blue ribbons

In fifth grade, I finally figured it out. After three years of trying to do everything just like my best friend, I got a wake up call. I wish I could take the credit myself, but this wasn't an empirical epiphany arrived at all my own. Credit goes to Aunt E, who, every year waited in the wings, hands up suggesting a hip-hip-hooray, even though I didn't get a blue ribbon. K always won a blue Reflections ribbon, perfectly perched birds the result of hours worth of careful charcoal strokes and pencil scrapings. The year before the birds, it was something equally as magnificent and equally as unattainable by my not-so-artistic hands.

After a few years worth of tears, Aunt E suggested I put down the colored pencils and try writing instead. She edited and encouraged the night before entries were to be submitted. The first year I wrote a poem about time. It was called Time. It's safe to say I didn't get that blue ribbon for originality, but I did get it and the victory was sweet. I skipped home, ribbon in hand, as it twirled around and around in the spring air. As soon as I reached my room, I slipped it over the arm of one of my gold violin Federation cups, next to soccer trophies, mostly won while I cheered my team on from the sidelines, next to my coach with his legendary white ponytail and long beard.

The next year, I added another blue ribbon, and the next, another. I had found my niche. My collection was nowhere near as large as K's, but there was a lesson in those blue lanyards: We're not all meant to enter the same race. And we're not all meant to win. At least not always. Blue doesn't seem quite as glorious until it's placed next to second-place red. Gold wouldn't gleam as brightly without silver to shine down upon. And truthfully, those ribbons don't really matter. Truthfully, years down the road, they'll just end up gathering dust in a box on the highest shelf of some closet, miles away from where they used to perch.

No one has ever asked me if I've won a Reflections ribbon. The winning and oh-so-originally titled poem, Time isn't attached to my resume, nor do I plan to have Dan McConkie recite it at my funeral. In fact, I haven't a clue where to find a copy. What a victory to know that we all find our niche; that we all get our moment in the sun, even if an Aunt E is the only one hip-hooraying us in the wings. Most of us grow up to be average people with average lives. The ribbons come down, the trophies are put away, and winners are soon forgotten. What matters most is what we're working on in the present; in the today. And what time has taught us along the way.

For Birdie

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATIE BABES!

Here's to you, Kates! As president of the 27 Club, I welcome you. Ever since I copied your handwriting in third grade, I've wanted to be just like you. I've got a long way to go. You always know what to say. When to call. How to help. You are such a blessing in my life. I couldn't do anything without you.

These are a few of our favorite things: birds who play tennis, so-healthy-for-you McFlurry's, 161 and #17, Powell, the p game, ACK, the Saturn cheer, "homework" sleep-overs, postcards, emails, red folders, candy corns and pumpkins, getting stuck in CB's bedroom, goldfishies and Koala's, talks with Molls late at night on your bed, novella yearbook messages, jelly rolls, shakes at Chili's (we'll take two), walking in Country Club, tag-team baby-sitting, 555-drop-your-bags!, Bob and Enid, The Dodo, and too many notes folded and passed to count. Love you!

down over and up

Flying solo, I walked past the Magic House yesterday. Sans my rainbows, spring sunlight streaming through the budding tree branches, I took survey of our favorite spot. As I reached the tip of the circle, where the water begins to trickle and the faint lantern-light spills, there was a distinction in the air; a confirmation. This is our spot. Our reference point. The place where secrets swarm, thoughts tumble and fireflies throng.

