The wonder years

I know a lot of people would call me crazy for this, but I would totally relive high school. I remember my junior year wasn't my favorite, although I can't really remember why, but I had so much fun in high school. I had the coolest friends, I didn't have to worry about work or how I was going to pay bills, and my mom still did my laundry. Plus, homework in high school was much easier than it was in college.

I got my last two years of high school P.E. waived by filling out a form that said I needed time for classes that would better prepare me for my college education when the truth was I was just sick of playing basketball. And when I say "playing basketball," I mean running back and forth on the court, wondering how I would get rid of the ball if someone dared pass it to me.

I hated swimming in P.E. too, so in tenth grade, I had my mom write a note to get me out of the swimming unit. In the note, she kind of exaggerated the pain and fatigue swimming caused me, and my fat P.E. teacher told me I was just out of shape. Maybe so, but you didn't see her eagerly jumping in the pool to practice her survival skills, treading water for twenty minutes in her jeans, only to remove them and inflate them as a life preserver while struggling to keep her nose out of the water. Yes. I did that, and now I know that if I'm ever in the middle of an ocean with only my pants for a life preserver, I'm going to drown. I spent the rest of the swimming unit walking the perimeter of the southern-most baseball field with my fat friends whose mothers had written them notes.

That same year, I had a health teacher who told us that her 70-year-old parents still had sex. For some reason, that statement was burned into my teenage mind. We watched videos about STD's and Kurt Cobain's suicide. We wore those drunk goggles and tried to walk around the room--some people seemed to have more practice than others--and there was that stoned kid in the corner who slept through the bell as the rest of us were herded out the door for second period. There was boring Mr. Bowen, a string bean of a man who one day found a decorated sign on his portable's door that read "Mr. Bonads," and Mr. Hauk with his bleached hair and fake-n-baked red skin from his after-school tanning salon job, and the creative writing teacher who only wrote stories about squirrels and gave you an A as long as you turned something in. And if, by chance, one of my high school teachers ever happens to stumble across my blog, know that I loved you for your quirkiness.

Click here to read about the time I was kicked out of driver's ed.

After school, when I wasn't watching Boy Meets World or Saved by the Bell, Megan and I would hang out at her house and listen to Blink 182, Something Corporate, and The Starting Line while we did homework or projects and ate pepperoni and cheese on Wheat Thins. On weekends we would get everyone together and have "Mormon raves" in Alex's basement or play Balderdash and Suck and Blow at Mallorie's house. Sometimes, I would go over to Mallorie's, and we would talk to strangers on AIM, which my mother would have killed me for if she had known. Don't worry, Mom. We never gave out personal information.

There was the "Roll Out" music video (which somebody needs to find, by the way) where Kirsten and I pushed Alex around on a scooter and pulled Monopoly money from our turtlenecks. And then there was that snow day where we walked all over the neighborhood, making snow angels in random yards. We made snowmen with blue Mohawks at Melanie's house, and Jake threw a snowball at a car. The guys slammed on the brakes and left the car running in the street while they yelled in Derek's face, assuming him the culprit. Derek said nothing. Chelsea told them to watch their mouths.

And, oh, my gosh, all those years at girl's camp... Amazing.

Yeah. I would totally relive high school.

I don't know who that girl on the right is, but I'm sure she was cool.

Catch me when I fall

Having spent the last couple autumns in Rexburg, ID, I had almost forgotten how much I love the fall. You see, in Rexburg, fall seems to last a week at best, the town rapidly becoming a frozen wasteland by Halloween. The remains of winter snow were still present when I graduated last April.

Here in Washington, however, we have more time to enjoy the fall (between rainy spells, of course). I was reminded of my love for the season while enjoying a pleasant stroll around the neighborhood a couple days ago. I prefer walking through crunchy leaves, opposed to the damp ones the other day, but it was, nevertheless, quite lovely. I enjoyed my walk so much that I hardly cared that my mom locked me out of the house while it was raining.

I also love fall fashion with all its cozy sweaters, pea coats, hats, and gloves.

I love holidays, fires, cider, hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, and everything pumpkin.

What do you love about fall?

A guest for breakfast

For the past two months, I have eaten Rice Krispies almost every morning. I love pouring my rice milk over my cereal and listening to the little grains snap-crackle-and-popping to their hearts' content like miniature fireworks with a delightfully mild flavor. I may be on the road toward addiction.

This morning, I delighted in my cereal as usual, but when I had half emptied my bowl, I noticed a black Krispie floating among its paler friends. Thinking it was nothing but a burnt grain of rice, I scooped up the black speck, intending to dispose of it in the sink. Upon scooping, however, the normal Krispies shifted to expose scraggly little legs attached to the offending speck.

Legs! Rice Krispies do not have legs, burnt or not. I dropped my spoon back in the bowl and spit out a mouthful of half-chewed cereal like any self-respecting pampered American would.

"EW!" I cried.

My mother, shocked at the scene, asked what was wrong. When I told her a bug was in my cereal, her shock turned to insensitive laughter. She redeemed herself, however, by calling the number on the Rice Krispie box and conveying my plight to a Kellogg's representative.

The man who answered the phone was much more sensitive than my mother.

"Oh no! Is your daughter okay?"

Yes, Kellogg's man. It was a narrow escape, but I survived.

A delightful, yet all too short, weekend

Once upon a time, in the year of our Lord, two thousand three, I began my college career at Brigham Young University-Idaho. I went without knowing a soul, but by the end of my first day, new friendships were blossoming among my dear roommates and me.

I lived like a caveman in 2003. These pics were taken with 35mm film. My parents bought me my first digital camera for my 19th birthday in 2004, the same year I got my first cell phone (without texting).

Paige and I roomed together until 2006 when I went on a mission and she decided it would be cooler attend school in her hometown. I guess she just couldn't face Rexburg without me. 

Chelsea joined our apartment our second year, so when Paige came to Seattle for a visit this weekend, we had a joyous reunion. 

Unfortunately, we weren't able to enjoy much inner-city playtime, but Paige and I did pay our respects to the Fremont troll on the way to the airport.

And then we tearfully embraced and said goodbye to each other, not realizing until after Paige was in the security line and I was on my way to the parking garage that we forgot to check her bag.

Paige will be an old married woman in January. Man, I'm running out of single friends. But don't worry. I made sure Paige explained to her fiancé that I'm part of the family.

Vote for me

Happy Election Day!

You know how political campaign ads are not helpful at all? It's always, "This person will singlehandedly bring about the apocalypse, but vote for me because I like babies." If only it were that black and white. 

Anyway, Danielle and I made our own campaign ad. We're so silly. And attractive.

A couple days after we made this video, I heard a very similar commercial on the radio. It began with scary music and sinister voices describing a politician who worked to decrease teachers' salaries and increase the number of students per classroom. Then the music suddenly took on an ethereal quality as the first argument was made for the opposing politician: "So-and-so is a preschool teacher." 

Oh good. I'll vote for the one who knows her shapes and can count to ten.

Here's some bloopers: