When I was in high school, I told some of my friends I wanted to live in Utah when I married. I thought it would be a nice safe place for me to raise my kids. My friend Jody laughed the very next day when we were watching Channel One (the high school morning news program we watched in home room every morning) and the program revolved around the gang problem in Utah. I don't think I thought that ever again. Especially after my first semester at BYU. It was then I decided "I will never live in Utah."
Well, I didn't plan for it to turn out this way. Usually, if you say something aloud such as this (or that you will never marry a redhead), it happens to you. I married a guy from Texas, I'm from St. Louis, and we can't seem to get out of Salt Lake City. We didn't choose to live here. We just sort of ended up here. And it hasn't been horrible. In fact, I've grown to like it here--especially my neighborhood with its abundance of kids. And I honestly don't see many gang members.
But it was the Mormons that turned me off. Sure, I'm Mormon. But that doesn't mean I want all my neighbors to be. I like being different sometimes, but here, my religion makes me just like everybody else (for the most part). And there's something different about Mormons in other parts of the country. They seem to stick together more. But I really am very happy here in Herriman, Utah.
Until Wednesday, when Bianca came home from kindergarten and asked me straight out, "Mom, are people who don't go to church bad?" I couldn't believe it.
I asked, "Did somebody tell you that?"
"Yeah." Turns out, she had seen someone smoking a cigarette and a discussion with a friend turned into this statement. Maybe I should reconsider this LDS-based private school . . . well, I would, but for the fact that she's reading after one week in the "reading group" at her kindergarten.
I immediately told her that there are good and bad people who go to church, and there are good and bad people who don't go to church. Going to church or not doesn't make you good or bad. Neither does smoking or not. Do I want Bianca to smoke? No. But that doesn't mean that this person they saw smoking is bad.
I worry that this is the kind of thing she's going to hear over and over again if we stay here. That if this child doesn't go to our church, he or she is bad. Or that she shouldn't play with this child. That's the exact opposite of what I want her to learn and the opposite of what Christ himself would want you to do.
Guess what? I grew up in a part of the country where I was the one people didn't want their kids to play with because I was Mormon. I know how it feels, but I hope I would feel this way regardless.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Reflections (yet another Herriman Herald article)
When I was in kindergarten, my teacher Mrs. Smith sent notes home to my mother about how she just knew I was going to be a great artist one day. In fact, her exact words were: "I never had such an artist. You had better get ready to have a famous person in your family!" I loved drawing. I drew and drew and drew when I was a child.
Then something happened. I must have gotten carried away with life because I soon forgot how much I loved to draw and twenty years later, I found myself crying over lost opportunity as I scoured a box flooding over with my artwork and these notes attached. I had never even taken the offered art classes in middle or high school. I wish I had.
Because now when you hear about budget cuts in schools, it seems art programs are the first to go. Even though school administrators undoubtedly know the important role of the arts in a child's education. More specifically, that the arts boost your child's creativity and imagination and problem-solving skills and if you delve even further, his self-esteem.
The National PTA offers an annual art Reflections Program, which does not cost the local school district. This program is designed to encourage your child to produce artwork in the following areas: literature, musical composition, photography, and visual arts (including but not limited to drawing and painting). In Utah, the categories are extended to include an additional four: dance, theatre, 3D and film and video.
Each year, approximately 60,000 students in Utah enter artwork in the Reflections recognition program. It's an exciting program and may propel your child to realize talents that he may not have known existed otherwise. Or if you're well aware of a talent, it's a chance share it and be recognized for it.
This year's theme is "My Favorite Place." Artwork should be created around this theme, whether it be an abstract idea or exactly what it seems—your child's favorite place to be—whether that's his room, or his tree house, or on stage of a theatre performance. When I was a child, my favorite place was probably sitting on a barstool coloring as my mother baked chocolate-chip cookies.
Please encourage your child to submit works of art for the Reflections program. You won't regret it. If nothing else, it's something you can add to that box of promising artwork for your child to find when he's 25 and looks back on his childhood.
