911...not so responsive

So today was an interesting day...no it doesn't consist of actually showering (yes, it's almost four in the afternoon)...I did brush my teeth. Sorry this is not a hygiene report, but if you were asking I do smell quite good. (okay, so I hugged Dan when he got out of the shower and his deodorant got all over my arm...I still smell good)

ANYWAY...today I decided to register my car. Sure I've been living in California for almost a year and a half, and I've been driving around with an expired registration for the past couple of months, but I'm not what you call a "conformist," "someone who follows the rules," or "someone who pays for things before walking out of stores." I'm my own person...so no judging. Who am I talking to? Sorry I'm feeling feisty today, or maybe it's because I smell like a man.

Again, ANWAY...in order to get my long awaited registration I had to go get my smog check. (yes, I am going to walk you through every painstaking moment of my registration process). As I was driving down Lincoln (a very busy street for you non-Santa Monicans) I was stopped at an intersection. For almost five minutes our light didn't change. At first I wasn't too concerned, but then I got a little worried when I watched Paco try to cross the intersection as cars were flying across. Many cars started to follow his lead, and I feared I was about to see a very nasty accident. So, being the good citizen that I am, I decided to call the police. Who else do you call in a situation like this? Anyway, I dialed 911 and waited as it began to ring. I don't know if any of you have called 911, but I suggest if you are being murdered this is probably not the best route. I couldn't believe how many times it rang until an automated voice came on and said, "If this is an emergency, please press 1." 1? So, you are about to get killed, and not only do you have to wait on the phone, but you also have to have the ability to find the number 1 on your phone. Because I was not being murdered, I pulled the phone away, took a deep breathe, scratched my cheek, looked out the window and pressed 1. Again, more ringing. Are we serious? So let's say you have managed to get away from the person who is trying to murder you, you pull your phone out and dial 911. You wait, you find the number 1 and then you...wait a little longer. I think this is the point where the camera actually moves into a tight shot around your face, the music gets more intense and behind you is a creepy hand. Anyway, finally a very "friendly" voice barked, "911 what is your emergency?" My emergency? Hmmm...911 isn't working so well? My friend died about ten minutes ago, but thanks for asking?

At this point, I then feared I had called the wrong place, because was a broken traffic light really an emergency? However, I was in (I had placed 1) and so I blurted out, "I'm on Pico and Lincoln and the traffic light I think is broken." Good delivery I thought. A little lacking in confidence, but I said it. The operator then responded, "Hold please." (Which made me wonder is making me hold because I'm not really an emergency or because this is their typical procedure?) Unfortunately, I didn't really find out because then I was hung up on. Again typical procedure? Anyway, two seconds later the light turned green, so something must have happened in the magical world of 911.

So lessons for the day: 1. register your cars on time and don't hit Chalynn in Santa Monica when she hasn't eaten lunch...she sort of sucks. 2. Don't call 911 if you have an emergency. Just keep running until you trip and fall in the forest...you really have no other option.

Be Cool or Be in Pain

There are moments when I just don't feel my ripe age of 29. This morning would have to be one of those moments. At sixteen I got my braces off and was given a nice little retainer as a parting gift. For about eight years I was incredibly faithful about wearing my orthodontic gear...and then one night I decided I had had enough. I was 24, a college graduate, a return missionary and too cool for a plastic piece of torture. Consequently, for the past five years I have been recklessly sleeping with no protection. A couple of days ago I was going through our pictures from Italy and I noticed something...my teeth looked completely out of place. I don't know if this was a result of the time change or a severe case of jet lag, but something didn't look right. Therefore, I was left with only two choices: 1. Continue feeling cool at night and allow my teeth to become "Summer Teeth" (suma here and suma there) or 2. Strap back on the dork gear. After a moment of reflection of what my teeth used to be before braces I realized there really was only one option. Therefore, two days ago, after scrubbing with toothpaste, mouthwash and paint thinner my retainers were placed back in their rightful home.

This morning I woke up to my phone ringing. Without thinking I flipped open my phone and croaked a very lispy and saliva enhanced "Good morning." As my mom was saying "good morning" back, a rush of pain swept over my mouth. At first, I thought I had been punched or kicked accidentally in the mouth the previous night. Yet, when I went in search of what was causing so much discomfort to my mouth, and so much drool, I remembered my fateful decision to reintroduce my retainer. I had no idea something so small could cause so much pain.

So there I sat, 29, feeling like a complete dork, covered in spit and clutching my mouth. There's got to be a point when your teeth stop moving, and you can feel like a real adult. Right?

This Gallery is Free

As opposed to writing out my entire trip I thought a photo gallery of the highlights would be better.

May 5
Our trip began flying into Milan at about 8:30 in the morning. We decided to take the metro over to the Duomo. Talk about a cool way to begin the trip.

May 6
After a few hours of being in Milan we took the train to Cinque Terre. We ended up staying in a quaint beach town called Monterosso.
The following day we hiked a little over seven miles through the five towns that make up Cinque Terre.
The trail would take you right down into each town. After hiking we took the train back to Monterosso and fell asleep on the beach.

May 7-8

After Cinque Terre we took the train to Pisa and walked to the Field of Dreams.
These pictures were taken illegally. (Right after we were kicked off the grass).
From Pisa we got back on the train and went to Florence for two days.
In Florence we saw The Birth of Venus, The David, went to the Pitti Palace Gardens and climbed 483 stairs to the top of the Duomo.














This was Dan's best idea for a picture inside the Duomo.
It was meant to look like we were seeing a vision, but now it looks more like aliens are beaming down and stealing our faces.

Dan wanted to kneel down, but I thought we had been sacrilegious enough for one day.



























May 9-10

From Florence we went to Venice. Probably the coolest part of Venice (outside of scoring free tickets for the boat from and to the train station) was where we stayed. It was a little apartment just behind St. Mark's Square. The bottom floor was completely untouched, and on the second floor our room looked out to a canal.
The second coolest part of our trip to Venice was finding these hats...and listening to Dan say (with a very heavy lisp) "Come here Sailor Boy." (This also was an illegal picture. After we took these pictures we saw signs everywhere that read, "No Photos.")
The third coolest part of Venice was walking around for an entire day. We had planned on taking a sleeper train to Rome that left Venice at midnight...consequently, there isn't a canal or little street Dan and me haven't walked.
After walking for six hours we decided to get the biggest pizza we could find and eat with the pigeons on St. Mark's Square. (This again is an illegal picture because later we saw a sign that said, "No eating on St. Mark's Square." ...Tell that to the pigeons.)

May 11
From Venice we took a night train to Rome. I will never forget coming out of the metro from the train station and seeing the Colosseum at seven in the morning. The streets were virtually empty and the sun was just rising over this incredible site.
Since we arrived so early in Rome were one of the first in line to see the Colosseum. (And the ones who had to wake up half of Italy to get into our hotel at seven in the morning).Before we left on our night train back to Milan we took some pictures of the Colosseum at night.
Me with Rick Steves (my Italian crush...and guidebook) inside the Forum. I'm standing on something really old.

