Day Nine: Just Dance!

The month of November is National Blog Posting Month. This is my 5th year participating. This year, for thirty days, I'll be telling stories from some point in my life. Enjoy!

It's no secret that in our family we love music.  There is always music playing.  There are always songs to be enjoyed.  We love to listen and to sing.

And, we love to dance.

What you may not know is that when I was a little girl, I REALLY loved to dance.  Lessons were part of my life from probably three until I was 12.  The teacher I'd had my entire life moved and I joined up with a new "studio".  That change gave me the chance to be in bigger programs, and even dance my way down a few parade routes.

The new teacher and group of girls though - left a lot to be desired.  I was out of my element.  I had no friends.  I realized for the first time in my life that I was too tall.  You see, as a 12 year old I was five feet eleven inches tall.  Yikes, right?  A girl that tall dancing with girls that barely make it up to her chest stands out a bit.

I stood out a lot.  I'd like to say it was because I was so graceful and charming and elegant on the stage.

Um...that wasn't why I stood out.  There was some definite ugly duckling going on....and at that age, no hope of turning into a beautiful swan.

It was a hard decision to make but I quit dancing.  I just really wasn't very good.

I still however, have some sweet moves.  Think - Elaine from Seinfeld....yeah, I'm that good.

And, lucky for me I've passed my desire to dance through life (it's still there...why else would we have sweat breaking dance parties in the kitchen every single day) down to my boys.

And, un-lucky for him, my dear sweet boy has inherited my sweet dance moves, too.

Day Eight: Anniversaries

The month of November is National Blog Posting Month. This is my 5th year participating. This year, for thirty days, I'll be telling stories from some point in my life. Enjoy!

Today is a day.  It's a day of three significant anniversaries.




The oldest anniversary is for my dad.  Today is his birthday.  He's celebrating 56 years today.  He has been my dad more than half his life.  He is a good dad and a good grandpa.  We all love him lots.  Even if we are all dorks and drive him a bit crazy.  He's spending his birthday in school.  He is getting close to finishing his bio-manufacturing program and trying to figure out what he wants to do when he grows up.  My dad is a great role model and all around awesome person.


Happy Birthday, dad.







Two years ago today, was the funeral for my beloved Grandma. We were traveling home from a trip to Lake Tahoe when my dad called. I was driving through Battle Mountain, Nevada and Ross and Elliott were in the back seat watching a movie. I knew when the phone rang something was amiss. It was my dad on his cell phone. That's not a normal combination. He told me that grandma wasn't doing well, and that they didn't think she'd make it through the night. He wanted to wait until we got home, but he needed to tell me right then what was going on. He and his siblings were by her side.

I was heart broken and devastated. I cried the next several hours home. I was pregnant with Wyatt, a few days before had suffered a nasty bout of food poisoning and had just returned home for a pretty rough trip with Elliott - having taken him to the emergency room in Tahoe because of some nasty ear infections.

The next morning when I woke up to the sound of my cell phone I knew it was bad. Why else would my mom be calling me at 6:00 am. I bawled like a baby at the news of my grandma's passing. I called in sick to work. I got my act together, got Elliott up and ready and did the only thing that felt right...drove out to my mom and dads to spend the day. We hung out. We got lunch. We went to Kohl's to find funeral clothes. On the drive my dad told me that it was one of my grandma's requests to speak at her funeral. I'm still trying to swallow the lump that news left in my throat.

I asked if Haley, my sister could do it. She's better at public speaking. My dad said no, that it was a written request I give the life sketch for my grandma.

Such a responsibility. One I wasn't prepared for. I spent the next several days sitting at my computer in tears. I didn't know where to begin. I had no idea what to say. I prayed and prayed and prayed that my grandma would send me some inspiration. That she would tell me what words to use to honor her.

On the 8th of November, my dad's birthday, was my grandma's funeral. I was the first speaker. It was the hardest thing I'd ever done.

I love you, Grandma.



I was reminded by my husband this morning that today is the 8th anniversary of our engagement. We got engaged on my dad's birthday. I picked out my ring. I knew that it had arrived. I didn't know that Ross had gone to lunch with my dad to ask if it was okay to marry me. I also didn't know that he was coming to ask me on the day that he did.

