yellow gumdrops

I'm afraid I've left this to the last minute tonight. Everything (and I mean everything) about today was unexpected. And I'm not too good with The Unexpected. I'm missing B terribly today. I wish more than anything I could have walked straight to her house after church today, grabbed gumdrops from the buffet, sat down in her cheery front room and then she'd tell me exactly where to go from here. The raindrops have finally stopped, leaving the house too quiet for my tangled and wandering thoughts which aren't transferring to this blog page. Time to pull out a Sharpie and have at it.

Saturdays, Cigars and Ushankas

Third time's the charm. As if twice wasn't enough, on the third attempt, the car was still in reverse. Oops. I'm pretty sure the incessant laughing didn't help, either.

A Saturday spent with the Stevens Sisters is a Saturday well-spent, and usually a day not short on adventures. What a day!

"Is that a cigar?! Oh! And...he's wearing a fur hat. You guys, this...is culture!"

Here I Stand, Head in Hand

I've had more than several comments about my "confusing" posts. Hmm. Is this true? Be honest. I know I'm wordy. Really wordy. But confusing? I had no idea. Sure, I like puns and an occasional play-on-words, but is it all to my reader's frustrarion? Just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo? It maka-no-sense? Oh, no! Have I got to hide my words away?

Total BUMMER.

(NaBloPoMo 9)
After an appointment for work today, I decided to drive past the Walter Ware House. It had been a while and I was just a few blocks away. A few blocks from my beloved Walter E. Ware House is another Avenues Gem, which marshals fond memories.

In high school, my friend Ashly drove a BUMMER. It was a Beast, with tires nearly as big as any of it's passengers and twice as big as Janey. We could fit the whole soccer team in it, and did, on a few occasions. This gas-guzzler was the perfect Girl-Mobile on the weekends. We'd sit hip-to-hip, five-across the front, Ash at the helm. Richard, Ashly's dad and the brains behind the Bummer, had fashioned the most amazing heating system for that Bad Boy. The vents on the dashboard were removable and transportable! Attached to a long hose, each vent resembled an elephant trunk, once fully extended. The heaters could reach all the way into the back, and up Elle's shirt, on most occasions. It was ingenious. (On Richard's part. Not Elle's. Well, I guess whatever you have to do to keep warm. I guess...)

We could be heard from miles away. And not just because we were eight girls laughing, screaming and belting Deana Carter at the top of our lungs. That thing drove and sounded like a tractor. There was nothing discreet about it. Why we used it to do "drive-bys" weekend after weekend, is beyond me, but at the time, it didn't phase us.

The weekend brought the routine route, past boy's houses. Post Crush-Cruise Giggle Parade slash East High Honk-fest, Ash would head up Emigration Canyon to 4-wheel it. Here's the thing about Ash: she's absolutely fearless. Whether it's cliff jumping in Powell, defense on the soccer field, or off-roading into the dark oblivion, there's no stopping her. The 4-wheeling would come unannounced. We'd be on the highway and...off we'd go. Like she'd lost it. (But, she hadn't). There was Ash, having a hay-day, as our heads knocked against each other and laughter bounced about the Bummer.

When I saw this house today, it brought back memories of a Bummer of a break down. (Remember, Girls?) One Saturday morning, right in front of this exact house, at precisely the moment the dweller wanted out, we happened to be Bummin' by. She kicked her Mercedes into reverse and...clank. Out went the Bummer. We'd boxed her in. We'd boxed her in good. Still cell-phone free in those days, the only way to reach Richard The Mechanic, was to use her land-line. I remember wanting to bustle right behind Bill (Elle) and Ash because I knew her house was bound to be spectacular inside. Elle didn't come back with details on the house, but she gushed about the size of this Mama's biceps. We didn't stop hearing about them the rest of the day. Elle was bent on benching just as much after she had had two little ones. Truthfully, we were all impressed.

I don't recall the exacts on how Richard rescued us, but he did. Today as I drove past this house, I laughed out loud when I thought of The Bummer Days, Ash the Fearless Pilot, and our 4-wheeling adventures. BBindaBUMMER!

Friends, Romans...

Dear All...(three of you).

A) Bless your little souls for even visiting in the first place, and...

