What's that again?

My grandfather has been in town for the last two days visiting my sister and me. He has Alzheimer and is losing it a little. This means that he is able to talk for hours about his career as a doctor or tell funny antidotes about going on blind dates in college. The giveaway is that in-between his talking, he will ask me where I teach, how many students I have, and what subject do I teach, several times over and over again. I’ve gotten used to this, and really do love spending time with him. I’m not sure if it is the disease or old age, but my once regal grandfather known to everyone as either Bishop Graves or Doctor Graves has lost his filter for what is socially acceptable and what isn’t.

Example #1- We are sitting at dinner in a fancy restaurant in Park City and there are lots of people within earshot. My grandfather launches into one of his random rants about society and says, “When I grew up we didn’t have any queers; we had boys called sissies. A sissy was just a boy that had a really overbearing mother and didn’t play ball with the rest of us. The sissies back then just wound up getting married to someone like their moms. I don’t understand all these queers nowadays. It seems like they just want the attention.” While this is taking place, Laura and I are trying to make him change the subject and looking around to see if anyone overheard him. We have the same reaction when he starts talking about “colored” people.

Example #2- We are playing miniature golf up at the Park City resort. My grandfather says he going to find a bathroom and starts walking off behind the family maze, another attraction. My sister Laura tries to tell him where the bathrooms are on the other side of the resort. My grandfather calmly replies, “I’m pretty sure I can find one back here.” It is hard to describe the horror and shock that overcame us when we both realized that my grandfather was going to pee right behind the family maze. The only thing worse was when we realized that the mountain biking trail came out right behind him, so lots of other people got to share in our shock and disbelief.

First Day at School

Teaching 7th and 9th graders in Utah is probably the equivalent of teaching 5th and 7th graders in Texas. They are so emotionally stunted that they don’t even get half of my jokes.
Today we played the name game. This is a game where you learn all the names of the students by having them find something that rhymes with their names or is alliterative. I may be able to learn their names in a few months, but I will never be able to spell them all. People in Utah feel the need to either make up names or misspell common names to confuse future generations of people.

Examples:
I have many girls by the names of Kaylee, Kaylie, Kaleigh, Kaileigh, and Kayle.

I’ve got Braiden, Brayeden, Braydeen, and Braden.

My favorite names are Precious, Charlin, Mysti, Shanica, Aubrie, Sault, Darger, Meriken, Mcky, Mattiliynn, and Oakley. I have literally dozens of random misspellings of normal names, but I won’t bore you with them. I know what you’re thinking…these are all WHITE, suburban kids with screwed up names. I only have two Hispanic kids out of 170 students and their names are Maria and Michael.

My favorite quote of the day: It’s always best if you can do it without using a lot of strokes.
Some 7th grade kid was trying to explain his summer playing mini-golf to the class. BTW- NO ONE BUT ME LAUGHED AT THAT.

SIDENOTE: “Roy” sent me flowers to school today. How cute is that?!

Having a Folky Good Time

Last weekend my cousin was playing in a folk festival in Colorado. She entered the Folks Festival (I didn’t spell it wrong, that is the name of the festival…creative, I know) contest last year with hundreds of other singers and won. You may be picturing middle to late-aged woman with long unkempt hair sitting on a stool and denouncing the government, but Sarah is actually a young girl with styled blonde hair who struts her stuff while she sings. Her prize for winning was her very own stage at this year’s Folks Festival in lovely Lyons, Colorado ( I say lovely because it is a beautiful place by the mountains with water flowing through it…I also say it ironically here as a bit of foreshadowing of events to come). My mom, cousins, and sisters have long planned on attending her debut on a main stage. Sadly, my sister Fran couldn’t make it because she was preggo. I say “was” because she had the baby the same morning that my cousin Sarah performed on Saturday. My sister Laura was supposed to accompany me on the 7 hour drive from Salt Lake City, but she backed out days before. I was left contemplating the cross-country trek by my lonesome. You all know how love to be alone, so since I didn’t want to make the drive on my own, I roped a date into coming with me. My date is someone that I’ve known for a long time and recently started dating. He is cute, normal, witty, but sadly isn’t Mormon. Anyway, for the sake of brevity and secrecy we’ll call him “Roy”.

Roy arrived promptly to drive to Colorado with me and attend the folk festival. I had built the trip up as a couple of days in the sun listening to good music enjoying the festival atmosphere and camping under the stars. I don’t think either of us knew what we were getting into. Let me start by alerting all of you who don’t know me that I’m the worst passenger on long car trips. The minute the car is in motion, I get sleepy and pass out; I’m like a 2 year old in a car seat. If I’m driving, I’m a road warrior and could stay awake all night. If I’m sitting next to the driver, I start nodding off before I’m out of the driveway. Anyway, Roy insisted on driving my Civic, something about men and the need to show their ability to drive long distances in short amounts of time that I will never understand. Unintentionally, I put him to an early test of his mettle… I think I woke up about the time we reached Colorado. I took the wheel for the last couple of hours and noticed the weather getting increasingly bad. My hope was that this light sprinkling was just a passing squall. Well, by the time we reached Lyons, the temperature had dropped from 90 to 50 degrees and it was pouring rain. As we neared our destination, I caught myself sneaking more and more glances across at Roy; one because he is cute and I felt a growing attraction, and two because I was curious to see if the weather was dampening his usual smiling disposition. I was surprised to find he was taking this all in stride. We arrived at the campsite (more on this “campsite” in a moment) around 7pm on Friday night, just in time to see Patty Griffin play. Her lyrics and amazing voice energized an obviously tired audience. Of course her magnificent full-length bedazzled jacket probably helped.