After much reflection this morning, I think I might sign up for a drawing class. It's never too late, right?
Then something happened. I must have gotten carried away with life because I soon forgot how much I loved to draw and twenty years later, I found myself crying over lost opportunity as I scoured a box flooding over with my artwork and these notes attached. I had never even taken the offered art classes in middle or high school. I wish I had.
Because now when you hear about budget cuts in schools, it seems art programs are the first to go. Even though school administrators undoubtedly know the important role of the arts in a child's education. More specifically, that the arts boost your child's creativity and imagination and problem-solving skills and if you delve even further, his self-esteem.
The National PTA offers an annual art Reflections Program, which does not cost the local school district. This program is designed to encourage your child to produce artwork in the following areas: literature, musical composition, photography, and visual arts (including but not limited to drawing and painting). In Utah, the categories are extended to include an additional four: dance, theatre, 3D and film and video.
Each year, approximately 60,000 students in Utah enter artwork in the Reflections recognition program. It's an exciting program and may propel your child to realize talents that he may not have known existed otherwise. Or if you're well aware of a talent, it's a chance share it and be recognized for it.
This year's theme is "My Favorite Place." Artwork should be created around this theme, whether it be an abstract idea or exactly what it seems—your child's favorite place to be—whether that's his room, or his tree house, or on stage of a theatre performance. When I was a child, my favorite place was probably sitting on a barstool coloring as my mother baked chocolate-chip cookies.
Please encourage your child to submit works of art for the Reflections program. You won't regret it. If nothing else, it's something you can add to that box of promising artwork for your child to find when he's 25 and looks back on his childhood.
After much reflection this morning, I think I might sign up for a drawing class. It's never too late, right?
Saturday, September 23, 2006
A Herriman Herald article that never printed
I've been begging the Herriman Herald to let me have a column. They didn't agree, but I wrote a column-like article. This is it.
My Autumn Woe
I love the onset of autumn. The crisp air, the leaves turning color and fumbling to the ground, wearing sweaters, and Halloween decorations. I fasten the doors just a little more quickly this time of year. Not because I'm worried about the cold seeping into my house; rather, I do it because I'm trying to seal out my long-time enemy, the mouse.
It's this time of year that the mice start planning ahead for the cold, hard winter ahead. First, they move into the hidden crevices behind the stagnant lawnmower or the bulk bottles of weed killer you set aside until next spring. Then they—I'll never understand how—find their way into your basements, your couches, your bathroom drawers, your pantries.
First, you detect some large specks of dirt that keep reappearing in the same place. Wait, that's bigger than just your ordinary dirt. Those are mouse droppings. You're on high alert. You start planning your revenge and can't stop until you've exterminated him.
Our visits from these not-so-cuddly guests seem to be an annual event at my house. We've tried everything in the book.
I started out more sympathetic to the little guys. As my husband says, "They're just trying to make it in the big world." I researched the most humane ways to force them out of my living space—soundwave plug-in devices that are designed to agitate the mice and warn them it's time to leave. I dropped close to $50 equipping each room in my house with these devices, to no avail.
Next, I tried the glue trap, which is baited with scent and supposed to hold the mouse within its gooey confines until you can release it out into the wild again.
But the most effective tool for ridding your house of these pesky little guys is the traditional wooden trap. You know, the one that's been around since your grandparents were young. The kind on which you put peanut butter, cheese, even chocolate to lure them toward it. Then whack, they never even know what hit them.
I suppose that's why after all these years, the mice never seem to wise up. The traps are so effective, they never get a chance to warn their friends. It's all over for them.
The worst part is opening up the pantry door to see a motionless brown lump with long pink tail hanging limp behind. As I said, I've been dealing with this problem for years. I remember when my daughter, who's five now, was nearly two when she opened the bathroom drawer and exclaimed, "Mouse is sleeping."
You can only hope it's not too messy. Although I find a morbid satisfaction with finally capturing him, I wish there could have been another way. A more humane way.
