My Sister's Wedding
Today was the big day. After rehearsal last night, my sister and I drove back to her place and promptly fell asleep. We woke up early this morning, around 7am and began our wedding day adventure which included losing my dress, finding it a half hour later, driving to a small Costco-like place to buy plastic shot glasses, setting up the reception hall, going to her hair appointment and to her make-up appointment, then hurrying to get ready myself before pictures.
I was the Maid of Honor and as I stood there next to my sister as she got married, I tried my best to hold back the tears. She was beautiful. And I really do like David. His love for her was written in his eyes and it was just the reassurance that I needed that this was, in fact, the right thing to do.
Then my eyes glazed over the audience and I realized that I only knew a very small percentage of those in attendance. A handful of family members and about five people from our home ward. That was it. The rest of them were friends from college or work, or people that David knew (including one not-so-attractive SheMan). My sister and I lead completely different lives. This statement was solidified by the presence of three kegs of beer, an open and overflowing bar, disco lights, smoke and 80's music. Our weddings will be as different as our life perspectives. Mine will be a small and quiet ceremony in the temple, the reception will be simple but tactful and maybe even a bit elegant but there certainly will be no strong liquor, no kegs and not even a hint of wine. When I was feeling uncomfortable holding some guy's beer as he hunted for matches, trying to think of new ways to say no to the countless drinks that were offered to me and trying to understand why having three guys holding up upside down over the top of the keg was supposed to make drinking more entertaining, my sister and her husband will be bored out of their mind at my reception.
Tonight, I was only a guest in her life. I was given a one-day-only pass into friendship with my sister. And I loved every minute of it. We're so different and yet so much the same.
As a side note, this whole experience has allowed me to discover a new talent. A reception hall full of drunk people think I'm freaking hillarious when I give Maid of Honor toasts. Seriously, folks... I was a hit!
Another side note, a drunk man who can barely stay on the road can find his way home better than me. Why do I know this? Because I had to follow his home.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
It's Been Eight Days Since My Last Confession
It's been eight days since I've last written a blog. And so I write eight confessions.
1. In the past three weeks the longest block of sleep I've had is almost seven hours. I am tired.
2. I have already written this blog but it didn't post and now I'm trying to remember what it is that I wrote last time and debating whether it's even worth reposting.
3. I have moved to a new apartment in Provo. And by "moved" I mean that all of my belongings are scattered about the place in no particular order.
4. I drove from Provo to Renton in a little less than fifteen hours. This included over an hour that was wasted looking for a car charger for my brother's cell phone, the traffic in Salt Lake, the traffic in Boise, the four one-lane construction backups and the at least seven stops to satisfy stomaches, bladders and gas tanks. Can we guess how fast we were going when the freeway was clear?
5. Being viciously cut-off by a large semi just in time to be stuck behind him during a very large stretch of road that allowed only one lane of traffic made me think of words my grandmother taught me while playing poker. Then being stuck behind this same semi for almost an hour as he went 45 in a 65 made me grateful my two Deaf passengers never heard what was muttered.
6. My sister gets married in three days and I still need shoes, a hair appointment and a Maid of Honor speech.
7. A recent requirement for me to swallow my pride was more painful than my weeklong struggle with my kidney stone.
8. I miss my Villa friends!!
I confess.
It's been eight days since I've last written a blog. And so I write eight confessions.
1. In the past three weeks the longest block of sleep I've had is almost seven hours. I am tired.
2. I have already written this blog but it didn't post and now I'm trying to remember what it is that I wrote last time and debating whether it's even worth reposting.
3. I have moved to a new apartment in Provo. And by "moved" I mean that all of my belongings are scattered about the place in no particular order.
4. I drove from Provo to Renton in a little less than fifteen hours. This included over an hour that was wasted looking for a car charger for my brother's cell phone, the traffic in Salt Lake, the traffic in Boise, the four one-lane construction backups and the at least seven stops to satisfy stomaches, bladders and gas tanks. Can we guess how fast we were going when the freeway was clear?
5. Being viciously cut-off by a large semi just in time to be stuck behind him during a very large stretch of road that allowed only one lane of traffic made me think of words my grandmother taught me while playing poker. Then being stuck behind this same semi for almost an hour as he went 45 in a 65 made me grateful my two Deaf passengers never heard what was muttered.