Perhaps it won't be as spontaneous this year, but we'll visit often. I can't wait for Liv to decide she might not make it. For E's contagious laughter. For my legs to hurt way more than they should at such an incline. To get lost in the ease and joy that is OME, three in a row, walking wide and free into the summer night.

then, there were six

It's ten minutes to eleven and all is quiet. There's a sleeping Kasi in the room next to me and a tired Maren below. Even now, I'm not used to a quiet house at such an hour. I need an Emily to run circles around defining-the-relationship conversations and other such love scenarios; a Katie across the room to reassure my color theory project turned out just fine and that my bed is beckoning; a Jen on the couch in the kitchen, wrapped up in a blanket reading Shackleton's Endurance, shivering with every sentence; a Becca, back on the brown carpet, headset in her ears, on the phone with a boy in Hawaii, her side of the conversation filtering out into the hallway where there's a Moof doing sit-ups below old Mormon Ads and favorite movie lines.

Three months ago, Greg and I sat in a car parked outside of F.Smith Hall, talking the wintry night away as the heater blew out heavy heat. Florescent light filtered between the blinds in the kitchen of apartment 161 below, the same kitchen where we ate taco salad and lemon poppy seed muffins on Sundays. Greg's brother occupies those same cinder block walls, making his own memories of boy-girl apartment vs. apartment Ward Wars and campus crushes. I'm sure the telephone held hostage still hangs on the wall. It probably hasn't been dangled like Rapunzel's braids right above the girlish grasp of six desperate co-eds, forced to serenade it to its rescue, "Row Row Row Your Boat" its salvation song. I bet the fire extinguisher hasn't been removed and taken to the Law Library during reading days to interview any and all stricken with the Frenzy of Finals. Hopefully the holes left from our Ceiling of Love have been patched after my white gesso failed to do a permanent job.

It's strange how time marches on without the slightest sense of self; without asking if we want it to stop so we can take a good long look at what was; what never will be again. How the music of Life keeps playing, the lyrics changing before we catch the tune. And, strange how we tell ourselves that change is good; that it will bring about The New. That the uncharted course of our own Shackleton's Adventure, our own Endurance Mission, may bring the chill of change but, no matter the storm, no matter the noise, the still will come. Even if it's just in the form of a quiet moment at the close of some insignificant day, to record a few thoughts about the past.

dinner for 3

Well played tonight, Kyle. We're calling Big Pete -- It's dinner for 3, compliments of your biggest fans at 2186. Keep up the good work here at home!

mondays are rough...

...when you spend the weekend here.


We had plenty of fuel to get us there:

and a great personal photographer on the beach {thank you, mason!}


{thanks robin for a wonderful, relaxing weekend!}

sometimes

Sometimes I think I could live by myself. The pillows would always stay in the right place on the couch, I'd take ridiculously long showers, use a whole dryer sheet instead of a half, and sing along to my favorite albums while using my Kitchenaid.

Then, Maren calls to me from the kitchen and snaps me out of my selfish scenario. Forty-five minutes later, I'm well-versed on the latest YouTube videos, I've searched Google far and wide for any and all things John Krasinski, and my cheeks hurt from laughing at funny late-night roommate-isms that are immediately written on the chalkboard.

As my head finally hits the pillow, American Idol tunes stuck in my head, I think to myself, Silence is overrated, a Kitchenaid would only enhance my sweet-tooth, and singing is always more fun when there's someone around to join in.

Truthfully, roommates or no roommates, I'd still let John Krasinski take up a fair amount of my time.

all that glitters is gold

A few months ago, I was cleaning out an old box in my parent's house. Along with soccer team pictures, birthday cards and junior high games of MASH (which were quite hilarious, if you must know), I found a small white box, perfectly square, with a silver sticker on top. In silver lettering, the word sparkled back at me: glitz.
* * *
It's Friday. Kates and I are headed up to Foothill Village, our usual TGIF ritual. I've got a ten in my pocket, Alexander Hamilton happy to be amongst a small list of things to purchase from this hip strip mall, just a few minutes walk from my house. Red pen, soccer stickers, pink pad from Gregory's. Katie's list is similar, although I'm sure it includes red nail polish from Robyn Todd. We'd compiled our lists via phone Tuesday night, comparing and contrasting and, most likely, and even though we didn't know it, using the same pen and paper. I do everything Katie does. She is the epitome of cool and I'm determined to garner her girlish 12 year-old coolness. There will be just enough to left over for frozen yogurt, or potato logs, I think to myself as we round the corner near Zion's bank.

