury or illness -everyone

My parents were also too nervous to yell “Woo hoo! Go Weed!” at my graduation, so they just clapped extra loud.

We also can be alone and not feel lonely. It’s some of my favorite time.

Being an introvert alone isn’t enough to make you weird.  But it sure doesn’t hurt.

 

Exhibit P: The Make-up Conundrum

My father was always very vocal about his disapproval of makeup.  If he caught you putting some on he would casually ask if that much “war paint” was necessary for going to school.  I would give him a world class eye roll.  If you don’t have a teenage daughter, you might not ever have experienced this.  Here is gif to demonstrate.

  In my mind I always imagined a horde of done up women, armed to the teeth with cosmetics going out to conquer the world of men.  Now I see that this isn’t far from the truth, sadly the standards of beauty, especially for women are set so impossibly high that we all fall short of the mark.  But if you don’t at least try to look that way, most people dismiss you as uninteresting and unimportant.  As if high heels (another of my father’s peeves, medieval torture devices, he dubbed them) and red lips have anything to do intellect and ability.  (Putting my soapbox away)

As a result, I never used cosmetics, although I desperately wanted to.  My mother only wore makeup to church and sometimes when she and dad went out to dinner.  He insists he prefers her sans embellishment.  Maybe he does.  But I grew up believing most men thought only silly girls wore makeup.  That men in general preferred a more natural look.  Aside from Nick Offerman, my father and a few other select males, I don’t feel like this is typical. 

When I was sixteen I was invited to a Mary Kay makeover party.  I was thrilled.  Finally someone to teach me this sacred skill!  And they would do it for free!!  The plump, cheerful makeup artist paid particular attention to me, when she was done she leaned back and surveyed her handiwork.

                “Oh, Weed,” she said, “you would be so beautiful if only you would wear makeup.”  This backhanded compliment was a sore spot for me for years.  I bit back a “you would be so skinny if only you would diet” retort that my sassy sixteen year old brain came up with on the spot.  And mentally complimented myself for my maturity and restraint.  I didn’t realize she was trying to sell me anything until I was handed an order form and brochure.  My heart sank.  $14 for mascara.  Clearly this was not going to be a repeat of my bubblegum experience.  I speechlessly considered the prices and quantity of necessary makeup to make me beautiful, which she had dutifully circled for me.  Then decided my father was right and I didn’t need it.  I went home and tearfully scrubbed the cosmetic masterpiece from my face. 

                By some miracle I never had a problem with acne.  My sisters weren’t so lucky.  Teenage acne hit them with a vengeance.  I like to think this was their punishment for being better than me in every other department.  My mother was no help, since she didn’t wear cover up or foundation ever.  So Gummy, Nana and Beadle were left to flounder unaided through the painful process of learning to apply makeup.  Often coming out too pale or too shiny.  I could share some pictures, but one of them would undoubtedly punch me in the ovaries for it.  My father insisted the best treatments were natural ones.  Like honey or baking soda paste.  Nothing makes you feel more beautiful than crusty baking soda face.

                It wasn’t until college that I began to dabble in the forbidden art form.  My sweet hairstylist friend convinced me that my blond eyelashes could use some mascara.  I felt like I was using robotic surgical instruments with no prior instruction.  I pinched my eyelid with a lash curler and that was almost the end of the experiment.  After 15 years, I’m still not sure I’m doing it right.  I now wear eye makeup.  Sometimes.  I lack complete confidence in my application technique.  Lipstick, however, is going way too far.  Lipstick makes me feel like a clown who is slowly suffocating on baby powder. 

                Although I don’t subscribe to my parent’s all makeup makes you look ridiculous theory, I have to admit to a little bit of pride when my daughter told me mascara feels like sticks glued to your eyelids and threw the container away, insisting she looks fine the way she is. 

Me, with and without makeup at 19.  Maybe my dad has a point. 

Exhibit O: Our Kitchen Appliances

                If you walked into the kitchen at our home, you would be astonished, yes astonished, at the assortment of kitchen appliances that adorn the counters.  They take up almost all the usable space.  Rendering the table the prep and serving area out of necessity.  What kind of appliances, you ask, considering yourself fairly well versed in kitchen paraphernalia.  Well, there is the normal stuff.  There is a stand mixer to the left of the sink, ancient and well used.  On the opposite side sits the blender, cozied up to the drying rack for dishes.  By the blender is a toaster and between the two is nestled a handheld blender.  But once you pass the toaster, you’ve hit the point of no return.  A two square foot space of counter is dedicated to the meat slicer.  For all those turkey breasts you’ve recently cured.  Next to the meat slicer is a deep fryer so old it has a fabric wrapped cord and unless it is properly coddled it will ignite your kitchen in an oil-fueled fireball.  By the fryer is a bagel slicer and last in the row comes a toaster oven, for when your regular oven or toaster simply will not suffice. 

                Way back around by the stand mixer is a wheat grinder.  And sitting alone, next to the fridge that I melted trying to make popcorn, is a yogurt maker.  It would honestly remind you of a prep kitchen for a small cafeteria.  If it weren’t for the enormous toolbox and the disassembled 1990’s computer behind the table that sometimes get used for a chair.