After completing my first marathon in January 2008, I decided to keep this running thing going. Having a goal in sight usually made training breeze, and I guess the extra muscle tone that came along with it wasn’t so bad either.
Apparently still on my ‘runner’s high’ that March, I registered for the Disneyland half-marathon, scheduled for Labor Day weekend. I remembered how great I felt crossing the ‘half-way there’ mile marker (13.1 for those of you non-runners) and thought if I could do 26.2, 13.1 would be cake.
The goal was to start training in April, but I didn’t really buckle down and get serious until late June. Still, I wasn’t getting in the long runs I should have been, and by late July had still not broken 7 miles.
Nonetheless, I continued my trainings and eventually did make it past 7. I made it to 8.
Whoops.
But even though the 5 mile gap between 8 and 13 sounded big, I wasn’t too worried about it. I knew I was in good enough shape that if I kept my pace, I could pull the rest out with no problems. Besides, 8 miles is about where I reach the point where I can’t feel anything anyway.
My family, being the dedicated fans they are, flew out from the east coast. Yes, it was not just a running affair, it was a family affair.
With a crowd like this, you would think the pressure was starting to get to me—but I kept my cool and enjoyed spending a few leisurely days doing the Disney thing before race day.
The night before, I laid out all my gear and hit the sack early for a good night’s sleep. When 4:45 a.m. rolled around, I was up and ready to do all my race-day rituals: eat at a packet of strawberry oatmeal, make at least 3 trips to the bathroom and lube up with body glide (the stuff that prevents everything from chaffing to spontaneous combustion).
I said my goodbyes and took for the start-line along with thousands of other runners and walkers. The first part of the course led us through both parks—Disneyland first and then California Adventure, passing through Sleeping Beauty’s castle just as the sun was rising.
But it wasn’t all so magical.
The runners that flooded the course made the park more crowded than Miley Cyrus’ birthday party. It was almost as bad as the normal Disney traffic that usually includes strollers plowing you over ruthlessly like bulldozers. Not to mention it was impossible to keep a pace with these jokers stopping to take pictures with the characters that were swarming the course. You would have thought Mickey was a real giant mouse or something.
And with Snow White yelling “raise your hands if you are having fun” in her high-pitched Disney voice from the top of Mark Twain’s riverboat, I seriously contemplated heaving myself into the water between Tom Sawyer Island and Adventure Land.
Too bad Grumpy wasn’t on the course. I’m sure he would have felt my pain.
By the time we got through the second park, things had spread out. I was on pace, and it was a perfect day for a race—cloudy and cool. I saw my parents at mile 3 and after a quick high-five and posing for a picture for mom, was on my way.
I didn’t see them again until mile 10, where I was feeling better than ever. But then, something terrible happened.
The sun came out.
I guess I shouldn’t blame it all on the sun, but it is an easier scapegoat than admitting I hadn’t trained enough, so let’s just stick with that. I slowed down my pace significantly and in the rays of the hot summer sun, began to second guess why I ever decided to run this race in the first place.
I cursed my shoes, my sports bra, my SI joint and what seemed like millions of 65-year-olds who kept passing me.
I was done.
But just when I thought I was completely drained, I had an epiphany. Sure, it was probably just the heat, but it sure seemed like one. It was do or die—give in, or have the mental toughness to push forward and finish in a time I knew I was capable of.
Well obviously I picked the latter. Did you really think I would quit?!
I thought of my family and the miles they had all traveled to see me run this race. I thought of my 3-year-old nephew who in one of my trainings saw me walking and quickly informed that I was “supposed to be running”. But most of all, I thought my dad yelling over and over again, as he always does when I see him on the race course, “You’re good enough! You’re good enough! You’re good enough!”
And then, I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t stop. I didn’t think. I just ran.
I know I crossed the finish line, but to be honest, I have no recollection of actually doing it. Peeling off the course to recover, my hands hit my knees and I swung my head towards the ground.
Shortly after, I was greeted by a race volunteer. Feeling a little out of it, I asked her to escort me to a grassy spot a few yards away under the shade of a tree to recover. The next thing I knew, I was in a wheel chair.
Borderline delirious, I gave it my best shot to stand up and prove I could walk. No such luck. I covered my race number and prayed to God that my parents or worse, the race photographer, weren’t watching this all go down.
I was wheeled into the medical tent where I was surrounded by more IV fluids, bananas and Powerade than I had ever seen in the same room. Finally, I stopped fighting it and embraced the air conditioned tent and bed-side service.
I figured that if my family would have witnessed this disaster, my mother would have already forced her way into the medical tent by now. Thankfully, I was right.
After proving I could walk in a straight line and drinking two giant bottles of water and three bananas, I was allowed to exit.
It was hard to leave though. Sure, the AC was nice a plus, but the hardest part was leaving all the other injured runners behind. There were runners who had all kinds of injuries—some big, some small, but each and every one of them had sucked it up and battled through for who knows how long. I overheard a lady say she felt a tendon in her knee snap at mile 6. But she, along with everyone else, had finished.
I left that tent feeling like a real runner. That is until I remembered what landed me in the medical tent in the first place and my zero recollection of what I’m sure was a dramatic finish.
I gathered what was left of my pride and headed to the family reunion area to meet up with my family—and with the exception of my brother, didn’t mention the incident to anyone.