We hit up Stevenson's first, working our way backwards, towards Gregory's (the toy store with all the cutesy stationary and the slide at the entrance, which we're really too big for, but we use anyway). But, on the way, like a beacon begging to be perused, is the glitz counter full of all the sterling silver jewelry a 12 year-old girl could ever want. We have to stop. We always stop.

I lean over the jewelry case and tap three times, signaling Katie to come near. These, I say. Tell D to get these. D is my boyfriend, but I wouldn't dare call him that. Instead, I say we're going out. That's what Emily says. Emily is in junior high and her brother is in high school. Going out (I'm pretty sure) is the cool way to say it. Making a mental note of my choice, Katie then waves me over to the other side of the display case to point out the necklace she wants from J. Katie and J are going out, too. It's totally cute - the necklace. (Katie and John are cute, too). I'll tell him about the necklace.

Maybe, just maybe Katie and I will have the guts to call them tonight and tell them to meet us at glitz to convey our deepest jewelry desires. Katie will talk to D and I will talk to J. Usually, we cave. We call and hang up at the first sign of a voice on the other end. I think D's family might have gotten Caller ID. I think it means they can tell if we're calling. At lunch today, Ash said something about dialing *67. It's like free Caller ID. It's totally going to ruin our plan. If all else fails, we can talk to them in person. Yeah, right! That would require days of preparation, pep-talks over the phone, and, if necessary, a sleep-over dry-run. I think we should have the sleep -over, no matter what. I have some new categories to add to MASH slash MASHO.

Delightfully digesting potato logs and with pink pads in our pockets, Katie and I talk about the boys on the way home. J looked so cute today in his Banana Republic t-shirt with the map on the back. And D wore Gramicis, a step up from Umbros, for two days in a row this week.

A few days later, I found a white box with a silver sticker in my desk at school. K got one, too. We both gushed at recess, revealed our glitz gifts, and immediately put them on. I got dolphin earrings, and K got a silver and black necklace. They beat us to the punch! So sneaky. Apparently Dave and the rest of the guys went up to Foothill last weekend, and they all bought something. I put my dolphin earrings on right there on the playground. The dolphin looked like it was going to jump right through my ears. It wasn't the set of earrings I had hoped for, but knowing D had picked them out himself was priceless. With such a momentous occasion, a sleep-over was definitely in order.

That very weekend, Katie and I sat in her newly-remodeled bathroom with the separated sink/shower room, college ruled paper and red pens in hand. (We saved the Gregory's pink paper to write notes to Libbie and Emily and Ash). As any respectable lady would do, we sat for hours composing the perfect thank you notes while trying to keep Taylor out of the bathroom.

The plan was this: We'd arrive early on Monday morning, with just enough time to casually slip our notes into D's and J's desks. I'd utter a silent prayer they won't spill out along with math books and geography assignments. That would be embarrassing, for sure! I'll look inside at the mess that is D's desk and think, And yet, I love him. I'm even wearing my dolphin earrings today to prove it.
* * *
I opened the white box to find a tarnished pair of dolphin earrings. February 14, 1993 was written inside on a pink piece of paper with red pen. I held the earrings and the box in my hands for a few minutes as my mind wandered back to the glitz counter and our Fridays at Foothill. I could almost taste the potato logs. With a tiny bit of sadness, I tossed the box (earrings and all) into the trash can near the desk. Glitz left years ago, as did Stevenson's, but I think you can still get potato logs at Dan's. Kates, let's make a date of it. On Friday, of course!

