that one time we watched jeopardy

One time when my sister came to visit me at college, I got a whole column of Double Jeopardy questions right. The subject was "The Heart." I was in the other room folding laundry. Superior vena cava! or foramen ovale! I'd shout. My sister was impressed. But not as impressed as she was Friday afternoon. While I bounced my niece on my knee, I blurted out the answer to a physics question waaayyy before the buzzer. She asked me where the heck that was in my brain. Dunno, I said. You should be able to test out of your class now, or something, she said. I don't know about that, but I sure think that it should count for something.

double bubble, baby

Recently I was going through my sister's file of photographs and I found one of the two of us with mom and dad and Aunt B at the ice cream parlor. The one that grandpa designed with the twirling double ice cream cone on the outside. The picture was taken after a dance recital. We're wearing matching blue and white striped leotards with blue skirts. We both have ice cream smeared across our faces and pink ballet shoes on our feet.

Before the time when all I would order was mint chocolate chip, I would get bubble gum ice cream, the kind that had pieces of bubble gum mixed in. My sister liked it, too. I liked to save all the bubble gum on a napkin and count it at the end. My sister would try and do the same, but usually aborted mission halfway through, preferring the double-bubble method: eating bubble gum ice cream while chewing a big wad of bubble gum. That's how she's always been--all bubble gum. She takes life in one big gulp. She dives in head-first with a cheek full of pink bubble gum. She jumps off the highest platform at the pool. Skis the double black diamonds. Rides the fastest roller coaster in the park.

Now my sister's got this beautiful baby girl. When she arrived in the world, she was a bit blue because she wasn't quite ready to breathe. I watched my sister's face, pink with exhaustion, grow concerned while the nurses tended to her new little one. We held our breath as we waited for Naomi to take her first taste of air from this side of life. Today she's all bows and dainty hands and high pitched squeals when she smiles. Her cheeks get rosy after she's eaten, one of my Dad's favorite things about her (as if he can choose.) The other night at dinner I watched my sister put a spoonful of ice cream to Baby Naomi's lips. She's not quite sure how she takes her ice cream yet. But double-bubble or one piece at a time, she's got one smart mama to show her the ropes.

Oh Happy Day

happy birthday to my sister
{who has always looked
better in a baseball hat than I have}

Dear Bibberlicious,
Happy birthday. I love you more than Ken's Kash penny candy, or that lemon chicken we used to make when we played restaurant at Aunt B's. More than the turtle we found in Grandpa's garden. I love you more than you love Wheat Thins and melted cheese, your Billy Joel River of Dreams CD (back in the day) or Shop N' Go fro yo. I love you more than samples from the deli at Crystal Palace, burnt mallows at The Lot, and the pile of grass behind the garage at the red brick house we liked to sit on. More than peanut butter square day at Bonneville. More than playing Round Robin ping pong on Grandpa's table with Jessie and Carly, or bean bags at Grandma and Grandpa Haglund's. I love you more than making things out of cardboard boxes at 1936 or more than you loved digging to China with Romney and Brian. I love you more than the round table in our playroom and more than the sparkly butterfly tile bathroom. I love you more than you loved wearing khaki shorts and two t-shirts, or more than I loved GAP jeans with the patch on the back pocket and my Wendy Spencer bows. I love you more than water weenie-ing on Yuba Lake. I love you more than Mad About You re-runs. More than setting Rich in front of the fireplace or telling him he was born without...you know. I love you more than driving really fast over train tracks in the Rose Shop van. More than pastries in Paris or cello and violin with Kate and Kristin or finally reaching the end of Pachabel's Cannon, the quartet version. I love you more than Sundays with the brothers from the N.V. spent watching Unkle Pensoir bounce up the stairs on that weird toy. I love you more than ALL the salt box houses on Cape Cod.

Thank you for being my friend and confidant. Thank you for telling me it's OK I'm not good at physics and for offering to beat up dudes free of charge. Thank you for marrying D and for bringing Baby Naomi to our family. Seeing you as a mother makes me the most happy. Thank you for letting me keep that brown sweatshirt that you probably don't know I still have.

I luff you. I lurve you. I loaf you. I loughph(x)e you.
Marfie

on the radio

While we remodeled our house we lived with my Grandma and Grandpa, across the street from our friend Emily. Emily was in junior high. She had a brother Jon, who was in high school. He wore khaki shorts and rugby shirts and watched MacGyver. His room was a never ending expanse of The Unknown: trophies and yearbooks high atop a shelf, a stereo with speakers bigger than our heads and, a water bed. Jon was the epitome of high school cool, and we knew it.

Emily, being related to Jon, was pretty cool, too. She taught us about the local radio station Q99 and told us that when you're in junior high you don't call your friend and ask if you can "play." Instead, you say, "Can you do something." Or "Do you want to hang out." My sister and I would listen to Emily's tales of junior high, wide-eyed and innocent, in shock that there were kids who would skip class to go smoke in the gully behind the school.

Sometimes, Jon would let us listen to his stereo. For those few moments, we seemed endlessly fly. When Emily came to play at Grandma and Grandpa's, we would steal the radio from the family room and plug it into the socket behind the sofa in front of the big window in the living room. One person was in charge of calling Q99 to request a song, usually Emily, because she had experience with that sort of thing. Indian-style on the wood floor, we'd perch on our elbows on our knees and wait. We'd turn the volume down low low low and stick our ears close to the speakers. I remember worrying Grandpa would find our little secret radio refuge, but it went undiscovered. I felt grown-up, a little mischievous and totally cool.

on hiccups

My sister gets the hiccups. Bad. And there is absolutely no curing them. She sounds more like a sick donkey than a human with excess air in her chest. "Hee-ahh! Hee-ahh!" In 8th grade, she used to get kicked out of choir class because her hiccups were so disruptive. Completely unappreciative of my sister's impromptu percussion, Mrs. W. would hand over the larger-than-necessary bright red plastic Hall Pass and tell her to come back when her Heehaw hiccups were gone. The eighth grader with the killer jump shot and the horrible hiccups. Yup, that's my sister.

In sixth grade, my teacher kept sugar packets in her desk for students who got a heavy case of the hiccups. If ever I got the hiccups during a violin lesson (which happened more often than one would think) Judi (my teacher who wore mumus more often than one would think) marched me into the kitchen and filled a glass of water full, full, full. I was to bend over and drink upside-down, from the opposite side of the cup, a hic-trick that no matter how many times I'd seen her do it, she would proceed to demonstrate. It usually worked.

This morning I got into an elevator with nearly one hundred people (I'm only slightly exaggerating) and a hospital bed (which, gratefully, I was not in). It was quite roomy in that shaft until an orderly arrived. Rather than wait for the next go-round, he decided to join us for our joy ride. Taking note of the space situation, he ordered us to pick a side. His game plan (which he described, hand motions and all): To cram the awkward thing right betwixt us, and then heave-ho it straight out the opposite end of the lift. Like sardines bound by a border order, we stuck to our sides, smashed and smooshed, while that orderly had space for a small parade in front of and behind him. All the while, I was in the corner going, "Hic. Hic. Hic." It was only slightly embarrassing. Much less so than sounding like a sick donkey.

the season turns slowly

I haven't really stopped to let Christmas sink in, even though we're officially a week into December. This isn't a good thing for a girl who likes to soak up the season with every sense. Miss D and I took an all-too-quick glance at the lights on Temple Square the other night, giving into the chill and running across the sidewalk to the car, all the lights to our backs. I didn't mean to dismiss Christmas, but I'd rather gobble it all up this weekend on Temple Square than take little nibbles from the edge of the plaza on the way out.

After some much-needed nudging from my dear mother, I got to sorting my in basket today. (Can it be called an in basket if nothing ever goes out?) I got a fourth of the way through and then joined my sister at the table for dinner. It's been a long time since it's been just the two of us at the round table. Tonight I needed her. She came in the front door with warm soup and a salad full of the colors of the season: reds on the greens. For dessert, I had a slice of chocolate orange, which is undoubtedly my brother's. (Thanks, R.) It tasted like Christmas.

I officially stopped living my life on post-it notes, finally inking in all the holiday-ing on my calendar today. I stayed up late last night wrapping ribbons and jotting little notes on a package to be sent far far away. My drafting desk is covered in the Holiday Craze; red and green slowly crept and settled in this week - all paper and ribbon and colored pens. I fear it will only get worse as I've been sketching card designs this afternoon. Tonight we made popcorn balls at The Nook and wrapped the tree in shades of red and green, from bottom to top. It looks lovely all lit up in the corner.

I feel a bit more Christmas-y after an evening of soup with my sister, followed by much merriment and dancing at The Nook. The forecast says snow four of the next six days. I can't wait for all that white. It's just the thing to add to all the red and green that has taken up residence on my drafting table, a manifestation of both merriment and mayhem. I'll cue the Vince Guaraldi Trio tonight and continue to let the season sink in.

Happy Birthday to The Bibbs

Happy, happy birthday, sister dear!

You are my most favorite person. Thanks for playing T ball with me and for teaching me to throw a football. Thank you for wearing matching Lanz nightgowns on Christmas Eve and for letting me ride your roller blades the next morning when I got a bow holder instead. Thank you for letting me sleep in the double bed with you at 1936. Thank you for sleeping downstairs at 1928. Thank you for saving me (on multiple occasions) from death by scooter slash ferocious little dogs on Nantucket and for taking me on killer snowmobile rides up Weber Canyon. Thank you for teaching me about politics in the Rose Shop van. Thank you for showing me how to make the yellow banana seat bike into an exercise bike by taking off the chain. Thank you for stealing rocks from the garden at The Ladies' House. Thank you for always mowing the lawn so I didn't have to. Thank you for teaching me how to fight, in multiple senses of the word. You are strong, strong, strong. You are a nurturer. You are a gifted teacher. You are a loving wife. You are a dear friend. Thank you for being my bosom buddy all these years. I am so glad we share a birthday month. Here's to new adventures this year. I cannot wait!

Nights at the Round Table

Today for work N and I went to look at tables. At one store we saw a round table with a long linen tablecloth that nearly reached the floor. What a tablecloth, we both thought. N began to design accent runners while I imagined making a secret hide-out underneath, perfect for pirates and princesses or an afternoon camp out on a rainy day. Regardless of its purpose, we both thought the cloth to be beautiful and filed it away in our minds for future use.

We have a round table in our kitchen at home. Dad built it at the family shop. It's been in all three houses we've lived in and I suppose life wouldn't be the same without it. It's the perfect size for two to sit and share the newspaper and serves as an impromptu music stand in a string rehearsal if someone has forgotten theirs. (I used to shift my violin music from stand to table just for a change of scenery and a chance to look out the window.) It's the place to perch in the fall to watch the crab apple tree turn brilliant shades of golds and reds just outside the window and in the springtime birds eat breakfast while we do the same. At Christmas it's where we put the Swedish starters like the goat's cheese and the limpa bread to be eaten before Swedish dinner. It's where the angel stands suspending the star and singing praises to the heavens announcing the birth of the Baby Jesus. It's where Mom likes to put the latest high school pottery masterpieces. Currently Rich's creations reign supreme. His brightly colored five-in-one vase is there round the clock. Anyone who comes to visit gets a mini history lesson on Chard's magnum opus.

Upon the table's belly are lovingly plotted purple and green Crayola marker doodles from a day at the red brick house when my sister and I were feeling mischievous. It served as the canvas for play dough sessions on summer afternoons. Once my brother made a big salt dough pretzel and set it out on the table to dry in the sun, all curled and crisscrossed. Upon pretzel removal, like a child's shadow outlined in chalk, was the outline of a pretzel, branded into the wood. I used to trace the lines with my finger when I got bored.

In line today at the store N and I professed our love of round tables to each other, and then bought a square one, but the space calls for square. Round tables foster conversation. They look visually pleasing in a square room, and are easy to cozy up to with a large crowd. And, if you throw a large tablecloth or giant sheet over the top, I'm certain they're the perfect framework for a pretty awesome fort.

bobcat days

It's summer's end and I can now hear the school bell from my bedroom window. It chimes several times a day, announcing the beginning of a new year and new adventures for all Bonneville Bobcats.

