Starting Over

After shamelessly abandoning this blog, I am picking up again. It's still January, so I just slip under the wire for recommitting myself to something, right? (And can part of my recommitments be to cheesecake?)

Anyway. In sacrament meeting a few Sundays ago, our ward sang “Ring Out, Wild Bells” (a hilarious exercise in “why LDS choristers shouldn’t try to be clever and pick weird songs”), and I’m pretty sure I sang, “The year is dying, let him die!” with particular vengeance.

I started 2012 hopeful that my new job would be awesome and help me become a better writer. I fully expected to have some adventures, make new friends, and maybe even meet someone. By New Year’s Eve, however, I was pretty much like:

My blogging efforts were just one casualty.

But that’s over now. I refuse to become a prostitute and sell my teeth and hair. I also refuse to produce the world’s most uninspiring heroine as a daughter. No. Instead, I’m treating 2012 like John Lennon’s lost weekend—an experiment in booze-fueled self destruction that was eventually recovered from. (Read “booze” as “anything fried”).

2013 is going to be better. I’ve already cleaned out my Gmail inbox, and my room is the next thing on the list. After that comes my outlook on life.

I have had a kind St.-Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus-type blinding flash that my life has a next chapter. I’m not going to be writing about “how to lose weight with green tea” or “how to sustain a longer erection” forever. And finding another job, picking up, and starting over isn’t an impossibility. I mean, I could even put a stamp in my blank passport this year if I make it a priority.

Tina Fey gets me.

For here and now, however, this blog is going to be my priority. I am recommitting and channeling my conspiracy theories and "I'm bored" rabbit holes here. Because if left to my own devices, I will last for about a month before retreating into my sad place where I shotgun mozzarella sticks and find romantic fulfillment from my 89^th viewing of “When Harry Met Sally.”

Okay. Allons-y!

Why I Love Richard Curtis

A couple of posts (and many months) back, I said that Richard Curtis was one of my heroes. For those of you who don’t know, Richard Curtis is a British comedy writer who was responsible for “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” “Notting Hill,” “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” and “Love Actually.” (He was also behind the hilariously awesome “Blackadder” and “The Vicar of Dibley,” but they’re not romantic in nature so I’m not including them in this post).

During a series of press interviews to promote “Love Actually,” Jonathan Ross asked Martine McCutcheon—one of the actresses in the film—what it was about Richard Curtis that helped him connect so strongly to his audience. She said it was because he showed a cynical British public a side of themselves they didn’t often see: bright, happy people living good and humble lives. Hugh Grant told Charlie Rose the same thing—in a world obsessed with hatred and greed, Curtis hasn’t been afraid to produce films that actually have something to say. And Laura Linney said simply that it was because Curtis was an “emotionally responsible person.”

Optimism and emotional integrity aren’t really the public’s strong points nowadays. I don’t mean for this to sound like a “this world is a dark, dark place with sleazy politicians, corrupt bankers, and a cynical 24-hour news cycle” speech, because I don’t feel that way. It’s more that I think our hipster culture has trained us to walk through life with our hands in front of our faces, sneering at people who express passion for the wrong sorts of people or things—or passion for anything at all. We’ve grown to love irony more than real feeling. Sometimes I think we’re afraid to use the word “love” at all.

And that’s why I love Richard Curtis. His films always remind me that love and positivity aren’t necessarily out of currency; they’re just not often discussed. “You report a bullet, not a kiss,” he told Charlie Rose. And he somehow manages to present that message without hitting us over the head with it. That’s where the emotional responsibility part comes in.

More so than any other romantic comedy writer, Curtis manages to portray real life pretty well. His plot developments are usually things I could see happening in my own life—just with a higher budget and better looking people. When people fall in love in his movies, they do it quietly.

Not like this:

Like this:

I love that. I don’t know many guys that would chase down a woman on New Year’s Eve to give her a perfectly-worded speech declaring his love. But I do know a few who would follow her out of a dinner party and say, “I like you very much.”

And in a world that tells you to cover yourself in a protective shell and second guess your more vulnerable feelings, I think that’s pretty heroic.

Some Days I Feel Like This

Irrationally Rational Red Flags

People will tell you a lot of crap over your lifetime. Most of it is myth created by people who want to be nice, and are willing to discard credibility in favor of a cliché. One example of popularly peddled crap is the idea that you can’t judge a book by its cover. Untrue.

If you’ve lived as a single Mormon long enough, you know that you can—and should—judge books by their covers. It’s remarkable how simple attention to detail can let you know your prospective partner is probably a nutcase. If you meet a boy who still parts his hair months after returning from his mission, for example, you’re probably safe in betting that Disney and Anthony Lloyd Webber have informed most of his ideology, and he is therefore highly unlikely to take you to go see the remake of Fright Night (which was excellent, by the way). And the girl who perpetually comments in Sunday School about everything from daily prayer to homosexuality probably won’t laugh at your “That’s What She Said” joke. It’s a handy little tool.

Here’s my list of my top five red flags when it comes to Mormon men.