But let's face it. We just want them out of our space. So that you don't go crazy in the middle of the night when you hear a little scratching in your bathroom and you get up for hours until you've gone through each drawer, wiping them down, by which time the mouse is long gone in a safe and secluded spot leaving droppings in another room in your house.
This is an age-old problem. One we'll be dealing with until the end of time. Herriman is definitely no exception. As for me, I'm making sure I'm stocked up on the cheapest mouse trap around, the most inhumane of mouse traps, the traditional mousetrap.
My Autumn Woe
I love the onset of autumn. The crisp air, the leaves turning color and fumbling to the ground, wearing sweaters, and Halloween decorations. I fasten the doors just a little more quickly this time of year. Not because I'm worried about the cold seeping into my house; rather, I do it because I'm trying to seal out my long-time enemy, the mouse.
It's this time of year that the mice start planning ahead for the cold, hard winter ahead. First, they move into the hidden crevices behind the stagnant lawnmower or the bulk bottles of weed killer you set aside until next spring. Then they—I'll never understand how—find their way into your basements, your couches, your bathroom drawers, your pantries.
First, you detect some large specks of dirt that keep reappearing in the same place. Wait, that's bigger than just your ordinary dirt. Those are mouse droppings. You're on high alert. You start planning your revenge and can't stop until you've exterminated him.
Our visits from these not-so-cuddly guests seem to be an annual event at my house. We've tried everything in the book.
I started out more sympathetic to the little guys. As my husband says, "They're just trying to make it in the big world." I researched the most humane ways to force them out of my living space—soundwave plug-in devices that are designed to agitate the mice and warn them it's time to leave. I dropped close to $50 equipping each room in my house with these devices, to no avail.
Next, I tried the glue trap, which is baited with scent and supposed to hold the mouse within its gooey confines until you can release it out into the wild again.
But the most effective tool for ridding your house of these pesky little guys is the traditional wooden trap. You know, the one that's been around since your grandparents were young. The kind on which you put peanut butter, cheese, even chocolate to lure them toward it. Then whack, they never even know what hit them.
I suppose that's why after all these years, the mice never seem to wise up. The traps are so effective, they never get a chance to warn their friends. It's all over for them.
The worst part is opening up the pantry door to see a motionless brown lump with long pink tail hanging limp behind. As I said, I've been dealing with this problem for years. I remember when my daughter, who's five now, was nearly two when she opened the bathroom drawer and exclaimed, "Mouse is sleeping."
You can only hope it's not too messy. Although I find a morbid satisfaction with finally capturing him, I wish there could have been another way. A more humane way.
But let's face it. We just want them out of our space. So that you don't go crazy in the middle of the night when you hear a little scratching in your bathroom and you get up for hours until you've gone through each drawer, wiping them down, by which time the mouse is long gone in a safe and secluded spot leaving droppings in another room in your house.
This is an age-old problem. One we'll be dealing with until the end of time. Herriman is definitely no exception. As for me, I'm making sure I'm stocked up on the cheapest mouse trap around, the most inhumane of mouse traps, the traditional mousetrap.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
How involved in your child's life is too involved?
When I was in high school, my sister and her best friend had this huge fight and falling out. I guess other girls in the school got involved because several weeks later, this girl withdrew from school and her parents put her in the local catholic high school. I scoffed that I could't believe her parents wouldn't let her fight her own battles and would let her just run away from her problems.
Yesterday, I sat outside talking to a neighbor as I witnessed peripherally two neighbor kids gang up on Bianca and tease her until she went inside. I didn't want to intervene. (I know I'm accustomed to doing that because she's an only child and I feel this urgent need to protect her.) I kept talking and kept an eye on the situation. Bianca came out and rode her bike by herself. A couple minutes later, the girls were sitting on my front lawn and I heard one of them say, "Bianca's the stupidest friend I have."
I can't remember exactly what I said, but it was something to the effect that she wasn't acting like a very nice friend.
As I sat reeling over this situation last night, I was tempted to never let her play with this friend again. I resolved that if she calls, I will say "Until you can prove you're a kind friend, Bianca can't play with you." I want to keep Bianca inside where the world is kind and arrange playdates with kids I know are kind to her.
My question (especially to all you veteran moms out there) is: Am I being overbearing? Should I let her figure this out herself? My guess is if this friend called and asked her to play and I said no, Bianca would be mad at me. Kids are forgiving. I'm not nearly as forgiving as Bianca.
I know I have a lot of learning to do as a mother, but I wish I knew when can I protect her and when should I just back off and let her figure it out for herself.
Yesterday, I sat outside talking to a neighbor as I witnessed peripherally two neighbor kids gang up on Bianca and tease her until she went inside. I didn't want to intervene. (I know I'm accustomed to doing that because she's an only child and I feel this urgent need to protect her.) I kept talking and kept an eye on the situation. Bianca came out and rode her bike by herself. A couple minutes later, the girls were sitting on my front lawn and I heard one of them say, "Bianca's the stupidest friend I have."
I can't remember exactly what I said, but it was something to the effect that she wasn't acting like a very nice friend.
As I sat reeling over this situation last night, I was tempted to never let her play with this friend again. I resolved that if she calls, I will say "Until you can prove you're a kind friend, Bianca can't play with you." I want to keep Bianca inside where the world is kind and arrange playdates with kids I know are kind to her.
My question (especially to all you veteran moms out there) is: Am I being overbearing? Should I let her figure this out herself? My guess is if this friend called and asked her to play and I said no, Bianca would be mad at me. Kids are forgiving. I'm not nearly as forgiving as Bianca.
I know I have a lot of learning to do as a mother, but I wish I knew when can I protect her and when should I just back off and let her figure it out for herself.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
It's official
Something's been wrong lately. Nothing I eat tastes good. And I have to eat a lot. And I'm incredibly tired and crabby. Just ask my poor friends who see me often. Just ask Bianca.
I suspected right before Eric left for India, but he wanted me to wait to find out. I told Bianca what I suspected. And she announced to her entire kindergarten class on the first week of school that we were having a baby. I almost waited until Eric got back, then did it the night before and had the positive test waiting for him.
We're all excited. I am, as much as possible, while I'm not on the verge of vomitting and eating stale saltines in bed.
Bianca said she wants a brother. She already has a sister. I think I'd like to have another girl. Deep down, I know I shouldn't think this, but I feel like why couldn't God just give me Miranda back? Wouldn't that work? I could start all over, do everything just right--why is that so wrong to think? But I know it is.
Because I know I'm supposed to love this child for the individual that he or she is. That this child is not replacing Miranda. And I'm sure I will, when I see her. (For the sake of clarity, I'll just be referring to the baby as a girl, as there is an 80 percent chance that after two girls, your next will also be a girl.)
It's ironic though. The due date is going to be very close to Miranda's birthday. I'll be pregnant during the same seasons. So, as my friend Brenda would say, they'll be the same sign, which is important. Maybe this child will be laid back and low key as Miranda was. I'm crossing my fingers that this child will get those amazing green eyes and olive skin tone.
I suspected right before Eric left for India, but he wanted me to wait to find out. I told Bianca what I suspected. And she announced to her entire kindergarten class on the first week of school that we were having a baby. I almost waited until Eric got back, then did it the night before and had the positive test waiting for him.
We're all excited. I am, as much as possible, while I'm not on the verge of vomitting and eating stale saltines in bed.
Bianca said she wants a brother. She already has a sister. I think I'd like to have another girl. Deep down, I know I shouldn't think this, but I feel like why couldn't God just give me Miranda back? Wouldn't that work? I could start all over, do everything just right--why is that so wrong to think? But I know it is.
Because I know I'm supposed to love this child for the individual that he or she is. That this child is not replacing Miranda. And I'm sure I will, when I see her. (For the sake of clarity, I'll just be referring to the baby as a girl, as there is an 80 percent chance that after two girls, your next will also be a girl.)
It's ironic though. The due date is going to be very close to Miranda's birthday. I'll be pregnant during the same seasons. So, as my friend Brenda would say, they'll be the same sign, which is important. Maybe this child will be laid back and low key as Miranda was. I'm crossing my fingers that this child will get those amazing green eyes and olive skin tone.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Someone should have written "What to expect. . .
. . . when your daughter grows hair." The other day, one of the neighbor girls told me that I should fix Bianca's hair every day. Look, you can put it in ponytails, braids, buns, all sorts of things. "Thanks," I smirked. "I didn't know that."
I never understood how moms got their kid's hair perfect. You know which kids I'm talking about--the kids whose hair in the evening is just as pristine as it was first thing in the morning. The parts are perfect. Not a hair out of place, all gelled up.
I've struggled with this since Bianca grew hair--she was bald for the first year and a half. As soon as I would fix her hair (even with gel and hairspray sometimes), she would take a blanket and play ghost and end up with her hair worse than it began when she crawled out of bed in the morning. Depending on how much energy I had, I'd try to redo it or just throw my hands into the air and give up.
This morning, I decided to try to put Bianca's hair in two ponytails. I got my brush, the clips, and started the part. "What are you doing, mom?" she asked as she gripped onto her hair.
"I'm fixing your hair for kindergarten."
"I don't want ponytails."
"Why?"
"I don't want to look like a baby."
I did it anyway, and she promptly pulled them out. I warned her, you will not play with your friends outside today if you don't leave your hair in. There was wailing, and screaming, and a lot of tears. Finally, I gave up and continued doing the breakfast dishes. She inched a little closer. "Okay, you can do it."
I had to slap the ponytails up very haphazardly as she was already several minutes late to leave for school. As I waved goodbye to her this morning, I wondered whether I should have just let her be that child that looks like she never gets a brush run through her hair. Maybe that would be better than both of us being frustrated every day.
I never understood how moms got their kid's hair perfect. You know which kids I'm talking about--the kids whose hair in the evening is just as pristine as it was first thing in the morning. The parts are perfect. Not a hair out of place, all gelled up.
I've struggled with this since Bianca grew hair--she was bald for the first year and a half. As soon as I would fix her hair (even with gel and hairspray sometimes), she would take a blanket and play ghost and end up with her hair worse than it began when she crawled out of bed in the morning. Depending on how much energy I had, I'd try to redo it or just throw my hands into the air and give up.
This morning, I decided to try to put Bianca's hair in two ponytails. I got my brush, the clips, and started the part. "What are you doing, mom?" she asked as she gripped onto her hair.
"I'm fixing your hair for kindergarten."
"I don't want ponytails."
"Why?"
"I don't want to look like a baby."
I did it anyway, and she promptly pulled them out. I warned her, you will not play with your friends outside today if you don't leave your hair in. There was wailing, and screaming, and a lot of tears. Finally, I gave up and continued doing the breakfast dishes. She inched a little closer. "Okay, you can do it."
I had to slap the ponytails up very haphazardly as she was already several minutes late to leave for school. As I waved goodbye to her this morning, I wondered whether I should have just let her be that child that looks like she never gets a brush run through her hair. Maybe that would be better than both of us being frustrated every day.
Friday, September 8, 2006
Feels like an Indian Christmas to me
I don't know if they celebrate Christmas in India. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Muslims and Hindus don't; after all, it is the Christians who celebrate Christmas. What I do know is that yesterday (the day my husband Eric returned home from his two-week stint in India) felt like Christmas to me.
It's hard to have him gone. I'm an independent woman, but I admit I get a little paranoid in the middle of the night when I hear noises and I'm in bed alone. Bianca and I eat a lot of mac and cheese and party pizzas; I don't actually cook. But I also don't get relieved from mom duties either--no girl's nights without having to hire a sitter when he's gone. It is hard on me, but it's all worth it when he comes home. Because when he gets here, his bags are bursting with presents.