* * *

On most nights, Dad would read to us. He'd sit between our two twin beds at 1936 and prop himself up against the wall. I'd always ask if he wanted a pillow, but he hardly ever said yes. First he would read from the scriptures. He'd open our big blue family copy, studiously fingering the verses to see where we'd left off the night before. My sister liked to say, "We were on the part that says, 'And it came to pass.'" He started to read "The Hobbit," but I made him stop because I was too afraid; especially when he would do his Gollum voice. Instead, he read "Where the Red Fern Grows" and "Ramona the Pest."

Sometimes I would walk to the neighborhood library after school with Ashley and Katie. After a failed attempt at liking "Sweet Valley High," (which is what Katie and Ashley liked best) I read everything Beverly Cleary on my own. I was certain that although she was younger, Ramona the Pest was just like my older sister, and I was like Beezus, the sister who never did anything wrong.

In fifth grade I stopped reading Beverly Cleary. In fifth grade I had Mr. Miller. He loved math, Michigan, and U.S. history; and his face turned really red when he got mad. Sydney, a girl in my class, liked to read the dictionary when she was bored. Mr. Miller would get mad at her for not paying attention when he was trying to teach us the state capitols. Once, he turned me upside-down in front of the whole class to demonstrate inverted fractions. My face got pretty red.

That same year, I was Charlie Chaplin in the Great Americans Parade. Natalie was Benjamin Franklin. She wore knickers and a vest and stuck a pillow up her shirt. Her mom made her wire bifocals and she carried a hot dog skewer with a kite on the end. She had to tell the audience about how she discovered electricity. I didn't have any speaking lines, I just had to waddle like Charlie Chaplin in front of the whole school, which was worse. I had a crush on the boy who played Paul Revere and a secret crush on the boy who played Nathan Hale. I still remember all their lines.

Our required reading that year was a chapter book about the Revolutionary War. Natalie and I would go home for lunch to finish our reading. We'd eat macaroni and cheese while my Mom read to us about Bunker Hill, tea parties and taxes.

One Sunday morning we woke up to toilet paper streaming down from trees in our backyard. By the time we were ready to leave for church, Brad and his little brother were outside with a broom, reaching high up into the cherry tree to clean up their mess. I watched them bundle all the paper up and walk back down the street to their house. I wished it was the boy who played Paul Revere and not Brad and his brother. Fifth grade was the first time I went toilet papering. I spent the night at Katie's house and we toilet papered her next-door-neighbor at eleven.

* * *

I hear children trickle out to recess. Slowly, the playground fills with excited voices, bouncing balls, and girls skipping rope.

of eggs and islands

I had a "Suzan Sandwich" for lunch today: one scrambled egg and one sliced tomato between two pieces of toast. When nothing else sounds good, it always fits the bill. With one bite I'm transported to another time and another place where Suzan, Libby, Stuart and I are off on summer adventures in the VW van.

You know that question: If you were stranded on a desert island and could only bring one person, who would it be? I've never quite been able to answer it. Partially because I like to think that my life is full of endlessly fantastic people and I couldn't bare to choose, and partially because part of me wants my answer to be The man of my dreams. However, he hasn't exactly shown up on the scene yet. Today, as I munched on my sandwich, I decided I'd take Suzan. Some of you may be wondering why I'd want to take my AP English teacher to a deserted island. Why I'd want to spend my desert days discussing Homer or "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." But, as I weighed the pros and cons, I couldn't think of anyone better.

First of all, those who know her can attest she always knows what to do. The world as you know it can be ending, and, come hell or high water, she's got a solution. That solution may be for you to just hesh up and stop complaining, but when it comes down to it, when all the complaining has ceased: problem solved. In our desert island scenario, she and I would spend days and days (and months and months, depending on how long this plays out) discussing art and fine literature. Maybe there was a one book rule, too, and since I've never been able to come up with the answer to that query either, she's the perfect person to have along since she's read and taught it all. Perhaps I'd come out of it understanding "The Heart of Darkness" better, although a plot of sinking ships and vengeful natives on tiny islands might not be the best substance for such a situation.