After a little nap we went to the Pantheon and scored a free explanation from an American guide. The description of the Pantheon = fascinating. The 150 Euro ticket he received to give it = more fascinating. (Apparently, you aren't allowed to talk loudly in a church.)
Our first night in Rome ended with an awesome meal from a huge Italian named Michelangelo, a walk to the Trevi Fountain and more gelato.

May 12
As I mentioned in a previous entry Dan was able to find us a private tour guide for the Vatican. In four hours we saw the private gardens of the Pope and went into St. Peter's Basilica and the Sistine Chapel without waiting in a single line or paying for a single ticket. The magical phrase was, "We're with him."
The entrance to the Private Gardens of the Pope.
A piece of the Berlin Wall was given as a gift to the Pope. (It was just sitting behind the summer home of the Pope...funny that's exactly where I would put my Berlin Wall also.)
While we were in the Sistine Chapel Feliche demanded that we take a picture of the ceiling. The picture isn't great, but you can see Feliche pretending to talk to me as we shielded Dan from the 20 guards who were there to stop idiots like us. Italian Guards - 0 Dan, Kate and the mastermind of Feliche - 1.
I know after the Vatican I should be raving about the magnificent art and history we saw...but what's just as cool was the best pizza I had in Italy. (It was a little place just outside the Vatican walls...and yes, it was a religious experience.)
At night we hung out at the Spanish Steps for a while. There were a bunch of German students there singing, dancing and getting drunk...it made me sad for college.

May 13
The last day we were in Rome it absolutely poured, yet in spite of the rain we had a very eventful day. One, I tried to talk an umbrella seller into giving me an umbrella for 1 euro (not because I thought he would do it, but more because it was sort of fun to see him get all frustrated.) Two, we found the best gelato in the world...cinnamon...I still dream of it. Three, we stumbled upon this angel in the last church we entered. I know it's a strange way to end our little photo gallery, but I think it sums up how we were feeling by the end of our trip...
Do you notice anything funny about this angel's hand? If not...well, then you are more mature than I am.

May 14
After a night train from Rome, we flew to New York and then to LA. I think in total it was over 30 hours of traveling.

A Shell, A Bird and A Black Man

Well I'm back from the great land of Italy. I'm not sure how to sum up the trip in one entry on this blog...sooooo...be prepared for constant installments of our exciting adventure.

To begin with, we were gone for ten days, saw six towns (well, really seven because we got kicked off a train in Bologna) ate a couple of liters of gelato, took over 300 pictures and shot three hours of footage. It was in a word - amazing.


Probably one of the coolest things we did was our tour of the Vatican. We had scored a private tour with a man named Feliche Noveli, who has the prestigious position of holding the Pope's chair. For those of you (yes, I'm acting like I have numerous readers) who are Catholic that might mean something. To Dan and I - well, I'm not sure if we gave him the proper respect. I think we both said something like, "Oh, really? That's great." I don't know if that was like spitting in his face, but what can you expect from two Mo Mos.

Our tour with Feliche started outside the Vatican. Immediately, after shaking his hand he started to tell us the significance of the obelisk we were standing next to. I felt like I was back in Mongolia listening to some old woman tell me about her sheep. I could barely understand a word he was saying. As he turned around, I shot Dan a look and mouthed, "I can't understand a freakin' word." From that point on, poor Feliche must have thought Dan and I were a little "slow" because after every explanation Dan would repeat what he had just said so I could understand. It was truly like a bad game of "Telephone" or "Whisper Down the Lane." (whichever you prefer)

Anyway, as Dan was translating for me, one of the funniest things took place. While we were standing in the Pope's private gardens, Dan asked Feliche what was the current Pope's emblem. (It was a valid question because throughout the tour Feliche kept pointing out the different emblems of past Popes). To answer Dan's question, Feliche stopped and said, "The current Pope's emblem is a: shell, bird and a...black man." Immediately, I looked at Dan to translate what I thought I had just heard. Dan looked back at me, and repeated to Feliche, "So the current Pope's emblem is a shell, bird and a 'Black Man?'" Feliche, without any hesitation, said, "Yes, a shell, a bird and a black man." Holy crappers - I completely lost it. I had to turn around and shield my face because I thought I was going to erupt. I kept picturing a bronze emblem of a shell, a bird and some guy with an afro, holding a boombox on some beautiful statue. (sorry that's the image I saw...I know not very PC).

Anyway, after I recovered from that comment we toured the private gardens, walked in through the back door to St. Peter's Basilica, watched Feliche elbow every tourist imaginable and ruin just about every Asian's picture, walked into the Sistine Chapel without paying and took a picture of Michelangelo's masterpiece while Feliche stood in front of the guards. It was the total VIP tour.

My Mom Learned a New Word

Oh my mother...where do I begin? The woman is so refined and yet can be so freaking hilarious.

This past week I was in Utah for The B.Y.U graduation and work. On Monday night my mom and I decided to stay in and watch a little TV. I suggested we watch "The Bachelor" because it's always fun watching incredibly ridiculous TV with my mom because she, like me, loves to rip on the people. I would go on and explain the procedure of "The Bachelor," but then again those of you reading this blog hopefully are well versed on the show. If not, stop reading and go read a book or something.

Anyway, at the end of the show the Bachelor took the girl he didn't choose to this bench and sat her down to explain why she just wasn't marriage material. (That he had, of course, determined after two dates and on a reality TV show - it sounds like I'm judging and I'm not.) In the middle of his lame explanation the girl responded by saying, "I just don't understand how you could lead me on." (seriously, even I felt the chemistry) He then again tried to explain why he chose the absolute sex kitten, and then she cut him off by calling him a douche-bag. Now we didn't actually get to hear her say this because they bleeped it out. My mom then turns to me and innocently asks, "What did she say?" There I sat trying not to laugh, but wondering how could I explain to my sweet mom what a douche-bag is. Finally, I said something like, "Oh it's this new derogatory term that is catching on with teenagers and people my age." She accepted that definition and we continued to watch the show. A couple of seconds later, the Bachelor walked the unchosen girl to the limo. (Of course, this is the part where they break down and try to tell America that this is why they have relationship problems and where their walls come from. And we, as viewers, try not to laugh.) Anyway, apparently my mom wanted to get to this pathetic part and while they were walking to the limo my mom yells out, "Come on douche-bag, put her in the limo." Needless to say I absolutely erupted. It was a perfect execution of douche-bag and I was never prouder of my dear mother.

A Real Accomplishment

I always thought I was a Rock Star, but today my sister-in-law did something I couldn't even imagine doing...SHE RAN THE FREAKIN' BOSTON MARATHON!! Unfortunately, she didn't get first place. Apparently, some Kenyan, Ethopian, Ivory Coastan (some very skinny man who can run way too fast) took first, but my girl was right behind. I can't even say how impressed I am.

I think it also rocks that her girls were able to see their mom accomplish such a huge goal. I hope when I have three kids I'll be taking on races and kicking some butt. A Marathon!!! It makes my knee hurt just thinking about it.

I suppose I find it such a feat because of my following day: I haven't showered yet, it took me until 1 in the afternoon to brush my teeth and my biggest accomplishment was that I not only made my bed as soon as I got up, but I took my vitamin. I don't know why that is so hard, and I why I feel so accomplished when I take my vitamin. I guess I feel like an adult with all that extra iron and calcium running through my system...even when I'm sitting at my computer pretending to work in my pajamas.