Eric goes to the Indian markets where he can buy things for a tenth of what you would pay in the U.S. Beautiful beaded and embroidered skirts, beaded curtains, intricate gold-threaded pillows, marble coasters, amazing rugs, and some of the cutest kids clothes you've ever seen. And it's all so cheap. Bianca asked for Indian shoes, some clothes, and some sequined pens. And she got them. I got way more than I expected.
He swooped in late yesterday afternoon, handed out his presents, then had to rush off to go to his fantasy football draft. A lot like Santa, I thought. He comes, barely makes an appearance, and then he's off again. It wouldn't have surprised me had he driven off in a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer.
But to tell the truth, I would have been fine even if he hadn't had time to go to the Indian market and shower us with presents. But it does make his return even more exciting. Dare I say a little like it would feel to actually spend Christmas in India?
It's hard to have him gone. I'm an independent woman, but I admit I get a little paranoid in the middle of the night when I hear noises and I'm in bed alone. Bianca and I eat a lot of mac and cheese and party pizzas; I don't actually cook. But I also don't get relieved from mom duties either--no girl's nights without having to hire a sitter when he's gone. It is hard on me, but it's all worth it when he comes home. Because when he gets here, his bags are bursting with presents.
Eric goes to the Indian markets where he can buy things for a tenth of what you would pay in the U.S. Beautiful beaded and embroidered skirts, beaded curtains, intricate gold-threaded pillows, marble coasters, amazing rugs, and some of the cutest kids clothes you've ever seen. And it's all so cheap. Bianca asked for Indian shoes, some clothes, and some sequined pens. And she got them. I got way more than I expected.
He swooped in late yesterday afternoon, handed out his presents, then had to rush off to go to his fantasy football draft. A lot like Santa, I thought. He comes, barely makes an appearance, and then he's off again. It wouldn't have surprised me had he driven off in a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer.
But to tell the truth, I would have been fine even if he hadn't had time to go to the Indian market and shower us with presents. But it does make his return even more exciting. Dare I say a little like it would feel to actually spend Christmas in India?
Tuesday, September 5, 2006
First Day of School
Today was Bianca's first day of school. She was so excited. We put on her uniform, packed the final things in her way-too-big-for-her backpack, and drove her there. It's about a 20 minute drive. I brought her in, with a camera in tow, and got her settled in her classroom. I didn't feel that stupid--other moms were clicking pictures along the way. But I never seriously thought I'd be that mom. What can I say? This is a huge day for Bianca.
I had to stick around, as they had a flag ceremony at 9. All the parents were invited to stay. I was required to stay, as I had volunteered to be the yearbook editor (as part of my 20 service hours to the school) and had to snap pictures. I should have volunteered for something much less time-consuming. I'll learn. Remember, I'm a rookie at this whole PTA mom thing. (For the record: I did go to one PTA meeting and realized that it's definitely not me and that I'd never been less interested in anything more in my entire life. No more of those for me either.)
At the end of the flag ceremony, a couple police cars with lights blaring were parked to the edge of the street right next to the school. The entire street was blocked off. The kids were ushered inside. I left. I didn't think much of it until tonight when I heard from a friend on the street whose child is in Bianca's kindergarten class that it was a drug bust. And the school had a complete lock-up. One of the guys in the house had a gun. "Oh yeah," Bianca told me after my friend did, "the door to our classroom was locked today." Thanks for telling me now, Bianca.
It's funny. I felt like I was so ahead of things, giving her a head-start at her eduction, at a school that teaches a foreign language and has all these advanced programs. Where she wears her little MacDonald-plaid skort and knee socks. Now I feel like I'm sending my child off to a bad part of town. Too late now, tuition's paid. At least they busted them, it should be drug-free now, right?
Besides that event, Bianca's first day went fine. She loves her teacher, and most of the kids in the class were nice, and she excited about going back again tomorrow. With this new information, it's hard for me to be quite as excited.
I am having one major regret: I should have taken a couple pictures of the drug bust for the yearbook. I can see the caption already: New School Year Starts Off With a Bang.