2) I begin each post with every intention of keeping it short. Cross my heart! But, regrettably, it never turns out so! Why? What didn't I learn from dear Suzan (besides everything, really). I guess I missed that lecture. I just need to learn to quit (if ever) while I'm ahead.

3) Last but most definitely not least: Love to you all...three. Well, four if we're counting the Romans. And, I think we should.

med/moy in Manhattan

(NaBloPoMo: eight)
There are few things I love more than a great pen. I've got boxes and boxes of fine point Sharpies, which since design school have become The Favorite. Then there's Micron...oh!...and Staedtler...love Staedtler...and Zig...You see? Few things I love more. When felt tip or rolling-writer won't do, there's Bic, tried and true. I've been known to hang on to certain Bics for years. E.M. and Kates, do you recall the turquoise-green Bics I was given that were almost more precious than the boy who bequeathed them? The last one ran out of ink last night. Truly, an emotional evening.

As one can imagine, I've got quite the pen collection. My nightstand drawer houses hundreds hyperbob-ly (that's for you, Linds) speaking, but I've got lots. As not to make the drawer-dwellers feel forsaken, there's a great little wire basket at arms-length, on the bottom shelf of said nightstand. A good pen needn't go friendless. My drafting desks...well, that's another story! A Universe of Pens.

While in NYC a few weeks ago, I found myself in an atrocious situation. After flipping on my book light for some light reading, I pulled out my journal to do some night-light writing. I searched my bag for Mr. Sharpie. What?! But how? The gasping could only go on for so long. K lives in a loft, so there's a "Shh!-the-Loft-Mates-Are-Sleeping" policy posted and strictly enforced. Because of the bitty-barracks, along with the "Shh!" policy, they also live by the credo, "What's yours is mine and what's mine is ours," which was in my favor that penless night. So, Book Light Beacon and I were soon on the grave-shift prowl. Two design students in residence, this place was bound to be a pen-haven. I'd have a 05 Micron between my knuckles in no time. No need to panic.

Alas, alack and, woe indeed, my discoveries were definitely discouraging: a lone Bic. A lone Bic (!) And not my beloved med/moy, but a fine Bic, which totally cramps my style. To make the midnight more calamitous, the pen's top had been chewed to bits. I made my way back to the futon and muffled my despondent yelps. Not only was this the only pen in the household, this proprietary pen had been assaulted. This wasn't the work of a girl. No, no. Girls don't carry out such acts. This was most decidedly the work of a MALE. How can I be sure? Here's how: along with the munch-marks, the pen had been drawn on with another pen. Graffiti-ed. Tattooed. Who does that? Lest we dwell on such savagery, let's go back to me, my book light and K's loft in mid-town Manhattan: Pen in hand. Collected, I passed the night pensively writing away, with the aid of Mr. med/moy Bic. He did quite well for himself.

A few moments ago, here on Yale, a similar situation, involving paper and pen, presented itself. I reached for the closest writing instrument when...What the? My hand felt something prickly. Yucky. I looked down, and there it was. The Innocent Assaulted Pen. I abducted Him! Why? And now He'd settled in to abide with the others: The Felts, The Rollers, The Bics, The Staedlers, and The Zigster? All cozy-like and accepted. My pens. They had risen to the occasion. It's almost as if they shoved Mr. Innocent to the front of the line - The Head of the Class to ensure His usage tonight. I guess it's for the better, you know? Loneliness can get old, right? And, we've got a history now. A good pen needn't go friendless. So, K, Hillary, and Jordan, if you're missing your dear Bic, don't you worry, He's not out on the streets. He's safe here, back in a big Bic family, getting used - in the good way. And, for crying out loud, girls, walk a few doors down to the CVS and buy yourselves some Sharpies. You won't be disappointed, nor will your midnight-meandering guests.

27.

“For there is no friend like a sister, in calm or stormy weather, to cheer one on the tedious way, to fetch one if one goes astray, to lift one if one totters down, to strengthen whilst one stands.”

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY,
LIBBY DEAR!
I love you.

