This weekend I was berated by a 16-year-old girl because I was helping her mother, the newly baptized Mormon, divide up her paycheck into her budget envelopes and we put money into an envelope labeled "Tithing."
"Don't you think $100 a month is a little excessive to give to the church? We have to get the dog groomed and it will cost $35, and my mom owes me $40 because she forgot to pick me up at the airport and I had to take a cab home and we also need to save money so we can move out of this ^@ state. By the way, my mom tried to drink alcohol last week and the only reason she didn't is because I told her she couldn't drink and drive. We already spent some of the money from this week at Starbucks. Did my mom tell you that? Well, I didn't make any commitments to pay tithing and half of that money is mine." It hurt my ears, she whined so much.
Sassy, talk-back Emily was fighting hard to surface, but was just kept in check by polite, in-someone-else's-house, take-the-abuse Emily. Take-the-abuse Emily seems to pop up most often when I'm playing the role of ward missionary. I ignored her as best I could and proceeded to assess which overdue bills ought to be paid first, then left with the worst feeling I like to call This Convert Isn't Making It mixed in with a little guilty Emily, Where's Your Faith and a whole lot of Who Does That Girl Think She Is Attacking Someone Who Is Helping Her?
The mom didn't show up for church Sunday. I had in my car a bag of hand-me-down clothes I had told them I would give them, so, even though I didn't want to, I forced myself to drop it by their apartment in a sort of I'm Above Being Mad at You gesture. The clothes were mostly too small for me, and I didn't think they would fit the bustier-and-curvier-than-I daughter, but I had told them about the clothes already, so I went ahead and dropped them off.
Ten minutes later, I got a call from the daughter, in her sugary sweet, over-the-top nice voice. "Thank you for the clothes. The red shirt and the blue shirt fit perfectly." I responded politely, but not warmly, and hung up in a daze. Oh no, I asked Steve, what have I done? The red shirt was REALLY too small for me, as in, boobitizing tight. This girl is at least too shirt sizes bigger than me, and she is wearing this skin-tight shirt?
I have unwittingly furthered the cause of hoochiness in Arizona.