I had to stick around, as they had a flag ceremony at 9. All the parents were invited to stay. I was required to stay, as I had volunteered to be the yearbook editor (as part of my 20 service hours to the school) and had to snap pictures. I should have volunteered for something much less time-consuming. I'll learn. Remember, I'm a rookie at this whole PTA mom thing. (For the record: I did go to one PTA meeting and realized that it's definitely not me and that I'd never been less interested in anything more in my entire life. No more of those for me either.)
At the end of the flag ceremony, a couple police cars with lights blaring were parked to the edge of the street right next to the school. The entire street was blocked off. The kids were ushered inside. I left. I didn't think much of it until tonight when I heard from a friend on the street whose child is in Bianca's kindergarten class that it was a drug bust. And the school had a complete lock-up. One of the guys in the house had a gun. "Oh yeah," Bianca told me after my friend did, "the door to our classroom was locked today." Thanks for telling me now, Bianca.
It's funny. I felt like I was so ahead of things, giving her a head-start at her eduction, at a school that teaches a foreign language and has all these advanced programs. Where she wears her little MacDonald-plaid skort and knee socks. Now I feel like I'm sending my child off to a bad part of town. Too late now, tuition's paid. At least they busted them, it should be drug-free now, right?
Besides that event, Bianca's first day went fine. She loves her teacher, and most of the kids in the class were nice, and she excited about going back again tomorrow. With this new information, it's hard for me to be quite as excited.
I am having one major regret: I should have taken a couple pictures of the drug bust for the yearbook. I can see the caption already: New School Year Starts Off With a Bang.
Friday, September 1, 2006
One Last-Minute Final Vacation
Ever since I got back from Oregon, I've been fixated on buying a house in Astoria. I've been wasting tons of time perusing the real estate web sites and I found two perfect vacation homes: one little blue bungalow or shack (old but in mostly original condition) and a yellow Victorian. I was set on it. I had talked to the realtor. I had my trip back to Oregon planned. Since my husband's in India, I had my dad fly into SLC from St. Louis to drive with me and check them out. Then a couple days before I was set to leave, both my houses sold. Just like that. Within 24 hours of each other. I was heartbroken.
My dad still arrived on Sunday. We decided instead to drive to my sister's house in L.A. and visit her. She's a little sad that she lives there because she has none of her family around (I feel her pain), so we thought we'd visit. Plus, I still hadn't seen her baby Anna who was born in June. So, dad, Bianca, Tigger (yes, we brought the damn dog), and I jumped in the car and started driving.
It reminded me of when my dad used to fly out after my semesters in college and drive back with me to St. Louis. We'd drive through the night. Back then, I'd drive until two or three in the morning, then I'd relinquish the reins so I could get a couple hours of sleep. Every time, without fail, I'd be startled awake and we'd be parked in some random rest area or strip mall and dad would be sleeping. I'd promptly grab another Coke and pull dad out of the driver's side and start driving for another hour or so, then it would happen all over again. That's just the way it was.
This time, it wasn't quite as bad. But it's funny how that rule (you know, two people must be awake at all times) is fully applicable until somebody gets tired--"you don't mind if I take a quick nap?" "No dad, go ahead. I'm wide awake."
I drove through Las Vegas with an entire sleeping car and watched the lights and the magic of the city unfold before me (while listening to "Big Band" hour on a local radio station--have I ever told you how I feel like an old soul?--I guess that'll be another blog down the line). It's beautiful until you drive through the heart of the city, where I was stalled in traffic at 10:30 p.m. (I guess that's the city-that-never-sleeps' rush hour, huh?) and it's not quite as beautiful when husky, bleach-blonde, scantily clad women are eyeing me from their stately bill boards along the freeway. Ahhh, every city has its good and its bad.
We got there around two in the morning, tripped to sleep on an air mattress, and woke the next morning. We had a good time. Bianca got to play in the waves at the beach two days. We went to the park. We had a great little barbecue one night and roasted s'mores, and even set up the tent so the kids could "camp" in the yard (however, Bianca wouldn't stay in there without me, and I prefered the air mattress inside).