CONGRATULATIONS G. LOVE

Mormons Don't Swear

For some reason wherever my husband goes trouble seems to follow.

Last night we had our last lacrosse game of the season against USC. This was already going to be a heated game because the following season they beat us in overtime by one goal, we were coming off a fabulous showing of 17-0 loss against UCSB and, and, and well we were in the hood of LA where heat and violence reigns. (okay, so I couldn't think of a third reason).

Anyway, I had asked Dan to stand behind the goal and take pictures of our seniors. Next to Dan was one of our player's boyfriends, who decided his mission of the game was to make the opposing team's goalie cry. Therefore, every time someone scored, this classy boyfriend would yell out some derogatory comment in regards to her "lack of saving ability." I had noticed this going on, but to be honest, I found it a little funny and wasn't in the mood to make it stop.

Fast forward to the second half and all of the sudden USC starts to come back. Eventually, the score gets to be 10-7 and we haven't even gotten close to scoring for fifteen minutes. Outside of getting too cocky, our offense was having a hard time hearing the plays, and of course, when left on their own our team doesn't display much creativity or initiative. Therefore, I grabbed Dan and told him I needed him to stand behind the goal (inconspicuously of course) and call out our plays. (I would give him a signal (1 finger, 2 fingers etc.) and he would call them out. ) I thought this was full proof.

The first time our girls came trucking down the field I held up two fingers and Dan yelled out, "Bomb!" Immediately, the USC coach screamed that he wanted Dan off his sideline and called for security. He started screaming that Dan was swearing at his goalie and players. I ran over, with the refs, and tried to get the coach to settle down. I kept saying, "He's my husband and...we don't really swear." The USC coach would not listen and a cop had to come over and calm everyone down. I don't know what was the funniest part:
1. Dan being almost kicked out of our lacrosse game for yelling one word.
2. Dan being accused of swearing at a 19 year goalie.
3. Watching the USC goalie try to tell the coach that it wasn't Dan.
4. The game coming to a complete stop.
5. Me trying to convince everyone in a heated moment that Mormons typically aren't allowed to swear due to it being unbecoming and effecting our ability to feel or be susceptible to the spirit.

Anyway, we won the game. Go Waves!

29 "Dad's Favorite Day"

Yesterday, I woke up and called my dad. He picked up and the following conversation took place:
Kate: "Hey Dad, good morning. How are you doing?"
Dad: "Not good. I got a head cold and I can't seem to shake it."
Kate: "That's no good. How did the move go in St. George?"
Dad: "Not good. I just didn't feel well."
(Five minutes later of hearing about his ailments and the fact that he wasn't going to be seeing the Beach Boys in concert)
Dad: "So what's new with you?"
Kate: "Well, I was just calling to say 'Thanks for having me.'"
Dad: "'Having you?' We haven't seen you yet."
Kate: "No Dad. 'Thanks for having me' in the sense 'Thanks for making me.' Today, is my birthday."
Dad: "Oh crap. Of course, Happy Birthday. Katherine, that was one of the most memorable days of my life."
Kate (inner thought) "Huh?"
Dad: "How old are you now?"
Kate: "29."
Dad: "When are you going to start a family?"
Kate: "Is Mom around?"

Nothing like a special birthday wish from your father.

I would have to say that 29 was one of my favorite birthdays. I woke up late and got to snuggle with my Danny, talked to my Dad (which we already discussed as one of my favorite moments...much like my birth for him), rode 40 miles, got a massage and had dinner at one of the coolest restaurants I've ever seen. It's called Yamashiro and it's tucked away in the hills of Hollywood. From the entrance you can see the Hollywood sign, the skyline of downtown LA and out to the ocean. It was absolutely breathtaking.

After dinner we headed down the hill to see "Wicked." I felt like for a brief moment I was walking into some type of cult or sub-culture. Everyone was wearing "Wicked" t-shirts, singing the songs and critiquing who would be playing the main roles. When the show started it was like Christmas morning for the audience. I seriously think I heard people finally breathe when the main character appeared on stage. Oh the anticipation.

Okay, mocking, kidding, pointing fingers (what have you) aside - it was an awesome show. We had seats three rows back and I felt like I was literally on stage. (And so did a lot of people around us, as they mouthed the words and clapped a little too soon...okay the mocking will eventually stop).

All and all it was a perfect day. If this is the beginning of what is to come - bring it.

Can you beat this?

The other day I got a message from a girl I went to high school with reporting on our 10 year class reunion. I was unable to attend, but deeply curious about my former Indians. Most of her report I found "typical" until she mentioned the fateful name of Jeff Miller. Just seeing that name in print makes me cringe. Why? Well, for many high school students Prom Night is supposed to be the crowning moment of their adolescence years. Many lucky individuals are able to say that Prom Night was the night they lost their virginity, drank for the first time and felt like an absolute princess. For me, I wouldn't say it was the "crowning moment." Instead, I would call the night simply unforgettable.

Two weeks before the Prom I didn't have a date. I can't remember exactly why I was in this predicament, but I think it had something to do with the small fact that I wasn't going to be completely wasted at the end of the night. Anyway, to be honest, I wasn't too concerned about finding a date. However, my parents were a little more troubled. I remember one night at dinner my mom asked if I had found a date yet. I replied no and watched as my parents tried to sneak a glance at each other. They then started to suggest some lucky guys, and then finally told me that if I had a dress (which my mom and I had already painstakingly found) I HAD to have a date. Therefore, to appease their worried minds I got up from the table and called one Jeff Miller. Fortunately, he didn't have a date and after one humiliating question we were on the road to being the next Prom King and Queen.

Now let me take a moment to describe Jeff Miller. I had known him since first grade and he was completely off my radar until my senior year. We sort of started to date in February and went to the Spring Dance together. I wasn't really interested in him, but I wanted to date someone and he seemed like a cool guy. Going out with him was alright, but the biggest problem was the fact that I could never find him before our dates. He was always "playing the guitar" with his friend Baker. Now Baker has to be mentioned because we were usually mistaken for each other. He had long blonde hair and was about my height. Consequently, more times than I would like to admit, someone would try to get my attention by screaming, "Baker!" I don't know who should have been more offended: me being mistaken for a feminine looking guy or a guy being mistaken for a girl?

Anyway, the day of the prom came around and I had my hair done, eye brows plucked and make-up applied. (So, I sort of got the princess part down) However, I couldn't find Jeff. I called his house and his mom said, "he was playing guitar with Baker." Awesome. Finally, Jeff made it to my house for some awkward pictures. It was strange, here I was all dressed up, and I really felt like if given the opportunity I would feel no remorse hitting this guy in the face. I guess you can dress up a girl, but you can't dress down a growing attitude. Needless to say I wasn't overly excited about this night.

After pictures at my house we went over to where Baker and his "date" (some other poor girl stuck as second string to his guitar buddy) were taking pictures. Before I could smudge my make-up for the tenth time Jeff and Baker were holding onto each other and asking for their moms to take their pictures. This was getting incredibly bizarre.