A few days later I received an email notifying me that there were pictures available online from the race. I clicked to view them, and found close to 10 pictures of me high-fiving everyone from Donald Duck and Pluto to Mickey and Minnie Mouse upon crossing the finish line—something I have absolutely zero memory of.
Thanks for the memories, Walt!
This one’s for you, Mickey Mouse Friday, May 22, 2009
The Great Flood, Volume III Thursday, May 7, 2009
One evening, at a causal BBQ with some family and friends (not the kind of BBQ where you would usually meet someone you were interested in), I saw what looked like a mirage peeking over the fruit salad.
His name was Jay (not really, but you know the drill) and I couldn’t tell if he was extremely attractive or if I just hadn’t come across any decent looking men the past few months. There was a drought going on, you know.
We ran into each other a few times after that, and as I soon found out from a few inside sources, he was interested too. So, I’m sure you all know what happened next—oh yes, that’s right, I Facebook friend-ed him.
That’s the first step in every relationship now-a-days, right?
After exchanging a few flirty messages and a handful of witty wall-posts, the number exchange occurred.
A few days later, I received The Call. You know, the first call—the one that is a little bit awkward—in a good, new way that is—that includes talking over each other and what my friends like to call my use of “the phone voice” (a sweet, accommodating tone that only seems to make an appearance on professional phone calls, ones that occur after 2 a.m. and in instances like this).
He asked me out for a drink and of course, I accepted. I have to say, I was a little relieved. I was beginning to think I was in a Facebook relationship.
In true guy fashion however, he kept an “out”, telling me he had planned to meet up with one of his friends from high school that was in town for the weekend after we went out. This would make it easy to make a quick get-away if things didn’t go so well. I went along with it, and in nice-girl fashion made him think I didn’t know his secret plan.
After a few drinks, I slyly asked him if he needed to leave to go meet up with is “friend”. He quickly assured me that he was fine and that they would just meet for breakfast in the morning. Yeah, that’s right, I speak “guy”.
Overall, what could have been an awkward first date was a good one. We hung out occasionally over the next few weeks and of course, kept it real on Facebook, too.
But then, one hot August afternoon before Jay was headed out for a family vacation, the truth came out. Instead of the usual short, flirty Facebook message, my inbox was inundated with a novel that went something like this:
“I have been meaning to talk to you about this for some time now, but have not gotten around to it…”
**Translation: I have been avoiding talking to you about this and now am in a position where I have to talk to you about this because otherwise you might find out on your own.
“I am really glad I met you and have enjoyed the time we have spent together the last few weeks…”
**Translation: I am about to say something uncomfortable, so I feel like I should give you a compliment first.
“I started casually dating a girl before I met you. It is a long distance thing, and I am not good with the long distance thing, so I am trying to figure out what to do…”
**Translation: I have a girlfriend but I like you and I don’t know what to do about it so I am going to make something up to make it sound like I am confused.
“I don’t want to go into details, but just know I think you are great and deserve someone great too…”
**Translation: I don’t want to talk about it because it is uncomfortable for me, but I am going to give you another compliment in an effort to look like a better guy.
CLASSIC.
I quickly responded, wishing him safe travels, and didn’t acknowledge much else about the essay I had received.
Not 24 hours after he had returned from his “family vacation”, the Facebook news feed (best invention ever) informed me that Jay had been tagged in a few pictures. I followed the link to his page and saw pictures of Jay and the girl he was “casually dating long distance” along with him on his family vacation. Shocker…after a Facebook message like that, who would expect anything less?
We hung out a few more times but ended up just being friends, which is what we should have aimed for in the first place. I mean, he did have a girlfriend!
Groupie Gone Wrong Monday, April 27, 2009
If you know me at all, you know my body not only cannot physically digest any sort of Asian food, it flat out rejects it on contact; which is precisely why when I was asked by a group of friends to go out for dinner at a popular Chinese restaurant, I was hesitant to accept. I mean, really…who wants to overpay for a meal that is just going to give you diarrhea anyway? Damn MSG.
But being the good sport that I am, I humored my colleagues and friends and graced them with my presence. After all, for some odd reason, I did have a gift card for the place.
When I arrived a few minutes late, I was escorted to a large table in the back of the restaurant that was only half full. I sat down wondering who all the extra seats were for. I was sure I didn’t have this many friends in this town.
We ordered drinks and as the waitress left our table, I noticed an influx of tall, attractive men in suits entering the restaurant by the dozens. It sounds crazy, but it was what I had always imagined Alaska would be like—full of big, tall men (only without the suits of course), drastically outnumbering the female population. I felt like I had died and gone to Heaven.
I did a long sweep of the restaurant, slowly sipping my martini, hoping for some eye contact. But as I was scanning the room, I began to wonder—to what did I owe this blessing of male invasion? Whatever it was, the ratio was on my side and I liked it. But as I started to spin my wheels, I began to put two and two together.
All I have to say is DAMN I was lucky. Who knew the NBA D-League Showcase this year would be here of all places? Ah, success. A long weekend filled with professional basketball players, coaches and scouts. And as a self-proclaimed, closet sports groupie (ahem…NOT the slutty kind), it didn’t get better than this. It was like a mini-final four in the middle of January…only better.
Just as I realized what was going on around me, a handful of guests began to fill our long, half-empty table.