Alright, let’s talk about he audience for a second. I want you all to picture what it would look like if you crossed Lillith Fair and Woodstock. It was a mud soaked campground and outdoor theatre completely overrun with lesbians and bearded folk festival men. And when I say ‘soaked’, I mean you had to choose your footsteps carefully or find your shoes completely underwater! I saw a few average ‘folksy-people’ as I glanced around, but I think the rain had scared most of the “fair-weather” fans back to their tents or hotel rooms by the time we arrived. Luckily, I had a poncho in my car, but I had nothing for Roy. We had planned for 90 degree weather sitting comfortably in small lawn chairs, so we each only packed a light sweatshirt. As we neared the actual seating area of the outdoor concert I noticed the rain was soaking through Roy’s gray sweatshirt. I had brought my wide-rimmed hiking hat that repels water fairly well and had this pulled down over the top of his hoodie. What a sight he was! I was amazed that he still smiled while swinging his arms and saying jovially ‘this is awesome!’ He was redefining what it means to be a good sport and endearing himself to me at the same time. We eventually ran into my cousin equipped with an extra clear disposable poncho and I quickly pulled it over his head as commented on the 90 degree weather, smirked, and shook his head. I can’t do the scene justice, but I will forever have the priceless image of Roy standing in front of a stage with a funny hat, watching Patty, drenched, in an ill-fitting poncho completely surrounded by lesbians singing and dancing.

We were originally supposed to camp walking distance from the stage in a grass parking lot, but my saint-of-a-mother got us a room at some place with cabins. I think setting up a tent in the rain in a small inundated spot tucked next to every other festival goer may have caused my date to drive off in the middle of the night without me. So, after leaving the festival grounds (there was actually not too much ground left that was above water) we sloshed our way to the car, picked up some treats from an always entertaining Wal-Mart and found our way to the B&B.

I called the woman who owns the cabin on the way and she gave me directions. She told me to keep driving along the property until we saw a sign that said “The Fishing Lodge.” I can’t express the warm thoughts that accompanied the idea of a big bed and room to stretch out. We drove past many nice looking expansive cabins on the property, and finally caught sight of the sign that read “The Fishing Lodge”. We thought there must be some mistake as it was hung on the back porch of the main house. We parked the car and walked into the “Lodge.” I’m not sure that you can wall in a 5’x12’ porch off the back of your house and call it a “lodge”, but they seemed to have done a masterful job of it. I wanted to check in with the owner, so I pulled back the blinds of our “Lodge” avoided the doorbell that was strangely mounted on the inside of our room, opened the sliding-glass door, and walked into the main house. To my surprise, the whole family was sitting right on the other side of the glass door watching the Olympics in their living room. It was like a seen out of National Lampoon’s Vacation. I kept waiting for the husband to pull out a slice of watermelon and spit seeds while we were conversing. It was another one of those moments that seemingly only happens to me on my dates.

Trying to sleep in a twin bed that night with Roy, a 250lb guy that likes to sleep on his stomach was almost as uncomfortable. Arghh. Normally, I would have complained, but after what I put him through, I had to shut my mouth, flatten myself against the wall, and try to picture myself riding shotgun in a Honda Civic in order to get to sleep. I did this with the knowledge that I was going to ask him to trudge back through the mud and slop in his tennis shoes again in the morning to see my cousin. Poor guy.

Stairway to Hell

Sorry it’s been so long. I’ve been on a few more trips collecting stories. Two weekends ago I went to Yosemite to hike Half Dome. Actually, I originally just went to hang out with friends, but my pride got the better of me and I wound up hiking 18 miles up to an elevation of 8,646 feet. I made the mistake of bragging that I’d hiked the Peruvian Andes around the campfire the night before. I said that since I’ve climbed the Andes and the tallest mountains in both Utah and Colorado, how hard could some little hill in California be? I couldn’t figure out why the boy I was relating my previous hikes to was just nodding with a smirk on his face. Later that night, as I was once again spouting off about how easy this alleged hike would be, when my friend came up to me, clasped me on the shoulder and whispered that I should ease back as it really is a difficult hike and that I might not even be able to finish it. He added that the boy I was talking to didn’t finish the hike the previous year and actually bled from every single one of his ten toes, his heels, and the tops of his feet. Since the my friend runs about 5-10 miles a day without sweating, I realized I might want to tone down my usual competitive banter.

The maps say that the hike usually takes about 10-12 hours. We woke up at 4:30am so we’d be there before the sun heated up the rocks and the cables become crowded. We also were trying to beat the group of marathon runners from our campsite that were waking up at 5am. I won’t detail the lack of sleep from the night before as I slept upon rock hard dirt with no pad and was entertained by screaming kids for most of the night. The grueling start of the trail was three and a half miles of stone stairs. I started mouthing “I HATE YOU” to my two guy friends every time they turned around to see if I was keeping up. I think it was the combo of the strenuous hike and the fact they were crop dusting the trail with noxious fumes that were probably the result of cheap beer and too many smores the night before. The first nine miles are really just straight up. There are a variety of terrain changes throughout the climb like stone steps, a million switchbacks, and then just basically just scaling a rock using a cable. I honestly thought I was going to die. The only thing that kept me going was my bad 80’s mix on my ipod and the fact that I’d bragged so much the night before that I couldn’t possibly swallow my pride and quit.

The only part of the whole thing that I enjoyed was the last quarter mile when you have to scale the dome using gloves and holding onto a cable while tackling the 70 degree incline on one large rock. The only reason this was fun for me is because I’m not really afraid of death. Those of you who know me have seen me drive and can vouch for this fact. I don’t care about dying, and if I were to have let go of a cable or slipped, that is exactly what would have happened. Plus, I rock climbed in college and got over my fear of heights. The boys, however, were both terrified of heights and that mere fact almost made it worth the trip. That last quarter mile I got to mock them on the cables while they shook and looked petrified. I basked in their fear and shaking limbs while they clung to cables with poorly fitting gloves…it was almost worth the 8.75 miles of the grueling climb in their jet contrails.

In order to keep our lead on the marathoners that were close behind us, we ran back down the trail after we finished the assent portion of the hike. My legs were numb at this point, so it wasn’t as bad as I thought. All in all, we did the whole hike in 5 hours and 30 minutes. I’m not one for marathons or triathlons because that kind of punishing race doesn’t appeal to my lazy nature. After this hike, I feel like I can understand the kind of satisfaction that comes from completing one of them. Of course, I couldn’t walk for three days and still have blisters that are healing on my feet. Sometimes I think of myself as tough, and then I remember who I really am. I am the girl that only does about 45 min on the elliptical and watches the calorie counter the whole time trying to figure out how many cals I have to burn to cover the roll of Thin Mints I ate for lunch. I’m not the sleep- on-the-ground-and-run/powerhike-18-miles kind of girl.

Cellf Reflection (It's not a typo but a bad pun)

I know it has been a while, but I’ve been away from my lovely laptop for way too long. I’ve recently spent a week pseudo-camping out in Grass Valley, California and am now headed to Yosemite for the weekend of real camping and smores. Grass Valley was a beautiful escape for me. I was surrounded by friends, people who actually know my first and probably my last name. They only stayed for the first two days of my trip because they have something called jobs, but those days were pure bliss. They were people that I could talk or not talk to for hours. We all liked snow peas and board games. (If you haven’t seen Best In Show, you probably won’t get the above reference. In fact, even if you saw the movie, it still won’t be funny to you. I’m currently just writing to amuse myself right now.)

This was the little cabin we stayed at in Grass Valley. My dad actually built this with

his bare hands...and a few helpers that didn't speak much English.

I realized three important things about myself after spending 5 ½ days in Grass Valley.

1. I need my cell phone! It is no longer just a want; it has become a necessity to have my cell phone in range of one or more Verizon towers. I am able to go without my cell phone for a day or two but not any more than that. I knew it was time to go back to civilization, when I found myself crawling on the roof of the cabin searching for a single bar of service so that I could get at least one text message. It was an all-time low for me. Don’t worry, I have self-loathing knowing how shallow and ridiculous it is, but that didn’t change my urge to call someone. After 5 ½ days, it made me have a whole new respect for the movie The Shining. I bet that if Jack Nicholson would have had text messaging, voice mail, and the opportunity to just call someone to help him with his issues, he would have been just fine.

2. I’m probably the most competitive person I know when it comes to board games. I’m a competitive person in general, but board games bring out a particularly brutal kind of cutthroat spirit. I promised myself before the game that I wouldn’t take anything seriously and I’d try to just have a good time. Then, once the game began, I became a Mr. Hyde version of myself. I knew it was time to stop playing games during Scategories when I cursed out half the room. I’ll lay out the scenario for you. The category was “Things Found in the Sea” and the letter was “F”. I decided to forgo the obvious answers of Fish and Fire Coral and went with something original. I was so excited to announce “Flipper” and then heartbroken when it was vetoed on account that it was a fictional dolphin’s name. This is ludicrous because everyone that has a dolphin near their house in Florida or California calls it Flipper. It is the dolphin equivalent of Fido for the dog or Blackie for the stray, black cat. Anyway, it was vetoed. I was trying to get over my anger and quietly seethe in my corner, when the person to my left said that he put down Fisherman. Everyone voted and agreed that he got a point for “Fisherman.” Fishermen aren’t found IN the sea unless they are dead. Fishermen are ON the sea IN a boat. How did I lose with Flipper and he won a point with Fisherman. *Please note- I am working myself into a raging mad-on just thinking about this again. I now need to stop, breath, and crawl into child’s pose. See…I have definite competitive issues that I need to work on before I’m allowed to play with others.


3. I desperately need a hot tub for my house in Utah. I forgot how amazing a hot tub is while living in Texas. In Texas, there are only about 5-10 days a year where you could actually use a hot tub for its intended purpose. I’ve mostly seen hot tubs used as summertime kiddie pools and, in a couple of white trash instances, I seen them filled with ice to cool down large quantities of beer for a backyard party. A cool mountain evening borders on perfection when you have an accessible hot tub. I’m getting on craigslist as soon as I get home.

Well, I hope to have many more stories to share when I get back from Yosemite. Is it wrong that I’m hoping the fires up there will keep everyone from wanting to do the 7 hour dome hike? I know that I’m a wuss, but 7 hours of hiking seems awfully long. Maybe I can stick around camp a guard the tents; I hear the bears are particularly intrusive this time of year. I also could volunteer my cooking skills and maybe opt out on the hike so that I could prepare the after-hike meal. Let me know if y’all can think of any other excuses to keep me out of 7 hours of mind-draining heat.

