I've been doing a new form of exercise. You should try it too!!
10 years ago
Monday, May 11, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Farewell Corinna
Now, I’m no grease monkey or car-aholic, but I have a definite appreciation for automobiles. One of my favorite jobs of all time was working in a garage and learning all about the guts of those machines. Okay, okay—I didn’t wear one of those coveralls with my name embroidered under the company logo and have grease under my nails all day long, but I did eat lunch with the guys and they would take me under the car every now and then to show my a few cool things. I’d like to think I was their little sister they never had. Now, every time I walk into a car repair shop and hear those air tools or smell that grease, I get a little nostalgic.
My high school car was a red 1988 Ford Tempo. It was a hand-me-down from my sisters who graduated from college. For most of middle class America, when your 16 the junkier the car, the cooler you were. So I loved my little red car that could go no faster than 55 without shaking. (And can you believe I got my first speeding ticket in it?) It had the automatic seatbelts which would *stick,* I mean slide every time the door opened. (Well, after dad introduced the miraculous, liquid remedy of WD-40 to the college sisters, the seatbelt would glide instead of skip along. It’s amazing what a little grease will do!) I’m pretty sure the speedometer only went to 65. I think it was supposed to be an illusion when traveling on the highway or interstate. Even though everyone was passing you, you felt like you were going somewhat fast because the needle was bouncing past the numbers to the right. The cruise control was broken in a way that every time you pressed it, the car honked at you. But all in all, it was a good car and because it was a junkie, I was somewhat cool in high school.
Most cars have a gender, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, you just can’t hop up into a beasty truck and call it Prissy or Melba. And in the same light, you can’t drive a car with a bra and a rack and call it Ben. (Now that’s just not right!) There are a few exceptions where the car’s a hermaphrodite and this ford was quite the exception. It had no guts, so it wasn’t male and outside the occasional floral air freshener, it had no feminine attributes. Because it was a tempo, I decided to avoid common, transgender names like Charlie or Taylor or Kris or Kerry and go with a more musical name: Poco a poco Ritardando. (And if you need to translate that ‘tempo’ it means, ‘little by little getting slower.’ Trust me, the car lived up to its name.)
Then came the tragic spring of 2002. I was deemed the car during my first year at Snow College. I decided to visit my family for a weekend and on my way back to school, Poco a poco Ritardando, (also known as The Retard,) had a terrible fever on I-15 outside of Springville. It passed out from over exhaustion, just as I pulled up into a Cracker Barrel. (I guess going 55 in a 75 was just too much.) That was the last I saw of it. I still don’t know what exactly happened—my dad just said the cost of the car itself was a fraction of the amount of total repairs.
So I spent my sophomore year carless. It was a very devastating and even embarrassing era having to depend on others for my external mode of transportation. I didn’t even have a bike! As a matter of fact, when I had to be rushed to the ER that year, I humbly asked a friend to take me because I had no car.
I graduated from Snow in the spring of 2003 and headed up to Provo to begin my first summer semester at BYU. I lived close enough to campus to walk, but still needed a car to justify not taking public transportation to work or to the grocery store. My parents sat me down and said they’d be willing to help. They would buy a car and let me use it under a few conditions:
1) The car was less than 75,000 miles
2) The car was less than $5,000
3) The car was within a 10 mile radius from where they lived
4) The car couldn’t be a Ford (Totally agree with them on this!!)
5) The car was theirs and they could take it whenever they wanted
I thought it sounded fair enough, so I began my search. Mom and Dad didn’t care about the year of the car, but being the stuffy materialistic college student I was, I needed the car to be at least 7 years old. I didn’t want to be driving anything my mother could have taken me home in the hospital in.
Have you ever searched for a vehicle that’s under 5 grand and less than 100k miles and at least 7 years old? Everything you find tends to be the leftover stunt cars from movies or demolition derbies or from off the set of ‘My Name is Earl’ or held together with duct tape. I was coming to the conclusion that I would just have to humble myself and drive a 1970 hot pink VW bug with blue ocean waves on the side and a green hood. (And that exact vehicle is what my sisters drove before that got The Retard. It’s hard to believe they rejoiced when they got the Red Tempo. To them it seemed to be a beacon of mild social acceptance.)
This photo was taken years after we had sold his non-fictional car. Yes, it's still alive and kickin'!