And then I saw him.
He sat down next to me and after pretending I didn’t see him for a few long seconds, I was introduced by one of my friends.
His name was Jacob (well, not really, but you know the drill) and I later found out he was in town for the tournament for work. Upon introduction he politely engaged in conversation and by the end of dinner (or in my case, a few more cocktails), the nice to meet you’s had turned to flirty banter.
The next day, on my lunch break, my friend and I headed for the arena to catch part of the game that was taking place that afternoon. And shockingly enough, we ran into each other again.
It was no coincidence, I assure you—just fate, hard at work.
We chatted for awhile, and after asking me what we were doing later that night, casually offered his number.
A group of us met up later that night at a local dive bar. I pulled out my usual bag of tricks (you know, the mild southern accent, deep stares and conversational touching) and we continued to hit it off. Was there a make-out in my future? The way things were going, it definitely wasn’t out of the question.
After too many Jager bombs (one of the few downsides of hanging out with a giant crowd of guys) and a lot of karaoke, closing time rolled around and as everyone in the group tried their hardest to get their ducks in a row to exit the bar, the awkward “what now’s” began.
Being the anything-but-forward girl that I am, I decided to play it cool and just see what happened. I’m sure you can guess how that turned out.
Five minutes later, the bartender kicked us all out and my girlfriend and I were out on the street waiting for Jacob to hail us a cab.
He gave me a long hug and a kiss on the cheek and sent us on our merry little way. Seriously? I mean, it’s not like I was going to go home with him, but I thought there was at least a late-night food vendor in our future.
The next day, I couldn’t stop talking about Jacob, and how confused I was about how the night ended. My friend finally broke down and told me what had never once crossed my mind in the 24 hours I had known him:
He had a girlfriend.
And not just a girlfriend, I believe the quote was “practically engaged and living in sin”.
Well he sure didn’t act like he had a girlfriend. But then again, I guess they never do. I sure do pick the winners.
If only I had known about this “almost engaged” situation…the weekend could have ended a lot differently—possibly with the future title of “NBA Wife”. Good thing I don’t care about all that stuff…I mean…okay I already told you I was a groupie now let’s just get on with life.
The Great Flood, Volume II Monday, April 13, 2009
I know you are going to say I told you so, but let me try to explain myself first…
I usually tried to steer clear of the bars labeled “college hangouts”, but one night found myself there with a group of girlfriends because of their drink specials. Shocking, I know. In my defense, it hadn’t been that long since I had graduated college, and I was working for a non-profit at the time.
Upon arrival, we scouted out what you would call a prime table in a place like this—equidistant from the dance floor, bar and bathroom, and tried to blend in.
A few hours and our fair share of L.I.T’s later, the dancing, loud talking, and picture taking (all common among all intoxicated groups of girls) ensued. Yes, it seemed this was going to be one of those nights.
Sure we were being so obnoxious that no guy would be interested in approaching us out of sheer annoyance, I was shocked when a male approached our table. It took me a few minutes, but I soon realized he knew one of the girls we were with.
After making introductions around the table, he walked over to me, and without wasting any time, informed me that his friend, who was standing less than 5 feet away from our table, wanted to know if it was okay if he came over and talked to me.
I reluctantly agreed, but had my doubts at first—I mean, who has their friend come over and ask if it is okay to come talk to you? It was almost as bad as a guy asking if he could kiss you…seriously dude…just buck up and do it. I chalked it up to some kind of whacked out manners, and tried my best to take it as a compliment. Maybe there were a few southern gentlemen out west that weren’t cowboys after all.
After his friend gave him the okay to talk to me, the two of them came back to our table to join the group. He sat across from me, and for the next hour, we tried to scream over the loud rap music that echoed throughout the bar.
To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t remember much of what we talked about, mostly because I couldn’t hear a word he said. But I must have been doing a good job of acting interested, because he asked me for my number at the end of the night. I had no problem with it—after all, from what I remembered he was pretty cute.
A few days later he texted me. His delivery was solid—he asked if I wanted to have a conversation that didn’t involve screaming at each other. Sure, I still didn’t remember his name, but he was witty…and I liked that.
I agreed, and that Thursday after work I met him at a local restaurant downtown. I was fashionably late (of course) but when I wasn’t there at two minutes after we agreed to meet, I received a phone call from him frantically asking where I was. Looking back I consider this red flag #1.
As I approached the restaurant, I noticed what looked like a 17-year-old pacing anxiously outside the entrance. It wasn’t until after the double take that I realized this was my date for the evening. Definitely not how I remembered him…
Okay, so he looked like he was in high school and seemed to have serious separation anxiety…things could only go up from here, right? Or so I thought.
He greeted me with an awkward side hug and we walked into the restaurant. It was crowded, so we made our way to the bar. We sat down, and as soon as we did, I had the overwhelming urge to order a round of tequila, but I resisted. He ordered a beer (thank God) and I quickly placed my order behind him. Vodka tonic. Double.
It was awkwardly silent for a few seconds after placing our drink orders, so in an effort to save the day, I swooped in with the normal, politically correct first date questions. Our drinks arrived, and Jeremy (yes, I finally figured out his name) began to comment on the price of alcoholic beverages around the area. It seemed like a decent topic. I was always down for a good happy hour, and at least now I knew he was 21 (or had a good fake ID anyway).