The two of us would send fascinating and entertaining (not to mention grammatically correct) messages in bottles to delight any and all finders. She'd have me write an observation a day, so I'd come to love our little deserted desert home. She could tell me what it's like to live in Russia amongst artists and vagrants and could explain (by showing, not telling) in such detail the best of France's cheeses, leaving us feeling full, even just for a moment.

When we were rescued, she'd help write up the harrowing tale of who we met and how we managed to live on exotic fruit, make paper from indigenous trees and sandals from bark, the kind she likes to wear year-round. We'd sell thousands of copies and make millions of dollars. But, in the end, she'd pull me back into reality like she always does and remind me that it's not about making millions of dollars, or being famous. It's about the distance you've come and the connections you've made. And the memories all along the way, the egg and tomato sandwich kind of memories. The kind that take you back to summer days spent long ago in a VW van, or on a far away desert island.

the red brick house

In the red brick house with the round table and the quilt with the big red square, my sister and I shared a room. We had matching bead spreads; white with blue and yellow flowers. We lined our stuffed animals up on the windowsill and at night, Dad would sit between our beds and make up bedtime stories. Sometimes he'd nod off, and from our twin beds we'd shout, "Dad! Dad! Wake up Dad!" There was a laundry shoot and we took turns dropping a bucket full of "surprises" down to each other.

Red tulips poked up through the soil in the spring. The droopy branches of the birch tree made for a shady spot and there was room to roller skate on the cracked driveway. Aunt B picked us up for teddy bear pancakes at Ruth's Diner on Saturdays. And, when the gardening was done, Dad gave us rides in the wheelbarrow, down the sloped driveway and across the street to visit Grandma and Grandpa. In summer, we'd pick mint leaves in the yard to flavor homemade lemonade. We'd set up shop on the corner, shouting at all passers-by and counting quarters when the red thermos was empty. Mom drove us to swimming lessons in the green Volvo. She let us stretch out in our wet suits in the back seat all the way home. In the fall, we walked to school with Emily and raked the yellow leaves that fell from the birch tree.

When we moved from the red brick house into the white house, our flower bead spreads came along. Sister and I no longer shared a room; she slept down the hall. Sometimes, when I was feeling brave, I would sneak into her bed just after she'd fallen asleep. The quilt with the big red square was still neighbors with the round table, as it had been at the old house. There was a bathroom with sparkly butterfly tile and a basement with lots of room to play. We hopped the fence to school, and after Dad got home from work, he'd take us to the playground to shoot hoops or run the 50 meter dash. For our birthdays that November, Emily made sister and me a swing to hang from the tree in the backyard. Dad helped us tie it tight around a strong branch above lots of yellow leaves. I met another girl named Emily who lived at the top of the street. I'd walk home from school with her sometimes. Her Korean nanny would make us Top Ramen for lunch on Fridays. We'd spend the rest of the afternoon playing American Dolls.

My parents don't live that far from the white house. Not far at all. The quilt and table are still the best of friends. The wood swing hangs from a cherry tree which drops lots of yellow leaves each fall. Sister lives in a house of her own, and our bedspreads are long gone. Soon Dad will give grandchildren rides in the wheelbarrow and tell them bedtime stories, perhaps about two little girls who lived in a red brick house.

to sister

Someone has a birthday today.

One of my favorite someones. She is 28! She is smart and kind and generous. She is beautiful (with no make-up! I'm so jealous.) She is courageous. She is brave.
She is patient. She is fun to travel with. (Boston 2005, our own room.) She gives great advice. She informed me about the important contributions of Ivan Peterson. She is fun, creative, and selfless. Kids flock to her. She is a good artist. She is a good writer. She can rap. She can play any musical instrument (Including my violin. Not fair.) She is not afraid to try new things. She is the best baby-sitter EVER and there's a whole neighborhood to back me up on that one. She is good with people: young, old and in between. She once saved me when I was seated by the right filange on the plane. She is an optimist. She is an amazing cellist. We like to go get frozen yogurt together at The Mav and Shop N' Go. We like to run Saturday errands together. She helps everyone feel needed and loved. She serves and doesn't ask for recognition. She beats all the boys at basketball (and football, and swimming, and water polo, and tennis.) She takes good care of her husband. (She should. He's really great.) She makes me laugh. I can tell her anything. She laughs at my dumb jokes. (Turtley Turtle)
She likes to eat at Joe's Bar and Grill 'cause it's her favorite. She leaves five dollar tips for the waiters there. She helps me when I'm stressed out. She is outdoorsy and athletic.
She taught me how to drive a stick shift. She's got mad scrapbooking skills. She lets me come visit whenever I want. She helped me with my flip-turns. She rescues me when I'm in a jamb. We like to have dance parties late at night in the kitchen with Mom. She makes Christmas fun. She calls me just because. She is even-tempered. She is a gifted teacher.
She is a true friend. She is a wonderful daughter. I don't know what I would do without her.
She is my very most favorite sister!

