Monday's Golden Treasures

Today has been a fairly normal day...nothing really monumental, or even blogworthy for that matter. There were, however, just a few things I would like to bring up:

First, you might recall my blog post about people sleeping in the bathroom. Many of my friends and fellow bloggers share the same feeling. Well, this afternoon I braved the Wasatch wind and walked to the ASB to turn in the last document for my BYU Grad application (drum roll please) and naturally had to use the restroom. I roamed, somewhat aimlessly, around the rarely visited halls of the Administrative building, until I came upon one. When I opened the door, I was immediately greeted by a girl sleeping on a coach. And not only was she sleeping, but she was in full on "I'm in bed" mode. Her shoes were strewn across the room, the lights were out, and she was covered with a blanket (I can only hope that blanket is not stored in that bathroom. The thought makes me shudder). But don't for one second think that I am about to complain yet again about another bathroom sleeper. Oh no. Today is a day for JOY, people! In the ASB on this last day in January, I found what appears to be a happy medium to a rather disturbing public health issue. Let the sickos sleep in the bathroom, but put a door between them and the toilet spray. It is, to say the least, revolutionary. Naturally this brilliant idea would develop in the building that houses the big dawgs. While I might disagree with certain aspects of bureaucracy, this time they did good. We can be friends (but not with the girl sleeping in the building -- because from the looks of her an hour and half a go, she's probably still there.)

Second, I walked up the stairs to the LRC in the Library today and witnessed a sight I would have rather not have had to be subjected to: A large boy in a bright red shirt was sitting at his table picking his nose. Let me rephrase that: DIGGING in his nose. I'm not sure how deep his nostrils go --he could just have stubby fingers -- but he was going at it. And I was disgusted. There are certain things one should do in the privacy of their own bathroom, where tissue is readily available. For all I know, he probably wiped it under the table. Again, I shudder.

So really, in a otherwise mundane day, I have been able to extract little golden treasures -- just like the golden treasures under the table.

I love Mondays.

Mass-ive Adventure: Day 3

Boston would not be Boston without Dunkin Donuts. Apparently, everyone eats them out here. This is evident in the fact that you can find one on pretty much every corner (surprising since I don’t remember seeing very many obese people). There may not be any gas stations, but by golly, they have doughnuts. We drove to the coast to Marblehead, Bucket’s old stomping grounds, and the first thing we did was pick up a box of 25 Munchkin doughnut holes. Oh yes we did. We would eat on them all day, sucking down every single one. After we had stocked up, we headed to Salem to check out our digs for the night, family friends of Buckets who were going to Maine for the weekend and were kind enough to let us take over their house for the night. They are amazing, and again, I was greeted with even thicker Boston accents! What’s an “r” anyway? Loved it. Our first stop of the Saturday adventure was to Waterside Cemetery, the cemetery where Charlie St. Cloud in the book works and lives. We had to see it, of course, and Bucket also wanted to say hello to her grandparents who are buried there. True to Francis luck, on our way out of the cemetery, the Saab got stuck going up the hill. The tire was off the ground stuck in a snow bank, and no matter how much we tried, the rubber just burned behind us. Our first stop in Marblehead and we were already defeated! Between laughing and panicking, and attempting to push it up the hill (yes, we did) and dig out the tire, we were loving it! Finally I got in the driver seat, and with Thompson luck ahead of us and Francis luck behind me pushing, we got the Saab up the hill and out of the cemetery. This was the mark of the beginning of an incredible day!

            We drove around for awhile, going out to the Neck of Marblehead, where we saw castles and houses bigger than the state itself. But it was beautiful! We also saw Marblehead’s grand lighthouse, which, well, wasn’t so grand, but a lighthouse nevertheless! Next we ventured into Old Town. We were walking among houses built in the early 1700s, belonging to fisherman and original townspeople. While it may have started out as a working-class city, it, like so many New England coastal towns had become a little hoity toity and the Old Town was flanked with little expensive shops and restaurants. It was incredible, nevertheless, and I even found out each spot that Bucket had peed her pants or kissed a boy or gotten in trouble. It was extremely enlightening. (:         

            During this whole time, I had been worrying about the cost of going to grad school in Boston if I were to get accepted. As we were going up to Sewall Fort, the place where they hid the US Constitution from the British during the Revolutionary War, a mailman got out of his car and started talking to us in his thick Boston accent. He asked us where we were from, told us something about George Washington’s hidden rum (??) and then asked what we were doing. I told him I was looking at grad schools, to which he responded – without hesitation – “Don’t worry about the money. You’re only this age once.” With that, he basically tipped his hat, wished us luck, and got in his car and drove off. It was like a little angel had come to address my exact worry about going to school in Boston. And it was in the form of a Marblehead mailman.

            Two ponds later, we reached yet another cemetery (do I sense a disturbing trend developing??). But hold your horses, because we found a tombstone from...are you ready? 1692. That's right. That's a six first, not a nine. Fate would have it that we would run into Wilmot Redd's grave, the only "witch" from Marblehead hung in the Salem Witch Trials. She was but a lass. I felt a special kinship. No comment. Anyway, Old Burial Hill was beautiful and it was so serene as our day was approaching dusk. Dusk meant dinner, and the growling in our stomachs met dinner NOW (those munchkins go straight from your stomach to your butt, I tell you!) Having been highly recommended by a man who knows his food, we headed to a small roast beef shack in Salem. Upon opening the doors, we were blasted by the aroma of FRIED GOODNESS. We must've stared at the menu for hours, because finally a guy standing near the corner began to talk to us, hoping to help somehow. We asked him what was good there, in what must've been strange accents, because he said, "You're not from around here, are you?" I wanted to protest, but I knew it was true. He recommended the "Regular" and so that is exactly what we got...with a side orders of fries and onion rings of course. When the food was spread out before us on the table, the site was as though a cow had been slaughtered before our eyes and cooked to perfection. BBQ sauce dripped down our faces as we devoured these sandwiches like heathens -- but happy heathens, nevertheless. So we got a picture, naturally. A man in the shack took it. And they say Bostonians are so cold!