But the conversation turned uncomfortable yet again when he announced he would rather drink at home alone instead of go out with his friends. Let’s just go ahead and call this red flag #2.
When it came time to order, I kept it casual and decided on a grilled cheese sandwich and the soup of the day—a creamy squash and pesto (this may seem like too much information right now, but trust me, it’s relevance will soon reveal itself). He ordered a sandwich and soup too, but decided on the minestrone.
Our food finally arrived and I tried to continue the conversation in between bites. I politely asked him how his food was and after expressing his satisfaction, he dove right into the topic of the caloric intake on each of our plates. Uh…yeah…red flag #3.
He informed me that when he went out to restaurants, he tried to stay away from “creamy soups” on the menu because he just couldn’t bear to think about the amount of calories they added to his meal. And it didn’t stop there—oh no—he then made his way to the fat content of the havarti dripping out of the side of my grilled cheese sandwich. At this rate, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he suggested I jog home.
The crazy part was, it wasn’t like this guy was a serious meat head who only consumed power bars and protein shakes, or freaking Lance Armstrong for that matter. Seriously…who was this guy and why was he dissecting my dinner?
When the bill came I as always, offered to split, but he quickly declined. After our dinner conversation, I was shocked he would pay for such a high-calorie, alcohol and company filled meal.
The sad part is I really think he thought the whole thing was going well until we left the restaurant. He was raring and ready for date destination number two, where to I will never know, but I quickly departed, without a half-hug or even a fist bump.
I have since stopped giving my number out after consumption of three or more alcoholic beverages. Well, most of the time anyway…
The ‘K’ Word Saturday, November 8, 2008
After battling through some lower back and hip pain over the summer as a result of running, I finally gave in and made a visit to my doctor to see what the deal was.
He informed me that I had something called SI Joint Dysfunction, and referred me to a physical therapist.
I quickly made an appointment and a few days later, found myself in the doctor’s office once again.
Never having been to a physical therapist, or even knowing what one was for that matter, I showed up in my usual business casual ensemble, which today conveniently included giant heels.
I was escorted into an exam room and waited for the physical therapist to see me. Having no idea what I was in for, I found myself thinking nervously of what was about to happen. And still in pain from the episode that brought me to the doctor in the first place, I paced around the room, desperately trying to find some relief.
A few minutes later I heard a knock at the door. Awkwardly trying to get back to my chair before the door opened, I darted across the room as quickly as I could. Making it safely, yet painfully back to my seat, I watched as the door slowly opened.
Damn it. He was cute.
He began asking me question after question, which as always, I gave entirely too much information for.
A few minutes into the questioning, he looked at what I was wearing and asked in the nicest way possible if this was what I normally wore every day—specifically, my giant heels. Probably not the best choice for a back ache, but I have never been one to compromise style for pain.
He brought me back a pair of men’s shorts to wear, as the pants I was wearing were, I have to admit, somewhat constricting. He left the room so I could change and as I got into the terribly unattractive shorts he had so kindly provided me with, I remembered something. I had not shaved my legs that morning.
I know what you’re thinking. Justine, you have blonde hair—it couldn’t be that bad. But let me tell you, it was. It wasn’t that I had just missed a day or two…oh no…it was more like a week or two. Okay, maybe not that long, but you get my drift.
Before I could compose a plan, I heard a knock at the door.
Uh oh. Here goes nothing.
He asked me to lay flat on the table and informed me that he was going to be doing some ‘poking and prodding’ to make sure that he had my diagnosis exactly right. I nodded my head and prayed none of them would involve touching my unshaven legs.
He went for my feet first, which was another problem on its own. I’m not saying my feet always smell, but let’s be honest—sometimes when you wear dress shoes all day without socks it can happen.
I clenched my teeth and prayed to God he wouldn’t notice either.
After navigating his way through the forest that was my hairy legs, he paused to ask a few more questions. The first two were easy, but the third one was a little different.
“Do you know what a Kegel is?” he asked.
“It’s when you pee, hold your pee and then pee again, right?” I confidently responded.
“Exactly,” he replied.
He placed his first two fingers on the inside of my right hip bone and instructed me to do a Kegel.
Confused at how I was going to accomplish this without peeing my pants, I asked for guidance. After informing me that it was possible to do a Kegel without urinating, my journey into Kegel town began.
I laid on the table and tried to find the muscle he was speaking of. But the more I thought about it, the funnier the whole situation became. There I was, lying on a table with a guy I barely knew holding my hip bone, trying to figure out how to move what I considered to be my vagina muscle.
Could this be any more awkward?
When I’m involved, apparently it can. Ten minutes had passed, and after a few failed attempts I knew the pressure was on. It wasn’t like I could just pretend I had done one successfully—trust me I tried—that was the whole point of his hand placement.
So, being the mature adult that I am, I began to giggle uncontrollably. He of course remained professional, but couldn’t help acknowledging my struggle with a subtle smile.
When I was through with my childish outburst, I knew it was time to buckle down and get serious. I could do this. It was all about focus.
A handful of attempts and roughly five minutes later, success was mine. I had found it!
The remainder of the appointment consisted of learning exercises to practice between then and my next appointment—all of which included Kegels, of course.