Meow Meow Meow

Since moving to Utah, I’ve found it hard to try and make girl friends. I’ve gone to several church parties and even some real parties with non-mormons. It seems that girls don’t warm up to me that well. I forgot what it was like to be in a competitive environment around women. Here, 29-35 is the “desperate age." Most all my friends from BYU got married in college and now have 5 children. It is like there was a game of Mormon musical chairs and the music stopped at age 23. Those of us still single are sitting a little dazed on the floor, looking around at the other "losers" of the game wondering what happened. Back home in Austin I feel normal being single and 29. As an added bonus, most of my girlfriends and I have a non-compete clause. We like different types of men and for different reasons. We don’t feel the need to be catty and backstabbing because we have something called self-esteem.

Anyway, I went to a party Sunday after church. I need to include the fact that almost all Mormon parties center around some sort of food theme. Some of the standard ones I’ve seen are Mexican potluck mingle, casserole come over, fruit and friends, desserts and dates, BYOS (bring your own steak), and the standard appetizers and acquaintances. Food and lack of sleep are the Mormon equivalents of alcohol. Sadly, they are the only aphrodisiacs we have. This past Sunday’s function was a dessert party. I was so excited to be invited out of my house by girls at church that I could hardly stand it. The girls said it was just a small girly party and there was no need to dress up or make a big deal out of it. After church I raced home and made my famous Splenda apple pie. I figured since it was a girly party, I wanted to bring something healthy everyone would enjoy. I also put on some frumpy jeans and a brown t-shirt, so I wouldn’t look like I was trying too hard.

When I got to the party early, of course, I quickly realized that it wasn’t a girls only function. The girls that invited me were nice for about 5 minutes until the boys showed up. Once males entered the domain, you would have thought I had leprosy. I received what my family calls The Amish Shunning Treatment from girls. I tried to stick it out, but since I didn’t really know anyone and I felt totally awkward, I slunk out the back door. By the time I left there were probably 75 people at the “little dessert party.”

One of my guy friends who showed up later told me that I should have stuck it out, but I didn’t have the nerve. He also told me that he had a slice of my pie. Apparently, two hours later no one had touched my sugarfree delicacy and he felt obligated to eat a piece.

I hate Utah! I hate weird food parties! I hate catty girls! I miss my friends! meow meow meow meow

Monotone from Minnesota Seeks SWF for LOOOONG Lunch

Yet another blind date and yet another strikeout. This one fit the usual description of tall, Mormon, old, and defective. He was 35 years old but looked closer to 45. I don’t have any daddy issues, so someone that looks that old is usually a turn off. Combine that with a monotone voice and no sense of humor, and you have the longest hour and a half of my life. I don’t think a meal has ever felt so tiresome and drawn out.

Someone once said that even if the date seems a total bust, at least you got a free meal out of it. I would have gladly paid for my own food, if it meant that I wouldn’t have had to endure such riveting conversations as:

1. Why aren’t you married?
2. The economy according to me
3. Let me tell you about my perfect family
4. Why Minnesota is such a great place to raise kids
5. My crazy ex-girlfriends and their lives

Redneck Revolution

Since moving to Utah, I haven't had much to look forward to. I have had an occasional bad date, lots of reading, and plenty of nap and down time. This week was different. I found out Tuesday that they were having a Demolition Derby in a small town near Salt Lake. If you've never been to a Demo Derby, you haven't lived.
One of the greatest pastimes of Americans is watching other peoples' accidents. It doesn't matter if it is someone falling down the stairs or someone wrecking their car on the side of a freeway. We love blowing things up, destroying things, and watching people hurt or make asses of themselves. I've always held a certain degree of respect for rednecks and their ability to hone in on these simple pleasures. Who else could have brought us bull riding? Who else would make their children wear such styles as the mullet and the rat tail? A demolition derby is the crowning jewel in the belt buckle of stupidity. I love them. Picture dozens of rednecks in a variety of dilapidated vehicles. They decorate their cars as only rednecks can, with duct tape, spray paint, and bailing wire. I bet they even have a fistfight or a spitting contest to determine who gets to be car number 69. Then, they go into a dirt lot and then ram each other continually until the cars can no longer function. The last car running wins. This description doesn't do the event justice. A demolition derby has better people-watching than Six Flags at closing time.
Anyway...I have been counting down the hours till I could finally put my hair in a banana clip and don my half-shirt and daisy dukes for the occasion. I called one of my two friends here today and asked what time he wanted to head out, and he informed me that the tickets were all sold out on the internet today.
WHAT!!!???!!

Number One: How do you sell out a demolition derby? You just back up more trucks on the sidelines and get on people's shoulders to see better.

Number Two: When did rednecks start selling demolition tickets online? This is total crap; this goes against everything holy! Rednecks don't even have full sets of teeth; how can they possibly have the internet? My connection is spotty at best here in Salt Lake. (Of course it really isn't my connection. It belongs to some neighbor named Hazed and only works in one room of the house next to the window, but that is beside the point.)

So yea...I will have to save the banana clip for another day. I'm so upset. I guess I'll just go to the dollar movie theater and see what is showing. The people watching isn't great, but it is a wee bit entertaining to see what all people will shove in purses to bring into the theater. Last time I went, some guy reached into his wife's purse pulled out two 40 oz beers, a couple of hamburgers, and full can of Pringles.

You stay classy Salt Lake!

You know you've been in Utah too long when...

Utah is known for things like ugly wedding dresses, three month long courtships, and producing more teenage brides than any other state in the union. When I was at BYU, I lost a roommate each semester to the perils of matrimony. My house had a constant stream of bridal magazines and tulle gracing our living room. Men probably don't know or understand this, but all women I know love bridal magazines. Most of us would never own them if we're not engaged because that would be crazy....buuuuttt if one of our friends is getting married, we are more than welcome to spend hours pouring over these magazines to help our "friend." We help select flowers, a wedding dress, colors, and most importantly we help pick out a bridesmaids dress that will accommodate everyone and won't make us all look like pregnant 12 year olds from the 80s.