I’ll never forget the first time I saw the advertisement in the monthly Auto Trader magazine. This moment would change my life forever. It seemed that the car angels sang that perfect fermata chord of ‘Awww’ and light came from out of the page where I gazed at her. Doves with a olive branches in their beaks somehow entered the room and fluttered about in peace and tranquility. I even thought I saw a rainbow and a little Irish man doing a jig out of joy. My search for my car was over. I found her!
She was a 1996, Toyota Corolla and she sat in a used car lot 5 miles from my parent’s residence. Her price tag was illuminating the $5,999. I brought the information to my parents and begged for them to consider. They ended up trading in their old Winnebago for a $1000, which brought the price down to a steady $4,999. Papers were singed and vehicles were exchanged. I decided to name her Corinna the Corolla and knew we would share many adventures together.
Shortly after my one and only semester at BYU, I moved to Arizona where I worked at that garage. I left for the mission a few months after that and was assured by my family they were taking good care of her. My younger sister got her license and kept that little car kickin.’ (At this time I’m not going to mention the multiple crashes my little sister inflicted upon her or post pictures of any them.)
Oops, how’s that get there?
A few months after graduating from BYUI, I bought her from my parents. Therefore, she was my first car I honestly owned.
But even the best relationships sometimes have to end. She was getting old and too much traveling was wearing her down. I needed to move on and find a love. Last month I purchased CaBella the Camry. I love my new lil’ car, but it’s hard to part with my old friend.
Here's CaBella waiting for me at work.
From the Arizona desert to the freezing Idaho windy winters, Corinna has been with me. She faithfully waited for me when I was on the mission. We did our fair share of being green. I would find hubcaps off of the side of the road and try to make them fit on her. She never really held on to them long. She endured late nights alone in the parking lot when I was finishing up a school project or trips to the unknown ghost town. She didn’t mind the smelly Thai food I would get which stunk her up for days. She didn’t mind stuffing her full of all of my belongings when traveling from state to state. We endured many treacherous storms together, both of weather and of life. She was there when I just needed to get away from everyone and everything, or get to someone I loved. She let me just sit and cry when I needed it. We would do 360s on purpose and not on purpose. She knew my boyfriends better than some of my friends or family. She was my friend and I will miss her terribly.
The constant missing hubcap
My last good-bye
My high school car was a red 1988 Ford Tempo. It was a hand-me-down from my sisters who graduated from college. For most of middle class America, when your 16 the junkier the car, the cooler you were. So I loved my little red car that could go no faster than 55 without shaking. (And can you believe I got my first speeding ticket in it?) It had the automatic seatbelts which would *stick,* I mean slide every time the door opened. (Well, after dad introduced the miraculous, liquid remedy of WD-40 to the college sisters, the seatbelt would glide instead of skip along. It’s amazing what a little grease will do!) I’m pretty sure the speedometer only went to 65. I think it was supposed to be an illusion when traveling on the highway or interstate. Even though everyone was passing you, you felt like you were going somewhat fast because the needle was bouncing past the numbers to the right. The cruise control was broken in a way that every time you pressed it, the car honked at you. But all in all, it was a good car and because it was a junkie, I was somewhat cool in high school.
Most cars have a gender, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, you just can’t hop up into a beasty truck and call it Prissy or Melba. And in the same light, you can’t drive a car with a bra and a rack and call it Ben. (Now that’s just not right!) There are a few exceptions where the car’s a hermaphrodite and this ford was quite the exception. It had no guts, so it wasn’t male and outside the occasional floral air freshener, it had no feminine attributes. Because it was a tempo, I decided to avoid common, transgender names like Charlie or Taylor or Kris or Kerry and go with a more musical name: Poco a poco Ritardando. (And if you need to translate that ‘tempo’ it means, ‘little by little getting slower.’ Trust me, the car lived up to its name.)
Then came the tragic spring of 2002. I was deemed the car during my first year at Snow College. I decided to visit my family for a weekend and on my way back to school, Poco a poco Ritardando, (also known as The Retard,) had a terrible fever on I-15 outside of Springville. It passed out from over exhaustion, just as I pulled up into a Cracker Barrel. (I guess going 55 in a 75 was just too much.) That was the last I saw of it. I still don’t know what exactly happened—my dad just said the cost of the car itself was a fraction of the amount of total repairs.