Now that I have a few sets under my belt (no pun intended), I am pretty good at this Kegeling thing—and believe it or not, it has helped my back pain significantly.
And apparently they offer some other bonuses, too…
Tears for Officer Lame Sunday, October 5, 2008
After a weekend getaway at the Bruneau Sand Dunes (aka the desert) in mid-July, I was more than eager to get back to the comfort of my air-conditioned home. Sure, the scorpion hunt and star gazing were fun and all, but the 10×10 cabin I shared with four other people was a bit of a tight, sweaty squeeze.
Upon arriving back in town, I picked up my car and began the drive back to my house for a much needed shower and a hopefully a long nap. But suddenly, my drive was interrupted by the sight of flashing blue lights in my rearview mirror.
I pulled into the nearest parking lot and waited in silence for the approach. I had only been pulled over once before, and this 2-3 minute period of waiting was by far the worst part of the ordeal—or so I thought.
The officer approached my window and as expected, asked me if I knew why he pulled me over. Semi-acknowledging my failure to slow down fast enough as the speed limit changed from 45mph to 35mph, I tried to play it cool and chose my words carefully.
The first time I was pulled over, I went through a yellow light a little later than I probably should have. However, when the officer asked me if I knew why he had pulled me over, I responded cleverly, “I probably shouldn’t have gone through that yellow light.” Tricky, tricky!
After listening intently to the officer’s ‘safety talk’ and promising to be more careful in the future, he sent me on my way. My choice of words (and maybe a guiltless smile and ‘southern’ accent) won me a friendly warning.
But this time, it was a whole different ballgame.
The officer, who A) looked like he was 12 and B) wasn’t much taller than me, didn’t seem to care much for my clever tactics. I aborted mission and began to search for a new strategy.
After informing me that he had not only stopped me for exceeding the speed limit, but also for following too closely and driving on expired tags, I was almost speechless.
Okay, let’s be real here. I was speeding, but there is no way I was following too closely. I am so not that girl.
And as for the expired tags—I know this might sound a little ignorant, but I don’t handle those things (please recall the title of my blog for further explanation). After trying my best to communicate this to the officer in the most mature way possible (which was a little difficult considering I am 23 years old), it wasn’t looking too promising.
He informed me that I had been pulled over during ‘aggressive driver’s week’ and returned to his squad car. Irritated by his condescending reaction to my explanations and offended he obviously classified me as an ‘aggressive’ driver, I let my emotions get the best of me and started to sob…uncontrollably.
It wasn’t that I was crying to get out of the ticket. By the time I started crying I pretty much already knew I was getting at least one. My tears were more out of fear, confusion and let’s be honest, frustration that nothing I said had been taken seriously.
The officer returned to my car and handed me three citations. One for speeding, one for driving with expired tags and one for following too closely—fines totaling almost $300.
I think now is as good of time as any to bring up the fact that I have had a clean driving record since the day I first sat behind the wheel of my trusty 1990 Ford Taurus at the ripe old age of 16. Hard to believe, yes, but true none the less.
If I thought I was sobbing uncontrollably before, I obviously didn’t know what sobbing uncontrollably meant. I was now crying so hard I couldn’t breathe. Literally. Though close to hyperventilating, I gathered myself enough to ask a few questions pertaining to the citations. At this point, I think he was starting to feel bad, but obviously not bad enough to give me a break.
Normal breathing finally returned, but didn’t remain for long. As I was reviewing my tickets, I became alarmed at a three-digit number included on each piece of paper. What was this three digit number you ask? My weight.
What I recognize as a blessing for one’s self-image, North Carolina driver’s licenses do not include an individual’s weight. But as I learned that day, Idaho licenses do. Psh, see if I ever change over.
The number the officer had ‘guessed’ my weight to be in the area provided on the ticket was a number I have never, and hope to never see on a scale (at least not before I have kids anyways). He was more than 10 pounds off. Seriously dude? You didn’t even see me standing up.
After crying for another 15 minutes, I finally gathered myself enough to safely drive home. It wasn’t pretty, but I made it.
I have since contested my citations in court, and settled with the prosecutor to pay a reduced speeding fine. As they should have been, the other two citations were dropped on the acknowledgement of my clean driving record and what I like to call strategic outfit selection (aka ‘court clothes’).
And as for the overzealous officer, I hope to God I never see him at a bar.
You’re going WHERE?! Saturday, September 20, 2008
On a spur of the moment road trip with my friend and a few of her extended family members, I made my way south of the border—the Idaho border that is. It was no spring break in Mexico, but I did incur some equally unique situations.
We piled in the car and started the journey to Wendover, Nevada (a short 5 hour trip from the Boise homestead) to see a concert we had scored tickets to. Who might you ask was playing? Oh, you know, just the Temptations.
Though my first thought was of utter shock at the fact that the Temptations were A) Still alive and B) Still performing, the more I thought about it, the more excited I became. I mean, we could be witnessing their last show ever!
Three and a half hours or so into the trip we stopped at what looked like a junk-yard-turned-general-store. Confused, yet intrigued, I entered with my fellow travelers. Wandering around the aisles filled with everything from tractor parts to gummy snakes, I stumbled upon the find of the summer, and maybe even of the year.
I found myself surrounded by boots and as expected, felt an instant rush of excitement. I know what you are thinking—“don’t do it, you’ll get stuck again,” but don’t worry, these were not the style of boots I am usually attracted to. These were genuine cowboy boots.