One of my sister's friends is getting married and so we took it upon ourselves to not only peruse the magazines but head out in search of bridesmaids dresses. I'd like to pretend that I've got a lot of things going on, but if you've read my blog on finding a couch, you've already got a good idea of my activity level since moving here. I've got two and a half weeks till my new job starts, so really, I've got nothing better to do than pick out bridesmaid dresses.

We went to one of the shops and quickly realized that everything was made of taffeta and only came in fruit colors. Fruit colors are awful colors like melon, lime, pomegranate, and strawberry, colors that no one over the age of 11 would be caught dead in. What they lacked in bridesmaid dresses they made up for in actual bridal gowns. We decided to check out the selection and went through the racks selecting our favorites. The saleswoman somehow got the idea that we were brides and started taking our selections back to the fitting rooms. We got embarrassed and so we decided to just run with it. Laura was having a December wedding and mine was next June. When asked for specifics, Laura narrowed her date down to December 21st, which when we looked at a calendar later we realized it is a Monday. Woops. It was way too much fun. Trying on wedding dresses is like playing pretty, pretty, princess for adults. I even had a nosy mother from another fitting room snap a picture of us posing like they do in the magazines. You all know the pose I'm taking about, the one where the girls look like they've successfully combined scoliosis and anexoria into a hunched over, hands on hips pose.

Yes, I know...I've officially been in Utah too long when I'm trying on wedding dresses. In case you can't read it, I typed loser over our faces.

I also love this picture from a bridal magazine. It looks like someone just stomped this poor bride's bouquet.

Slow Down Lance

My dad came in town this past weekend. He claimed that he wanted to spend time with my sister and me, but we knew that he was really up here to date single, mormon women. My dad is recently divorced and is now on the prowl. I'm not sure what is more disturbing, watching my dad text message and set up dates on his new Iphone, or hearing about which girl is the best kisser or has the best body. I'm going to go with the latter on that one.

Well, my dad did put in some quality daddy daughter time this weekend too. He signed my sister and I up for a 20 mile bike ride on a place called Antelope Island, a stretch of land extending into the Great Salt Lake. The bike ride was supposed to coincide with the full moon and started around 10:30pm. It was a huge fundraiser for the parks and wildlife association and so it was chalk full of kids, couples, and a variety of hooligans that were all dressed up and outfitted with various glow sticks and blinking lights.

I don't really know how to judge distance on bikes because I usually ride for fun and stop when I get tired. I figured that 20 miles was going to be no big deal, so I went to the gym earlier and did a million squats and lunges. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was assuming that my dad could do anything at a leisurely pace. I have owned my road bike for almost a month and have only used it once. I threaten daily that I'm going to go on a bike ride, but then am able to quickly forget about it due to heat, books to read, or a dozen of other good reasons. The click petals are the main reason that I don't ride it. I can't quite figure out how to get into them; and when it comes time to stop, I can't seem to unclip very well. Those of you that know me understand that I'm probably the klutziest person you've ever seen. My friends used to call me Ballerina as a joke. I'm like the scarecrow from the Wizard of OZ that has the metal pole taken out of his back. Only I don't just take one song to regain my balance; the constant falling over has been a way of life.

So... once I started the ride, I clicked in and realized that there was no way out until the ride was over, at which point I would probably fall over and need to have my dad unclick me. I was enjoying watching the parents, kids, and couples ride, chat, and struggle along until I realized that my dad had taken off. I pedaled to keep up, and that pretty much set the pace for the rest of the ride. The first ten miles my legs were burning as we screamed past everyone. We turned around at the halfway mark and headed back. My dad kept yelling, "Get in my draft." Needless to say, we were the only people drafting on the whole ride. Everyone else brought drinks and snacks and they were just taking their sweet time while enjoying the full moon. Not us! I remember swerving around small children at a breakneck pace, and screaming, "On your left," as I tried to avoid hitting a mom with a kidseat on the back of her bike. The last hill was about two miles long and my legs were numb with pain. The altitude was killing me and I was getting dizzy. The only thing that kept me on my bike was the knowledge that there was no way I could unclip on an incline. There was also part of me that realized that my 55 year old dad was still in front of me and not even breaking a sweat. So really, it was a combo of pride and self preservation that kept me in the saddle. At the end of the ride, there was a little downhill that led into the parking lot. It took me half a mile to get one foot out of the pedals. My dad helped with the other one when I finally screeched to a halt.

On the way home, I realized that my over-the-hill dad, a man whose spandex wearing butt I had just followed for the last 20 miles, was in better shape than I'd ever hope to be in. I felt inspired then to join a bike group or running group. Sadly, it is 10:30am only three days later and I'm still in my pajamas trying to psych myself up for a morning walk around the block.

FlavaFlav and the Walking Blues

Sometimes when you are set up on a blind date, you wonder if your friends even like you. Most blind dates with Mormons seem to be my friends thinking, you’re old and single and I know someone else that is also old and single...hmm...I think I’ll hook you both up because you have so much in common since you’re both aged and lonely. I think I need to remind people that being old and single aren’t my only criteria for dating. I like it when my friends and acquaintances have prefaced blind dates/meetings by saying, “He’s just a really great guy and you will probably end up being friends.” This, to me, is a major disclaimer. This means that they realize their friend isn’t up to my standards, but think I may be desperate enough to go for it anyway.