Well, after that bombshell of a dinner, our wearied bodies needed a rest, because on the agenda later that night was Maddies, the local Marblehead bar down by the waterfront. And we needed to bring our A game for that one. When 9pm rolled around, we headed into Marblehead and entered another world -- one with which Bucket and I are quickly becoming familiar. It was dark, and loud, but Bucket knew the bartender, so it was indeed amazing. We ordered Shirley Temples, and who would have known that Joey could make the best Shirley Temples on the northeastern seaboard? He told us that it was his first time, in fact, and that chances were good that it would be his only time. We thanked him oh so much. 

Bar life was good. Sometimes it suits me. Should I be worried? Meanwhile we still smelled like fried goodness, which after the goodness is gone, merely smells like fried staleness, which is absolutely and utterly disgusting. So what to do? We threw our clothes in the dryer with a million dryer sheets (don't tell Jackie and Phil!) and awaited the results until morning...........

Mass-ive Adventure: Day 2

Friday morning I felt slightly like I had been hit by a tow truck. My body was still shaken up by the time change and my eyes felt plastered into my face. Nevertheless, I got out of bed because today was to be a grand adventure. Nothing says welcome to Boston, enjoy your stay like a Fluffernutter, which Bucket made us at breakfast to take on the road. A fluffernutter? Yes, a fluff-er-nutt-er. While some may eat peanutbutter and jelly sandwhiches, people in Massachussetts eat peanutbutter and marshmallow sandwiches. The fluff is made in Massachusetts, and boy is it grand! Apparently some eat it every day for lunch at school (and have a million fillings, I am sure). I was excited to eat it later on.
Using Tom Tom, we ventured into Boston. What should have taken us 20 minutes took us an hour and a half. Basically we took a roundabout (oh sorry…the correct New England vernacular is “rotary”) three million times looking for exit 4! But it worked out great because we got a great too-er of the industrial zone of Boston (with doors locked) and Charlestown, a quaint little neighborhood. Finally, Tom Tom having been slapped across the screen a few times, we arrived at the Boston Common and parked the Saab. We were in BOSTON!!! Once up on the street, I was happy to find the subway quickly since I was afraid I would have to whip out my GPS on my phone and have the lady talk to me about where to find the subway – and then I would be a tourist! This wasn’t a tourist trip, people! We were locals all the way. So we took the subway like locals and hopped on the wrong line. Errrrrrr. We didn’t realize we were on the wrong line until we had almost reached the end. We made quick friends with the train driver who directed us back to the right path, and we were able to get back on track and on the right train this time. So maybe we were just a little too eager and hopped on the first train that came by!

We got to Boston College 25 minutes before my interview with the help of the Russian/Italian/Bostonian security guard. He had friendly eyes and tried to explain to us how to get to the social work building. Bucket wasn’t listening to half of it because she was trying to figure out his accent. After he explained it, we nodded our heads and headed to the first map we saw. Apparently neither of us take directions very well. With the clock ticking, we suddenlty heard a yell from a car behind us, and it was our Russian/Italian/Bostonian friend. He said he was headed in that direction and would give us a ride. My first thought was to not get in the car with strangers. But of course we got in, anyway! Where would the adventure be without a little danger, right? He drove us across the campus and began to exit the campus, and Bucket’s first thoughts were, “Well, I guess he’s taking us home with him. Good thing Jess is in the front seat; he’ll get to her first.” When she revealed to me her thoughts later, I pushed her into the snow. Some too-er guide! But we made it to the building safely. Don’t worry mom.

My interview went great. The head of admissions, Dr. Howard, was a nice bearded man and we talked for 40 minutes. I came out of his office excited about the program. It’s a pretty selective program, so I want to be optimistic about getting in, without getting too excited before I do. I hate the disappointment! But campus was beautiful, and to use a friend’s jargon, even “regal.” It was actually everything I ever wanted a college campus to look like. Harry Potter: Eat my dust.

We took the T back to Boston, deciding to stop at Boston University on our way back. The only problem was that there were three BU stops – East, Central, and West. When we stopped at the East stop, Bucket and I decided to get off, but I got off at the front and she was headed to the middle door. I waited for her outside the train but she never got off! Just as the train was about to take off again, I jumped back on, looking for her! She was just standing there by the door, looking sheepish among the throng of people. Apparently she hadn’t known how to get that door open and was knocking on it, at one point exclaiming in her trademark whiny voice, “I’m stuckkkkkkkkkk.” People around her just stared at her. She contemplated yelling to me, hoping to prevent a separation, but she was afraid she had already looked ridiculous enough when she knocked. It. Was. Hilarious. We took the Central stop, searched for the BU social work building, and found it looking somewhat like an innter-city apartment building spruced up with some ivy. Bucket decided that they were tyring to give us the real world feel of how we might live as social workers. Haha. It was a beautiful campus, though, and I’m thinking of applying there, as well.

We were starving by the time we got downtown again, and we ventured out to find the Cheers bar, a must-see on our Boston adventure. When at first we couldn’t find it, however, we paused, and I said, “You know, I’ve never even seen Cheers.” Bucket paused, thinking for a moment, and replied, “Yeah…me either!” So we let go of our need to sit in an old bar with probably bad food, and set out to find a hamburger place, following our acute senses of smell. After trudging around the narrow streets of downtown, we came upon a restaurant in a small alley called Kennedy’s. The place wasn’t busy, and two men outside told us it was good. So we trusted them, went upstairs, and ate burgers with Irish bacon. Mmmmmm….I would taste that burger for two days.

After that stone in our stomachs, we needed to burn the calories off like a hamster in a cage wheel, and went to find the skating rink in the Boston Common. At this point it was about 19 degrees outside and we were feeling it, but we put on the hockey skates and skated around the small rink with the rest of the rodents nevertheless. I got to see Bucket’s mad skills on the dullest blades in the world when she fell on her butt. The dull skates, I realize now, were merely an excuse.