Jewel (who I used to love through college) was playing a free concert Wednesday night at The Grove (an outdoor shopping mall), so we braved the crowds and went. I ate a pretty mediocre pretzel dog and waited. When Jewel finally came on, I couldn't see her. People were crowding my personal space. People everywhere. If you get up, your chair is gone. Someone snatches it before you even notice it's gone. And I realized, that's it, that's why I could never live in California. There are so many great things about it--the beach, the weather, the palm trees, the breeze, but it's so wonderful that EVERYONE wants to enjoy it and the EVERYONE part is what brings it down. I couldn't live amongst the billions.
We left yesterday and were stuck in stop-and-go traffic in mid-day for hours. It's good to be home. I staggered in around 2:30 this morning, played my messages, and found several frantic messages from a neighbor who was wondering why my blinds weren't closed at night. I'd left in such a hurry on Sunday, I hadn't even told anyone I was leaving. One of the best things about living in Salt Lake City: my neighbors who are always watching out for me and who I've gotta tell next time I'm leaving on a last-minute vacation.
My dad still arrived on Sunday. We decided instead to drive to my sister's house in L.A. and visit her. She's a little sad that she lives there because she has none of her family around (I feel her pain), so we thought we'd visit. Plus, I still hadn't seen her baby Anna who was born in June. So, dad, Bianca, Tigger (yes, we brought the damn dog), and I jumped in the car and started driving.
It reminded me of when my dad used to fly out after my semesters in college and drive back with me to St. Louis. We'd drive through the night. Back then, I'd drive until two or three in the morning, then I'd relinquish the reins so I could get a couple hours of sleep. Every time, without fail, I'd be startled awake and we'd be parked in some random rest area or strip mall and dad would be sleeping. I'd promptly grab another Coke and pull dad out of the driver's side and start driving for another hour or so, then it would happen all over again. That's just the way it was.
This time, it wasn't quite as bad. But it's funny how that rule (you know, two people must be awake at all times) is fully applicable until somebody gets tired--"you don't mind if I take a quick nap?" "No dad, go ahead. I'm wide awake."
I drove through Las Vegas with an entire sleeping car and watched the lights and the magic of the city unfold before me (while listening to "Big Band" hour on a local radio station--have I ever told you how I feel like an old soul?--I guess that'll be another blog down the line). It's beautiful until you drive through the heart of the city, where I was stalled in traffic at 10:30 p.m. (I guess that's the city-that-never-sleeps' rush hour, huh?) and it's not quite as beautiful when husky, bleach-blonde, scantily clad women are eyeing me from their stately bill boards along the freeway. Ahhh, every city has its good and its bad.
We got there around two in the morning, tripped to sleep on an air mattress, and woke the next morning. We had a good time. Bianca got to play in the waves at the beach two days. We went to the park. We had a great little barbecue one night and roasted s'mores, and even set up the tent so the kids could "camp" in the yard (however, Bianca wouldn't stay in there without me, and I prefered the air mattress inside).
Jewel (who I used to love through college) was playing a free concert Wednesday night at The Grove (an outdoor shopping mall), so we braved the crowds and went. I ate a pretty mediocre pretzel dog and waited. When Jewel finally came on, I couldn't see her. People were crowding my personal space. People everywhere. If you get up, your chair is gone. Someone snatches it before you even notice it's gone. And I realized, that's it, that's why I could never live in California. There are so many great things about it--the beach, the weather, the palm trees, the breeze, but it's so wonderful that EVERYONE wants to enjoy it and the EVERYONE part is what brings it down. I couldn't live amongst the billions.
We left yesterday and were stuck in stop-and-go traffic in mid-day for hours. It's good to be home. I staggered in around 2:30 this morning, played my messages, and found several frantic messages from a neighbor who was wondering why my blinds weren't closed at night. I'd left in such a hurry on Sunday, I hadn't even told anyone I was leaving. One of the best things about living in Salt Lake City: my neighbors who are always watching out for me and who I've gotta tell next time I'm leaving on a last-minute vacation.
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