Bad News

Monday is the day we get emails from my brother. We sit around all morning with our computers or phones waiting waiting waiting. I usually write Sunday night, summing up my week, telling him about the goings on back here at home, and sometimes I have to be the bearer of bad news. Like this week. This is what I said:

One of your IKEA bamboo stalks has gone the way of all the earth. Dad had to put it to rest. Forever. Just one. Weird, right? The other one is fine, just lonely. I hope you were sitting down for that.

Also...

Mom's car got smashed this week. Twice. The first time, she was backing out of a parking spot at the temple and she hit not one, but two yellow posts. To make matters worse, she was backing out to let someone in, so they witnessed the car crunching debacle in its entirety. The very next day in the Dan's parking lot (it was snowing--remember how I said it's still winter here? In April?) another car hit her. The back bumper was falling off. The tire scraped the rim when you turned the corner. It's getting fixed as I type. The silver linings: All those dents that happened in the Olympus Parking lot? Gone-zo! Lining Two: All of this, and not once has she hit the Howell's car, which is more than a lot of us can say. What a blessing.
There were happy tidbits included as well, like how we surprised Papa at his office for his birthday. We took him a sandwich from Grove Market (which was more of a mountain than a meal) and ate apple pie in the Clark B. Fetzer Memorial Dining Room (á propos, no?) while Baby Naomi sat on Brian's lap. Afterward she did her fishy face (which I am rather proud of, seeing as I worked on it with her for weeks) and she clapped hooray for Papa's Birthday. So amidst the bad, there is lots of good.

Confession

One of my professors makes fun of blonds (even dudes) and people from Texas. It's hilarious and everyone knows he's kidding.

I don't do dumb things very often. However yesterday I did something really dumb. Embarrassingly dumb. In front of a new group of friends. Within seconds, hundreds of people knew. Truly, hundreds. It could be because it's been a while since I've done something extremely stupid. Or because of the late hour.

After all was said and done though, I laughed harder than I've laughed in, oh, let's say a year. I'm pretty sure I pulled a muscle. Kathryn called it the sleepover kind of laughing. All the embarrassment was swallowed up in laughter (and the ensuing encores of laughter, which lasted until 1:30 am.)

will break for lunch

The other night we gathered at Sarah's to celebrate Elle's upcoming nuptials. Many stories were told to her soon-to-be hubby. I was amazed at our ability to bring up Billie (Elle's nickname) trivia. We were holding our sides and burning off our chocolate cake dessert before it had a chance to digest. Here's one story I didn't tell:

The first time I got a speeding ticket I was 16. It was the first day I was allowed to take the car to school. At lunch we piled into the car and drove down 900 South, Whitney Houston's "Heartbreak Hotel" blasting on the radio. Em, who knew all the words, was shotgun, Elle was in the backseat, along with Kates and I don't remember who else. The cop was hiding behind the corner, speed gun caulked, perfectly out of sight. He was ready and waiting for such innocent and oblivious 16 year-olds off on a 15 minute joy ride. I was car dancing and slapping the steering wheel as we headed to our usual lunching location: Great Harvest. We'd spend .75 cents on a cinnamon roll and, with purchase, get a slice of bread as thick as a brick. I'd slap honey on mine and with sticky fingers head back up the hill for 4th period.

We coasted down the hill with ease, feeling fun and fancy free (as fun an fancy free as you can feel in a minivan). I remember looking at the speedometer mid-decline and seeing the needle hit 40. I felt a tinge of remorse, and made a complete stop at the stop sign, Whitney's voice accompanying my regret. Ready to repent, I started slowly, but was flagged down by a man in dark brown. He motioned for me to pull around the corner. DJ Em at the dial, she turned the volume soft soft soft, until Whitney was on mute. Down went my window and up went my heart rate as the cop came forward asking for my license. I'm pretty sure they covered this in the first day of Driver's Ed - anytime you're behind the wheel, have your license. It's not that I missed that class but in the mayhem that was the last-minute decision that I'd be the taxi to Great Harvest, I didn't run back to get my license in my soccer bag. I handed over my high school ID as my form of identification.