My meeting/date on Thursday was just this type of event. A friend of mine in California told me about this “great guy” here in Salt Lake that I had to meet. He was described as tall, Mormon, and single. I knew then that it was going to be a bust, but what else do I have to do; I found a couch, and my shoes are already organized by color and heel size.

My date said we were going to an outdoor concert downtown and then to dinner. He picked me up and I knew it was going to be bad. He had large sideburns and that little patch of hair under his lip that I think is called a flavor savor. Just for the sake of ease, we’ll call him FlavaFlav.

Since I’m a list lover, I’ll go ahead and highlight the favorite parts of the evening:

1. In the car ride over to the concert FlavaFlav gave me the laundry list of the dozens of things he was allergic to. Why do people feel the need give you a list of all their defects up front? All this says to me is, “Here are reasons why we should never have children.” When people do this, I think to myself, Wow, I want my kids to be able get in the grass without breaking out in hives and eat ice cream without their throats closing up.

2. FlavaFlav and I went to an outdoor concert in the middle of downtown. We sat on some cement steps and he kept moving closer and closer. He talked so close that every time he said something with a hard consonant sound, I could feel the breath of his words and spittle hitting my face. I kept scooting sideways on the step and leaning back, but it didn’t do any good. Within an hour we had slowly moved almost three feet to the left. I know that many of you were thinking the music was so loud that this close talking was probably necessary. Let me assure you that it wasn’t that loud.

3. He had a lisp. You could tell that he had been through many years of speech therapy, but when he got real excited tell a story, all that training when right out the window. Example from his recent trip to the coast:“And the wave wath tho big that I could hardly thurf." (I'm well aware that because I'm making fun of someone with a lisp, I'm going to have lisping children. As another side note, isn't it ironic that someone with a lisp probably couldn't pronounce the word "lisp" correctly?)

4. He prefaced most of his jokes by saying, “No one ever finds this one funny, but I’m going to tell it anyway.” I felt like telling him, “If no one else found your joke funny, chances are that it isn’t funny.” When one of my jokes falls flat, no matter how funny I think it is, I stop telling it. The point of a joke is to entertain others, not yourself. I would share one of the jokes, but they really were that bad.

5. By the time dinner was over, I was barely speaking. If you know me, you must realize what a bad sign this is. When the check came, I decided to put my credit card in for my half because I didn’t ever plan on seeing him again. Mostly, girls pretend to get their wallets out when the bill arrives to prove that they are willing to pay their portion. In my experience, boys always wave your credit card away saying that they’ve got the check…Not Flavaflav. He didn’t even flinch. He took my card and put it in with the check. I’m not sure if he realized that this was the nail in the coffin.

6. Finally, when he dropped me off he said he had a present for me. I was expecting the usual flowers or chocolate that comes with some first dates, but was shocked when he handed me a pedometer. This is one of those little contraptions that counts the number of steps you take in a day. I was speechless, for the first time in my life. Was he implying that I needed to take more steps in my day? Was he just that retarded that he assumed this would be an appropriate first date gift? Did he just realize he forgot to bring flowers and realized he had a pedometer in his console that might make a great gift substitute? I don’t know the answer to these questions.

7. He left my house and I assumed he had just as awful of a time as I did. There was obviously no connection, he let me pay for my own dinner, I had stopped talking about an hour prior to him dropping me off, and he even got an awkward half-hug at the door because I didn’t want to touch my boobs to his chest or to get too close to him for fear of an attempted kiss. Just after I kicked off my shoes, I heard my phone beep with a text message from him. It stated that he had a great time and wanted to get together again soon. HUH?!!!

All in all, I find myself a little confused by the whole outing. I wonder if I’m ready to date in Utah again. Dating can be exhausting and a little sad. In fact, my most recent dates have only given me great stories, some amazing pictures, the false belief that I’m pretty dang normal, and a new, handy pedometer.

Finding a Couch

You know that I’m officially bored when I’m writing about my couch hunt. I’ve been on the hunt for a used couch for five days. This may not seem like a lot of time to you, but this seems like an eternity to search for one stupid, yet essential, piece of furniture. I'm A.D.D., so I would have normally just bought the first one on craigslist that was decent or forgotten about it by now. Sadly, the search is still ongoing. I’ve come to realize that there are only about 4 kinds of couches for sale on Craigslist here in Utah.

1^st type- Grandma just died and the couch has to go. These are mostly floral couches that reek of rosewater, baby powder, and small dog urine. They are usually pretty cheap, but I wonder who is buying them. I don't think there are a lot of grannies surfing the web for a new sofa. I would honestly rather sit on the floor than use one of these couches.

2^nd type- The kids are grown and it is time to redecorate. These are 1970’s couches, and they usually come in velvet, plaid, corduroy, or some form of torn up leather. There are a multitude of stains and “memories” attached to these treasures which the owners try to point out. They say things like “well loved” in the descriptions. This phrase really means “contains baby spit-up, cat vomit, and fork holes."

3^rd type- Dude, it is time to graduate and the sleeper sofa has to go. These are those college couches that everyone had. We covered them in blankets for years to hide the stains and disguise their ugliness. Most of us just propped them up on the curb or against a dumpster when we were done with them our senior year of college. They smell of bong water, ash, beer, and sweat. I know what you are thinking, and let me assure you that there are lots of people in Utah that party, drink, smoke, do drugs, and go to normal non-mormon schools. These couches abound.

