Ridin' Around

After having sole possession of my golden baby, Lucius "Lucy" Camry, for four years, I am now car-less.

And it's never been better.

Owning a car and living in a big city is more hassle than it's worth.  You have to find somewhere to park it every night, you are constantly saving nickels and dimes or picking pennies off the street to save for a later time when you KNOW you're going to be running to feed a meter, gas costs more than $4 a gallon and you have to choose between putting food in your stomach or gas in your car, DC parking police pretty much follow you around the city just waiting for the one time you slip up and park within five feet of a driveway and they have permission to steal your car, and taxis have decided that, to get your attention in stand-still traffic, horns will no longer suffice- they are going to need to nudge your bumper and ruin any previous attempts at owning a dent-free car.

After all this, it's no wonder that I have welcomed public transportation into my life with open arms.  The metro is my best friend.  Not only is it fast, fairly clean, simple to navigate, and mostly reliable, it forces me to walk (to get to the stop.  Or to transfer lines. because I am too cheap to pay to wait for the transfer station), meet new people (best place to have a conversation.  they're stuck sitting there next to you with nowhere to run), catch up on reading, or simply take a power nap.  When I was little, the metro was my second-favorite part about DC (my first was the carousel on the mall. Obviously) - and not much has changed.  Sometimes I miss my stop on purpose and keep riding the metro for fun.  That's embarrassing. Can't believe I just admitted that.

Anyways, my story today is clearly about the metro.  I was waiting for the metro a few nights ago, during rush hour, and the trains were single-tracking... meaning that every single person in the entire city (practically) was waiting with me on the platform.  The train finally arrived and I shoved into a car with half of DC... only to realize (once the doors shut) that the AC was out in that specific car.  Sweat started beading up on my forehead and unpleasant smells began to crop up all around me - I knew I was going to have to make a mad-dash for the next car once we got to the next station.  We pulled up at Dupont, the doors slid open, and I pushed through the crowds.  I made it to the next car just in time, slipping through the doors and noticing that the back of the car was completely empty.  I started back towards the open section and lovely cold air engulfed me-as well as the scent of puke.  Someone had thrown up all over the back end of the car.  No wonder this car was empty.  Naturally, the smell of puke makes me want to throw up- so I enjoyed a lovely two minute ride to the next station without breathing.   As soon as the train stopped (again), I sprinted off towards the next car, praying that I wouldn't find anything worse than my previous two experiences.  And this is what I found:

I love this city.   Even after sweaty-pits car and vomit-stench car, my whole day was brightened by the random potted plant in car #3.  Small moments like this happen all the time- we just need to stop and appreciate them.

This experience reminded me of a wonderful quote by Jenkin Lloyd Jones, relayed by President Gordon B. Hinckley:

“Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he has been robbed.

“[The fact is] most putts don’t drop. Most beef is tough. Most children grow up to be just people. Most successful marriages require a high degree of mutual toleration. Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise. …

“Life is like an old-time rail journey—delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed.

“The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride"


I love my life.  The past few months have proven to be a "jolting, delayed, and sidetracked" ride - and I don't expect much to change in the coming months.  The trick is to stay positive, continue to work hard, have goals, and find joy in the small things.  Like potted plants.

I'm Back

Today I walked over four miles in dress shoes and a pencil skirt.

No, I'm not training for some twisted business-themed race. Not even close.

At the end of my long day, as I found myself trudging uphill in the pouring down rain, barefoot and leaving bloodstains on the pavement from multiple open blisters, holding a blown inside-out umbrella and trying in vain to shield my brand-new purse from the water, I couldn't help but laugh.

I had a lot of time to ponder what I would like to say to the people in charge of making Naturalizer's so called "comfy shoes", the good folks at the umbrella company, the adhesive specialists over at Band-Aid, the geniuses who determined the location of a certain metro stop, and whoever decided to make it rain at 4:47 pm - but in the end, I only have words for an old friend:

Dear Washington, DC,
I'm Back.
Watch Out.

Me and Meg. So excited to live with her.  And yes, there is  now a Cafe Rio in DC.
It is now officially the coolest place on earth.