After a few minutes worth of lecturing, some snickers from the back seat, and my first signature on a traffic violation, we were on our way to Bread Heaven and back to school before the bell. We took the 800 south route, no radio, and somehow the honey on my bread that day wasn't as sweet. Between the bunch of us, there were several other tickets those two and half years before we parted ways for college. We reminiced about the best of them the other night. I think we'd all agree that the lawn mowing, too-much-school-spirit, "Use of horn" takes the cake. Way to go, Kates!

a wee bit foggy

Today's just another one to add to the books: The Adventures of K and M. There's no one I'd rather...
- End up in Queens with.
- Crash a golf cart with.
- Get stuck in a true Chicago blizzard (sans coats) with.
- Eat an entire box of Frangos with.
- Spend my last pennies on gumballs with.
- Fetch firewood in the middle of the night with. Say cheese!
- Look for Pattie's Pizzeria with.
- Be stranded in the parking lot of Hires with.
- Scream in the back of an airplane with.
- "Break" into the Delta parking lot with.

Until tomorrow, my dear...Don't forget the baking soda and a toothbrush. Wha?!
"Take me to the fog! Don't you love it?!"

joy ride

It was one last joy ride. Just the girls. A quick out-and-back and we'd be home in time to head to the airport. My fifteen year-old self had never been behind the wheel of a moving vehicle, but this was a golf cart. How hard could it be?

K and I lurched out of the driveway, my feet unaccustomed to the touch-and-go of the gas pedal. We toppled over the gutter and out onto the golf cart path, rain slapping against the roof as we headed toward our new (as in mere moments before) favorite hill. I'd watched my Dad navigate the same path- a little give-and-go at the top and down through the puddle. We were all giggles with him at the helm; giddy at the size of the puddle, the sound of the splashing, and the realization that the rain flaps actually did their job, water rushing down the windshield like the tide headed back out to sea.

It happened so fast. One second K and I were on the path, all smiles and sandwiched between the thick Georgia forest. The next second, K was screaming at the top of her lungs like Drew Barrymore when she spies E.T. in the closet. I couldn't blame her. We completely missed the fairway, our puddle of joy, hole-in-one at the bottom of the hill. I lost control of the golf cart, and we were headed straight for the creek, leaving a trail of trampled saplings behind. The breaks locked and, just as K got her second wind, we came to a screaming, screeching halt, stopping mere inches from the edge. Two wheels tottered over the creek. The other two stayed earth-bound, stuck in soggy forest mud. The cart had stopped. The screaming had stopped. It was as if the forest itself had paused to breathe a sigh of relief. All we could hear was the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof. And the rushing of the creek just below our feet. We were stuck in our own bunker, a literal mud hole, strokes away from our hole-in-one puddle.

After this much needed moments worth of silence (my ears were ringing at a pitch that would shatter a champagne glass, thank you K) we both burst out laughing. We were hysterical! We laughed so hard in fact, that our guffaws threw off our center of gravity, which was the only thing keeping us from diving nose-first into the rushing creek. With a "whoa!" from both our mouths, we ceased all laughing and steadied ourselves. We needed a plan. K would put the cart in reverse, while I pushed the front wheels up and over the rocks at the top of the creek. I lifted the rain hood and inched my way out of the cart, sneakers sinking deeper with each step.

Cold Georgia rain fell upon my hands while I tried to brace both sides of the cart. When I got to three, K was going to gas it, and I was going to push. Up and back. We'd be back at K's parent's house in no time, and no body would have to know. No one would have to know about the last-minute decision to turn back up the hill for one more joy-ride down the slippery slope. No one would have to know that we completely missed the jumbo puddle that pooled itself where the two declines met and formed a perfect parabola-shaped fun-course in my cousin's Peachtree City neighborhood. In fourteen hours, I'd be in Paris and this mess would only be a memory; a blur to the background of the Eiffel Tower and the lavender fields along the French Countryside.

We pushed. Up. Over. Side-to-side. Spinning and spinning, the two back wheels splashed thick dark mud onto my legs. The two front wheels spun circles in the air over the creek. The stench of burning rubber began to seep out of the ground. An encore of smoke followed. This wasn't going to work. We devised a plan which included soliciting the help of K's Boy Scout brother but discluded the involvement of parents, freeing us from any sort of explanation as to why our joy-ride hadn't ended up being so joyful. I quickly made my way back to the house, rain pelting my back as I ran. I told M to come quick; that he just had to see something K and I found. Immediately. He wouldn't be disappointed. As soon as I was out of parent-ear-shot, I spilled the beans.

M arrived on the scene, a veritable hero for the Ladies in Peril. He wasn't amused. In fact, as he shoved sticks and stones under each back tire to help lift us out of the mud (such the Boy Scout) all he said, over and over again, was, "You guys are so stupid. Dad's gonna kill you. You. Are. SO. stupid." His efforts were valiant, yet regrettably, M's assistance wasn't enough. By this time my wrist was literally sprained (I spent the first day in Paris getting x-rays) and my pants were wet up to my thighs. A yellow flash caught my eye. Like a knight in shining armor, Dad arrived in a borrowed yellow slicker and some of Uncle D's boots. He looked...ridiculous. His trusty steed: my sister, who was eager to help (as in poke fun) us in our plight.

