Good Intentions and Dead Rose Bushes

      I believe it was Augusten Burroughs who said that “I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions” (Of course I use the word ‘believe’ here because I found it on the internet. For all I know that could be Kanye West’s pen name.) Anyway, the saying does resonate with me. I resonate with it so much that I should probably have it cross-stitched and hung above my bed. Sure, I don’t always have the best intentions. When I’m subbing for a sixth grade class that is trying to play ‘Yankee Doodle’ on their recorders and I remark to myself that it sounds more like a prison soundtrack, my intentions aren’t always the nicest. When my friend and I tried to sneak a pizza into the movie theater perhaps our intentions weren’t as good as they should be, but in our defense there was no sign outside that read “No pizza, even if it is disguised in your purse.” However, for the most part, I do have good intentions. It used to be my belief that if you have good intentions, everything will work out perfectly. It was only just recently that I realized that I was very much wrong.
     When I was 12, I was called to be part of the presidency over my church group. One of my jobs (which I took incredibly seriously) was to call and remind the other girls in the group about our weekly activities. This was in the pioneerish days when my parents still had not agreed that me having a cell phone would be a good idea, so I called everyone’s home phone. One particular girl never answered, so each week I would leave a message. “Hi! This is Rachel. I just wanted to let you know about mutual tonight. We are meeting at seven o’clock at the church. I can’t wait to see you there! Wait…did I say that this was Rachel? Because it is. Just in case I forgot to say that and you thought a stranger was inviting you to mutual. But even if a stranger was inviting you to come to mutual, you could do that too! Well, maybe not. Anyway. 7:00. Mutual. Church. Actually, I think we’re meeting at 6:45. Not really sure to be honest. Nevermind, I know it’s 7:00. Ok, bye!” Needless to say, leaving messages has never been my forte, and if I’m ever falsely incriminated and forced to go to prison and have the chance to leave a message for my parents, it will probably sound something similar to “Hi Mom and Dad! How are you? I’m good. Well actually bad. Well I guess I guess it’s a half empty/half full kinda thing. Perspective, right? This is your daughter, Rachel. Anyway…” and that is approximately when my parole officer would slam down the receiver. (It is now apparent to me that I have been watching too many crime shows.) Anyway, my phone messages are lengthy and boring, and I left one on that girl’s phone every single Wednesday for an ENTIRE YEAR. Not once did she pick up. But, continuing with my good intentions, I valiantly called every week to remind her. It took more than 52 of these long, rambling calls to realize that I had THE WRONG NUMBER. Yes, I had left a year’s worth of annoying messages on someone else’s phone. Good intentions, though.   

      Last month I had some letters to send. Because I am not an original member of the Pony Express, I usually text or email people, but these were some thank you cards that I wanted to be handwritten. I felt very mature as I went to purchase thank you cards, and even more grown up when I purchased stamps for the very first time. (I had to be less grown up for a span of two minutes when I asked my roommate where to get stamps at, since the only place I’d ever seen them was my mother’s desk.) I wrote out my notes and felt very sophisticated as I addressed my letters. (Except for the one I accidentally addressed to myself.) I walked out to the mailbox with my letters, surprised no one was stopping me for tips on how to be as elegantly mature as me. I got to the box, found a slit, and tossed my letters into the locked box. Yes, this is what true adulthood feels like. True grace. Truly refined, seasoned--amid my self-gloating, I floated past the other mail boxes. I PUT MY MAIL IN THE WRONG MAIL BOX. Yes, instead of putting my mail in the box reading ‘Outgoing Mail’ I placed it in the box reading, ‘Please use other door towards right’ which should probably be labeled ‘Only a fool would put their mail here.’ I hurried over to the box I had slipped my cards into. I jiggled the door. Locked. I tried putting my mail key in. Locked. I tried fitting my pinky finger in the centimeter sized slot. Locked. So there I was, about to accept a Nobel Peace Prize for being the most mature human ever, with my finger stuck in a mail box that apparently was NOT for outgoing mail. Fortunately it only took a week, a pair of tweezers, three emails with ‘URGENT’ as the subject line, and two phone calls to the post office to get my letters out and sent. If you have received one of these letters, feel free to have it framed because I assume they are worth millions by now.   

    

The month of May has been full of good intentions, as Mother’s Day fell on May 10^th. I decided that I was going to surprise her the day before by showing up at my family’s doorstep in Idaho. I am not really one for surprises, because I have a difficult time keeping a secret, but this was one I was very excited about. By the time I had left for Idaho the only people who didn’t know I was going were my mom and Michael Phelps, who apparently “never got my text.” Whatever. I stopped on my way to Idaho to buy my mother some flowers. As I looked around at the flowers, I decided I wanted to get one that hadn’t quite flowered yet so that my mother could watch it bloom. I selected a plant that promised to turn into yellow roses and got back in the car for my trip. I spent the next four hours feeling so excited and proud of myself. I had thrown my mother off the trail and there was no possible way that she could know I was coming. I had texted her earlier that day, telling her I would call Sunday afternoon to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day. I had told her I had to be at a wedding shower on Saturday, and my day was pretty packed after that as well. I even talked with her on the phone on my way to Rexburg, claiming I was driving back to Provo. My plan was flawless. Four hours later, I arrived at my home and rang the doorbell. My mom opened the door and was truly shocked to see me. We both happily hugged each other and I felt a certain pride inside that this was my best Mother’s Day gift yet. Truly I had outdone myself. She placed the not yet bloomed flowers on the coffee table and for the next 24 hours my family talked, laughed, and celebrated my mother and all she’s done. Yes, this was the best Mother’s Day to date. On Sunday night I drove back home, pleased that my surprise had gone on without a hitch. A few weeks later, I got to see my family again. As we were driving the topic of plants came up. My mother started to laugh pretty hard, and then said, “Rachel, I have something to tell you.” She then proceeded to tell me that the flower I had gotten her for mother’s day was dead. “Oh dear,” I thought to myself. “Mom has forgotten that flowers need water. I didn’t think my parents would already need my support since they certainly aren’t elderly yet, but I suppose if they need me…” I finished listening to my mom. She was saying something about water and dried up leaves. Then she told explained to me that she did all that she could, but they were already dead. The flowers were already dead when I bought them. I BOUGHT MY MOTHER DEAD FLOWERS FOR MOTHER’S DAY. There I was at the store, specifically picking out a flower pot that had DEAD flowers in it. I had stepped over other bright blooming petunias and blushing peonies to pick up deceased perennials. There I was, grinning from ear to ear on her doorstep, surprising her with a PASSED AWAY PLANT.

     So yes, I am stitched together with good intentions. Sometimes I order a drink at the drive thru with my friends and then drive away without picking it up, and other times I sit down in the movie theater and realize that this wasn’t even the movie I paid to see. Sometimes I buy a fan for my car because I am not yet a rich heiress who uses her husband’s money to buy a new air conditioner, but all the fan does is push around more hot air. Yes, I am certainly stitched together with good intentions. However, when I do decide to cross-stich that saying and put it above my bed, the quote will read something more like, “I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions, refusing to ever buy a dead rose bush again.”