So I spent my sophomore year carless. It was a very devastating and even embarrassing era having to depend on others for my external mode of transportation. I didn’t even have a bike! As a matter of fact, when I had to be rushed to the ER that year, I humbly asked a friend to take me because I had no car.
I graduated from Snow in the spring of 2003 and headed up to Provo to begin my first summer semester at BYU. I lived close enough to campus to walk, but still needed a car to justify not taking public transportation to work or to the grocery store. My parents sat me down and said they’d be willing to help. They would buy a car and let me use it under a few conditions:
1) The car was less than 75,000 miles
2) The car was less than $5,000
3) The car was within a 10 mile radius from where they lived
4) The car couldn’t be a Ford (Totally agree with them on this!!)
5) The car was theirs and they could take it whenever they wanted
I thought it sounded fair enough, so I began my search. Mom and Dad didn’t care about the year of the car, but being the stuffy materialistic college student I was, I needed the car to be at least 7 years old. I didn’t want to be driving anything my mother could have taken me home in the hospital in.
Have you ever searched for a vehicle that’s under 5 grand and less than 100k miles and at least 7 years old? Everything you find tends to be the leftover stunt cars from movies or demolition derbies or from off the set of ‘My Name is Earl’ or held together with duct tape. I was coming to the conclusion that I would just have to humble myself and drive a 1970 hot pink VW bug with blue ocean waves on the side and a green hood. (And that exact vehicle is what my sisters drove before that got The Retard. It’s hard to believe they rejoiced when they got the Red Tempo. To them it seemed to be a beacon of mild social acceptance.)
This photo was taken years after we had sold his non-fictional car. Yes, it's still alive and kickin'!
I’ll never forget the first time I saw the advertisement in the monthly Auto Trader magazine. This moment would change my life forever. It seemed that the car angels sang that perfect fermata chord of ‘Awww’ and light came from out of the page where I gazed at her. Doves with a olive branches in their beaks somehow entered the room and fluttered about in peace and tranquility. I even thought I saw a rainbow and a little Irish man doing a jig out of joy. My search for my car was over. I found her!
She was a 1996, Toyota Corolla and she sat in a used car lot 5 miles from my parent’s residence. Her price tag was illuminating the $5,999. I brought the information to my parents and begged for them to consider. They ended up trading in their old Winnebago for a $1000, which brought the price down to a steady $4,999. Papers were singed and vehicles were exchanged. I decided to name her Corinna the Corolla and knew we would share many adventures together.
Shortly after my one and only semester at BYU, I moved to Arizona where I worked at that garage. I left for the mission a few months after that and was assured by my family they were taking good care of her. My younger sister got her license and kept that little car kickin.’ (At this time I’m not going to mention the multiple crashes my little sister inflicted upon her or post pictures of any them.)
Oops, how’s that get there?
A few months after graduating from BYUI, I bought her from my parents. Therefore, she was my first car I honestly owned.
But even the best relationships sometimes have to end. She was getting old and too much traveling was wearing her down. I needed to move on and find a love. Last month I purchased CaBella the Camry. I love my new lil’ car, but it’s hard to part with my old friend.
Here's CaBella waiting for me at work.
From the Arizona desert to the freezing Idaho windy winters, Corinna has been with me. She faithfully waited for me when I was on the mission. We did our fair share of being green. I would find hubcaps off of the side of the road and try to make them fit on her. She never really held on to them long. She endured late nights alone in the parking lot when I was finishing up a school project or trips to the unknown ghost town. She didn’t mind the smelly Thai food I would get which stunk her up for days. She didn’t mind stuffing her full of all of my belongings when traveling from state to state. We endured many treacherous storms together, both of weather and of life. She was there when I just needed to get away from everyone and everything, or get to someone I loved. She let me just sit and cry when I needed it. We would do 360s on purpose and not on purpose. She knew my boyfriends better than some of my friends or family. She was my friend and I will miss her terribly.
The constant missing hubcap
My last good-bye
Friday, April 17, 2009
Top 10 reasons why I love spring.
1) I hate being cold and April is the month where things start to warm up.
2) Blue skies are always accompanied by singing birds and budding flowers.
3) Itchy wool sweaters and heavy skirts are tucked away in tote bins and pretty pastels and flirty skirts take up the closet.