1. A Cappella Groups Really? Harmonizing with other guys in dapper outfits while snapping your fingers and grinning cheeky grins? It’s not just a gay thing, I promise. It’s more like I don’t want you renting a tandem bicycle and taking me to the soda shop for our first date. If you’re going to sing, please get a guitar and grow an awesome folk beard. Besides, Osama bin Laden was once in an a cappella group. And you know what he went on to do…

2. New Balance Tennis Shoes Whenever men wear these, I feel like they’re 90 percent more likely to have an unhealthy relationship with their mother. Actually, the same goes for pretty much all white tennis shoes worn with non-gym clothes. I’m not sure why.

3. Economics Nuts I banned these guys pretty early on in my BYU career. Fanatical lovers of free market capitalism just don’t tend to be very nice people—and I could never be with a man who’s still bitter about the scholarship he wasn’t eligible for because he was a white, middle-class male.

4. Band Frontmen This one is teetering pretty close the edge of who I am attracted to, so I have to be careful. I love creative men—sometimes to the point of fatal attraction, unfortunately. But it’s a double-edge sword. Men with bands (and bands they promote heavily) are also a lot more likely to be massive tools. You’re probably not going to get a record deal, so can we all take a step back and stop taking ourselves so seriously? Please? Please?

5. “Forever Strong” Fans I know this is an extremely narrow category, but I feel very strongly about it. I loathe this movie. It’s clichéd feel-goodery at its worst, and a thin guise for promoting the kind of LDS snobbery I wish we could get rid of. And trust me, I’m not just cynical. Richard Curtis is my hero.

Of course, judging books by covers goes both ways, and there are a lot of random qualities that make me say “Caitlin, you’re going to fancy this one.” I might list those on my next post. We’ll see.

What about you? What are your red flags? Leave a comment, I’d love to know!

Mormon Fashionistas

One of the most daunting aspects of being in a singles’ ward is knowing how to dress on Sundays.

It took me a couple of years to catch onto this one. While everyone else was backcombing their hair into mountains and layering like there was no tomorrow, I was still wearing the pink skirts and bizarre sequined sandals I did when I was a MiaMaid. It was a shameful time. Luckily, I’ve become a bit more educated since then.

You see, when you’re a single Mormon girl, one of your cultural responsibilities is to look impeccable every Sunday morning. You can sort of see it as an investment—all of that cash you put into the perfect pair of heels will eventually land you three or four nice dinners courtesy of an interested Mormon boy. Pleasant little payback.

But that’s just the surface idea. The real dirty underbelly of Sabbath Day fashion—the secret that no one will tell you—is that girls dress up for other girls. What may have started as a bid to impress men eventually morphed into a vicious war of social inclusion, where timid girls tremble over the right cardigan combination just to avoid the shame of sitting next to Gucci-loving Greta while wearing last year’s denim skirt.

It’s passive-aggressive behavior at its best, and while everyone’s welcome at church, you’ve got to dress right to be a true member of the club. Here’s an intimate (if a little exaggerated) look at my typical Sunday morning melt-down:

9:00 AM Wake up. Sulk in bed while staring across room at open closet. Go back to sleep and hope to revive dream of going out with James McAvoy.

9:09 AM Wake up for real this time. Take shower and put on unfortunate-looking pink fluffy robe.

9:30 AM Stare at closet listlessly. Decide to leave robe on to delay moment of choice making. Do makeup and hair instead.

10:00 AM I hate my hair. Why does it think it’s hilarious to freak out on Sundays? Every other day of the week, it lays perfectly flat and does what I ask. Does it have a conference Saturday night while I’m asleep and decide it would be a good idea to hover in frizzy patches at least an inch above my scalp?

10:05 AM Subdue hair uprising with discount hairspray and return to room.

10:06 AM Stare at closet again. Retreat to dresser, where I know picking out a slip won’t be an issue.

10:07 AM Take out slip. Stare guiltily at cute gray tights I bought a year-and-a-half ago and haven’t worn. It’s not my fault. I just don’t have the right outfit for them yet. Think briefly of my dark blue skirt, and then remember that it’s actually gray. Briefly contemplate whether or not I’m colorblind, and then decide that I’m not. The problem is probably just in the same category as my inability to distinguish red-headed men from men with light brown hair. Waste several more minutes trying to decide if it’s possible for a red-haired man to be attractive.

10: 20 AM Return to closet.

10:35 AM I’m definitely going to be late now. In a rage, I rip down a flowered sun dress and then select a random tank top, cardigan and shoe combination I hope is alright. Not daring, but maybe it’s enough layers to get away with looking like I put some thought into it.

When I get to church is when the real melt-down begins.

11:00 AM Smile pleasantly at everyone and sit down, waiting for the meeting to begin while I chat with friends. Glance surreptitiously around the room at the other girls. Begin to feel vaguely panicky about own outfit choice.

11:15 AM Someone offers a comment in Sunday School. Listen for the first five seconds, and then realize I like her headband. Wonder if my hair is too short to wear headbands. Stare at the rest of her outfit jealously.