6. My sister gets married in three days and I still need shoes, a hair appointment and a Maid of Honor speech.
7. A recent requirement for me to swallow my pride was more painful than my weeklong struggle with my kidney stone.
8. I miss my Villa friends!!
I confess.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Seventeen
I'm trying to remember what it was like to be seventeen. When I was seventeen I remember thinking that my parents had no idea what it was like even though they claimed they knew exactly what it was like and therefore understood exactly what I was going through. They kept saying, "Hey! I was seventeen once too you know!" I was seventeen once. And I'm only twenty-three now. And already I can't remember what it was like exactly to be seventeen. I realize even more fully now that my parents were full of crap. I'm at a loss of how the seventeen-year-old mind works. I'm at an even greater loss of how the seventeen-year-old male mind works. And so, how is it that I'm supposed to entertain two seventeen-year-old boys? How can I be sure that I'm the coolest big sister that ever existed? How can I make them open up to me and tell me the gory details of their seventeen-year-old existance? How can I be sure that they're making right decisions at home and with their friends? How can I be sure? Oh, gosh. I am so not ready to be a parent! But I'm not. Phew! So maybe we'll stick to Seven Peaks, the mall, Lagoon and making stupid jokes. What else can you do?
I'm trying to remember what it was like to be seventeen. When I was seventeen I remember thinking that my parents had no idea what it was like even though they claimed they knew exactly what it was like and therefore understood exactly what I was going through. They kept saying, "Hey! I was seventeen once too you know!" I was seventeen once. And I'm only twenty-three now. And already I can't remember what it was like exactly to be seventeen. I realize even more fully now that my parents were full of crap. I'm at a loss of how the seventeen-year-old mind works. I'm at an even greater loss of how the seventeen-year-old male mind works. And so, how is it that I'm supposed to entertain two seventeen-year-old boys? How can I be sure that I'm the coolest big sister that ever existed? How can I make them open up to me and tell me the gory details of their seventeen-year-old existance? How can I be sure that they're making right decisions at home and with their friends? How can I be sure? Oh, gosh. I am so not ready to be a parent! But I'm not. Phew! So maybe we'll stick to Seven Peaks, the mall, Lagoon and making stupid jokes. What else can you do?
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Sleeping with the Light On
Most people that know me, know that I'm a huge pansy. Especially when it comes to the cinema. I have a weak stomache for violence. And by a weak stomache, I mean that I get nightmares. Horrible nightmares. And it's not only violence. As a child I was even scared of E.T. (I just didn't trust him. You shouldn't let something that can move his head up and down like that, and can make his finger and belly glow into your house. If those guys in the scary white suits are willing to break into your house to save you from him then maybe you should hand the freaky thing over. And when he left, I wasn't relieved. I just thought he was leaving to get his friends together before coming back to finally turn that glowy finger against us.) And Jurassic Park. Just the idea that somebody could get hurt throws me over the edge. I just can't handle it.
But every once in a while, out of curiosity, I'll gather my bravery and see a scary movie. Alfred Hitchcock made me curious and I've watched several of his films. They gave me nightmares but his movies were pretty and more suspenseful and creepy than violent. And now Mr. Shyamalan evokes that same curiosity. Out of prodding and promises from friends that they'll warn me so I'll never see blood, I have seen The Sixth Sense, Signs, and Unbreakable. And although the first two were scary enough to give me nightmares, I decided to go see The Village.
I spent half of the movie whimpering in Kat's lap. And the first ten minutes home searching all the dark corners of our apartment. And almost two hours watching happy, funny television in hopes that those things would be in my dreams instead of the few scenes I had actually looked up to see between my fingers that were over my eyes during the movie. But even with that "Happy Bedtime Prep" I still had to sleep with my lights on. I had to do what I've done for years when I was too scared to sleep. I went to my happy place. I pictured myself waiting in line at Splash Mountain, getting into the log, wandering through the ride, listening to the happy music, going down the big waterfall and laughing through the splashes and then getting off and moving on to another ride until I fall asleep smiling. I can usually do that and be happy even in the dark. But not last night. Last night I had to sleep with the light on.