When stomachs began having undesired reactions to the Irish bacon, we headed to the Saab for our trip back to Billerica, cold, tired, but oh so happy to have just spent the day frolicking through the city.

Mass-ive Adventure: Day 1

I knew I wasn’t in Provo anymore when I entered the plane to Boston in Denver and was hit with a strong accent from aisle 3 talking about the news in Gloucstah’. I smiled. I was on my way to Beantown! I found my seat in the VERY back of the plane (you know the seat that is against the wall of the bathroom and can’t recline? Yeah…that seat. And I was sitting in the middle. AND of course the person in front of me leaned his chair back. Just perfect!) After a long 3 ½ flight from Denver, I finally landed as the sun was setting in the beautiful city of Boston. I was more than a little giddy to be there. After getting my bags, I was greeted by my awesome, amazing, marvelous, talented, spectacular, and all-knowing tour guide Ms. Bucket Francis, who had maneuvered 5:00 city traffic like a native, and together we forged into the Boston wind to find the car that would become our loyal and dear friend over the course of the next several days – the Saab convertible. It was a 20 minute or so drive from downtown Boston to Billerica, where Bucket’s dad lives, and when she informed me that pizza was awaiting our arrival, I did a little dance of joy. My granola bars and diet coke just hadn’t hit the spot and United was too cheap to give me free food ($10 for an airplane sandwich?!?). In the car I was introduced to Tom Tom, the sexy Australian GPS man with whom we developed a love/hate relationship. Sometimes he was right on with his directions. Other times he was just plain ridulous. Luckily, that night he was helpful, and we navigated the Boston freeways and tunnels with ease and eventually arrived to our destination in Billerica, a quieter suburb in Northern Massachusetts. The neighborhood had cute colonial-style houses, many of them with metal sideboard (Buckiet referred to them as “trailers,” and I realized the East’s interpretation of a “trailer” was much different from the heaps of junk found in South County in Oregon. But let’s talk about the snow for a second. It snowed SOOOOO much the day before! The snow banks on the side of the roads were higher than the car. We are talking feet here, people. Luckily the roads had cleared enough to let us drive safely. I think Providence was smiling upon me, since many flights got canceled, and the guy at the Delta counter told me I was lucky to have gotten one to Boston. Coincidence? Or fate? Well, to make a long story short, pizza never tasted so good, and Boston accents never sounded so great. I relished in the moment as we ate, listening to the banter of the Bay Staters in their thick New England accents. After pizza, we found ourselves all dressed up with nowhere to go, so Bucket came up with the brilliant idea of CANDLEPIN bowling. What the heck is candlepin bowling, you might ask? Don’t worry I was clueless, and Bucket, I later found out, was a little clueless about the game, herself. Haha. BUT, it was an East Coast novelty, so we drove north to New Hampshire to a small little bowling alley and hung out with the local Hampshire kids. We must have been intimidatingly good, though, because none of them talked to us. Either that or our underware was hanging out and lighting up under the glow of the black lights. But that doesn’t matter! What is important to note, more important than anything else in this post, is the fact that I, Jessica Thompson, IV, beat Bucket by one point in the second game. The first game she cheated, so we don’t count that win. The second one, however, demonstrated real talent and skillmanship. Candlepin requires great finesse and accuracy – two things I pride myself in. You throw a small bowling ball down the lane and hit skinny bowling pins. You get three tries. I brought my A game that night and soundly took the victory. It doesn’t matter that we had no idea how the scoring worked. All that mattered, like I said, was that I won. She owed me drinks at Cheers the next night. That night, we slept soooooo hard. Candlepin wore me out. And we needed our energy for the days and events ahead. Bring it on, Boston.

Vacation

Vacation: A period of time in which an adult pretends that he/she is a child again and has no responsibilities to tend to, spends money like the world is ending, and relaxes. Vacation is usually followed by a period of financial instability, hundreds of emails, and depression from the lack of vacation.


It's Sunday, January 2, 2011. In laymen's terms, it is the END. My two weeks of pure relaxation have ended, and I must resign myself to the fact that tomorrow I have to return to work, and Tuesday I start school. Soon I will be waking up at 6:30; soon I will be pressured by the fact that I have a gym membership and it's just down the street and feel obligated to go; I will be eating Gardenburgers; and soon I will be studying in my cave of an office with no windows. But let's not get ahead of ourselves! I'm still sitting in Oregon. And it's still raining. And I still love it. 


It has been an amazingly relaxing vacation, and here is why:


I have watched the following movies (more than I watched all year!)
-True Grit
-Gulliver's Travels
-Penelope
-Avalon High (with the little brother)
-Salt
-Wall Street
-Everybody's Fine
-Hey It's Me Esther Blueburger
-Sabah
-The September Issue
-Funny Farm
-Mighty Ducks 3
-The Man from Snowy River
-Unbreakable
-Romona and Beezus


(Ok, that's just sick)


I have read the following books:


-The Glass Castle
-Charlie St. Cloud
-A Thousand Splendid Suns


I have slept at least 10 hours a day
I have eaten homecooked meals every night, including (but not limited to):
-Tacos
-Spaghetti
-BBQ ribs and garlic mashed potatoes
-Enchiladas
-Ham, potatoes, pie -- the works
-BBQ Hamburgers
-Goulash
-Minestrone soup
-Pizza
I have curled up on the couch with an electric blanket
I have played in the snow
I got great gifts
I went to Midnight Mass
I got to spend time with amazing friends (some smellier than others...)
I took the back way to Fred Meyer 
I took a long walk every day, breathing in the fresh, Pine smell
I read in bed with my window cracked open so I could hear the rain coming down outside.
I sometimes didn't shower until 3:00 in the afternoon


I laughed a lot, cried a little, and fell even more in love with being home. I love my family! (Even our transexual cat).