11:18 AM Realize I haven’t listened to a word of her comment, while everyone around me is nodding their heads in appreciation. Hope my psychotic staring made me look like an interested Sunday School student and not a lesbian. Refocus efforts to pay attention to the actual point of being at church.

11:30 AM After Sunday School, go to take a bathroom break and then realize I can’t fit around the group of girls surrounding the five mirrors on the wall. Self-consciousness gets resurrected. If these girls are fixing their perfectly applied makeup, what do I look like? Lock myself into the stall and calm down. When I go to wash my hands, I keep my head down so I don’t have to see the way my eyeliner is probably smudging onto my lower lid.

12:30 PM Through impressive mental efforts, manage to ignore Relief Society teacher’s perfect curls and interesting earrings and pay attention to lesson. Feeling good.

12:31 PM See gaggle of girls outside chapel doors. Go to investigate.

12:33 PM After squeezing by fancy skirts and lethal-looking heels, I find one of the popular boys in the ward telling an entertaining story. He’s wearing a brown belt and black shoes, but no one cares because he’s otherwise funny and charming. Ball my hands into fists and walk away, mentally cursing men who only have to worry about not wearing a Tasmanian Devil tie to church on Sundays.

The Trouble With Love Is

When I was younger, angrier, and slightly more obnoxious than I am now, I wrote a blog post where I detailed six or seven stereotypes of men I found around BYU. It was pretty dumb and self-indulgent, but it made a few of my friends laugh, and my friend Stephen even wrote a companion piece about the women at BYU, which was pretty funny. Now that I’m a bit nicer, I decided to redo it in more of a light-hearted manner.

If you meet with any of these men, proceed with caution.

1. The Sweet Bro. This is the guy that comes into your ward during summer sales season. He’s tan, built, and wears polos and hair gel like it’s 2003. His favorite activities include beach volleyball, going to the gym, and blasting Jimmy Eat World in his unnecessarily expensive car. He has dreams of launching a small start-up company that will eventually rival Google itself. Identified by his gratuitous use of the words “sweet” and “bro.” Oh, and he probably also owns an iPhone.

2. So Hipster It Hurts. This guy is the Sweet Bro’s nemesis, except the Sweet Bro doesn’t really know or care about the rivalry. Easily identifiable by his black framed glasses and excessive Wes Anderson references, So Hipster it Hurts thrives on witty comments he spent time creating in his bedroom. He listens to bands you’ve probably heard of, which he still likes to think of as obscure, and dreams of marrying an LDS version of Natalie Portman a la Garden State. Of course, being Mormon, he’s probably not as cutting edge or as culturally literate as he likes to think he is, but that makes him sort of ironic. And hipsters love irony.

3. The Benevolent Sexist. The Benevolent Sexist is kind of difficult to classify, because he can inhabit a few different social circles. More or less, he’s identifiable by his long-winded and heartfelt discussions about how special and unique women are. He likes to talk about how he’s going to treat his future wife like a queen, and makes sure all of the women at Break the Fast get their casserole first. Other than being mildly nauseating, the Benevolent Sexist’s ‘gross factor’ lies with his terrible, hypocritical opinion and treatment of women who fall from the platform on which he places them.

4. Arrested Development. No, not that Arrested Development, unfortunately. LDS Arrested Development works a dead-end job and comes home to play fantasy football or first-person shooter games on his X Box. He graduated school years ago, but he still likes to put apple beer bottles in his window and engage in prank wars with the 19-year-old girls in the ward. Arrested Development can be a pretty entertaining guy, but he always finds a way to wriggle out of commitment and leave you feeling like a needy marriage snare, even though all you wanted was a nice boyfriend to take you to the movies on the weekends.

5. X=Why? This guy is a dying breed, unfortunately, because he’s pretty fun to watch. X=Why? loves computer programming/physics/his calculator more than life itself, and doesn’t find it inappropriate to discuss this infatuation on a date. He can make some pretty first-rate math puns, if you’ve got the stomach for it, and is somehow absurdly confident. He’s spotted by his New Balance tennis shoes, braided leather belt, and prematurely balding mane.

Luckily there’s a lot of guys in the church who don’t fit into these categories, so I recommend grabbing one of those, sitting in the stands, and watching the rest of the crowd try to navigate the dangerous sea of romance. I’ve heard it’s a ship worth sailing.

The Goal

My goal in keeping this blog is to provide hopefully hilarious insights into life as a young, single woman in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Being Mormon means that as soon as I hit the big 23, I passed the average age that girls get married in the Church. It also means I’m a cultural anomaly. Because I don’t drink, smoke, or have sex, I’m more likely to meet a guy at a worship service or an ultimate Frisbee game than at a bar, where I could hide behind alcohol-induced self confidence. And that often leads to, as Jane Austen wrote, a “natural consequence to an unnatural beginning.” Which basically translates to “I meet a guy awkwardly and then do awkward things.” It’s a pretty good life, and it keeps me entertained.

If I’m successful, my posts are going to mostly funny, sometimes thoughtful, and always sincere. Hope you enjoy!

And yes, that creepy logo at the top of my blog is supposed to be an ode to the cover of “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” which happens to be my favorite book.