One if by land, Two if by sea.

 There’s a wonderful song that my brothers enjoy singing at the top of their lungs—it sounds like a drunk pirate yelling, over and over, “I’m shippin out to Boston, ohh ohh ohh, to find my wooden LEG”. Well, we shipped out to Boston, alright. The five hour drive turned into an eight-hour, two-car, million-luggage, bajillion bathroom-stop journey. And we found more than wooden body parts. Like a Five-star hotel in downtown Boston (for the parents…. The less-privileged children stayed in the semi-ghetto. But in my parents’ defense, they gave us a huge room. No complaining there), week-long subway passes, Red Sox tickets, historical sites galore, witch-hunt education, and tons of great family-bonding time.

Some of my favorite moments:

*Five of the seven children wearing Phillies jerseys while walking the Freedom Trail in downtown Boston THE DAY OF the Sox game. We learned many things from this experience:

1) Red Sox fans are super nice—no boos, catcalls, or threats all day! We were impressed.

2) There are a lot of Phils fans in Boston. We got tons of support.

3) There is no way to lose your family if 5 of the 7 kids are wearing bright red shirts—you can spot them in a crowded square from a mile away. The British were really stupid to wear red. And now I understand how people can always find me so quickly in a crowd.

*Going to Fenway to see a Sox game. Even with the two-hour rain delay, the park was completely full. Seeing the Green Monster up close, participating in a wave that went around the stadium FIVE times, starting “let’s go Phils” chants in right field, seeing Ellsbury hit a walk-off single in the bottom of the ninth, and spending five hours with my brothers and dad was definitely the highlight of my trip.

*Awkward 30-floor elevator rides with strangers—we all competed for the most awkward story: I rode twenty floors with a man who slumped over the railing, claiming to be “completely trashed” at nine pm, and my mother scolded a man for thinking I was the mother of my three younger sisters (resulting in a completely silent elevator ride for the next two minutes)—but the winner of the most awkward elevator-incident would have to be my brother, who got into a completely full elevator on the twenty-seventh floor, passed gas, and then proceeded to ride down to the lobby without stopping. According to him, the entire elevator emptied as soon as the doors opened and people were “literally gasping for breath.” I don’t doubt it.

*Walking the entire Freedom Trail. That trail was the source of a lot of jokes during the week (“I’m lost and can’t find my way around the hotel—there’s no red paint leading me to the pool” or “I feel so Free. F-R-E-E that spells free…” or “this trail is hardcore. Hardcore PARKOUR”) –but our trip wouldn’t have been the same without those 2.5 miles of historical significance. Even my grumbling brothers will admit that some of those sites were pretty cool. My favorite stop was the Holocaust Memorial, which gave a sober reminder of why we celebrate living in a country that was founded on freedom and still protects our liberties today.

Paul Revere's Tomb

*Early morning runs around the city, the harbor, and Harvard University. I loved running in the city—and Harvard was beautiful.

*Our nightly Panda Express feasts in the food court—yes, we went all the way to Boston and ate fast-food. We are uncultured.

*Midnight Subway rides every night with thousands of Red Sox fans.

*Swimming in our lovely hotel pools and antagonizing the poor hotel employee who reminded us every few minutes that jumping was not allowed. I’m not sure who came up with that insane rule, but it was entertaining to watch her try to stop three teenage boys and three rambunctious little girls from jumping into a very inviting swimming pool.

It was an incredible trip. I’m glad my parents were brave enough to take us—we haven’t all been invited on one of my dad’s business trips in quite some time (can’t imagine why). It was so much fun to be together as a family. I love all of them. And I want to go back to Boston. But I’m flying next time—you couldn’t pay me to sit for three hours in NYC traffic again…

The Grand Finale

Eventually I will stop writing about things that happened a month ago and actually live in the present. But I just have to write about one of the more significant events of my summer/life: the final Harry Potter movie midnight showing. I’m pretty sure that I’ve seen every single HP movie on opening day (if not the midnight showing)—in fact, one of my favorite memories of seventh grade was the day my best friend’s mom checked me out of school early and drove my friend and I up to PA to see the first HP movie at a special premiere showing. Once a nerd, always a nerd.