I was at school, on my lunch. Every day at lunch Ross would call me. He did on this day, too. I had my back to the classroom door, was typing away on my computer and talking to him on the phone.

It got really hard to hear him. I heard my classroom door open and remember telling him on the phone, "Someone just came in, I'll have to call you back."

I turned around and that someone was Ross. He was grinning from ear to ear, had a gigantic bouquet of white lilies and walked over to me at my desk, got down on one knee, pulled out my ring and asked me to marry him.

I said yes.

The ring fit.

He gave me a kiss and then said, "Good. I love you. I have to go back to work now."

He left me alone in my darkened classroom at lunch time with a bunch of flowers and an engagement ring.

I took the rest of the day off.

Day Seven: Basketball Diary

The month of November is National Blog Posting Month. This is my 5th year participating. This year, for thirty days, I'll be telling stories from some point in my life. Enjoy!



I played basketball in high school.  I was okay.  I was very good at being tall.

During Christmas break my sophomore year, we had a basketball game against a neighboring high school at a church.  It was an unofficial "practice game", but I think we actually had referee's.


I don't remember.


I was playing in the game and got a rebound.  I brought the ball down and protected it as a good center should.  As I was tucking the ball and preparing to swing my elbows a bit to clear some space I noticed something.


A tiny little guard on the opposing team was reaching into my realm to try and get the ball.


She was trying to steal my rebound.


Or, steal my thunder more like it.


I wasn't prepared for that and immediately went into my basketball center instinct mode "Must protect the ball".  


With one strong swing of the elbows and shoulders, I spun around with the ball.


And the guard.  She remained firmly attached and flew in the air.


Promise.  There were witnesses.


She flew in the air and landed SPLAT on the ground.


It was one of the most embarrassing things that has ever happened to me.


Ever.


Attack of the giant amazon girl!

Day Six: Moose!

The month of November is National Blog Posting Month. This is my 5th year participating. This year, for thirty days, I'll be telling stories from some point in my life. Enjoy!






For a couple years in a row, almost 10 years ago, one of my uncles organized, HIHA.  The Huber Institute of High Adventure.  It was for all family members willing to participate.  The plan every year was to do something in the wilderness, the "high adventure" part involving canoes, camping, and signing waivers that if we were attacked and mauled by a bear, our families couldn't sue.

One one such of these adventures we were totally back country.  It was a hard canoe journey across a windy lake for two sisters who'd never canoed before.  I guess we were bonding.

I'm not a camper.  Don't enjoy it at all.  There are too many sounds and critters at night for me to handle.  And, I have issues with bathrooms (as previously mentioned).  To survive a night in the wilderness I medicate.  Not sure how many Tylenol PM it's safe to take at night in the great outdoors but I took enough.  This was also during my brief addiction to Mentholatum so not only was I drugged, but I smelled good and had very clean sinuses.

On our last night, in the middle of the night I awoke to the sound of my sister's heavy panicked breathing.  I'm sure I yelled at her, because that's what I do.  She was able to slow down and tell me that, she believed, there was a bear sitting on our tent, doing some panting of it's own, plotting our demise.

Now, our food was tied up in a tree.  We were camped by a creek, but thought we'd be pretty safe.

I immediately joined in the panic and both of us were about to lose our minds.  I convinced myself that my giant tub of Mentholatum was what had drawn the bear to us and it was just a matter of time before he figured out how to unzip the door on our little dome tent and invite us for dinner.

The two of us, in our terror did what other people about to be eaten by bears do.  We prayed.  Whispered and in our heads.

Bear, please don't eat me.  Please don't eat me.  Please don't eat me.

As our eyes adjusted to the light of the dark, and we calmed a bit under the circumstances we realized it wasn't a bear.

It was a moose.

Taking a siesta on our tent.

We found the tracks in the morning to prove it.

Moose are vegetarians.

Day Five: Improper Hygiene

The month of November is National Blog Posting Month.  This is my 5th year participating. This year, for thirty days, I'll be telling stories from some point in my life.  Enjoy!