So now as I head back to reality, the vacation officially over, I have the next year to look forward to. And despite the fact that 2011 brings me a twinge of anxiety every time I think about what lies ahead, I know it's going to be amazing. Bring. It. On.

The Investigation: Part II

My alarm went off at 5:50am. I had purposely set it ten minutes early so that I could hit snooze exactly two times before I had to roll out of bed. I hit snooze four times. After finally puling myself out of the warmth of my blankets, I cringed, seeing that it was still dark outside -- I was on vacation, dangit. Nevertheless, I crawled to the shower and threw myself in, forcing myself to face the fact that I was, in fact, awake. Fifteen minutes later, after having decided to forgo the hair washing and merely throw on a hat, I raced down the hill through the early morning fog and made it to the hospital in record time. Upon initial arrival, I was unsure of where to go. I could either go into the Surgery Center, or go in right next to the Emergency Room. I decided to start left and go right. I walked into the Surgery Center and asked the lady at the front desk, "This is probably not the right place, but do you do ultra sounds here?" The lady looked at me with a sweet -- too sweet -- look on her face and said, "No, sweetie. It's next door." I knew from the look on her face that she assumed I was pregnant. I realize I've put on a couple of pounds eating that canister of almond roca, but I would have hoped I didn't look pregnant. I thought about clearing up what was clearly a misunderstanding, but instead, I merely smiled and said, "Happy Holidays," and walked out. 

This is what I saw. It might as well be a baby blob, right?!

Next door I was found to be on the list of patients and was shown to a much too chipper woman (notice how everyone is just a little too happy for me at 7 in the morning?) When I told her my dad's birthday, she threw down her pen, took off her glasses, and exclaimed in a sigh of despair, "Lord, Almighty, I'm old enough to be your mother." I had no response, and merely shrugged and agreed. What do you respond? "Oh nooooooo," I could have replied. "You barely look 25!" But at the butt crack of dawn, why even try. She was jovial, however, and the process went quickly...relitively speaking. I heard how her and her husband met, how they spent their honeymoon in Nevada in a cabin, how she got sick and he had to drive an entire hour just to buy her Nyquil. ("Yeah...he's a keeper," is all I could mumble). Oh, and she has to get her driver's license renewed, but she can't find her two marriage certificates OR her birth certificate. Oh my. Finally I was led to a back room where the lady with big glasses gave me a gown and told me she'd be back. I had never had an ultrasound. I'll admit, I've never been pregnant. I know, newsflash, right? But the actual test wasn't too imposing or dangerous...just lots of warm (surprisingly so, since my entire body was bracing for the cold strike) gel smeared on my belly and the ultra sound equipment snapping pictures of my innards. On the screen I could see my pancreas, my kidney, my liver and my gallbladder. Ok, let's be honest. If she wouldn't have been typing the names of the organs on each screen shot, it might as well have been snapping pictures of a fetus. I was thankful for the first time in my life (because why would I otherwise EVER be thankful for this) for the literary of ultra sound technicians. So informative. Anyways...the procedure lasted a short 10 minutes, at which point I returned the gown, wiped off the goo, and headed out, waving to the woman old enough to be my mom.


It was still dark out when I emerged from the hospital, but the sky up over the mountains was starting to develop into a pink and purple sunrise. I stopped to admire the beautiful site for just a couple of seconds before my mouth filled with bile at the thought of my next stop -- lab tests. I hopped in my car and skipped across the road to the lab, where I was greeted by a little, dark-haired perky woman in a white lab coat, who was batting her eyes at something behind me as I walked in. "Oh," she giggled. "That's just my boyfriend." I turned to see a guy in a flannel shirt drive by in a dirty truck with big wheels. I think a gun rack was hanging on the back window. "Great!" I said, sarcasm oozing off my tongue, at this point not even trying to hide my lack of enthusiasm. Fox News was on the plasma on the wall and they were talking about a bomb that went off in Greece and in Argentina at the same time. I sat engrossed as I heard prancing and squeals from the back room (ok, so maybe she wasn't prancing and squealing, but if you saw her, it's what you would have expected). After a few minutes or so she called my name, looking into the waiting room, as though she was searching through a sea of people awaiting her expert phlebotomist skills. I was the only one there, but I humored her nevertheless. "Oh, right here!" I called to her, waving, trying to see over the fake heads and screaming children in front of me. "Come on back," she replied with a wide smile. I flopped into her seat and she brought out the different blood tubes - 6 in total - and immediately began asking questions. "So..." she began, "he's running a lot of tests on you! Are they looking for something serious?" The last part of her sentence had dropped an octave lower as she tried to pull out her most serious, concerned tone of voice, low enough that the other people in the waiting room wouldn't hear should my reply reveal a tropical fungus I had acquired in New Guinea. I paused, formulating my response, realizing I was already short tempered that morning. Finally I responded, "It's gas." There was a thick silence. Suddenly the silence broke when she realized the awkwardness. "Oh my!" she answered. "Now that just isn't any fun, now, is it?" The blood drawing was relatively painless -- much less so than the conversation -- and I was finally allowed to leave the chair. With another "Happy Holidays" trailing behind me, and with gauze taped to my arm, already pulling at my arm hair, I left the lab and got into my car and began the trip home, the sunrise chasing me in the rearview mirror.


What did I learn through the second phase of my investigation? Well, besides the fact that some people are just way too happy at 7 in the freaking morning, and the fact that your pancreas is located at the top of your abdomen (assuming she knew what she was doing, that is), as well as the testimony of a happily married woman (with a husband great enough to drive an hour to get away from her on her honeymoon -- I mean get her medicine --) that Reno is a fabulous place to get married, I learned nothing. The results should be in by the middle of next week. Until then, I am to keep eating things that I know won't upset my stomach. I think I have 15 gardenbrugers still in my freezer. I might need to buy some more Miracle Whip.