I like to think that I’ve matured since my awkward pre-teen years, but I’m sorry to report that my desire to wait in line with hundreds of other geeks (wearing cloaks, hand-made wands, eye-liner scars, and fake glasses) to see a movie about “the boy who lived” has not waned. Not in the slightest. If anything, the ten-year waiting span has only increased my weirdness. The sad part about this whole thing is that I usually don’t even like the movies. My brothers can attest to the fact that I usually emerge from the theater disgruntled, quoting large passages from the books and pointing out gaping holes in the movie plotlines. The movies are terrible.

The real issue is simple: I am a true HP fanatic. And I have definitely read the books way too many times. You know there is something truly wrong with you when you start assuming that the guy at the grocery store with a tattoo on his left forearm has been branded with the dark mark, that the pounding headache you’ve had for the past three nights is probably a sign that Voldemort is coming back, and that the weird language being spoken by the bum next to you on the subway is definitely parseltounge. It’s been over ten years of suspense and adventure, but it’s time to hang up my Harry Potter beach towel and mini-backpack and shelve my seven weathered books. The final movie couldn’t have come at a better time—with my graduation from college and my official entrance into adulthood, it’s time to bid farewell to my childhood obsession (much to the relief of my mother, who remarked quite seriously as she took “privet drive” pictures of me and my brother the night of the midnight showing, “you are a fool. No one is going to marry you”…). So it is with slight trepidation, some sadness, but mostly fond reminiscence that I say goodbye to Harry and friends.

Expecto Patronum.

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Happy Belated Fourth of July

I live 20 miles south of Philadelphia, home to Independence Hall, The Liberty Bell, the Rocky statue, and pretty much every other reason for why we celebrate the fourth of July.  I also live two hours from Washington, DC, our nation’s Capital and host to one of the most exciting fireworks displays EVER.  So where do you think I was on the eve of Independence Day?

My driveway.

That’s right.  That is my family (minus a brother, who is currently boy scouting it up in Cape Cod, and my dad, who does not condone such frivolity as illegal firework displays), sitting on the driveway, surrounded by tiki torches, with blankets and lawnchairs, celebrating the fourth of July “Jones- style.”

Fireworks aren’t exactly legal where I live.  Lucky for us, we live within a few short miles of THREE other states—so an unnamed family member literally drove three miles to another state and picked up some “groceries.”  But don’t worry, she doesn’t buy the super dangerous ‘explode in the air’ kind—which is exactly what she was telling our neighbor as sparks started flying 30 feet in the air… 

I love my family.

The rest of my holiday was pretty uneventful—my four year old sister walked around the house humming Tchaicovsky’s 1812 overture all day, complete with cannon blasts; my nine year old sister tried to convince me that her history teacher taught her that we celebrate the fourth of July because it’s the day we won a war; my six year old sister has officially shattered my hopes and dreams of being the family gymnast by proving that she can do the splits in any direction, including straight up in the air, (far surpassing my unique and advanced ability to do an unaided tripod headstand); and my dad was partially electrocuted. Three times.

While my family was enjoying the lights and sparkles out on the driveway, my dad was having a fireworks display of his own indoors.  The recessed lighting in our family room has been broken for weeks now and my dad figured out that the real problem was the wiring in the light switch’s dimmer.  So instead of calling an electrician, he went to Lowes, bought a replacement, and tried to fix it himself.  I walked in to find him in a completely dark house (luckily he had turned the power off) with a reading lamp attached to his belt, wearing a latex glove and wiggling some tools around in a mess of copper and aluminum wires.  I took over the job of electrician’s assistant and warily watched as my dad proceeded to shock himself repeatedly as he replaced the dimmer.  After an agonizing struggle with some live wires, he finally finished, screwed in the outer switchplate, turned the power back on, and came back to the family room for the moment of truth…

It worked!  My dad is a genius.  He can fix anything.  He started jumping around the room with both fists raised in the victory position—and in a moment of excitement and stupidity, I yelled “whooooo!!!!” and flipped the dimmer’s switch up and down (to flicker the lights… in the same motion that probably broke the silly thing in the first place)—resulting in my dad whipping around and giving me the ultimate glare of death. Oops.