Many moons ago, in the spring of 2005, Ross and I went on a trip to Firenze, Italia (Florence, for the rest of you).  The trip was splendid and magical and if not the best trip I've ever been on, definitely in my top Five.



Now, though Italy is old, and they were on the wrong side of a couple of wars, the people and the country are very civilized and very clean.  And the food?  Oh, there is no way to describe the amazing food we ate on our little tour of Italy.

One area of the trip that left a lot to be desired were the facilities.  Being an old country, with old buildings, on old hills leaves a lot to be imagined as far as bathrooms are concerned.  I'm no hygiene nut, but I appreciate a decent facility to take care of my business.  Only being able to vouch for the ladies room on the trip, most of the bathrooms left a lot to be desired.  The majority were just holes in the floor with little foot print impressions indicating where you should stand.  The few really nice restrooms however had attendants, a fee, and a toilet ticket to indicate when it was your turn.

For some reason, this sort of situation makes me a bit nutty, but I can deal with it.  There were however, two instances however, where my always constant need to search out and use bathrooms, or attract those that need to go got me into a bit of trouble.



Instance One:
It was pouring rain in Florence.  It was getting late.  We were standing in like at the Ufitzi museum to see priceless works of art.  Both of us needed to go and there was no way we could get out of line - the clock was ticking towards closing time and we were in line with gaggles of Italian students.  Think Disneyland on Junior High day.

Ross had the brilliant idea to walk the block or so back to our apartment to go.  Brilliant for him.  He left me in line in the rain and round trip was back in about 12 minutes.  Then, it was my turn.  The line was moving much more quickly and I had to hurry.  I ran as quickly as someone desperate to use the facilities can run and got to the gigantic wooden door with the crazy lock that let us into our building.  After about 10 minutes of desperately trying to get the key to work in the pouring rain I gave up.  I ran back to the line.  Told Ross that I didn't go and that I was going to start crying - hoping that would relieve some of the pressure?

We got in the museum.  There was only one bathroom.  It was at the end of the line.  We walked up flights of stairs, ran past priceless works of art to find me the bathroom.  The museum was closing in about 30 minutes.

I got in line.  The line seemed short.  The line was not moving.  I was in trouble.  Why wasn't the short line moving?  Because apparently in museum bathrooms in Italy, you don't go one at a time - you take all your girlfriends into the tiny stall with you.  A door would open and 4 women would come out.  Then three more would go in.

I finally got my turn - took care of business - was sweating buckets and ready to look at art.  In 10 minutes, before the museum closed.  My time would have been better spent just perusing the gift shop.  Oh wait!  There wasn't one. 



Instance Two:
We had just spent the afternoon visiting a town called San Gimignano. It was this Medieval little tower town and was cool. Very crowded but cool. It was in the beautiful Tuscan countryside and we had to ride a train to an abandoned town (I think it was Sunday so nothing was open) and find the right bus stop to catch the right bus to the town.


As if figuring out all the logistics for our arrival weren't hard enough, as we got to the bus stop to head back down to the train we realized that we hadn't bought the tickets. Ross left me at the bus stop to hold a spot and who knows, speak Italian to the bus driver if he came and Ross wasn't back? No idea.


He probably left me so I could have a story to tell.


I was literally by myself on a bench when a little Italian man, sort of looked like Roberto Benini with the shakes, approached me. He was smoking and shaking and talking to himself.


Yeah, I thought. There are crazies everywhere.


This old man walked right up to me and stopped in front of me. He stared. I averted my eyes. He took a last drag, blew the smoke in my face and snubbed the cigarette out right in front of me.


Thanks, I thought. Just what I wanted.


Then, creepy old Italian guy reached deep into his pocket. A little too deep perhaps and pulled out a tiny little can of coke. He opened it, chugged it, crunched the can, threw it down and belched loudly.


Ross, where are you?


And, as if the guy weren't creeping me out enough (remember, I'm the only one around) it got worse.


He walked right in front of me, unzipped and.....


peed.


At the bus stop.


Right in front of me.


I was paralyzed with cooky fear.


Ross got lost in the city and took a long time getting back. By the time he got back, and we got on the bus, the nutty man was a few rows in front of us, shouting in his native language.


Probably about the stupid American girl who gave him no privacy at the bus stop.