4) Fresh fruit that I’m actually tempted to purchase starts to appear in the produce section.
5) I will always ‘awww’ at the baby cows, horses and sheep who wobble next to their mothers as I drive in the country.
6) Tree branches are sheltered with delicate blossoms.
7) The sun rises earlier and sets later.
8) I start to plan exciting summer vacations or camping trips.
9) I love to open the windows in my car and home because it’s perfect weather!
10) MY BIRTHDAY!!! And Mother Nature knows not to give me snow on my birthday.
These were some pictures on April 16, 2009! Don’t ya just love spring?!
2) Blue skies are always accompanied by singing birds and budding flowers.
3) Itchy wool sweaters and heavy skirts are tucked away in tote bins and pretty pastels and flirty skirts take up the closet.
4) Fresh fruit that I’m actually tempted to purchase starts to appear in the produce section.
5) I will always ‘awww’ at the baby cows, horses and sheep who wobble next to their mothers as I drive in the country.
6) Tree branches are sheltered with delicate blossoms.
7) The sun rises earlier and sets later.
8) I start to plan exciting summer vacations or camping trips.
9) I love to open the windows in my car and home because it’s perfect weather!
10) MY BIRTHDAY!!! And Mother Nature knows not to give me snow on my birthday.
These were some pictures on April 16, 2009! Don’t ya just love spring?!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Ellie's Sealing
This is a slide show I put together of my newest little niece. And yes, I fixed the grammatical error!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Hop on pop and Green Eggs and Ham
This weekend I invited my niece and nephew for a sleep over at my place. I called their mother earlier and sought permission on the one condition of their good behavior. Aeja informed me once I picked her up, that she almost ran out of ‘chances’ that week, but she did have one remaining.
We first went to Macy’s and talked about what we wanted for dinner. Aeja desperately requested lasagna while Colman first wanted hotdogs, then changed his mind to ‘boy’ cheese sandwiches. (Not grilled cheese, but boy cheese.)
It was at the grocery store I learned an important lesson: Little kids never forget. I guess a few months ago Aeja and Coleman were reading Green Eggs and Ham. I told them the time when I was in the first grade and my teacher brought in some real green eggs and ham. Now, I’m somewhat of a busy young adult and I totally forgot this story. However, Aeja reminded me that I told them next time she and Colman were at my house, I would make them green eggs and ham. I hurry and added ham and eggs to our shopping list. (And just to let you know—food dye is expensive!)
Then we hurried and went to Jump on It in Lindon. I’m sure it’s a little kid’s dream place! It’s the size of a open warehouse with 10,000 square feet of trampolines and other jumping or blowup devices to bounce off of. (My tactic in this was having these kids as tired as they could be by bed time—I’m pretty sure it worked.)
We went home, had dinner, (which Coleman decided he wanted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches instead, and then changed his mind to a complete fruit dinner). We brushed out teeth—(somehow pulling teeth is easier than brushing them!) read scriptures and said prayers. I blew up a queen size air mattress , brought out my body pillow, their pillows, down pillows and six different kinds of blankets for their bed. I popped in Wall-E and we stayed up until 10:00 watching it. (I hate to brag, but I’m a pretty cool aunt!)
The next morning at 7:00, Coleman woke me up by whispering in my ear “It’s time to make green eggs and ham!” I let the two hop in my bed and watch cartoons while I ‘magically’ created this fictional breakfast. Some things are cooler to look at than to eat. . .and this was one of them.
All in all it was a very good experience! They were very good kids and I know I’ll never forget it. I have learned many things from that sleepover.
All in all it was a very good experience! They were very good kids and I know I’ll never forget it. I have learned many things from that sleepover.
1) No matter how much fun you’re having, never try to hold it
2) Remind a person about a promise that was made
3) Find complete joy in simple things—like jumping
4) If you really want to eat something for dinner—eat it
5) Sleep with lots of pillows and blankets
6) Fall asleep to your favorite movies
7) Read your scriptures
8) Tell God everything in your prayers
9) Never lose your sense of wonder
10) Laugh!