I love America.  My littlest sister remarked (as she ate her hamburger), “Me love fourth of July!”, and I agree. I love celebrating Independence Day, and not just because of the delicious barbeque.  I love living in a free country.  I am so grateful for those who fought for our freedom long ago and for those who continue to protect us today.  I am especially grateful for the strong families of these brave men and women and admire them for their support and sacrifices.  God Bless the USA!

A Taste of Chicago

First of all, let me explain how I got to Chicago in the first place. It’s not exactly “on the way home”- it happens to be 40 miles north of I-80, my best friend and favorite road (just kidding. Really.  I have better friends than painful stretches of black asphalt).   This trip was my SIXTH time making the trek cross-country—and each time we drive it, we stay in Joliet, Illinois. Each time, I say “we should go to Chicago!” and each time my dad says “no.”  This time, I was calling all the shots.  So when I said to myself, “Self, you should go to Chicago,” I was like, “Okay.”  There also happened to be bumper-to-bumper traffic on 1-80 starting around Joliet and continuing on for miles, so really my only choice was to go north on 1-55, which just happened to lead straight into the heart of downtown Chicago.  I was practically forced to go.

Once I actually got to the city, I realized I had no idea what I was doing, where I was going, or what I was looking for.  The full extent of my Chicago knowledge included the following things: a) there is a big lake, somewhere… b) their baseball team is not too great, c) they have the worst airport in the entire country, and d) they are famous for pizza.  As I followed the highway towards the skyscrapers, I started paying attention to the road signs—and I am ashamed to admit that I was looking for a large arrow that said “lake”.   I finally found a sign that said “Lakeshore drive” and thought “Perfect.”

  I started winding my way down this road, still looking for the elusive lake.  I was about to give up when, all of a sudden, BAM. There it was.  I started hyperventilating and screaming (which isn’t the smartest thing to do while driving 50 mph on a six lane road at rush hour)—but I couldn’t figure out how to physically get to the lake.  I could see hundreds of people walking, running, and biking along a lovely trail, but I couldn’t see a single parked car anywhere.  I was about to give up when I saw a sign from the gods: public library, next left.  Public library = public parking.  I cut across all six lanes of traffic and eagerly got in line to turn left.  I drove past a huge park filled with thousands of people playing softball—which looked like heaven— until I finally found a parking garage, pulled in, told the attendant that I would bring back cash, and ran out to explore the city.

You should have seen my face.  I was smiling so big that it hurt.  Chicago is so cool.  It feels like a mix between NYC and Baltimore, which happen to be two of my favorite cities.  And to add to my love of the city, I was out on the streets for less than five minutes, on my way to the lake (finally!), when I got asked out.  I met a guy at a crosswalk (he was waiting to cross, I was waiting to cross, he was cute, I hadn’t spoken to a single human being ALL DAY, and I was lost… ) — it was pretty flattering.  I turned him down, though—as nice as free pizza would have been, I kept seeing scenes from the movie Taken flash in my head and decided that I valued my life over pizza.

Lake Michigan and the view of the city from the pier have to be some of the most beautiful sights that I’ve ever seen.  Those boats, that water, the clouds… everything was perfect.  After spending half an hour walking around and taking it all in, I decided to go eat.  That’s when I came across IT.  The hostel from heaven.  I’ve never stayed in a hostel before, but I’ve had a lot of friends tell me about their experiences—and once I heard how cheap their private rooms were, I was sold.  I booked a room for the night, made friends with the front-desk people, got a map of the city and some discount coupons, and I was off.  Oh, I almost forgot—I also did the nerdiest thing possible— I went to the library and found a travel book on Chicago, sat down on the ground, and wrote a list of things that I wanted to do. Yep.  I’m cool.