4^th type- I’m leaving the country or moving immediately- These are the most rare of the couches. These are what I am after. These people are selling everything to take a job somewhere to make more money. They usually have decent jobs and decent furniture, but realize that they will be able to afford much nicer things in their newer, finer house. Sadly, these couches are always sold by the time I call or are way out of my price range.

I need to stop writing because I just realized how pathetic I am writing about finding furniture. I do plan on making friends soon and hope that my entries will pick up after that.

My First Date in Salt Lake City

Last summer I was in Utah and regaled most of my friends with some of the best blind date stories. I was thinking that there was no way I could top my stories from last year. How many times do you get to meet someone that has had the hiccups for 8 straight years, or someone who obsessively strokes objects in the room and on tables? I felt that it just wouldn’t be possible to keep up with the stories from last summer, till I went on my very first date.

I was set up through a friend of a friend with someone described as cute, fun, and well connected. The person making the connection declared early on that it didn't have to be a date, merely an opportunity to meet someone that could show me the ropes in SLC and help me meet some cool friends. Okay okay…on with the meat.

We agreed to meet up after church. He showed up, picked me up in his car, said he needed to change out of church clothes, so we were going to his house. He clearly thought this was a date because he opened my car door and referred to the occasion as a date. Let me just skip ahead to the top 5 best parts of the outing.

1. He had mentioned that he had gone to “Dent School”. I assumed that this was how the cool kids referred to dental school. Doctors say that they went to med school and they mean medical school, right? I later learned that he actually meant dent school. He dropped out of college and went to school to learn how remove dents and scratches from cars. He has since moved up in the world and now sells used cars. I’d like to pretend that I’m not an elitist and could easily date a dent school graduate, but who are we kidding? I’m pickier than Ashley Olsen at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
2. The décor of the house was outstanding. It looked like a gay bachelor and his 90-year-old grandmother had equal input on all of the major choices. Plastic floral arrangements were in every room. Fake ivy hung from the walls and dripped over leather sofas with cream colored pillows. Dark marble floors were covered with throw rugs and on the walls hung alternate pictures of ships and motorcycles with pictures of fruit and vegetables. He had enough decorative candles, soaps, and potpourri bowls to put all of my great-aunts to shame. It was a hodgepodge of smells, including, but not limited to: cinnamon, orange, vanilla, cherry, and wet dog. It almost made me gag and singed my nose little. Prior to visiting his house, I had always maintained that cats were my worst allergy. I have since had to change my worst allergy from Mr. Wiskers to this boy’s house.
3. We went on a double date motorcycle ride. As you can see in the photo, this is no normal motorcycle; this is great custom job. The girl on the back of the other bike is a small, petite Asian girl. She has the body type designed to sit on the back of motorcycles. My date informed me that the bike wasn’t really meant for a passenger because it had no rear shocks and the seat was really small. I wish I would have gotten a photo of me on the bike behind him. I was so large on the back of this bike that I could have put my chin on the top of his head. My 36 length legs sat up so high that I had to tuck them under his armpits or sit in a contortionist version of a butterfly stretch. I didn’t think much on the missing shocks till we hit the pothole, and I almost was launched off the bike. Luckily, I could hold onto his shoulders for support, or if I slouched enough, I could get my arms under his armpits and fight for room with my legs. On the way home, I actually chipped a tooth hitting an unexpected pothole. I tried to take a picture of my tooth, but it didn’t show up on my camera.
4. Upon returning to the house, he said he wanted to show me his favorite room. The best room in the house was what he referred to as his weapon room. In this room sat an almost life-sized figurine of a gollum, troll-like figure holding a glowing orb. All around the scary creature were midevil weapons like swords with skulls as grips and battle axes. There were dragons and skulls on bookshelves and an assortment of knives. I was looking for the shackles on the wall when I turned around and saw him outfitting himself with some of the weapons to show them off. After some encouraging, I got him to allow me to take his picture with some of his weapons. It is truly priceless.
5. After the weapon room, we sat on his front porch and watched the sunset. The romance built as my date told me about his prior addiction to drugs and his long rehab process. He described in detail how things like pot, pain pills, and other barbiturates actually make him want to work harder and help him accomplish things in life. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of this type of reaction to a cocktail of those substances, but who am I to question him? I was just a girl, sitting on a front porch swing, wondering when her date would stop talking. A simple girl contemplating why this guy didn’t go to tool school instead of dent school. A girl that wished she had brought her car, so that she could take herself home.

We don't luv dem hoes.

I woke up two days ago in Tahoe. The air was a crisp 75 degrees, the sun was shining, and the fires of California had put a nice, thick, misty-looking ash into the air. My hair smelled of campfire and my eyes were red with anticipation for what the day held in store. Sadly, my friend and host Marc was downstairs curled around the toilet after a long night at the bar. I sat drinking tea on the porch reflecting on what brought me to this place and moment in time. I had a sudden flashback from the previous night:

I was at some amazing mansion on the hill celebrating a stranger's birthday party and I met a DJ for a local bar. He asked if I would be a guest judge for a local dancing competition that took place around midnight. Of course I agreed, thinking my experience as a cheerleading sponsor had prepared me for events just like this.

I should have known when I later walked into the bar and saw a pole in the middle of the dance floor that this wasn't a cheerleading competition, but my desire for a good story took over. I picked up the judging sheets and agreed to judge a locals only pole dancing competition. The categories the girls would be judged on were Smile and Facial Expressions, Enthusiasm, Pole Work, Rhythm and Overall Performance.