Fascinated by the styles, colors and let’s be honest, the idea of someone actually taking me seriously at a rodeo, I browsed around at my options.
After ruling out the pink pair and the bedazzled pair I had fallen for at first glance, I reached for something more practical. They were perfect (well, as perfect as I knew a cowboy boot to be anyway) and the brown, classic embroidered style made them easy to rationalize.
And to top it off, as I loudly (of course) and proudly pointed out to my friend, the style of the boot was called ‘Justin’ just one ‘e’ away from my name. Holy irony! This was meant to be.
But as the ultra-serious boot salesman quickly and sternly corrected me, ‘Justin’ was actually the name of the boot manufacturer, not the style. Minor detail, right?
Before we knew it we were there and only an hour away from show time. We made a quick stop at the bar for a glass of the house red, and thanks to Juan the bartender’s nice pour, never had to return.
The Temptations rocked the house and we were so pleased with the show, we rushed the stage for an encore. We didn’t exactly get one, but we were lucky enough to catch a drumstick. I’m still debating on whether or not to sell it on Ebay.
Post concert, I made my way to the blackjack table. I had my new boots on for good luck and was feeling so good about them I almost sat down at the $10 minimum table.
After a few bad hands, a dealer with no patience and a creepy guy with an Eastern European accent ‘accidentally’ touching my leg a few too many times, I decided it was time for a change.
I found a quiet table, waited for a deck change (apparently this is good gambling etiquette) and sat down. A few good hands went by and just when I thought I was making friends with the dealer, something terrible happened.
The game stopped and the dealer along with everyone else at the table was suddenly glaring at me. The dealer called over a giant man in a coat and tie (that didn’t fit him by the way) and whispered something in his ear. I looked down to see him pointing to the corner of a card that was bent at the edge.
Okay seriously, it’s not like I meant to bend it. I was just a little overzealous about the ‘hit’ motion. It happens to everyone, right?
After coming to the conclusion I was not trying to ‘mark cards’ the big guy (whose real name I truly thought was ‘Pit Boss’ until we were 2 ½ hours into our car ride home) finally left the table.
A few hands later, just when I thought I was getting over my card bending drama, out of nowhere a guy one seat down from me nonchalantly asked, “So, how did you break your nose?”
Is this guy for real? I hoped to God that wasn’t his pick-up line.
Shocked for a moment by his downright rudeness, I was speechless. But don’t worry, it didn’t last for long.
I put on my sassy pants and promptly informed him that I had never broken my nose.
Acting like what he had just blurted out was no big deal, I of course felt the need to share with him the impoliteness of his behavior. Unfortunately, the poor guy could not understand why what he said was so offensive. After more than a few words and me almost being dismissed from the table, I think he got the picture.
Just as I was re-gaining my focus, the cocktail waitress approached our table. She offered everyone at the table a drink and all welcomed the proposal with the exception of the guy to my left who was drinking a giant Slurpee.
I turned to him and jokingly said, “Geeze, maybe I should try Slurpees instead of beer when I gamble—I might come away with more chips!”
The man looked at me, turned up his nose and in the most serious voice I have ever heard said “I don’t drink—I’m LDS.”
Seriously dude? Are you really going to judge me for drinking a beer when you are sitting at the same blackjack table as I am? A sin is a sin brother.
Since what I would have said in response would definitely have warranted exiting the table, I decided to say nothing and focus on my chips instead—believe it or not, I was ahead.
But after some bad luck and a dealer change, I decided it was time to cash out for the night.
As my friend and I were on our way to the room, we made a quick stop at the casino bathroom. On our way in, I saw who I thought was my dealer from earlier in the evening and proceeded to yell his name and wave obnoxiously to get his attention.
“Mario! Mario!” I yelled to him, waiting for him to recognize me from earlier.
I stood in sheer embarrassment as who I thought was Mario, my beloved dealer, looked right at me and said “I’m not Mario,” and continued walking.
Bummer.
In my defense, all the dealers A) had on the same black pants, white shirt and blue vest B) were for the most part of Hispanic decent and C) it was 2:30 a.m. An honest mistake, right?
The next morning before departing the wonderful town of Wendover, I once again returned to the blackjack table. Strangely enough, I ended up winning back all the cash I had lost the night before, but in the process learned a very valuable lesson.
Apparently aces can be worth 11(high) or 1 (low), which I had gone my entire gambling career (of one whole year) without knowing.
I threw the dealer a chip for sharing his wisdom and left feeling like I had just won a million bucks.
Cowboys do Exist Tuesday, August 26, 2008
After moving out west last summer, I was introduced to a new concept—RODEO.
The first thing that crossed my mind, as it always does, was what the world I was going to wear. Despite my well thought out efforts, I stuck out like a sore thumb— but it wasn’t because of what I was wearing. Apparently there is a certain amount of hairspray that goes into getting ready for a rodeo. At one point I thought the lady next to me was going to catch on fire when she lit her cigarette.
Close to 3,000 people filled the grandstands and the night began. After recognizing all the veterans and current service men and women in the crowd and a brief cry session by emotional basket case yours truly, the announcer asked if there were any first-time rodeo goers present. Excited, I stood up smiling and waved, of course catching the attention of everyone around me.
