Gratefully, life has not afforded any grand drama over the last two weeks.  The downside, however, is that I haven’t had much fodder to write about.  Regardless, at the not-so-subtle hints I’ve received from two friends today, I will press on and blog.  I’ll start with a classic tale of mortification:

 

Sunday, May 11th.  It was a beautiful day.  The sun was out.  That air was crisp and cool.  It was Mother’s Day.  I went to church.  Now sometimes Mother’s Day can be a tad uncomfortable for the extremely single members of Parleys 7th.  However, I am usually determined to remain positive on this holiday, and this time around was no different.  In fact, I was quite cheery. 

 

Sacrament meeting proceeded as usual. And then, during the quietest, most sacred part of the meeting, it happened.  Now it must be noted that my ward is very, very reverent.  No children.  No babies.  No Cheerios.  Just adults.  Normally, this is one of the most pleasant parts of being in a singles ward–even at 30+something.  But I digress.

 

The Sacrament was being passed. 

 

I started hearing noises. 

 

 Loud, gurgly, rumbling noises. 

 

It was a mix between a hungry-stomach rumble and an incoming Cessna plane.   Not only was it loud.  It was constant.  Continual.  Persistent.   Perpetual.  Ceaseless.  Unremitting.  Endless.   The source of the sound?  My throat–or more correctly–my esophagus.  (Which I have just decided to nickname “Gus:  The  Beast Within”).  Two large pills and a glass of water were fighting for dominance in my delicate, and oh-so-damaged, esophagus.  I don’t know who was wining, but for sure, I was losing.

  

Gratefully, I was sitting next to a supportive friend, who first tried to ignore said noises, until it was impossible to do so.  Like trying to ignore an oncoming train.   I was doing my best to summon the earth to swallow me whole, while intermittently (quietly) giggling in despair and trying to muffle the noise with my wee hand on my throat.  Finally, said friend put an arm around me and asked, “Did you forget to feed IT this morning?”  After the longest 10-15 minutes of my life (and a few odd stares from the people in the row ahead of me), the ordinance was over, and I was able to flee to go get a drink of water.  I then returned to my seat and had no further problems. 

 

Other than the total embarrassment. 

  

I believe my face invented new shades of scarlet.

 

Did I mention that this friend just happens also to be an attractive male?

  

He is a friend, nonetheless, but it just makes this experience so much more…more….perfect.

  

Speaking of being ladylike, refined, and all other positive traits of womanhood (or the lack thereof), the Elders Quorum of the ward put on a lovely dinner for the Relief Society the night before as a “celebration of womanhood.”  Despite the fact that it was a thinly-veiled effort to distract single women from the potential pain of Mother’s Day, it was a lovely experience.  No matter the purpose, it is nice to be appreciated.  And I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised at the efforts the men in the ward went through to create a nice experience.  

 

There was a delicious formal dinner, prepared by a professional chef/new member of the ward.  (Gus was surprisingly well-behaved).  This was followed by an entertaining, and more importantly, sensitive and diplomatic (yet sincere) program which consisted of a talk and three musical numbers.  I use the words “sensitive” and “diplomatic” because there are inherent land-mines when a male peer must address a vast group of unmarried females on the subject of womanhood the night before Mother’s Day.  Or really any day.  It was most impressively done.  All of the musical numbers were also well done.  Gratefully, the person to my right wore a flame-retardant dress.  

 

That last sentence may seem like a non-sequitur, but it isn’t.  

 

Without a trace of cynicism or sarcasm, I must say that this night stands out as probably the most pleasant and touching of all my experiences with Parleys 7th.  Bravo Elders Quorum and the Bishopric.

 

And now, like a large, purple, chewy piece of tapioca that continues to haunt me, I will end by telling about my lunch today.  Actually, I just did.  I joined some friends (West Valley Lunch Bunch) at a Vietnamese restaurant.  Apparently, this place is known for delicious  smoothies–with large, purple, chewy pieces of tapioca at the bottom.  While not a huge fan of tapioca, I thought, “Why not? I’ll try it.”  And since the aforementioned damaged esophagus or “Gus” was in a particularly rebellious mood today, it seemed like a creamy cold drink would be just the thing.

 

And it was…

 

delicious. 

 

The smoothie part that is.  The marble-sized balls of tapioca (that I am sure were actually increasing in number inside the drink) were rather slimy, tasteless, and extensively chewy.  Like rubber.  However, I am not a coward (unless it involves tight, claustrophobia-inducing spaces or asking guys out) and so I persisted.  It must be noted that the straws for these drinks are very large–to accommodate the grape-sized and grape-colored pieces of starch.   The straw was not transparent, but it was still evident, by the looming black shadows, when these bits-o-goop would creep their way up.  I caught several of my less-adventuresome friends wincing as these globs of dark matter climbed steadily closer to my mouth.  They weren’t the only ones.

 

I, on the other hand, watched as they downed warm and savory chicken and rice dishes.   Or an interestingly garnished, but enticing, beef soup.   Now, I don’t regret my choice.  The mango flavored drink was very good.  I wanted to try it.  And I would have drank/chewed more, but sometimes it takes awhile for food to “behave” properly–thanks to Gus.  But I have to admit that the texture of the tapioca has been haunting me–and not in a good way–the rest of today.   It’s as if I can still sense their presence.  It’s not….good.

 

And in case anyone is wondering, I googled “tapioca”.  Not surprisingly, Wikipedia has an entry.  While not the most academically trusted website, I’ll believe it’s information in this case.  This is a partial definition:

 

“Tapioca is essentially a flavorless starchy ingredient, or fecula, produced from treated and dried cassava (manioc) root and used in cooking.”

 

I’m not brave enough to look up “fecula.”

 

So.  Thus ends my latest attempt at blogging.  And like my life, it’s a mix of the embarrassing, the good, and the unfortunate.  But, at least, V. Pearce likes my hair.

 

And, yes.  The last sentence is a non-sequitur.

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