I walked around the city for a bit and ended up going to a local pub for the most amazing pizza that I’ve ever had in my life.  I wouldn't really call it pizza—it was so incredibly thick—but it was delicious.  I had to take my leftovers back to the hostel before exploring, but by the time I got back, I decided that it would be smarter to just go to bed and then wake up super early and run around the city.  I fell asleep to the sound of the L train rumbling beneath me—it was magical.

When you drive cross-country, you try to get as much sleep as possible—driving drowsy isn’t the smartest thing to do.  But my body obviously felt that there was no way that I was going to lay in bed and waste my precious time asleep—so at 5:45 AM, I found myself running along Congress Parkway towards the Sears Tower. It was so tall that the top of the building was actually in the clouds. Cool.  I looped back around the city and passed the Art Institute of Chicago, which I wished I could have explored…I’ll save it for another trip. For sure.  I ran through Millennium Park and saw all of the crazy art and sculptures, including “The Bean,” which provided the only picture of me, proof that I was actually in the Windy City.  I ran along the Lake and out along a dock past a huge cruise ship and a fancy yacht club.  I was the only person out on the pier besides an old fisherman—it was so peaceful.  After enjoying the breeze, I headed back into the city and finished my run along Michigan Avenue. 

The only downside to my trip was the fact that I left on Friday, the day that “A Taste of Chicago,” the city’s biggest festival, began.  I saw all of the tents and stands set up in the park but I missed all of the excitement.  I keep telling myself that it’s okay, though, because I also missed all of the traffic…

I met some really interesting and kind people at the hostel, had a delicious breakfast with my new friends, and headed out before morning rush hour began.  I drove past the White Sox stadium and found myself regretting the decision to forgo seeing Wrigley Park—that is definitely also scheduled for a future trip.  Traffic was great and I made it to Indiana in less than 20 minutes…I realized I was definitely on an ‘adventure high’ when I found myself taking the South Bend exit on a last-minute decision to visit Notre Dame.  While the campus was beautiful and Touchdown Jesus was just as big as I imagined, it didn’t compare to the excitement of a night in the big city.

So I guess the moral of my story is: Who wants to road trip to Chicago??  It’s only 12 hours from my house…

Riding Solo

One girl’s reflections from a road-trip across America. 

(one month later. Better late than never... Ha)

I graduated from Brigham Young University, packed up my apartment, said goodbye to all of my friends, and started the long trek east.  2,152 miles, thirty-four hours, nine states, 31 CDs, 15 bathroom breaks, around 6 tanks of gas, one whole bag of chocolate chips, and zero tickets later, I’m HOME.

When I pulled into my driveway that Friday night, I was a little delirious, sore, full of mountain dew, tired, anxious to see my family, excited to feel humidity, but mostly just victorious.  It felt pretty good to be home.  The first thing I said to my mom (after jumping around on the driveway in a huddle with my little sisters chanting “Success! Success! (she made it she made it she made it)),” was “I think I’m going to write a book.”  The more I thought about it (and after going to the bathroom and eating some real food), I realized that I really didn’t accomplish anything too exciting—I didn’t even drive across the whole country.  BUT I have decided that it is worth a lengthy blog post—so here you go. Lessons learned from a solo-drive across the United States:

1. When planning entertainment for three full days of solitary confinement, do not assume that your eight-year collection of CD’s will suffice.  Chances are, every single one of those CDs is scratched and only partially functional.  Except, of course, the one CD that does not belong to you (obviously, as seen by the title: “I love baseball allot”… yes.  Complete with spelling error.  Thank you, brother, for your artful mix of Usher, Eminem, Akon, and Smash Mouth.).  I lost my ipod charger a few days before the trip, my vast knowledge of SLC radio stations didn’t help once I left the Valley, and books on tape from the library were definitely not an option as I don’t plan on being back in Utah County for a long, long time—CDs were my only option, ok?
2. If you find yourself getting into a heated discussion, complete with hand motions and facial expressions, with yourself, it’s probably time to stop at a gas station and have some actual human interaction.
3. Sometimes your lower back gets super stiff and your bum feels flatter than paper and all you want to do is stretch—but if you choose to start doing intense pelvic thrusts to the beat of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the cars passing you are probably going to point and stare. And you will most likely be the topic of conversation at their dinner table later that evening…
4. If you normally get carsick when driving through the mountainous region of western Pennsylvania, why would you choose to add eating a whole bag of skittles and drinking a mountain dew to that already nauseous experience?  I am still asking myself that question…
5. If your tiny bladder tells you that it’s time to find a bathroom around the same time that the road signs are telling you that there is traffic ahead, you should listen to your bladder.  If you ignore your bladder, you will most likely be stuck in standstill traffic outside of Chicago, frantically searching in your car for something to pee on.  You might also find yourself breaking about 27 traffic laws as you weave through the stopped cars, drive along the unpaved shoulder towards the nearest exit, run a few red lights, and cut off oncoming traffic as you attempt to make it to the gas station before your car upholstery is ruined forever.
6. I saw my very first Delaware license plate about 33 hours into my 34 hour trip.  He looked less than enthused when I drove by him waving frantically and shouting “yeah Delaware!!” while giving him the thumbs-up.  I learned that some people just don’t get excited about state camaraderie…
7. Best road sign of the whole trip:  “Emergency Parking only. Time limited to 2 Hours”… sorry if your car is broken down or you are bleeding to death or having a baby or something—but you’re going to have to get moving because your emergency is exceeding our time limit…
8. Bribing yourself with delicious food is sometimes the only way to convince your body to drive an extra 150 miles before stopping.  Leftover café rio and deep-dish Chicago pizza have been known to work wonders on an otherwise complete loss of will.
9. Another incredible road sign:  “Now leaving blasting zone”… oh gee, thanks for telling me after I drove through it.  I would have never known why the cars around me were exploding…
10. Do not waste your precious windshield fluid on those gross bug guts all over your windshield.  Just wait until you stop for gas and squeegee them off.  Or wait until you drive through Indiana, Ohio, and Pennsylvania—it will most likely be monsoon season and you will get 6 hours of free car wash when you drive past the gigantic wheels of eight-ton semi-trucks.
11. Spend some of your precious alone-time making up new and less profane replacement cuss-words for all of the people who continually cut you off or decide that since you are only going 80 mph, they should probably get in front of you. And then only go 79 mph.  Otherwise, you might find yourself thinking in pirate language.
12. Flirting with the parking attendant in downtown Chicago will most likely not get you free or even discounted parking.   But he might tell you that he wishes he could take you home with him… at which point you may wonder if leaving your car (packed full of all your worldly possessions) is such a good idea.
13. Sometimes, the only thing you can do is laugh.  Like when you find yourself at midnight, sitting on the wall at the closest Mcdonald’s, trying to steal their wifi, while wearing spandex and a pajama top and trying to keep massive moths from landing on you/flying down your shirt, all while concurrently watching multiple cop cars pulling up in front of your hotel. 
14. If you try to take a picture of said cop cars to text to your mom, you will get in trouble.  With the police.
15.  If you are a girl who likes talking more than almost anything in the world, you should probably not spend more than a few hours alone, let alone three days—or else you will tend to notice yourself trying to strike up a conversation with the nearest toll-booth operator, crossing guard, policeman, gas station patron, bathroom attendant, or random passersby at the service stations.  When none of these people will respond to your desperate attempts at conversation, you will most likely find yourself with a sore throat and hoarse voice at the end of your trip because you have resorted to talking to yourself. 

I learned a lot of other great lessons but I’m pretty sure you get the idea.  I have also learned that I am a lot of fun. At least I think so… which is probably a good thing.  Spending so much time alone has made me realize how important it is to be someone you want to love—after all, you are going to have to live with yourself forever.  Be yourself. Love yourself. 

And stay tuned for the exciting story of my trip to Chicago…

Domesticity. n. The quality or condition of being domestic.