The Investigation: Part I

As many of you may recall, I have had stomach issues from the dawn of time. Well, I can at least remember as far back as my freshman year in the dorms (remember the ulcer the size of a melon that killed me that one time??) Well, I have never been to the doctor for it. I know, I know. Some call it ridiculous. I just thought I had a sensitive stomach! But after years of Gas-X and too many gardenburgers and bowls of cereal(two of the only things that don't set my stomach rolling), I finally went to the doctor today. He was a very nice man. He asked me some questions, poked and prodded, and then gave me the rundown of the possible scenarios. His main concern was my gallbladder, in which case I'd have to have it removed (totally putting a crimp in my style). And then he had a list of other possibilities, including a gluten intolerance, ulcer-causing bile, etc. etc. etc. He ordered a laundry list of lab tests and an ultrasound. I never thought I'd have an ultra sound before I got pregnant, but I guess if it's an ulcer, I'll want to know if I should name it Jane or John. Tomorrow at 7am I go in for the ultrasound. I will stumble in half asleep, of course, considering the fact that I've been sleeping 11-12 hours every day this week (I blame that on my gallbladder, too, naturally), but I'm hoping that with all of these tests, something will show up. Because the next step, should everything come back negative, is anything but pleasant...

Here's hoping for an ulcer??

Stay tuned for The Investigation: Part II

Let it Snow! (and other dangerous tales)

So, remember the long and winded letter I wrote to Richard the Oregon rain god? Well, it worked! --just not in the way I hoped, but that's okay! Because it SNOWED! Correction, it's SNOWING.

This morning I went for a walk up our hill in the snow, my snow hat on, my hoodie over my hat, and my coat hood tied tightly around my head, making me look like a peanut. But that didn't matter, because the snow was so beautiful. As I got higher and higher up the mountain, and the trees got thicker and thicker, I found myself alone, the big snowflakes muting the sounds of the busy freeway below, and making me feel more isolated than a fat man on a nude beach. As I was turning a corner, my breath suddenly caught, and I stopped cold in my tracks. WOLVES. Two large animals appeared through the haze of snow, coming towards me, and all I could think of was that I was alone and about to eaten alive by two large-fanged, wild dogs. The lack of breath smoke coming out of my mouth told me I still wasn't breathing. When I blinked a flake of snow off my eyelash and strained me eyes to see through the blizzard conditions, I realized, much my relief, that they were not, in fact, wolves, but only giant deer. But then stories of wild deer attacks began running through my head, and I wasn't any more comforted than when I thought they were wolves. I stared at the biggest deer. It stared back at me. I crept closer. It took a step back. I wanted a picture. And he/she wasn't about to let me. As soon as I whipped out the camera on my phone, it took off for the hills, leaving dirty hooveprints in the snow. But NOT before I snapped it's portrait. If you look closely, you will notice the dark mass in the back. Note: That is a deer, not a wolf.

I'm not gonna lie. That was a close encounter with an untamed beast. But I survived to tell about it. I also survived the near death fall on my butt as the snow turned the asphalt into a impromptu skating rink. And I survived the near two-car pileup, almost caused by yours truly who's butt was apparently so big that two cars could not pass me at the same time. But whatever. I'm working on it, OKAY? And much to my chagrin, the 80 year old man was nowhere to be seen. I am assuming he was sitting by the fire in his old, beat up slippers, taking his coat off because it "was getting too hot."

So Richard, thanks for letting up on us. I know you can't control Bob, the snow god. But you at least did your part. If the snow doesn't let up by Sunday, when I have to fly back to school, he will be getting a letter, as well. Until then, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

Dear Richard: Please Stop the Rain

It has been raining nonstop for the last 24 hours. And as a true Oregonian, I don't use the word "rain" lightly. It is not the light misty drizzle some might experience along the California coastline. It is not the occasional sideways rainfall seen along the Wasatch Front. No. We are talking torrential downpour. The raindrops are so big and so fierce that your entire body is soaked in just your 5 second walk from your car to the entrance of the Jersey Lilly. Not even a raincoat (which, might I add, is for sissies) can protect the faces of Oregonians from the ruthless Oregon rain god. As I was working on a paper today at the computer, I glanced out the window and stared in amazement at the steady stream of water coming out of the sky. My brother was sitting on the couch playing video games. "Man, that's sure coming down!" I told him, still watching the sky pour out buckets. "Yeah," he replied, in his deep, disinterested voice. "That's all it does around here." And, well, I would agree. Now, I know a good number of Oregonians who worship the rain god. Oregon transplants in Kansas, Southern California, and Utah have voiced their longing for the short, grey and dark days of Oregon winter. And I'll admit. When I moved to Utah, I, too, missed the rain, and at the first smell of oncoming rain on a heavy-aired summer afternoon, my heart would ache a little at the familiarity of it all. But since I am home on vacation, and the rain god has failed to provide me any respite in these last 24 hours from his merciless wrath, I am writing him a letter, hoping that in doing so, the sun will come out...tomorrow.

Ahem...