Most people that know me, know that I'm a huge pansy. Especially when it comes to the cinema. I have a weak stomache for violence. And by a weak stomache, I mean that I get nightmares. Horrible nightmares. And it's not only violence. As a child I was even scared of E.T. (I just didn't trust him. You shouldn't let something that can move his head up and down like that, and can make his finger and belly glow into your house. If those guys in the scary white suits are willing to break into your house to save you from him then maybe you should hand the freaky thing over. And when he left, I wasn't relieved. I just thought he was leaving to get his friends together before coming back to finally turn that glowy finger against us.) And Jurassic Park. Just the idea that somebody could get hurt throws me over the edge. I just can't handle it.
But every once in a while, out of curiosity, I'll gather my bravery and see a scary movie. Alfred Hitchcock made me curious and I've watched several of his films. They gave me nightmares but his movies were pretty and more suspenseful and creepy than violent. And now Mr. Shyamalan evokes that same curiosity. Out of prodding and promises from friends that they'll warn me so I'll never see blood, I have seen The Sixth Sense, Signs, and Unbreakable. And although the first two were scary enough to give me nightmares, I decided to go see The Village.
I spent half of the movie whimpering in Kat's lap. And the first ten minutes home searching all the dark corners of our apartment. And almost two hours watching happy, funny television in hopes that those things would be in my dreams instead of the few scenes I had actually looked up to see between my fingers that were over my eyes during the movie. But even with that "Happy Bedtime Prep" I still had to sleep with my lights on. I had to do what I've done for years when I was too scared to sleep. I went to my happy place. I pictured myself waiting in line at Splash Mountain, getting into the log, wandering through the ride, listening to the happy music, going down the big waterfall and laughing through the splashes and then getting off and moving on to another ride until I fall asleep smiling. I can usually do that and be happy even in the dark. But not last night. Last night I had to sleep with the light on.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Another Piece of Plastic
Today I got another piece of plastic to add to my ever growing collection of plastic cards in my wallet. Each one reminding me of my ever growing responsibilities as an adult every time I open it up. There's the debit card, the credit card, the student ID (reminding me about tuition. d'oh!), my phone card, my Smith's card and now... my Costco card.
The Costco card was a gift from my parents so all I had to do was go up to the membership desk, give them an address and business name, pose for a quick picture and wait for them to hand me my year-long pass into this Grownup Disneyland.
I wandered in and out of the isles looking at all the wonderful things this warehouse had in store for me. If I had money. I tried to think of something I needed. But everything I thought of didn't require so much of it that buying it in bulk was necessary. I watched mothers wrestle their children back into their carts and hiss the word NO with such force that even I was tempted to put the few items I had picked up back on the shelf.
I wandered over to the Costco optometrist who with one quick movement fixed the glasses that had been hanging on my face crookedly since Christmas when my brother sat on them. And she fixed them for free. And gave me a big smile.
I ate a whole meal at their little food nook for $1.91.
On my way out, I filled my gas tank up with Costco gas for $1.79/gallon. Quite the steal!
Yes, yes... I think I like my new Costco life. Even though I feel like I've been playing dress-up all morning. Just pretending to be an adult for a little while. But every time I open my wallet, there they are. The shiny plastic cards of reality.
Today I got another piece of plastic to add to my ever growing collection of plastic cards in my wallet. Each one reminding me of my ever growing responsibilities as an adult every time I open it up. There's the debit card, the credit card, the student ID (reminding me about tuition. d'oh!), my phone card, my Smith's card and now... my Costco card.
The Costco card was a gift from my parents so all I had to do was go up to the membership desk, give them an address and business name, pose for a quick picture and wait for them to hand me my year-long pass into this Grownup Disneyland.
I wandered in and out of the isles looking at all the wonderful things this warehouse had in store for me. If I had money. I tried to think of something I needed. But everything I thought of didn't require so much of it that buying it in bulk was necessary. I watched mothers wrestle their children back into their carts and hiss the word NO with such force that even I was tempted to put the few items I had picked up back on the shelf.
I wandered over to the Costco optometrist who with one quick movement fixed the glasses that had been hanging on my face crookedly since Christmas when my brother sat on them. And she fixed them for free. And gave me a big smile.
I ate a whole meal at their little food nook for $1.91.
On my way out, I filled my gas tank up with Costco gas for $1.79/gallon. Quite the steal!
Yes, yes... I think I like my new Costco life. Even though I feel like I've been playing dress-up all morning. Just pretending to be an adult for a little while. But every time I open my wallet, there they are. The shiny plastic cards of reality.
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