I could feel dirty looks glaring at me from all angles. No one believed me—not even the announcer. I quietly sat back down.
The first event of the night was called bare back riding. From the looks of it, the object was to hold on to a bucking horse as long as possible. The name didn’t make much sense to me though because there was definitely something in between the cowboy and the horse. Despite the confusing name, the event was still quite entertaining.
The next event was called calf roping. Thankfully, the name of this event made a little more sense. In calf roping, a cowboy (or cowgirl—not that I saw any, but let’s be politically correct here) chases a calf on horseback, lassoing it with his rope. He then proceeds to jump off his horse, tackle the calf, and tie three of its legs together.
Everyone around me swore to me it didn’t hurt the little guy, but I couldn’t get over the look in his eyes laying in the middle of a dirt pen surrounded by thousands of people with three legs tied together. In the calf’s honor, I staged a protest at the beer tent the next go around.
During my protest I heard a few people talking about something called mutton busting. Intrigued, I listened in. From what I gathered, mutton busting is nothing more than a bunch of kids riding around on sheep until they fell off. Rumor has it, it gets pretty wild—but don’t worry, they wear helmets.
On my way back to my seat, I received more than my fair share of eye bullets (aka dirty looks) from the lovely ladies in attendance. Perplexed as to why, I consulted a veteran rodeo goer who had been showing me the ropes. “They can smell the city girl in you,” she said with a smile. How did they know?!
As the events came to an end, we made our way to the beer garden for the post- rodeo dance. Before long, I found myself dancing with a cowboy who was spinning me around so fast I almost wound up on the floor. In between dances I asked him what he did for a living, and his response still rings in my ears to this day: “I ride bulls, ma’am.”
Cowboys really do exist. Who knew?
Camping 101 Wednesday, July 30, 2008
In all my 23 years of life, ‘camping’ has never been a word in my vocabulary. And I never really understood why people were so into it—I mean, I liked being outdoors as much as the next person, but there is a big difference between being outside and sleeping outside.
But something in the great outdoors was calling me and for some reason I just couldn’t let this pass me by. Okay, let’s be honest—I just didn’t have anything better to do.
I wasn’t quite sure why, but I was overly excited about the weekend in front of me. New adventures, the great outdoors and good friends—what could be better?
I made a trip to Wal-mart for all the necessities and after consulting with a few veteran campers, packed my bags.
But when I woke up the next morning, panic set in. What was I thinking? I couldn’t go camping! There were so many things I hadn’t thought of until now and were taking over my mind. Who was I kidding?—this was a bad idea.
If you know me at all, you know I am more than a little bit girly. Sure, I don’t mind getting dirty, but I do recognize the value of running water and a flushing toilet. I thought back to my family and friends’ reactions the day before when I had announced to the world that yes, this girl was going camping. Their stunned responses ran circles through my mind.
“You?! Camping?! I never thought I would hear those two things in the same sentence!” and, “You know there are bugs out there, right?” were among the two that stuck out the most.
But there were some who had faith in my ability to survive in the wild. And, according to some professional campers, I wasn’t really camping since we were going to be sleeping in an RV.
After a quick pep talk and watching two coolers full of alcoholic beverages being loaded into the RV, I was back on track and ready to hit the road.
The RV we were borrowing (not hijacking as some may claim) for our trip actually belonged to the organization I worked for. But it wasn’t your typical RV—not only was it bright blue and 30 feet long, it was covered with giant pictures, making it stick out like a sore thumb. Needless to say the ride up was marked by honking horns, head turning stares and the occasional dirty look.
I was quite fond of the camp site we had selected partly because it was right on the lake, but mostly because I saw a brick building 50 yards away with what looked like bathrooms.
I couldn’t wait to get out and explore, but as it tends to, nature called and I headed towards the brick building in the distance to what I thought held the gift of the weekend—flushing toilets and running water.
I sat down and suddenly realized I had made a big mistake. I felt a cool breeze (not the kind that feels good, I might add) shoot a draft between my legs. What the hell was that?! I jumped up and looked down to make sure no one was down there blowing up my skirt.
I was later informed that I was using something called a latrine. If you aren’t familiar with a latrine, it’s esentially a hole in the ground with a raised seat. People may try to trick you into thinking it is a real bathroom, but don’t be fooled—it is nothing more than a stationary port-a-john with frequent wind gusts.
I spent the rest of the weekend peeing in the bushes as much as possible, which I was surprisingly okay with. In fact, I thought it was pretty cool.
The weekend primarily consisted of eating, drinking and fishing, which I was perfectly fine with. We lounged around, took in all the amenities of Mother Nature, and for the first time in a long time I had this strange but comforting sense of tranquility—it must have been something in the air.
It didn’t bother me that I hadn’t showered in two days (apparently swimming counts as showering when you are camping) and I didn’t even realize I was covered in dirt. It was awesome.
We cooked over the fire, gazed at the stars and I even watched a fish being gutted and still ate him (we named him Pete if you were wondering). And even though I got a million bug bites and thought I had West Nile for a week, it was the best weekend I have had in a long time.
My friends, who also experienced my first camping trip, had their doubts about me at first but by the end of the weekend I was told I was “the right guy away from a six-day backpacking trip through Yellowstone.”