Dear Oregon Almighty Rain God (can I call you Richard?):
Man, you've really rained on my parade. My hair is frizzy. My feet are cold. My nose is runny. Our yard is flooding. My transexual cat looks like a mop. There's mud splattered up to my butt. My new boots are dirty. You've put a damper on my long, short-sleeved walks, on my quick runs through the neighborhood, and on my winter star gazing. You've put out of the question any hope of building a fire on the deck. You've endangered my life on the freeway. You've threatened to wash away our roads. And you've precariously positioned mud on the mountains, waiting to pile down on top of any living creature below it. I know you're up there with your popcorn and TIVO remote, enjoying your twisted form of entertainment as innocent little ant-like people suffer sopping wet livelihoods down below. You're probably even instant-replaying the time I slipped today on the wet concrete and fell flat on my face. You are just one sick puppy. (My puppies are drenched, by the way). I realize that some will argue that the rain is good for the crops. But you are starting to saturate them. Some will argue that it's good for the plants in the front yard. They're washed down the driveway. Some will even argue that it's beautiful -- until they crash their car in it and are forced to experience the beauty of a white, sterile emergency room. Come on, Dick. Just put a cork in it, and we'll all be happy. If you have Dish Network, you  can go to Channel 342 for the movie Twister in High Definition. You will love it. Trust me. Otherwise, read a good book. It's good for the brain.
If you decide to continue the torrential downpour, refusing to comply with any of my heart-felt requests, I will be forced to use an umbrella. Now you know that that would potentially put my Oregon residential status in jeopardy. Everyone knows true Oregonians don't use umbrellas in Oregon rain. But this just may have to be. And then how would you feel? You'd be losing the little girl who gleefully went out on some of your better days and jumped in puddles for hours. You'd be losing the high school lacrosse player who ruthlessly played in your murky, muddy fields, mud plastered from her feet, up her lacrosse skirt, and up to her face, leaving raccoon eyes around her eye protection. You'd be losing the college student who has carried Oregon in her heart ever since she went away to school. Please, Dick. Do it for me. And for Pete's Sake do it  for my little brother, who despite the fact that it's 35 degrees outside and practically hailing, insists on going golfing wearing nothing but a short sleeved polo shirt. He knows not what he does.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Jessica

Guest Blogger: My sister from my point of view

She's crazy!I know that because she is like addicted to the computer I mean gosh.If you have a sister you know what I mean.Right?I'm sorry if you have one.She could at least have a little fun!50% of the time I ever see her doing she is doing this ''bla bla bla''on her phone or on the computer on this domb blog. I tell her ''you don't have to blog every day ''but she keeps on doing it.Okay to the positives she got me a good Christmas gift and works.Okay Mom I said something good about her.Sshhhhhhhhhhhh it was hard. Joking. More stuff or good stuff are out there but for 9 year old kids it's hard to find them.

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Reasons Why I Love My Little Brother (because I have to remind myself in times like these...)

 Because he reminds me of a pumpkin so often.

 Because he wears those sound proof earphones ALL THE TIME.

 Because he eats cake with his face...

 and picks his nose at the same time...

 Because he is a ruthless food fighter.

 Because when we went to the MTC, the MTC president announced at the end of a short program, "While, that time to say goodbye has finally arrived, so we invite ---" but was loudly interrupted by a little boy standing up and yelling, "Well, SEE YA!" and start walking down the aisle. My mom swears he missed me.

 Because he loves our transexual cat like no one else can.

 Because he looks this THIS when he uses gardening tools.

 Because he's such a smartie pants and loves to learn and share things with us. Just today, in fact, he told me, "Ketchup is a moisturizer." 

Because our computer is filled with millions of his self-portraits.

 Because he slightly resembles a snowman (and fits into my clothes --> see snow coat). 

 Because he is an all-star little leaguer who wore #12 (my number in little league!) 

 Because he is a cub scout (I won't mention that he HATES it) and keeps "Scout's Honor"

 Because he chose to get baptized and let his cousins sing at it.

 Because he gives me away to strangers.

 Because he stole the show as an Oompa Loompa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

 Because he is the leader of the pack.

 Because this is how he looks EVERY Fourth of July.

 Because he loves his tie dye ALMOST as much as I do.

 Because we're backseat buddies (there are millions of photos like this on this same trip if you ever want to see more...)

Because he gives Jeff Gordan a run for his money.

This blog post will serve as a reminder to me every time he tells me "You could use some of that" when referring to an acne medication commercial, when he tells me that I'll never get a boyfriend, when he calls me poop, when he refuses to hug me, when he pinches me until I bleed, etc. etc. etc.

But fortunately none of it will outshadow the times when he's an angel...

like when he's asleep.

I love my little brother.

"Keep the change, ya filthy animal."

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Another holiday has arrived...Christmas Eve. It seems like Thanksgiving was just upon us yesterday, force-feeding us globs of mashed potatoes and chunks of oven-baked turkey. It seems like just this afternoon that I was sprawled out on the couch, the button of my pants about ready to pop off and missile fire at some unsuspecting victim (and I would be too comatose to even care). Yes, didn't we just do the holiday thing? But alas, here we are again, ready for Round 2. And this time I'll have my stretchy pants.

Thinking back on Thanksgiving, however, brings to memory one particular Turkey Day that, to this day, never fails to bring a wicked smile to my face.

We had just built our house, and the extended family was gathered inside preparing our first feast under our new roof. The house was so new that the light fixtures in the kitchen had yet to have the caulking placed around them, leaving large rings of space around each canister of light. Underneath the brilliance of the new fixtures, the women of the house hustled and bustled around, stirring this, whipping that, and chopping who knows what. A bowl of perfectly crafted stuffing sat done and steaming on the kitchen counter, ready for salivating mouths to devour it. The gravy and the mashed potatoes were nearing their completion, as well. While this all went on, however,  something else was happening upstairs...

There are still disputes about who it was. Some claim it was me. I claim it was my brother. Either way, the fact is that it was done. Someone used the upstairs bathroom directly above the kitchen. And, like what happens every now and then in a living, breathing household, the person using the toilet clogged it. In his/her attempt to unplug it, it began to overflow, brown poopy water pouring out over the sides. And unfortunately, the construction guys hadn't gotten around to caulking around the toilets either...

As the food began to stack up on the kitchen counter, waiting for someone to take it all the festively decorated dining room table, I sat at the bar, taking it all in, my mouth already watering for what was about to come. Suddenly I felt a drip. And a drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. I looked up and noticed a steady stream of water dripping from the ceiling, landing squarely on the bowl of well-seasoned stuffing. I looked closer. The water was dirty. In a sudden realization of horror, I looked one more time at the ceiling and dashed upstairs to the bathroom. When I opened the door, I saw the catastrophe - a flood the size of the Pakistan disaster graced the blue and white tiled floor. Chunks floated throughout it. I gagged, closed the door, and then fell to the ground in an unontrollabe fit of laughter. Finally, after about 15 minutes of body convulsions with little sound coming out, I made my way downstairs. By this time, others had noticed the dripping and were frantically moving the food off the counter and sopping up the puddles. "It's POOOOOOOOOP!" I yelled, squealing, and again breaking into a fit of giglgles. If repulsion had a face, it would have been smacked across every single person in that kitchen. And then the chorus of laughter began, until it reverberated throughout the entire house.