{image from here}

Apollo wears Ray Bans

With the bless-ed dawn of spring comes crowning crocuses, jacketless afternoons and, everyone's favorite: spring cleaning. For me, this means searching all pockets, purses and pouches for my favorite pair of designer sunglasses. I use the term designer loosely, as I purchase pairs of Ralph's, BCBG's, or March Jacobs' at such places as TJMaxx or Marshall's. I'm all for "dress for less." Sure, they're last season, or even the season before that, but I live in Utah. In reality, if I buy myself a pair of last season's shades, I'm really ahead of the game). Each spring As I delve into my handbag, I come up empty handed, surrendering to the Sunshine Gods and the bottomless abysses that are my bag collection. I drive off in my car, sun rays gleaming and streaming as my eyes squint to see the road stretched out before me.

It was Monday last when I found myself seeking shade from the late afternoon sun which bopped along I-215 as I headed home. I decided to hit up one of my ritualistic "Dress For Less" stores in search of last season's shades (at more than half the price!)

I walked inside ready for the mission at hand. As I approached the turnstile, my heart sank. No Ralph. No Oscar. No Nine West. And no BCBG Max Azaria. Slim pickins indeed. Facing the reality that I was possibly a week late in the hunt, I decided I could do one of two things: arrive home with burned retina (and future wrinkle lines around my eyes -gasp!), or purchase a below-average, not-so flattering pair of sunglasses and arrive safe and sound, my brown eyes no worse for the wear. I began to sift through the measly selection.

I walked towards the counter, holding a pair of so-so silver-rimmed glasses. I handed them over to the clerk who didn't bother to de-activate or remove the sensor. Apparently these sunglasses weren't going to be missed. As I walked towards the door, I prepared for the sound of the alarm, and a signal from him that I was in the clear. No alarm. The sensor wasn't even activated in the first place. These glasses were even less spectacular that I had thought.

I jumped in the car ready to go, tugging at the price tag as I put my car in reverse. It wouldn't budge. Nor would the sensor, which, I should have mentioned, is conveniently and comfortably placed right between the nose. As if finding a flattering pair isn't hard enough, add that lovely adornment, and, voila! You look like a dinosaur. (So much for last season's look, now you're positively prehistoric!) I kept at it as I drove closer and closer to the freeway entrance. Fingers red and swollen, I gave up and shoved the lenses up my nose, sensor and all. I looked ridiculous. To make matters worse, the sensor's clumsy placement made for quite the visual obstruction. I felt like a little kid trying to prove I could go cross-eyed.

Certain that I'd rather keep my brown eyes sun-free than cause a collision, I continued to drive, shades in place. I was a mobile fashion faux pas, driving the Interstate at 70 mph. I could almost see Apollo, up there in his Ray Bans, laughing at me. I cranked up the music, and as I hummed along the Interstate, my mind wandered.

"Officer, I can explain. You see, it was either these or no glasses at all, and while these are so last season (killer aviators, by the way) and ugly at that, something was better than nothing and this is all they had. I know it looks like I stole them. But, I didn't. I wouldn't." The sensor would rattle with each side-to-side head shake, making me seem even more pathetic. He'd have no pity on me in my plight, and say, "Please step out of the car, ma'am."

Then, he'd cuff me, and haul me to the slammer, so-so shades and all. At least the silvery-gray rims of my shades would compliment my new black-and-white uniform, and I'm sure there's some Macgyver-like thief who could free me from the sensor using only a piece of dental floss. I can also rest assured that no one will steal my non-existent last season Ralph Lauren's while I catch some Z's between games of Texas Hold 'em.

Ah, such a bright future. Sure glad I bought those shades.