Finally, the photo shoot ended and we drove to the Prom. As soon as we entered I went to find my friends and he went to find...well, come on do I really need to write it? I have to admit as soon as I got away from Miss Miller the night actually turned fun. As to be expected most of my friends were regretting their date choices as well and for the rest of the night we all danced together. Things were going well until I looked up at the large screen showing all of us dancing. Right up on the screen was Baker and Jeff dancing together. Dancing...close. My friends all started to laugh and pointed at me yelling, "Your Prom Date is Gay!!" Again, awesome.

After the Prom we had to go the After Prom party. This is the parents' attempt to keep their kids from getting completely loaded until "at least" four in the morning, spending ridiculous amounts of money and working for absolute no thanks. As we entered the After Prom Jeff turned to me, and while hitting me in the arm, said, "Well thanks for being my date." I almost wanted to come back with a left hook, but decided to go find my mom instead. She was working the After Prom and after a disastrous night I couldn't imagine another person I wanted to see. I remember I walked into the Athletic office where she was directing kids to change, and I said, "Mom, turns out Jeff is gay." She just looked at me and started to laugh. One of the other saddest parts of the night was the fact that I had to get up at the crack of dawn to go play in a lacrosse tournament the following day. So, I told my mom, as she continued to laugh, I was going to go hang out for a few hours and then head home.

This is the part that probably makes me most depressed. Remember how I said all my friends left their dates at the actual Prom? Well, somehow, and maybe due to some alcohol, they were completely hooked at the hips when we entered the After Prom. So, there I stood: way too many hair pins digging into my head, blisters burning from my "elegant" shoes and a strong desire to kill a suspected gay high school student. Fortunately, I ran into an old friend of mine, who had graduated the previous year, but somehow got hooked into working this amazing event, and we played Black Jack for an hour.

Now if you aren't fully depressed yet, there's two more fun parts of the story. After an hour of playing Black Jack it was announced that the band was going to start playing. "The Band" was not a group of musically talented people, but five guys who attempted to play covers (without a singer...never do you become aware of how boring a song can be until you listen to the same chords over and over). Anyway, because I'm such a strong person I followed the masses congregating around "the Band." As I approached I instantly noticed something didn't seem right. All the "boys" had make-up on and had teased their hair. It was the most pathetic "hair band" attempt I had ever seen. In the middle of this 1980's flashback was Jeff. Awkwardly he stood in his tux with eye liner, mascara AND the lip stick my mom had given me in hopes I would fall in love with make-up and re-apply all night long. (Instead, I had handed over the lip stick immediately to Jeff and asked him to hold it for me...my first mistake). As Jeff and I made eye contact he reached into his pocket and tossed me the used lip stick. I don't think I caught it. I think it actually hit off my chest and landed on the floor. (I don't know - something inside of me just didn't want to touch it anymore.)

With the realization that, yes, I had asked a gay man to Prom, I decided to cash out and head home. It was about three in the morning at this time, and I couldn't decide if I was completely depressed, shocked or annoyed. I got into my Volvo station wagon and headed out of the high school parking lot. In broad daylight I used to run every stop sign. It somehow made up for the fact that I didn't smoke pot in the bathroom or drink on the weekends. However, at the last stop sign I saw a cop sitting across the street. Undoubtedly, he had seen my reckless driving and I knew I about to end this night on a real "high." For about a mile he followed me and then finally turned on his lights. It was the first time I had ever been pulled over and all I could hear were my friends telling me to start crying. Sympathy was the name of the game. Instead, I was past the point of crying. I was more in the stage of hysterically hitting someone.

When the cop came up to my window he simply said, "Are you serious? Four stop signs in a row." I then reminded him that we were in the middle of farmland, that it was three in the morning and I didn't think anyone would be on the road. He then asked, "Have you been drinking?" With an absolute straight face I said, "No, but my Prom date was gay." He looked me in the eye and told me to go straight home and follow every traffic rule. I nodded, put the car in drive and went home.

So there you have it. The reason why Mr. Jeff Miller will always cause a bit of tremor through my body. I have forgiven him, but I must admit there was a small piece of joy I felt when my friend told me he was recently divorced. (Insert "guitar playing" joke here)

A Healthy Relationship of Trust

So, my husband is a "little" ticklish. Okay, a lot. If I even get near his armpits or stomach he will completely crumble like a little girl. I must admit it's probably one of my favorite things to do. There truly is no greater joy then sneak attacking him and watching his face go completely red. I also enjoy tickling him when he says something overly sarcastic, or doesn't respond exactly the way I want. Again, I know using this weakness against him is cruel, but again so much fun.

However, probably the worst part about this whole game is the fact that I'm not even a little bit ticklish. Nope, not an ounce. I think when they were passing out the "tickle gene" my sister volunteered for all of it. She, like Dan, is a complete tickle disaster.

So, for the past year Dan has been trying to find something to combat my constant assaults. He's tried running his finger up my feet, blowing on my neck and screaming at me to become ticklish. Unfortunately, all of these attempts have been met with more tickling, laughing and a lame effort at an apologetic face on my part.

However, the other night I think Dan made a breakthrough. We were watching the cinematic masterpiece of "Invasion." For those of you who didn't see it opening night it's basically about these possessed individuals who vomit on each other to spread this bizarre disease. I know, it was truly awesome. Anyway, let's just say I'm not so "good" at scary movies (even if they are completely lame...I will still believe in the possibility of vomiting, possessed people). As the movie got worse (not in story line but in my level of fear), I started to hold my legs and watch the movie through my hand. During one scene of absolute terror, Dan grabbed me and screamed. Consequently, my ball of tension broke, I jumped up and it one fatal swoop punched him in the arm. Dan had found my achilles heel. Now to fight off my urge to tickle him Dan has decided to scare the crap out of me each night.

Lately, the strategy goes like this: Dan and Kate will read in bed for a little while, turn off the lights, say their prayers and get into bed. As soon as Kate is comfortable Dan will say something like this..."What would you do if you woke up in the middle of the night and a homeless man was standing over you and making weird breathing noises?" Kate: "Would he touch me?" Dan: "Possibly." Kate: Silence.

Result: Kate has stopped tickling Dan and Kate doesn't get up to pee anymore during the night.

So yes, the marriage is going well...

1 Year Left

In just about a week I'm going to be 29. 29. That's old. Right? That means I have one more year to do the following:
1. Continue to hit the snooze button on the biological clock until it explodes a year from now.
2. Talk about my days in college like they were just a "few years ago."
3. Write notes during sacrament meeting with my husband.
4. Read Perez Hilton about as faithful as I do my scriptures.
5. Run without stretching (well I really should stop that one now)
6. Sleep with my retainer.
7. Randomly hook up with strangers.
8. Lie about randomly hooking up with strangers to my husband.
9. See pizza as a balanced meal for not only dinner but for breakfast.
10. Laugh at Helen Keller jokes. I don't know why, but they get me every time.

So there you have it...the count down is on. One year to make the most of it. Alright I'll give up half. And don't ask me the one about the circular room and sitting in the corner. I've got to grow up.