It could probably go unsaid that we did not end up eating the stuffing that year. Many were even reluctant to touch the rest of the food out fear of cholera. That week the bathroom got caulked, and the light fixtures in the kitchen were finished. And a holiday has never passed since that I haven't remembered the secret ingredient to a spectacular Thanksgiving dinner. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Happy Holidays! (Here's your spray)

Bucket is home for the holidays. She arrived this afternoon at the Portland International Airport in all her glory. She was sporting a new puffy coat and her Chucks (naturally). Upon arriving at my house, she was finally able to witness in the flesh what my mom had been raving about for weeks -- Glade spray. Its label claims that it eliminates odors and freshens the air. The last time Bucket was at my house, she was appalled to find that my family did not have any in our possession. After all, we don't stink. Consequently, when it was decided that Bucket would be gracing us with her lovely presence for Christmas, my mother hurried out to Fred Meyer and bought a can of Apple Cinnamon. That was two weeks ago. And ever since that purchase, she has been texting Bucket, reminding her almost every day that she bought it, at one point even apologizing that she couldn't find the pine scent. So it was to be expected that when Bucket got the off the plane, the first thing out of her mouth was, "Where's the spray?!" Ok, so maybe those weren't her first words. But when she got to my house, the spray did quickly become the center of attention among all those in its immediate vicinity. When someone (who shall remain nameless) caused a stink on the couch, the spray was passed through many willing (and anxious) hands until it reached the pile of blankets, at which point it was quickly sprayed overhead, a futile attempt to smother out the already spreading stench, a stench which led my brother to ask, "Mom...did you put something stinky in the garbage?" Later, another anonymous perpetrator took off her shoes, letting them slide to the ground, leaving her bare feet exposed to the whims of the holiday breeze blowing through the room. Creating the warm, cozy atmosphere of a men's locker room following a heated game of high school basketball, those around her were anything but pleased. Some might have even been gagging. Once again, Glade was passed through the throngs until it was intensely sprayed directly onto the source of the odor. With soaking feet, the smell was suppressed - at least for a couple of minutes while everyone took deep breaths of fresh air. Still, later, another spurious eruption took place, this time from a little nameless criminal, who took it upon  himself to take care of the problem, soaking his backside until no smell would ever come out, again. (And we're talking in his whole life). So, you see, this new addition to the household has really made all the difference. In a world plagued by war and famine and sadness, Glade has brought a ray of sunshine under our roof, just in time for the Holiday season.

Thank you Glade, for being who you are. And thank you Bucket for introducing its potential to a family who was otherwise so blind and ignorant. We are now enlightened and will never be the same. 'Tis the season to be jolly, people. Happy Holidays.

When I'm 80...

This morning the sun broke through the clouds for a rare celebration, and blue sky was visible for the first time since I got home to Oregon. And you know what that meant! I had to put on my tennis shoes and get outside. I threw on my coat, hitched up the iPod and headed out the door, a little extra bounce in my step. I was loving every second of it -- and it didn't even matter that I was about to walk down a mountain ------ and then back up it again. Going down was pleasant enough. I only almost got ran over three times (well, four if you count the motorcycle), and Lady Gaga came on five times on the iPod. "....oh caught in a bad romance..."Halfway to the bottom of the mountain, I passed an 80 year old fellow traveler. He was wearing a San Francisco 49'er sweatshirt and a big smile. "Good morning!" he said, a little too loudly -- and without even a hint of being out of breath, might I add. When I got to the bottom, a bead of sweat was forming on my forehead, a sign that my body was beginning to warm up. At that point I knew it was time to turn around if I had any hope of getting back up the mountain alive. And so I began my ascent. As I was reaching the midway point (about where I saw the 80 year old man the first time) we met again. This time he had his coat swung over his shoulder, but the same big grin. "I had to take my coat off at the top!" he said, laughing. I laughed, too. It was a somewhat nervous laugh, as I took a deep, long look at my life ahead of me and wondered if I would be walking this hill when I was 80 years old. If I keep eating the amounts of Christmas fudge I am right now, my chances are slim. Nevertheless, I tipped my hat and carried on up the mountainous road.

When I'm 80, I hope to be skydiving. Go 49'ers.

A Promise Kept

It's almost that time again...yet another shopping trip in our beloved little town. We've hit three stores already and I think we pretty much exhausted the "city." Did I mention our 7am stocking stuffer adventure at Wal-Mart this morning? I never thought I'd see the day when I'd join the seven other eager people outside our local Wal-Mart, waiting anxiously for the front doors to open. I've always wanted to rush the doors, thrusting my elbows out in front of me to thwart off anyone who may be be trying to beat me to that tube of toothpaste that I've had my eye on for oh so long. Alas, with only a mere seven of us, I was forced to knock over the old woman in the rocker. Ok, not really. And the other lady wasn't wearing a bra -- typical -- and I wasn't even going there. I tell this all to you because as I put back on my boots and pop in a piece of gum, ready to do Round 2 of the day, it leaves me little time to blog. Normally this would not matter, as I have gone years without blogging, but during these two weeks, I have sworn with my own blood that I would write every day for my roommate Dark Horse. I think I even put my hand on a gardenburger. It's that serious.

And with that said, I have a 9 year old freckled face red head with glasses looking over my shoulder saying that it's time to "head into town!" So I must humor him. Happy Holidays to all.

Guest Blogger: "If I Were Jessica..."

If I were Jessica, the legendary Oregonian, I would have to admit that I would have a LOT going for me. I would hate the effects of humidity on my curls and the hazards of whip cream on my straightened brunette hair. I would hug trees, stand up for global warming and say weird words like 'melk' and 'pellow'. If you knew me well, you would know that I dump this leftover melk from my cereal into the sink instead of drinking it. I'm pretty sure I would drool on my pellow too.