Dr. K

Monday, while shopping in the dollar aisle at Target, I got a phone call. It was K.
K: "Hi. What are you doing?"
Me: "Just perusing the dollar aisle at Target. Why?"
K: "You know how I'm going to find a cure for diabetes?"
(Those of you who know K, know that this is so K. Only K would/could take on such a task. She's perfectly capable of coming up with a cure. Let us not forget the highlighter invention which sent her to that National invention fair in elementary school).
Me (thinking of the late night conversations we've had about curing everything from tachycardia to chronic headaches):"Yeah."
K: "I want to ask you a few questions."
Me: "OK. Shoot."
She then preceded to ask all sorts of interesting questions. To her credit, they were quite technical. She's done her homework. We went over the difference between Type I and Type II, the causes of each, the treatment of each, and the latest research.
Me: "Does that help?"
K: "Yes. Do you have any reason to come to Provo soon?"
Me: "Why?"
K: "I feel like we should have a meeting." Click.
And that was that. With K on the case, I'll be able to ditch this insulin pump on no time! I'll keep you posted.

to you too, dad

happy birthday, chief!

Best wishes for the best Dad. I love you!

98 never looked so great!

My Grandmother is remarkable. I adore her.

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA DEAR.

remains of the neigh

Churchill said, "Never, never, never give up." That's a lot of "never's." In contrast (and in much less of an historical context) there's the adage, "(Stop) kicking a dead horse." Both idioms have merit. (Don't think me an idiot for labeling Churchill's statement an idiom). Then there's the whole "find your inner chi." Seek for balance.

But what if in your never never giving up you can't seem to get rid of the horse? What if, in all your kicking, you've come to enjoy the kicking? To count on the kicking? That dead horse has become an almanac of sorts and every six months or so, you walk up and let him have it. And, just as you expected, he takes it. Like a champ. And you're good to go for another few months. Never give up. Stop kicking. Find balance.

In reality, I know I should cease the kick-fest. Maybe the happy medium would be to mount the horse head on the wall. It would be very equestrian of me. Very Ralph. Very British. Perhaps Mr. Churchill himself would approve.

New Project

Here's to a fun beginning!

right under my nose

Linds and I have a favorite periodical. We'd bonded over its informative articles and witty tidbits in our apartment: The Best Mascara; The Stress Less Dinner Party; Eating Chocolates And Dancing in the Kitchen: How Dining on Dove Promises, Doing the Cha-Cha and Running the Whirlpool Will Get You the Guy; The DIY Breakdown: Become Bob Vila, Martha Stewart, Mother Teresa, and Bear Grylls Without Leaving Your Home. (So I made those up, but they were somewhat along those same lines). We read aloud our favorite parts and copied down favorite quotes. Then when Lindsay went home for the summer, the same sort of back-and-forth would ensue over the phone or via email. This was our Little Black Book; our Go-To Manual for Life. It had all the answers. I mean, the article that told us which bathroom stall to choose to avoid the most germs?! Come on! Talk about your life saving information! I think about it every time I'm in a public restroom.

It's right there in the title. Real Simple: life made easier. Here's the thing - time (and a lot of issues of this fabulous mag) have told me that all along, the answers to life's most pressing questions (foolproof stain removal, how to find the best trench coat for your body type, the number of flowers a bee has to tap to make one pound of honey) are right under my nose. Heaven bless the people of Real Simple who spend hours entertaining and informing. I appreciate it (two words: bathroom stall). But, at the end of the day, it's you against the world. You're in charge. You call the shots. Pay the bills. Deal with the consequences of staying up an extra hour to see if Conan does his string dance. You deal with the frustration of caving and calling that guy whose number you thought you'd deleted out of your cell phone. While those things seem overwhelming at times (That thing about the bees? I've always wondered) and you don't know how you'll ever make it through, you will. You do.

Tonight, as I closed the cover of my Real Simple (the last page one woman's plea for a 32-hour day and jeans that make her look like Cameron Diaz) I looked over at my giant-sized To Do's for the rest of the week/the month/my life with the realization that I may not check off some of those things for quite some time, but I know I will. And there's not a magazine out there that's better than the voice in my head, telling me to grit my teeth and jump in. With both feet. It's not going to be easy, but it's Life. And life isn't simple, no matter what magazines say. Isn't it the least simple things that are the most worth it? I'll get there, one check at a time.