Happy Easter Mom

My mom completely cracks me up. She called me on Easter and asked, "Has the Easter Bunny shown up at your house yet?" I replied, "No. Have you seen him?" (I'm not sure why all the pagan images created to celebrate religious holidays are men...connection?) Anyway, she said slightly annoyed, "No I haven't seen the Bunny either and now I'm supposed to go teach a lesson about anger. How am I supposed to teach a lesson about anger?...Hell, I'm not superhuman." I replied, "No one expects you to play through this pain." She then wished me luck on my Easter and I wished her the same.

It ain't gonna happen...

I can't say two years ago I ever pictured my life this way. I'm a wife. I live in California. I coach. I make dinner. I sleep next to a boy. I contemplate procreating. Nope...I never pictured this. For the longest time I saw marriage as the end. It's the end to happiness, freedom and independence. Yet, after almost a year and a half of this gig I can't imagine or think of a happier time in my life. I literally laugh everyday. I don't just laugh a little chuckle, but a serious outburst. I love that. I also have never experienced love like this. Sure my family and friends love me - but I have never felt something so intense as this. It's sometimes indescribable. I have never wanted to be near to someone, touch someone, talk to someone or be with someone as much as I feel now. I sometimes wonder what I was doing for the beginning of my life. How did I walk around without this energy and love in my life? (What can I say the romantic is out tonight)

Probably the funniest thing about my marriage is how it all began. For as perfect as I feel my relationship is now - I can't imagine a more disjointed, "never gonna happen" beginning.

In the spring of 2004 I decided to go back to Duke to visit some friends and see a game. Somehow, and truly I don't remember, I was set up with this guy named Danny Hick. (or Hicks - as I first thought). Before I went to North Carolina we talked on the phone one night. From the very beginning I remember nothing that resembled fireworks or a glimpse into my future. All I remember was we talked about Duke basketball and other random stuff as I paced the old apartment my parents used to own on South Temple. I do remember (and I'm not inserting this for future posterity) that I found him easy to talk to. However, I must also admit that I had become jaded after a year of blind dating to the guys who "seemed cool on the phone" because they were usually the guys who needed the good "personality."

Anyway, when I got out to Carolina I tried my best to act excited, but to be honest I wasn't happy about this long distanced match-making. I mean seriously, did everyone involved truly believe something would happen? I lived in Utah, he lived in Carolina blah blah. It wasn't gonna happen. Our first date was nice, but again, I was already checked out. The next night he came over to watch basketball and again I thought everyone is trying hard here, but the effort is a little misguided. Finally, I went back to Utah and thought, "well I hope this danny, dan, hick, hicks guy has a good life - because again it ain't gonna happen." (i know long thought)

So here I sit on a Sunday night. My husband, Dan, and I just got back from the grocery store where we got in a fight over which ice cream to buy. I say fight, but really it consisted of two grown ups laughing and pushing each other as the other one tried to antagonize the other over the decision of fat free vs. the real stuff. It ended up that Dan bought two types of ice cream, ran out of the store and I ran after him screaming, "Stop that man!!!"

Life - I can't explain. Happiness - I can't explain. All I know is I hope life continues to surprise me.

The best quote ever...

Okay so I've been a little MIA for awhile, but a girl has got to make a living. So, I had to document one of the coolest things I've ever heard.

A few weeks ago i had the pleasure of attending August Rush with my good friend Emily Karen Madsen. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of seeing this cinematic masterpiece let me give you a small synopsis. First, we have a young couple, who loves music and stumble upon each other after their individual performances. As you can imagine, they do the deed, get pregnant and the child is put up for adoption. Now this is where the story really gets started. For the next ten years this "put up for adoption" child goes on a quest to find his parents through...yes of course, you guessed it...music.

Turns out this little guy is a music prodigy and ends up at Juilliard (but of course) and composes his own symphony. During the concert his parents are drawn to the stage and somehow know this kid is theirs. Oh, and while walking through a crowd of about ten thousand the once lovers also find each other. Brilliant writing.

However, I think the best ending of the movie had to come from Ms. Madsen. While the credits were rolling she leaned over and said, "That's so strange...the same thing happened to my cousin." Now that was brilliant.

Kid Rock's Wisdom

The other day I was walking down 2nd Street and saw Ben Harper walking his little daughter down the street. I couldn't believe it. Here was someone that has deeply affected me, and I didn't even stop him and say what's up? His music, without a doubt, has played such an interesting role in my life. Not to get melodramatic here, but I can honestly say, I become almost Pavlov's dog when I hear certain songs. I get all sorts of quiet, agitated and pensive. So, as you can probably guess his music was always associated with really "happy times."

It's funny how music reminds me of so many times. For example, every time I hear the forsaken song "Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum I think I'm in Hawaii because we must have heard that song a thousand times on our honeymoon. "Runaway train, never coming back, one way on a way track." Poetry. When I hear "Today" by Smashing Pumpkins I'm instantly put back in a dark lockeroom somewhere in Downingtown, PA after we won a District Title in basketball I only played 10 seconds in. I remember everyone was running around screaming "Today is the day." Whenever I hear the song "Cowboy" by Kid Rock I can literally feel the sun on my face and the smell of newly cut grass. It was for some reason the only song on our absolutely pathetic "warm-up" mix my senior year that actually pumped me up. I remember I used to find my teammate Courtney in the crowd and lip sync, "Start an escort service, for all the right reasons And set up shop at the top of four seasons." What in the world does that even mean?
Anyway, that's my random thought for today.

I think I'm growing up...

Yesterday, I taught a lesson for Sunday School. Talk about feeling incredibly intimidated and out of place. The last time I taught a lesson I was surrounded by an audience I understood. I could easily make a reference to Sex in the City and joke about homosexuality. (Sadly, I'm not kidding). However, yesterday was a completely different experience. I felt like my words stuck together and my thoughts didn't seem to have a point. Anyway, I didn't decide to write in this blog as some self-deprecating review about Sunday performance. Instead, I haven't been able to shake the experience I told at the end of class to put a little "real life" application to what I was attempting to teach.

I was eighteen and a freshmen in college. It's unbelievable to me that that was ten years ago. Ten years never seemed to go so fast as time does now. Anyway, that first semester was a blur. I remember a lot of sunny days sitting in some bizarre and tucked away room with some bad smelling man telling me how easy Calculus could be. No matter how many hours I spent in that forsaken "Help Room" (which really should be re-named at some point) I never understood a second of Calculus. I'm not kidding. The entire class was one big question in my mind. I had no idea how to come up with an answer...or even how I passed with a C plus. Anyway, I digress.

That first year, though basically failing every class, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. For the first time I had a group. I had a group of people I loved hanging out with and seemed to like me. We all were athletes, we all were loud and we all got along. For the first two months of college I went out a lot. I went to every bar and every off campus party. It wasn't that I really enjoyed these nights, I just enjoyed being along for the ride. Eventually, this inclusive fun wore off. I became nothing more than a glorified designated driver. One night we were out at some off campus party. I remember our captain, Karen came over to me and told me my teammates and roommates were ready to go home. I was sitting outside against a car talking to someone who wasn't drunk. To this day I don't remember who that was, or why in the freaking world they were sober. Anyway, I didn't want to go. As I tried to protest, I looked over Karen's shoulder and saw my teammate, Courtney, fall down the stairs. Once, that kind of stuff happens you don't really have any grounds to protest.