She is my hero.

Love you, Bibbers!

60 Minutes of Bling

Although my sister has been wearing her wedding ring for a year now, I still catch myself wanting to steal it off of her finger. Last Saturday morning was no exception. As we dined on waffles for her birthday breakfast, those facets taunted me all meal long as this year-long memory came to mind.

* * *

Libby had been sending me text messages for 45 min. straight. "Where are you?" "Who's viewing?" "Didn't you just go to a viewing?" "Come get me from class." "I'm bored." "Where's mom?" "How does she know this person?" "Where are you in the line?" And then...the clincher..."If you come get me in the next 30 minutes, you can wear my ring for one hour."

* * *

At this point you're probably thinking I am most blatantly rude and/or irreverent. However, let me give you more details. Libby had been running a fever Sunday, Monday and part of Tuesday. So, her initial "Come get me from class" text had my mother worried. I answered Libby's plea and told her I would come as soon as I could. I did this before I got to a place in the line where it would have been inappropriate. I then ignored the rest of the text message.

* * *

Although I came to the viewing to see ___, I didn't want to step out of the line before I got all the way through it. Well, I did want to, but I thought it would be a little awkward. So, I stayed at my mother's side until she had relayed my Grandparent's condolences.

As the two of us were walking towards our separate cars, I read the rest of Libby's text messages. All five! But it was the last one that had me running to my car to speed up South Temple. The "you-can-wear-my-ring" message. Now this was truly a reason to speed! Totally justified. I mean, poor Libby was sick, right? In dire need of a rescue-ride home. Me to the rescue! Bless my V6 engine! I pulled into the parking lot right in front of the UMFA. There it was. I mean, there she was. Libby managed to get her strep-infected body into the car. I more than managed a "gimme! gimme! gimme!" Libby: "Are you serious?" Me: " Uh (short pause) yeah!" followed by another round of the "gimme gimme gimme" hand motions. "Martha, I was only kidding." She said it as if it was funny. This was anything but an occasion that would have merited a chuckle. "You thought I was serious?" "Uh, yeah. Why do you think I got here so fast?!" Libby: "You didn't get here fast. It took you 40 minutes. I said if you got here in thir..." I rudely, but rightfully interrupted, "Hello! I was in a funeral line! It's not like I could bust out my cell phone and read the 'frillion text messages you kept sending! I came as fast as I could. As soon as I got your message about the ring!"

As you can imagine, Libby was in hysterics over my hysteria. She handed it over to me and I put it on my finger, as if it belonged there all along. As if she were the culprit of this misdeed. We drove around the round-about by the stadium, the street lights adding just enough light to make those diamonds project sparkles onto the windshield. We came to the corner of Guardsman and Sunnyside. I watched the ring at every angle as I turned the steering wheel. Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! T minus 57 minutes.

"Okay. Give it back to me now," came the request from the passenger's seat. "What?! It's only been two minutes. You said I had an hour!" She laughed. It was the only thing she could do. According to Libby, she had never seen such behavior. It was out of the ordinary and "totally hilarious." I wasn't laughing. "I don't get it. What's the point in wearing someone else's ring? You just have to give it back anyway." Is she human?! Wait. Yes, human, and Is she a woman?! "First of all, you STOLE my ring design." I didn't just go there. Yup. I did. And I was going to continue. "Then you tell me that I can wear your ring for an hour only to take it back after three lousy minutes?! You are so selfish." In all my furry, I took the ring off my finger, said "It's a good thing this baby's strong!" and pretended to chuck it at the windshield. Then, realizing that it would do more damage to my windshield instead of the other way around, I put it back on my finger. (At this point, I also felt like I was about seven years old. But, somehow, it didn't stop me).