2) Remind a person about a promise that was made
3) Find complete joy in simple things—like jumping
4) If you really want to eat something for dinner—eat it
5) Sleep with lots of pillows and blankets
6) Fall asleep to your favorite movies
7) Read your scriptures
8) Tell God everything in your prayers
9) Never lose your sense of wonder
10) Laugh!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
50 years
I went to Macy’s today for lunch. I purchased a few slices of dill havarti and smoked gouda cheese, a tangelo and a powerade. (Really, with a lunch like that, how can I not drop the pounds!?) I’m on my way out the door I see a couple which reminds me of an experience I had in New York. I totally forgot about this moment until today and felt I just had to write it down. It was one of those experiences where if you were with me, I would have shared with you when we got back to the car and needed a subject change. . .
I interned in New York City for a few months. At the time, Governor Olene Walker and her husband were the government official volunteers. I loved working with the Walkers! I loved going out on assignments with them and learning from their experiences.
All three of us were making our way from Queens back to Manhattan late one night. (We were actually coming home from the US Open, but that’s a different blog for a different day.) I was sitting on one side of the subway train, and the Walkers were together on the other. It was rather late, on the 7 Train and I was just being cautious. (Yeah, I know it was Queens and not the Bronx, but I’m still no dummy!) For maybe 5 minutes, a young man—who was maybe 19 or 20 was sitting next to me and kept eyeing Governor and Myron Walker. It was as if he analyzing them, trying to figure out a life story by the few minutes he shared with them. He was definitely born and raised in one of the rougher parts of New York and I’m sure his resume would include something like ‘guaranteed survival on any street in any city east of the US and then some.’ I remained alert and cautious, but tired not to look paranoid.
The train made a few stops, taking us closer to the middle island. And then the guy he mumbled something.
“How long you two been together?” He nodded his head towards the Walkers.
“Oh, about 50 years,” was Myron’s reply.
Wow. Fifty years. That’s twice my current age! I’m sitting here even now thinking about what all I could see with a person for 50 years—a half a century—a few generations even. The number was impressive to just say, but the way Myron said it was what made this experience stick with me.
The Walkers are just normal people. I saw them argue. I saw one waiting for the other to get ready for an evening event. I saw them work and negotiate together. I saw how he held to door open for her and how she would still wink at him.
When Myron said fifty years, the young man just gawked. They engaged in small talk until we arrived at our stop.
I don’t know if the Walkers remembered this or even if the New Yorker did, but somehow, on my lunch break back in Utah, I remembered that. . .
Fifty years. . .
I interned in New York City for a few months. At the time, Governor Olene Walker and her husband were the government official volunteers. I loved working with the Walkers! I loved going out on assignments with them and learning from their experiences.
All three of us were making our way from Queens back to Manhattan late one night. (We were actually coming home from the US Open, but that’s a different blog for a different day.) I was sitting on one side of the subway train, and the Walkers were together on the other. It was rather late, on the 7 Train and I was just being cautious. (Yeah, I know it was Queens and not the Bronx, but I’m still no dummy!) For maybe 5 minutes, a young man—who was maybe 19 or 20 was sitting next to me and kept eyeing Governor and Myron Walker. It was as if he analyzing them, trying to figure out a life story by the few minutes he shared with them. He was definitely born and raised in one of the rougher parts of New York and I’m sure his resume would include something like ‘guaranteed survival on any street in any city east of the US and then some.’ I remained alert and cautious, but tired not to look paranoid.
The train made a few stops, taking us closer to the middle island. And then the guy he mumbled something.
“How long you two been together?” He nodded his head towards the Walkers.
“Oh, about 50 years,” was Myron’s reply.
Wow. Fifty years. That’s twice my current age! I’m sitting here even now thinking about what all I could see with a person for 50 years—a half a century—a few generations even. The number was impressive to just say, but the way Myron said it was what made this experience stick with me.
The Walkers are just normal people. I saw them argue. I saw one waiting for the other to get ready for an evening event. I saw them work and negotiate together. I saw how he held to door open for her and how she would still wink at him.
When Myron said fifty years, the young man just gawked. They engaged in small talk until we arrived at our stop.
I don’t know if the Walkers remembered this or even if the New Yorker did, but somehow, on my lunch break back in Utah, I remembered that. . .
Fifty years. . .
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Because I'm gone, it's gone
FYI: Once again, I had meetings all day long and my candy dish of chocolate fudge covered pretzels were all gone, (save the itty bitty crums) when I got back at 4:30. Oh, the aggravation! I'm putting dehydrated Brussels sprouts in there tomorrow! Muha ha ha ha!!
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