With the help of most of my semi-drunk teammates we managed to shove three of my roommates into Courtney's car. Unfortunately, the fall down the stairs didn't help to bring any clarity to the situation and the three of them were convinced they were not drunk enough to go home early. Therefore, as I pulled away they started to open the door and try to jump out. We played this cat and mouse game for awhile, and finally, I conceded that if they fell out of the car I was not going to feel bad. Finally, after running a few stop signs and committing a few other traffic violations (you see, if I stopped they would try to jump out...therefore, to remedy the situation I decided to just keep the car moving)...we ended up back at campus. By this time they were all convinced I was of the devil and only sent to judge them. As we got out of the car, they started to lay into me. They told me I was nothing more than a self-righteous Mormon, who really didn't belong at this school. I can't even express the sadness that moment brought to me. I thought for two months I had constructed the most believable facade. I was fun, I was a partier, I was the "open-minded" Mormon. NOT self-righteous and most certainly different. That's what I didn't want to be. But, in a moment that hope of mine came crashing down. In a second I was no more than simply called out. After tearing me apart they demanded me to drive them back to the party. Defiantly, and may I say, completely out of character, I grabbed the keys and threw them into the sea of cars. I told them if they could find the car - they could go back...which they did - only they walked.

I will never forget that walk back to my dorm. I remember the stairs that led up from the parking lot to the dorm. I don't think I made it to them before I completely broke down. I was exhausted from going out, and I was sick of playing a part I never liked. That night I cried myself to sleep and prayed for the first time to be really heard. That next morning I emailed my mom the story and she emailed me back Doctrine and Covenants 122:7. I had never read that scripture before, but once I did, it became my mantra at school. Basically, if the jaws of hell gape open to take you down...be patient...because all of this is for thy good and shall give thee experience. (paraphrased of course). "Give thee experience." I couldn't shake that phrase. I didn't know then what that meant, and maybe I still don't. But, as life went on from that fateful day, to my senior year to my mission, it started to make more sense.

I'm not sure why I recount the story I just told yesterday. Maybe because it was such a pivotal time in my life and really defined how I was going to look at life.

Or maybe, because as long as I live I don't think I'll ever be able to shake that night from my memory. Lately, I've been getting in touch with old teammates of mine. It's been six years since I graduated, and I still feel those feelings of being an outsider. I still feel like they categorize me as that "different one." However, I have no regrets. I guess the desire to be utterly accepted - if it be during a Sunday school lesson or as a young kid in college - never leaves.

Why does it have to be so difficult?

Break ups. Man, am I sure glad I never have to go through them again. Lately, it seems all of my friends have been going through horrible break ups or horrible run ins with the exes. I listen to their stories and gasp in unbelief at the stupidity of their one time true loves, and the cruelty of ending a relationship. No one seems to walk away unscathed. Instead, it seems like the longer you play the dating game, the more cynical and guarded you become. It's a mean cycle. You want to date to find the right one, but in time you have become so distrustful of the possibility of the right one you can't even figure out which way is up and which way is down.

I suppose sitting in my married state someone would consider me "the lucky one." I got out, I got married and now I get to sit on the sidelines and watch the rat race continue. But, even though I'm removed it doesn't erase the very tangible memories of past relationships. Of course, I had my fair share of heartbreaks and disappointments. However, as I look back I mostly cringe at the memories of my shear ambivalence towards dating. I guess that's the only way I could cope with the oncoming feelings of cynicism and hopelessness from past experiences. And maybe I was just lazy. Nonetheless, dating was a true experience.

The following are my favorite memories:
1. I was once set up with this guy who knew my grandfather. I know, right there I should have said no. Anyway, we were talking on the phone before the date and he said he was 24. I was 24 as well and had said I didn't date people younger than me. The following day we went to dinner and he said to me, while we were eating, "It sure is great to be out with a real woman." Almost choking on my dinner, I replied, "What do you mean 'a real woman?'" He then said, (like a total moron might I add) "Well, being so mature for 21, I usually have a hard time relating to girls my age." 21? hmmm...I know a small detail, but the "real woman" comment was something I could not get over.

2. I was set up on this date by Jason my brother. He seemed like a cool guy. Active, energetic and not bad looking. However, before every date (there was three) he would tell me to eat beforehand. Sometimes this sort of made sense because we would go do physical activities. And other times it just seemed like he was being cheap. One night his cheapness came to light. We went skateboarding, sorry, longboarding down this huge hill. For those of you who don't know, longboarding consists of taking your precious life, placing it on a wobbly board and traveling at mock speed down a hill. I know it sounds too good to be true. Anyway, one night we did this dreadful activity...which actually makes you quite tired (from clenching all your nerves simultaneously) and I, stupidly, came to the date with an empty stomach. So, when he asked if I was hungry I innocently said yes. We then proceeded to head to the grocery store where he bought an on sale carton of ice cream that was so frosted over from being in the back I thought they were going to give it to us for free, a store brand candy bar (not a big one, just a little taste) and we were off. When we got in the car I asked what we were doing for food. He said, "milk shakes." Hmmm. We then got back to his place and made this water downed milk shakes that held some loose pieces of candybar. It was basically like drinking spoiled cold milk with a taste of bad chocolate. After being totally filled up I told him I get up early and left. Well, headed straight for McDonalds.

3. Number Three actually needs to be its own posting. Let's just say Request-o-Matic almost made me give up dating for good.

4. Number four has to entail the worst first kiss I ever got. Well, there's a guy in high school who will always reign as the worst, but this was right up there. Actually, when I think about it, I actually suffered twice. The worst first kiss would have to be from this guy who told me he hated first kisses. He lamented how over-hyped they became and only led to disappointment. (Yep, I was super stoked to kiss this guy) So there we stood after a great date, and as I'm talking he lands one on me. I was so taken aback and so surprised by his delivery that when he pulled away I started to laugh. I laughed because not only was a horrible kiss but he literally did it while I was in mid-story. So, I guess I proved his point on that one.
Second, worst first kiss goes to another poor guy. We went out to dinner and then to a movie. During the movie I felt like I was going to throw up. I just kept closing my eyes and hoping it would all end. As we headed home, I kept telling him how sick I felt. Okay, this was also a technique I used to use to ensure I wouldn't have to kiss someone at the end of the night. I hated those situations. Three dates, three dinners, three movies...crap equals one kiss? Anyway, we got to the door and as I'm literally slumped up against the wall he pulls me in and kisses me. I thought I was going to throw up in his mouth. Which really would have served him right for going in for the kill even when I threw up the 911 flag.