I’m not so sure I would go that far, but I am not ruling it out quite yet. I do think my camping trips will progress in phases, however. Phase one (which I have already conquered) consisted of RV or cabin camping; phase two, tent camping; and phase three, sleeping outside with no amenities beyond what you found in the great outdoors.
I have to say, I definitely surprised myself. Who knows—maybe I’m more outdoorsy than I thought.
All dogs go to Heaven: A Tribute to Tucson Monday, July 21, 2008
It all started one faithful spring day in 1994 as my mom and I were returning home from a trip to San Diego to visit my older brother at college.
We de-boarded our plane and made our way to baggage claim to meet my Godparents who were picking us up. We saw Wes first—and for some reason he was holding a video camera and had a shit-eating grin on his face. It seemed strange, but being eight years old, I hammed it up and rolled with it.
A few minutes later, we saw Stephanie. She was holding a little black puppy in her arms wearing a big red bow.
It was love at first sight. I named him Tucson, a name I came across in an airline magazine I had been flipping through on our flight home that featured, you guessed it, Tucson, AZ. Ah, the creativity of an eight-year-old.
Our first night was a little rough. Thank God my Dad was out of town—we needed a night to prepare him for what he was about to come home to. It was then and there we realized we didn’t have an ordinary dog on our hands.
The first few years—okay let’s be honest—the first eight years were a little rough with Tucson. He spent the greater part of this day chewing on the siding of our house, tearing the stuffing out of our lawn chair cushions (after giving them a good hump, of course) and chasing his tail. Some experts say a dog chasing its tail is a sign of stupidity, but I think Tucson was the exception—this dog was too smart for his own good.
In his younger years, he loved running the loop of our backyard, working up enough momentum to run up the side of our 6 foot fence to peek his head over. He even got his foot stuck in between the boards once, leaving him dangling by one of his back legs 5 feet off the ground after trying to chase down a bird.
Even though he tended to get himself into a little mischief once in a while, he was a good dog at heart. Every day after school, I would find him waiting for me at our front window—sometimes even standing on top of the dining room table to catch a better view of my school bus.
I taught him tricks like roll over, shake and play dead, and we even took him on vacation with us to Disney World. He didn’t actually get to ride the rides with us, but he did ride on the tram from the parking lot.
Yes, Tucson was a pretty special dog. He loved his family more than anything (except maybe table scraps) and was the greatest watch dog around. The UPS man was so scared of him he would throw packages on the porch without ringing the doorbell, seeing it more appropriate to run for his life. And he frightened the Orkin man so badly once he never came back.
And like any other dog, Tucson loved his treats. Even if he wasn’t hungry, he would gladly accept them, hiding them for later throughout the house. He especially liked treats he wasn’t supposed to have, in particular, chocolate.
Once, we had a bag of at least six Cadbury Cream Eggs sitting on our kitchen island, and came home to just the bag on the floor. Positive he had ingested them all and was within minutes of puking all over the carpet, we watched him closely. But surprisingly, he was perfectly fine.
Two days later I sat down on the couch. Reaching in between the cushions I found a half melted Cadbury Egg. Needless to say we found a few more scattered throughout the house over the next few days, discovering the majority of his secret hiding spots.
Tucson always had a lot of energy, so it was easy to tell when he wasn’t feeling his best. A few years ago, our vet suggested an ultrasound when his labs reported his liver function was abnormal. Being home for the summer on a break from school, I had the pleasure of taking him.
As I walked into the emergency vet clinic, also a specialty clinic for things like this, I couldn’t help but look around at all the sick dogs. What was I going to do when Tucson was like this? In the midst of my thought, we were called into the room.
After the procedure, the doctor came in to speak with me. With Tucson at my feet, he showed me the pictures they had taken along with the ultrasound. The doctor explained to me that the right lobe of his liver was significantly larger than his left, which explained his poor labs, and was something that he could not diagnose without exploratory surgery.
Surgery of course, would require general anesthesia, which with his liver function, was a huge risk. As he continued to talk, my head began to spin. I was no longer listening to the words the doctor was saying. The only thing I could think about was how I could not imagine my life without the heartbeat that was at my feet.
As we were waiting at the counter to pay, I began to cry. Tucson could always tell when I was upset. Whether I was sad about not getting my way as a child, or upset about a boy as a teenager, Tucson was always there. I felt him nudge my hand, letting me know he was there. Realizing I had caused somewhat of a scene, I reached down to pet him. But before I could get there, Tucson took a huge dump on the waiting room floor.
My sadness instantly turned to laughter and I bent down to thank him for saving me once again from my tears. No matter what, he always knew just what to do to make everything okay.
Tucson stuck it out for a few more years after what seemed like a terminal diagnosis. We almost lost him last summer before I moved away for my first real job, something I saw quite symbolic.
He hung on until this past June, just shy of his 16th birthday. He contracted a bad infection, which coupled with his bad arthritis, got the best of him. Tucson went peacefully in his sleep—something we all thank him for—cuddled up on his favorite brown blanket.
I know Tucson lived a good life. He taught us more lessons than we could ever have imagined, making us better children, parents, friends and people. He’s in a place now without sickness and pain, waiting until we’re all ready to go Home for good.
I’m sure he is up there somewhere chasing birds and eating Cadbury Eggs—but I have to say, I sure do miss him.