Sometimes you need little reminders in life to keep your pride in check.  I had one of those the other day.  I don't consider myself to be a gourmet chef, but let's just say I can hold my own in the kitchen.  On this particular day, I was feeling especially lazy and had absolutely no desire to go grocery shopping or food hunting.  So, instead of starving, I chose to make myself something with the limited ingredients that I had on hand: otter pops, frozen peas, flour, wilted carrots, cream of chicken soup, popcorn, some old broccoli, rice, and soy sauce.  After narrowing down the ingredients, I realized that I had the perfect meal: fried rice.  I cut up broccoli and carrots, got out the peas and teriyaki marinade, fried up the rice and scrambled an egg- I even found a can of pineapple.  Needless to say, I was feeling super domestic. The finished product turned out amazing.

I was in the process of patting my back and congratulating myself on a job well-done as I thought things like "who else can make such an incredible meal out of practically thin air" and "i'm going to be the best mom ever. seriously" and "beat that harry potter- you couldn't whip up a meal like this even with a magic wand" - when the inevitable happened.

Yes, that is my lunch (and my pride) swept into a heap on the floor. I'm not the most graceful person alive... and sometimes bad things happen to those who brag.  I should've stuck to popcorn and otter pops...

T.M.I (Totally Magical Invitation... or Too Much Information. Maybe both...)

I had an incredible weekend.  According to Facebook, my weekend did not exist, because all of the super exciting and wonderful photos of said weekend WILL NOT appear on my Facebook page.  But, according to my sunburnt back, sore legs, sand-covered bag, freckled face, and weird rash, it happened. And yes, I did just admit to the public that I have a weird rash on my stomach.  But don’t worry, it’s just an allergic reaction that us people with sensitive skin get when swimming in fresh water that apparently have snails and birds.  I won’t get into details…. Let’s just say that it’s not contagious, it will go away in 3 to 5 days, and I will never swim in the shallow water of Sand Hollow Reservoir again.  Too much information? Maybe.

Anyway, this weekend was amazing.  My friend invited me a few days before the trip – but all he said was “jet skiing and cliff jumping in St. George. You in?” – and without knowing any other details or people going, I showed up at his house at 5 pm on Friday afternoon with a swimsuit, towel, and more excitement than I’ve had all semester.  Something about the words “vacation,” “St. George,” “sun,” “swimming,” and “road trip” make waiting very difficult.  In fact, I had to finish my independent study course AND take the final before leaving on Friday—I ended up going over to take the test at noon and blowing off any previously planned studying.  Who studies when you are waiting to drive to paradise?  Not me.  Luckily, Independent Study is the easiest thing on the planet. Seriously.  If I had known this fact before my last semester of college I might have done a large majority of my classwork online… oh well.

So we left for St. George at 5:30.  Yes, I went on vacation with 20 strangers.  It was the best decision I’ve made in a long time.   Every single one of those “strangers” turned out to be awesome = instant friends.  We stayed at one of the guys’ super sweet vacation home—he was so generous to let all of us crash there for the weekend.  Our vacation consisted of tennis, running, biking, eating, talking, laughing hysterically until 3 am, watching movies, ping pong, driving by the lovely temple, ice cream outings, and a full day spent at Sand Hollow Reservoir, complete with racing jet skis at 60 mph. 

So beautiful.

Look at that lovely orange sand... it was almost the same exact color as my hair. I was tempted to get wet and then roll around in it... but large prickers and bird poop stopped me from transforming myself into one giant orange person. darn.

Cousin love. That sunscreen "W" might be the only bit of sunscreen used by anyone but me during the duration of the trip, evidenced by the painful moaning and three bottles of aloe used by the group later that night...

Famous.

Our favorite bathroom-stop on the way to St. George: Beaver, UT. Maybe some day I will live here.  Then I will find no shame in wearing that shirt or hat.