5. Okay this is the last one. Because, I'm just getting mean and the only one being entertained here is me. Okay, I got to think of the best. Number 3 is in its own league. But a close second would have to...okay I can't rank them. It's too hard. The worst date I was ever on would have to be with this guy this girl in my ward set me up with. She talked him up, and I bought it. All of it. He came to the door and was the complete opposite of what she said. She said tall, he was short, she said hot, he was not, she said he was athletic, he was not an athlete etc. Anyway, I had said yes, so I shut the door to my laughing roommates' faces and headed for the car. He took me to this restaurant and the wait was 90 minutes. I simply turned around and said we could find another place. He wouldn't have it. Instead, he wanted to wait the entire 90 minutes. And waited we did. I can't express the awkwardness that was between us during those 90 minutes. A. I don't do well when I'm hungry. B. I don't do well with people who don't have a sense of humor. Anyway, we finally get our table and as the waitress is taking our order my date decides to re-read the entire menu. I'm about to kill him. As he is reading, my waitress looks at me and mouths, "blind date?" I nod and she mouths, "I'm so sorry. He's a total tool." I couldn't have said it better myself. After our long dinner he wanted to see a movie. We had missed the first show because he wanted to wait two hours for dinner. The next showing was in an hour. Yep, you guessed it...we waited. I know what you are wondering...and yes, I made out with him like crazy for that hour.

6. Okay one more. This goes to the most misguided confident man I've ever met. He literally stands 5"5 maybe. We went up to Park City for dinner and I couldn't stop laughing the entire time. He literally had his seat way back and he was clawing at the peddles to reach them. I wanted to reach over and pull this child out of the driver's seat and drive him home. When we got to Park City I told him I would eat anything but Asian. At the time I was really suffering from Migraines and the doctors were thinking Asian food and MSG were bad for me. So where did we go for dinner? Asian. What a cute little guy. The worst part of the night was I saw someone I knew and she was like, "who's the little pocket rocket?"

Dating...it ain't for the faint hearted.

OHHH COMMEEE ONNN

Have you ever had the urge to just kick someone in the shins? Have you ever wanted to scream out "Who invited you anyway?" Well, I have, and, well, quite recently.

A few weeks ago my good friend Emily Madsen came to town to see Ellen DeGeneres. Because I happen to be a lucky SOB most of the time I got to go with her. I must state (and there is really no relevance for this following story other than me wanting to document it) we had a fabulous time embracing our pop culture obsessions. First, we started with a breakfast at the Blue Plate cafe. Why there? Come on, that's where Owen Wilson and Kate Hudson were spotted first when news or their relationship broke. After breakfast we headed up to Sunset to "run into" our personal favorite blogger: Perez Hilton. (Apparently, he writes his blog at a local coffee shop.) Unfortunately, he wasn't there, but we were still excited to see the hospital where all the celebs have their babies, Ketchup (the restaurant where Heidi and Spencer had a run in with LC and Jason...again, if you have no idea, just stop reading now) and LA Ink (the site of the Tatoo show LA Ink). Is is strange at 28 I'm excited by all this stuff? Don't answer that.

Okay back to the original story. We got to the studios around 2 o'clock and finally got to stand for another three hours before the actual taping. However, the cool part was I got chosen out of the pack to ask a question on TV. Apparently, that day they were going to have the kids from Kid Nation on. Kid Nation is this new reality show of kids living alone in a town, whining, making food, whining and doing stuff. My question was: what demographic were they trying to hit with this show? Come on, whining kids? Who's going to watch this show? Apparently, they liked my question and brought my party to the front. We were strategically seated on the aisle and prepped that Ellen would tap me for my question.

Speaking of strategically placing people...it was almost hilarious to watch them place people in "special seats." Some interns were very diplomatic about the whole thing, and others just cut to the chase about how they had to quickly hide these audience members. They must be paying these interns some pretty good money, because when I looked out I couldn't see a single He/She fan of Ellen. (that's my attempt at being diplomatic).

Anyway, the taping starts and Ellen comes dancing down the aisle right beneath us. You ever want to feel totally white? Stand in line for three hours, sit in a freezing studio and then point a camera on yourself as you attempt to dance with a bunch of mom jean lovin' women. It was pretty bad. Fortunately, it didn't last long and once Ellen took one step up the aisle next to me she was headed down.

After more forced dancing, the guests of Kid Nation came out. After a few minutes of interview Ellen came up our aisle and tapped the first woman for her question. It was a good question. (no shin kicking). However, the target of my story falls on the next woman. Ellen came up to her and all of the sudden the woman forgot how to speak. After each stutter, I knew my chances of being on TV were getting slimmer. Finally, after translating this poor woman's question Ellen promoted the show one more time and then cut to commercial. In an instance my hopes of being on TV were dashed. Fortunately, I had a really cool song to dance to and console my tears.

So again, I ask, "who invited that lady?"

A Little Deal

I've heard misguided individuals declare from the pulpit on many occasions how grateful they are for trials. Grateful!? For what I must ask? For the fact you slowly convince yourself that every tingle and itch could be your last? That you find yourself having a difficult time sleeping and acting like a rational person? Or maybe that food slowly loses it's taste and flipping channels becomes a chore? Or my personal favorite: That in three seconds you can google yourself into believing you may have a rare form of leprosy or you are going blind?

If these things appeal to you...then yes, maybe you are grateful for trials. Me, I must be honest. Lately, I feel like my body just won't behave. It seems to fluctuate between alright and "what in the world?" At first, yes, I would say I was grateful to be reminded of the outside help I needed. Now, I'm just teetering on sheer impatience. I'll take the trial...let's just put a two week cap on it. Okay?

The End of the Niggler?

From the day I could talk and walk I was harassed by a brother we affectionately called the "niggler." For years he played the piano and had developed almost inhumane strength in his hands. In a second he could grab onto your leg and have you screaming in mercy. He locked me out of the house, beat me senseless, heckled me from the stands and could wind me into an absolute fit. He was in every sense of the word - the niggler.

As I grew up our relationship didn't change much. I got bigger so I could put up a decent fight for the remote, but mentally I still succumbed to his power. Unfortunately, these childish skirmishes turned into more serious confrontations, and then what used to be jokes turned into real splintering moments. I tried to promise myself every vacation I would work hard to be more patient and less sensitive. And then, something would happen, something would be said and the hard feelings would only increase. I have always regretted the relationship I have with my brother, and feared it would never change.

Yesterday it was his birthday. He's now 33 years old, has three kids and is almost finished becoming a full fledge doctor. For his birthday I decided to apologize for being my fair share of sensitive, insensitive and basically an ass. This morning I woke up and found this response:

Thanks again for your kind note. It was very well received. You have nothing to regret--afterall, you grew up with the niggler.

I guess we both are growing up.

Fast Times at Ridgemont High

On our way back from South Carolina, Dan and I stopped in Durham to walk around Duke. It was strange to reminisce about a place we both knew so well, and yet, didn't experience together. I must have passed the Law School a thousand times on my way to the field and never even thought about going inside. Dan remembers parking next to the lacrosse field everyday, and even being cussed out a few times by my pyscho coach for playing soccer on our blessed practice field. As my mom would say, "Oh the craziness of life."

The last stop of our tour took us to my old house on Buchanan Blvd. In 2000, I lived there with ten of my teammates and little Mexican girl who somehow ended up there. In the beginning it seemed like a great idea. It was an old Southern plantation style home, with a deck running around the first story and second. It held two kitchens, four bathrooms, 9 bedrooms and a huge gravel driveway. Across the road was campus, next door was the Men's Lacrosse house and on the other side was the Men's Soccer Team's house. Again, let me say it seemed like a good idea. However, as each day passed it began to smell more like a frat house, incite more drama than I can relate and ultimately caused the demise of my team that year.