With the four of us, one each corner of the cart (K was all dry inside, manning the gas pedal) pushing and pulling in unison, we freed the cart from cascading down the creek. Putt. Putt. Putt. The ride back to the house was literally silent, except for the klunk-rattle-rattle-klunk-klunk of the golf cart and the rain on the roof. K tried to assure me that it had always made that sound; that her Dad never knew why. I didn't buy it. What I came to terms with was the fact that I might have to buy a new golf cart. I held my wrist against my chest the whole way as I subtracted the price of a new golf cart from my Paris spending money, sending me into imaginary overdraft before we even left U.S. soil, or, in this case, U.S. mud. Safely inside the garage, my Dad put the golf cart in park. As he turned the key, he looked into the back seat. "No one has to know about this. It can be our little secret. Go tell Aunt S to stick your pants in the dryer. We've got to get going." I breathed an audible sigh of relief as K and I slipped in the back door.

We ended up spilling the beans. It all came out in a medley of nervous notions and hilarious hiccups, each with our own version of what went wrong. In the end, I was to blame, but no one pointed their finger. Ten minutes after our confessional, we were headed to the airport, Paris bound. What a whirlwind start to the vacation of a lifetime. One of the best pictures from the trip is of all of us, Rich in Dad's arms, in front of the Eiffel Tower. I've got a brace on my wrist placed there by the local docteur in Noisy le Roi all because of a last-minute spin by two teenagers in a golf cart. Looking back, it's one of the best stories I have with K. There are many, so it is hard to choose.

No Parking

Sometimes, sometimes I miss living in Provo. (It sounds better if I say I miss living at BYU, doesn't it. Yes. I believe it does). I miss living between walls as thin as tissue paper, (therefore equally as sound-proof) and in stairwells where the smell of every one's dinners would indefinitely collide (sometimes for days) creating a sort of goulash of Lean Cuisines, frozen pizza and Strawberry Poptarts. I miss the feeling of family right outside my window, the grass between apartments our collective playground. I miss the stepping stones. I miss having peanut M&M's thrown at the bay window by the boys in 311 and playing executive billiards, even if I always lost. I miss stealing LoveSacs, sitting in lawn chairs gabbing until the early hours of the morning and making quesadillas for L&L at 1 am. I miss popping screens off of windows. I miss visiting The Shed and taking Spence to Costco to buy roses for whichever girl he was currently trying to woo. (So glad he ended up with Sara!) Mostly, I miss the people; those dear souls who sat beside me on Sundays, below the Periodic Table of the Elements, while we listened to Bishop Ballard's weekly challenges. BOND.

Once, I parked my car in the slot marked 117. It was adjacent to the spot assigned to our apartment and...vacant, which was basically unheard of at that late hour. It was just for the night. I didn't think my new neighbors would mind. It was the first week of school. No mid-terms, projects or papers to pen. I'd move it in the morning when students awoke and both bodies and autos dispersed. I wish I had taken a picture of the outcome of my misdeed: huge block letters made from silver duct tape, a midnight maneuver by my new "neighbors." YOU PARK HERE, it read. A large arrow pointed from my car to the spot labeled 216 where my roommate's car still sweetly slumbered. I pulled the tape from the cinder block wall which separated our complex from the complex behind us* and walked around the corner to the dumpster. I threw that sticky stuff away. It took me about 3 days to get up enough courage to fess up to the sticky situation I had gotten myself into.

The good news: the tenants of 117 became dear friends. (I'll forgive Cody his smelly Costco pot stickers, which permeated the stairwell for days on end). I saw Brady (the duct tape artist) a year ago at a Santa B get-together. He's all grown up and responsible (meaning he always parks where he's supposed to), with a wife and two darling kids. He's an attorney now. And, if I had to, I'd call him up to represent me. Especially if, say, I needed to get out of a really bad parking ticket.


*Speaking of big block letters, the complex directly to the south is called "The Colony." (I could write a whole post about the names of apartment complexes in Provo, but I'll save that for a later date, or for some other blogger who feels prompted to do so). The Colony's sign is painted with reflective paint so you don't run right into the sign (which you would, because it is smack-dab, dead-center, right in the middle of the entrance to the place.) Some geniuses whom I will forever love, scratched the paint off of the "Y" in Colony, so at night the sign reads, "The Colon." Ha! And people think there's nothing to do for fun in Provo!