Tornado Tag

(NaBloPoMo 7)
There are some things in life you just can't avoid. In my case, it's being "tagged." I've been tagged twice now, so I guess I'd better execute. Thanks, K. Thanks, A. You two are the best...and I mean best! Luv ya tunz.
The rules are as follows:
Rule 1: The player lists 6 facts/habits about themselves - try to find 6 you haven’t already posted about!
Rule 2: At the end of the post, the player tags 6 people and posts their names, and then goes to their blog and leaves them a comment, letting them know they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog for the rules.

WAY more than you wanted to know about me...

Fact 1: One night at a Haglund Family Reunion, M and K and A and I were sitting in our condo playing "Brainquest." During a lull in the game, (M and I were cleaning house in the Hum-dinger department and went on to win the FRANGO award for our ability to "Recall Rock-n-Roll Through the Ages.") M took a peanut and stuck it up my nose. Far. I immediately started laughing and therefore inhaled, making the peanut go further and further up my snauze. It took about 20 minutes to get it out. I've never blown my nose so hard in my life! Bruce, M's Dad, did the same thing with a bean, but he was like 2. M was 17. I guess that made us even, though. In Colter Bay, a few years earlier, I slammed her hand in our minivan door.

Fact 2: When I was young, my Mom would make us (when I say make, I mean force) take two sessions of swimming lessons each summer. We went to a swim club in Salt Lake that had a long, black asphalt walkway, with overflowing flower pots, which led from the parking lot to the pool. Mothers would drop their eager little children off and they'd run along the asphalt and hustle their way up to the pool, usually because the Utah sun had made the ground so hot their bare feet would get burned unless they scurried. I ran, too, but not because it was hot. Nope. I ran from flower pot to flower pot, barfing into each, out of mortal fear. I hated swimming lessons. Sometimes, I would even trow up in the pool. Especially if we had to swim in the deep end. But, as my swim teacher used to say, "That's what chlorine is for, Martha. Swim across!" Oh, did I mention that my swim teacher was my Uncle? Yeah. And, if you were thrown off the high dive at age four by some cruel man named "Roger," (your mother looking on in utter terror) a man who appears sporadically in your nightmares to this day, my uncle was your swim teacher, too! Don't worry. He's much nicer on dry land. And, as he's reminded me many times over the years, you haven't drown yet, now have you? Exactly.

Fact 3: I'm horribly scared of escalators. As in, I think I might die each time I use one. It's something about depth perception, the ground literally splitting beneath me, and the fear that my pant leg or shoelace might get caught between the teeth. I don't like to talk about it. Let's move on.

Fact 4: When I was little, I liked neat handwriting so much I decided that when I grew up, I wanted to be the girl who painted signs for grocery stores - the kind that say, "Lean Ground Beef $1.49 lb." Now, that I'm older and wiser, it's not so much the grocery store butcher paper sign artist job that intrigues me as it is the chalk artist who writes "Sandwiches" or "Cheeses" on blackboards at great delicatessens. Keep your eyes peeled for a job opening...

Fact 5: I memorize license plates. Just letters, not numbers. I like to make words or sayings out of them. I also memorize car makes and models. I can tell the difference between a 1999 Honda Accord and a 2000 Honda Accord. The only difference: a white strip was added to the tail lights on the 2000 models. BMWs: same deal. They didn't streamline the tail lights into the trunk line one year. HUGE design flaw. I feel bad for people who bought BMW's that year. UG-LY. As soon as they learned the small tweak lost them the signature BMW look, they fixed it an the Beamer beaconed again! Jetta and Passat lights are like that, too. It's not just lights I pay attention to, though. I can spot Audi A6s and A8s from blocks away, and...Wow. This is completely. useless. information. It's a design thing. Since I'm never going to own great wheels myself, I might as well really enjoy looking at everyone else's.

Fact 6: Mandy Moore is my idol. Mandy Moore the singer, NOT the actress. (As if that makes any of us feel better). Although, I'd be lying completely if I said I hated "Chasing Liberty." But wait! Mandy Moore was in a movie with John Krazinski. Okay. She's totally my idol and if she's not yours...something is wrong with you! John Krazinski = Total BABE!

Last but not least: as for the rest of you...E, Jen the Hen, Becca, Meka (this makes 2) Les, and Linds...Tag! Ladies, you're it! And let's throw Jen and Ty in there for fun, too. Kates, if you feel so inclined...but I know you posted "111 Things About Me" recently, which was darling.