Fortunately, I took a few pics on my cell—you get the idea. It was gorgeous.   We spent almost six hours swimming, jet skiing, sunbathing, and hurling ourselves off of 30 foot cliffs.  I’m not really sure why I did the last one… all I know is that cliff-jumping might tie with shooting a gun as the scariest thing I’ve ever done.  And if you don’t think either of those things are scary, well, I guess I live a sheltered life. But weapons and heights scare me more than anything.  And asking boys on dates. I usually throw up afterwards (because I get so nervous… not because the idea of going on the subsequent date is so revolting… too much information again. Sorry.) Anyways, hurling yourself off a cliff into water filled with who-knows-what is scary.  But when all of the guys around you are doing triple back flip gainer/dives headfirst off the same cliff, you kind of feel the need to at least do a simple jump.  Even if that jump turns into a wimpy feet-first hold-your-nose flailing arms scream-the-whole-way-down jump. All that mattered to me was doing it. And, after 15 minutes of walking to the edge, looking down, feeling faint, gasping for air, screaming “ohh no I can’t do it”, walking back to safety, screaming “man up and just do it”, walking back to the edge, and repeating, I finally just did it. I jumped. And I lived. Success.

See that person flying gracefully through the air? Let's just say that's not what I looked like.

See that cluster of people at the highest point? That's where I jumped. And yes, I did steal these pictures off of a google images search. thanks to:http://formans2009.blogspot.com/2010/08/sand-hollow-cliff-jumping

We had to be back in time for church at noon on Sunday, so our fun weekend was cut short.  But we definitely made the most of our limited time down in San Jorge—it didn’t hit me until Saturday night, as I sat outside the St. George Temple, that this was most likely my last time in St. George for a very, very long time.  It was hard to say goodbye—that city is filled with so many great memories with fun friends and family.  It all started in the fall of 2007, when the Gummow’s invited me to join their family for a Thanksgiving trip to St. George.  It continued with girl trips to relax and hike in Zion National Park; multiple races with Kels and Amy, the world’s best running partners; our heavenly half-marathon trip with team toast; pit stops on the way to Vegas and L.A.; and weekend getaways with good friends.   The St. George temple holds a dear place in my heart—whether making a visit with friends, family, or getting in some early morning temple time before a race, that temple is special.  Here come some of my favorite georgie memories...

Look at us as little 18 year-olds... time flies.

Angel's Landing= favorite hike. EVER.

Angel's again.

After our first half marathon. I miss us.

All freshman besties must buy matching dresses.

Second half-marathon. LOVE these girls.

 And now I’m back in provo, ready for more adventure (and for facebook to work so that I can actually prove to my family that I do fun things), and getting a little sad about moving in three weeks.  I never thought I would actually miss Utah… it seems I was mistaken.  I haven’t left yet but I’m already thinking of all of the people and places that I’m going to miss.

I’ll just have to make the most of my remaining time here. And if you have a fun vacation idea, I am currently taking suggestions.

PS My last post was about my baby sister... so I can't resist putting up this adorable clip of her. She is saying "please drink my hot kool-aid"... apparently it's a parody of some youtube skit. All i know is that she is super cute.

Baby sister. Minus the "baby" part.

My littlest baby sister is three years old.  She was born two days after I graduated from high school, and she will turn four the same week that I *technically* graduate from college.  Even though her birthday isn't for two more weeks, I had to share this darling picture of her.  Well, more like darling photo montage of her...

If you can't tell, she cuts her own hair.  What a talented child.

Mustache March. She wore that in hopes of BYU domination...

The child's best friends are ants. See that ant next to her face?  That's Annie. Annie the Ant. Sometimes we wonder about her...

Her "family."  She demanded "take a picture of me's family." Total resemblance.

No words. None.

But I saved the best photo for last.  My baby sister is very unique- she loves the following four things with all of her heart: Doggies, swimming, Michael Jackson, and college basketball. This is not a lie.  Last week, the BYU alumni magazine came in the mail- and before anyone else even saw it, she gasped, "is that JIMMER??"  and snatched the magazine.  I'm pretty sure she's been carrying it around ever since, even when practicing her MJ dance moves (she knows the entire Thriller dance. seriously. How is she so cool...)  I know half of the women on BYU campus are in love with that man, but she might be the only three-year-old that I know with a giant crush on him.  All I can say is that she's got good taste. In both men and music.