I think the following would entail my fondest memories of this house:
1. When I pulled up to the house to move in three empty kegs sat on our porch and a random guy was passed out on our floor.
2. A squirrel came down one of our chimneys and was loose in our house.
3. Bird (on of my favorite teammates) decided we needed some rocking chairs for our downstairs deck. Consequently, she got drunk one night and stole ten rocking chairs from our neighbors, then sanded them down and repainted them.
4. Our heat stopped working before Christmas and we used to leave the oven on overnight.
5. When cops came to bust one of our parties and ended up spending the night with two of my teammates. (Yep, picture two cop cars in our driveway, cop uniform on the floor and a badge and gun on the nightstand)
6. Greg Patcheck decides to get even with Courtney my teammate for cheating on him by throwing a bench through our downstairs door.
7. Finn, my best friend, hitting a car full of Mexicans coming out of our pothole driveway - and when she tried to get their information they all jumped out of the running car and ran down the street yelling, "Illegal Alien, Illegal Alien!"
8. Hearing "One Million Dollars" from a lifesize Dr. Evil every time someone walked by its sensor.
9. Every bed being occupied except mine each weekend.
10. When school shut down with snow, Margaritas were immediately made and a mattress was hooked up to a truck for a ride around town.
11. Sunbathing in underwear on the second story and waving to honking cars.
12. A Dark stain of apple on the wall after a drunk fight turned into a fruit throwing confrontation.
13. My hitting of a car of Mexicans.
14. Getting deathly sick due to stress, no heat and unsanitary conditions...and taking my finals the following semester.
15. Calling the cops on our own house to get everyone to go home.
16. When a homeless man stole all our cleats and sticks off our porch. (probably karma for the rocking chairs)
17. Finn's closet of a room that could only fit a bed on stilts and a desk underneath.
18. Waking up to a guy urinating on our kitchen floor.
19. A teammate, who I thought was normal, speaking in third person with her boyfriend and he responding in the third person. (Keri is hungry...Mikey hungry too.)
20. Moving out and hiding out for the summer in my own personal rehab.

As you can see by the picture the house is barely still standing. Apparently, Satan reclaimed the house through a small fire. Rest in peace Buchanan.

A Walk down Memory Lane

Lately I've been transferring old home videos into DVDs. It's been interesting looking back through a small window of the past and almost seeing where present insecurities began. I am a twin to a girl. A girl who was a girl from the very beginning. It was dresses, barbies, long hair and a little tutu. I, on the other hand, looked more like a young truck driver in training. It was mullets, baby fat, nightmare teeth and a squatty little body. My parents might as well have given me a mesh hat and a little tobacco because my truck was just about to push off.

As I watched myself sing Christmas songs, dance in a leotard (with the underwear hanging out of course) and tell the camera that a spiritual I was about to sing, "originated came from the slaves" I didn't feel like much time had passed. It amazes me to think how small moments in time can so deeply define you. I don't know if I'll ever feel totally comfortable all dressed up and marching around as a lady. (maybe the fact that I see it as "marching" is part of my problem) I think I'll always feel like that little fat kid who was stuck between her days of being a tomboy and trying to emerge as a girl.

I told my parents these thoughts yesterday and my Dad came running to my rescue. He said, "You know how people always say you take after your mother? Well, when you were little you took after your father." Thanks Dad.

When you're a jet you're always a jet

I believe in my religion. I believe in its teachings and principles. I also believe when you put a bunch of us "believers" in one room it can get quite interesting. Picture this...It was a nice and peaceful Saturday afternoon. Dan had convinced me to come to his softball game and even participate. To be honest, I don't find softball to be a sport. I don't find baseball to be a sport. And please, don't get me started on golf. Anyway, I digress.

The game started and in almost thirty minutes I had a huge dirt burn on my back, my shin was sporting an awesome goose egg and I had gone 1-2 at bat. And then the real game began. In the last inning someone grounded the ball to Dan at third and he was about to tag out an incoming runner. To avoid being tagged out this individual we will affectionately name "Danny LaRusso" tried to karate kick Dan in the face. Once Dan tagged him out he warned the guy to be more careful. In response Danny LaRusso said, "What are you going to do cry about it?" Which as you can imagine sparked some other comments from Dan. Eventually, Danny LaRusso left the field and retired to his bench. Dan continued to talk about the recent event which led to a beautiful and classic response of the bird from Danny LaRusso. Now we all couldn't believe what was going on...and I was starting to love the fact that I had decided to play softball that day.

Finally, the game came to a close and both teams convened to congratulate one another and discuss the ridiculous antics of Danny LaRusso. In the middle of this, Danny approached Dan and our friend David. I thought for a minute we might see a Christian act on this field (in the shadow of the temple - might I add), but I was sorely disappointed. Instead, Danny LaRusso pleaded his innocence and when it was not immediately accepted he shouted out, "You want a piece of me?" I know, I know we all need to take a moment and collectively say, "Awesome."

Unfortunately, nothing happened. Okay fortunately, nothing happened. However, I will never miss a softball game again. The following day, I found myself sitting on a couch waiting for sacrament meeting to begin. While waiting I started to tell the story of yesterday and when I said the words, "karate kick," my eyes caught some movement on the opposite couch. Much to my surprise there sat our nemesis. I, of course, changed subjects...you don't mess with someone who uses the words, "you want a piece of me?" with such power (my mom taught me that a long time ago). As I continued to sit there, our nemesis moved positions and locked onto Dan and David inside the chapel. Apparently, he proceeded to stare down Dan and then walk straight to him. Dan continued to talk to David while this nemesis stood behind them.

Church sports: Where all true testimonies can be found.

Too Many 18 Year Olds

I finally have reached the point where I'm realizing I'm getting old. What a mean and rough realization. There you are thinking you are invincible and then all of the sudden one sprint down a field and every muscle in your body contorts and pulls. And then as if your pride isn't hurt enough, you find yourself limping around and telling 18 year olds about your stellar days in college. The stories seem to be going well, until you find yourself asleep and in too much pain to move.

A couple of days ago I got back from Japan. I went over there to play a lacrosse tournament called the Friendship Games. I don't know if they were trying to be ironic or mistranslated something, but this tournament was anything but about making friends. I have never been knocked over more, nor have I hit more people. By the end I was heard screaming in the middle of the game, "That's absolute Japanese BS!" What is Japanese BS? Basically, it's my lame attempt at yelling at a Japanese ref on the sabbath.

Needless to say it was an interesting trip. We hit three cities, four hotels and traveled with way toooo many eighteen year olds. I swear I wasn't that stupid at eighteen. (I mean being ten pounds over weight, in love with a total fantasy from Utah and failing out of school may constitute stupid, but ten years later I can paint any picture I want.) These girls were like they've never seen boys or beer in a vending machine before. Okay, maybe beer in a vending machine is a little strange...Anyway, I felt like every where I looked was a reminder of how old I'm getting. My brain hurt from "morning drama and confessions" and my body hurt from the reenactment of world war three. 28...and contemplating a life of reading, walking and scrapbooking.