If I were Jessica, my favorite color would be green. Super (sketchy) South Provo would be my favorite jogging spot and I would have some pretty weird friends, well actually...I can't think of any that are weird. I would be super intelligent and all my Sociology professors would love me. I would be an SPSS expert and sometimes I might get a case of the hives, but I would be ok with that because it would give me character...right?

If I were Jessica, I would love anything Argentine and could speak Castellano like a native. Sometimes I'd get an ulcer and I would most likely name mine after an old boyfriend since they both can cause equal amounts of pain. But let's forget about painful things. Sometimes I'd run red lights while driving my car, Linus. Other times, I might hold his steering wheel so tight that my knuckles become abnormally white. Sometimes I might even wear tapered pants...and secretly love them (see below).

If I were Jessica, I would be nice to the dirty hippies at BYU and I would be Mikaela's number 2 on speed dial (number 1 would be her dad, naturally). I would have awesome shorts that I could wear while dusting the lightbulb outside my apartment that would guarantee me a date with the next guy that walked by. (I still don't know just how they have such charm...but they do). I would also like penguins.

If I were Jessica, I would be an Oregon fan (I'd really like the colors). I would hate smoked oysters (which would be such a crappy way to live!) and I would despise anything seafood (which would just be SO sad!). I would eat Gardenburgers almost everyday until my stomach could no longer process it as a food and I would shop at Costco to make sure that I could have trail mix for a lonnnng trip.

If I were Jessica, I would be a Rex. Like the dinosaur--rawr! My nickname would be Bill, not because I'm masculine but because Bill is really quite endearing--and it would differentiate me from the million other Jessica's in this world who had parents who liked the "Man From Snowy River" in the 80's, too. If I were her, I'd actually have seen that movie.

If I were Jessica, I would listen to chill music--like The Weepies, The Ditty-Bops, Ron Pope, Joshua Radin and other such musicians. I would maintain great hidden talents (kind of like breathing without making noise)...but I would keep them hidden. I would also have 3 awesome roommates--one that was dark, one that loved Jesus, and one that was pretty much Finnish.

If I were Jessica, not only would I be incredibly cool but I would also possess insurmountable amounts of trust--like letting someone have access to my blog to post things to cyberspace without me approving beforehand.

So as you can see, if I were Jessica...I'd be top notch, dang it.

Care for some potato salad?

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Solutions

On Saturday night I had a date. Yes, a date. No, not that little space on the calendar, not that "not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket" day. I'm talking a real, live, bonafied date. And I'll admit, since it had been awhile, I was excited. As 5:00pm crept closer, I began to get ready for the outing: flinging clothes out of my drawers, ripping shirts off their hangers, everything onto my body, look in the mirror, everything off of my body and onto the floor. New shirt. New pants. Too tight. Too saggy. Makes my shoulders too broad. Does this make my butt look big?


In exasperation (and due to lack of any more time to devote to vanity) I finally settled on a pair of skinny jeans and a sweater. Okay, I thought to myself, as the clock ticked on, I'm ready. I went to go get my shoes, and stopped myself as I faced one last obstacle. I saw my brown boots -- the ones my mom refers to as "bad stripper boots." If you ask her why she calls them that, it's definitely not for any of the reasons you're thinking. But I will say that when I wear them, I sound like a horse. It's probably best not to wear those on a first date. That basically left one option: My brown flats that are falling apart and smell to high heaven. My feet don't even have to sweat in them in order to elicit a stench so rank that it could easily give a teenage boy's room after a male sleepover a run a for its money. GROSS. So there I stood, facing a moral dilemma. Do I wear them, making my outfit complete, but risking the life of my date since he just may drive off the side of the road, asphyxiated by deadly fungal gas? Or do I take pity on an innocent soul (and my unforgiving reputation and dating life) and wear a less than ideal pair of shoes that don't stink? I counseled with my nearby roommate, who has much dating wisdom, and asked her what I should do. She related a dating tale to me, about a time when she wore her favorite black flats that smelled worse than an old pile of dung, and when her date turned on the heater in his car, the smell of her shoe was circulated through the vehicle. Yes, I thought. That's disturbing. But we both sat there, still at odds about what to do. Finally, a lightbulb turned on above my roommate's head, and her face lit up as she began to articulate a solution: "Can I put band-aids in your shoe?" she asked, way too excited for her own good. "Ummmmmm, sure??" I replied, not quite sure where she was going with it. I had to hurry and get my out of control fro tamed before the doorbell rang, so I left my flats in the hands of the Stink Master. When I came back out of my room, I noticed that the inside of my shoe had become completely white. That's some band-aid, I thought. And then I realized what it was. I am not lying. It was a maxi pad. A MAXI PAD. My roommate had found a maxi pad in the drawer, and it was somehow the exact length of my foot, and fit perfectly inside my shoe, in such a way that it prevented any smell from escaping its moldy inner skeleton. "Nooooooooo," I told her, laughing uncontrollably. "Are you serious??" "Wear it! Wear it! Wear it!" she squealed, as her whole body convulsed in giggles. With only 60 seconds to go until my date arrived, I made a rash decision and said, "Okay." I would wear the maxi pad. I slipped on my flat (because the maxi pad was only in one shoe) and just as I did, the doorbell rang. And I walked out into the living room, a little bounce in my step as I enjoyed all the comfort and arch support that a pad has to offer.


Later on in the date, we were sitting in the auditorium waiting for the concert to start. I had my legs crossed, and my foot dangling near my date. Out of habit, I slipped my heal out of my shoe and let it dangle from my foot as I bounced my leg. When I did so, I caught a flash of white out of the corner of my eye and gasped as I remembered the maxi pad lining the bottom of my flat. And then I started laughing. I think my date thought his joke was funny. Little did he know...LITTLE did he know.