Contestant #1- A short brunette in a jean skirt that looked like she just got off the lake. She started off on the pole and did one great spin move that showed everyone her granny panties. After that, she shimmied a little, shook her a-cups all over the floor and desperately tried to keep the beat. The only category I could honestly give her good point in was enthusiasm.

Contestant #2- A taller, kinky haired girl with an ass bigger than my own. She rode the pole like like there was going to be a belt buckle prize for the winner. After the pole was tired, she got off and did some amazing butt shakes and gyrations. Her facial expressions were a bit scary, but she nailed the rest...literally.

Contestant #3- backed out citing that she wasn't drunk enough.

Contestant #4- had a jealous boyfriend that didn't feel like sharing his girl with a bunch of toothless locals screaming, "Show us your tits" and "Shake it slut".

Contestant #5- A cute blonde wearing tiny, white jean shorts and a hoodie. She looked wholesome in a trashy sort of way. (Think Brittany Spears at age 15 or 16) As soon as the music started, she pulled her hair out of her messy bun and unzipped her hoodie to reveal a satin corset. (Think Brittany Spears now) I was too flabbergasted by the fashion faux pas of white jean shorts and satin corset combo to anticipate the performance. As soon as she did her first pole trick, we knew that this wasn't her first rodeo. The second swing down the pole left her to do what whores call "ground work" or "a floor routine". She was in a mid-kneeling backbend when both of her boobs popped out of the corset. I don't think she read the rules citing that nudity was grounds for disqualification, and the boys around the dance floor weren't about to fill her in on that detail. She continued to dance, writhe, and shake it/them like a polaroid picture(s).
At the end of the performance, she popped both perfect spheres back into her top, found and zipped up her hoodie, and sauntered off, sure of her victory. I felt bad having to disqualify her but not bad enough to give her the victory and the $250 purse that went to the winner.

Later in the car, I was taking a bunch of drunken friends home and told them about my remorse for having to DQ the blonde on account of her exposure. The conversation went as follows:

Me: I feel sorry for that girl. She went all out and didn't win the money
Drunk guy in the back: (slurring) Dooon't youuu worrry bout her. Shezz a hostess in some fancy restaurant.
Me: That doesn't make her rich. She obviously needed the money or wanted it very badly.
Drunk guy in the back: Nooope. Her daddy is a millionaire. I'm not suuure which, but he either was a guy that hugged her too much or didn't hug her neeearly enough. The hugging ratio is veeery important with giiirrrlls.

From Austin to Salt Lake to Vegas.

I loaded everything in my Penske truck a week ago. My best friend Tina volunteered to travel with me to Salt Lake and then on to a celebratory trip to Vegas. I was an hour late getting to Tina's ranch because of traffic and other nonsense. When I got there we wound up taking a horse to a vet, another two hour delay. We finally left Tina's ranch about three hours off schedule ( I know you could probably do the math on your own here, but I wanted to make reading easy for you). We had gone about three miles when the following conversation took place:
Tina: VIRGINIA STOP! I just saw an animal back there that needed help.
Virginia: Tina, no way. We need to get going. We're already late and the sun is going down. The animal can fend for itself.
Tina: (becoming increasingly hysterical) We have to go back and help it.
Virginia: What was IT?
Tina: I don't know, but it was a mammal and it was upside down.
Virginia: (slowing the truck because I can't stop laughing)

It turned out to be a huge snapping turtle that had flipped over sliding down an embankment. I told Tina that not only was it a reptile, but she would lose a hand trying to help it.

Dialogue # 2
Virginia sees a McDonalds open at 4am and pulls a u-turn in a town with only a Mcdonalds and two gas stations. (yes, I'm writing in the third person) Virginia hasn't passed another car in almost an hour. When she makes the u-turn, she hears tires squealing and assumes the truck is just struggling with the fast paced turn. When she sees the flashing blue and red lights, she realizes that she was being tailed by a cop. The large yellow Penske truck is pulled over waiting for punishment.

Tina: Virginia- give me the gun. (There was a gun in the side door of the car in case anyone tried to mess with us. Yes, we are aware that we have seen way too many scary movies, so we brought a gun.)
Virginia: no way. Just leave it. The cop is walking up right now.
Tina: You have to tell her you have a gun.
Virginia: STOP saying the word "gun". We have no permits and we're going to get in trouble.
Tina: Just pass it to me so it doesn't fall out if you open the car door.
Virginia: (Glaring at Tina she turns quickly to roll the window down) Hello officer... I'm so sorry about the u-turn.

*Side note- we got out of the ticket and got an egg mcmuffin. It was a good night! And to answer your question or thought, the cop was a GIRL and SHE let us off.


When Tina and I got to Salt Lake City we promptly dropped my stuff and headed to Vegas for a final hoorah. Apparently I took my Vegas trip a little too seriously because I lost my voice the second day and had to mime my way through the rest of the trip. At one point my voice was totally gone and I was reduced to just squeaking and grunting. The lack of an audible voice didn't really slow me down though because I still went to clubs every night. At this one club I tried explaining to guys that tried to talk to me that I couldn't speak. The guy apparently misunderstood my miming and he thought I was deaf and dumb. He told his friend right next to me, with his back turned "Gosh, I wish I knew sign language so I could hook up with that hot retarded girl." Yea me!

Vegas is over and I drove to California for a quick fun trip. I'm obviously procrastinating unpacking and don't want to go back, but you all probably knew that. I'm going to be in Palo Alto, San Francisco, Tahoe, and then Reno for the next week. I'll probably make it home (wow, I can't believe that SLC is home now) by next Tuesday or Wednesday.