Then, then came the comments that I really wasn't going to make. The place I really wasn't going to go. But, I was in hysterics. Dire straights. Between a rock, well, in this case, rocks-plural since Libby decided to fore go a solitaire, and a hard place. Alone in Sigledom. And I wasn't about to back down. The sinister inside me smiled as I snidely went on, "Libby, you don't get it, do you?! This may never happen for me! I turn 25 in exactly nine days. NINE days! And there isn't a boy in sight. No one is even on the horizon. For crying out loud in the dark, let me have this one moment. One MOMENT !" I ended in what was nearly a shout and glanced over suspecting her to cave at any moment. Silence. This was it. Triumph! My hour to shine. Literally. Well, hour minus 4 minutes. We approached 1900 East.

My no-longer-single sister broke the silence with what can only be described as a "she's-lost-it" giggle. An honest to goodness "she's-my-25-year-old-sister-and-she's-lost-it" guffaw. "You cannot be serious!" I gave her the eye. "Martha, this is hilarious. I can't wait to tell D. about this!" Miss Martha 7-year-old, "Fine. See if I care!" My rebuttal was interrupted by Libby's cell phone. I was relieved, seeing as I didn't have anything else to go off of.

It was Trent. They exchanged pleasantries and then Libby began to explain the situation at hand (no pun intended) laughing harder and harder the further she got into the story. She hung up and explained that Trent was at our house. "What exactly were you planning to do with my ring?" "Oh, just every day things like, write emails, do the dishes..." I could have gone on. I was beginning to lose my edge. "What does it matter?! You said one! hour!" Libby was practically crying at this point. No, not tears of separation, rather, tears of sheer joy. Apparently she thought this was funny. Entertaining. Amusing. So did Trent, as was evident when he laughed upon the sight of me as I entered the kitchen.

I didn't care. Libby and Trent were decidedly poking fun and telling me "(They'd) never seen anything like this!" My mom came after hearing all the commotion. Bless my angel mother! She was on my side! "Oh, just let her wear it!" Aha! An ally. An not just any ally, but an authoritative ally at that!

I turned, put my hands on my hips, and, with a "Ha!" and a foot stomp in Libby's direction, I set the timer. 45 minutes. 45 glorious minutes! I couldn't wait to dive right into everyday activities with a little "somethin'-somethin'" on my finger. Then, the announcement: My father wasn't coming home and we were to go out to eat. Now, this could have presented a problem. Possibly an issue. Would Libby want the ring back? Or, worse: what if I saw someone I knew and they asked if I was engaged?! Would I have to explain it all to them? And, would they understand? I don't think the whole "Don't-you-get-it/This-may-never-happen-to-me" drama-filled tantrum would fly.

Or...Best case scenario...A night out on the town with a ring on my finger!!! Now, this is not everyday, but I'll take it!

My mind was spinning as Trent, Richard and Libby discussed possible dinner locations. Nothing was uttered about the ring as we got into the car. I said nothing. Did nothing, except glance down at my hand about 12 times a minute. It looked glorious! It was my ring design, after all. Then, the dining decision. This was crucial. It would set the stage for my last 42 minutes of glory.

"Arby's? (pause) Sure," came Libby's voice from the front seat. Arby's?! Are you kidding me?! Arby's?! I'm blingin' and you're thinking Arby's?! You've got to be kidding me.

Indeed this is sad to report, but my night of Bling With My Sister's Ring was spent flashing the "Sorry, Boys, I'm Taken" signal at the employees of Arby's. Not exactly what I had in mind when I high-tailed it to the U of U that night. I'll be honest, though. It did look stunning on my hand. Stunning indeed. So, if you're in the mood for a diamond test-drive, you know where to come for excellent advice. Just know, it will cost you - the gas from South Temple to the University of Utah Museum of Fine Arts. But, believe you-me, it's worth all that and an Arby's shake!

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.