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.

Love Stinks.

A few weeks ago, I went to "karaoke night" at Applebees.  Yes.  (Those of you who know me are thinking "oh my gosh. NO." because you know how horrible my voice is- but don't worry, I didn't sing)  Applebees is clearly the rockin' place to be at 11 pm on Tuesday nights in Provo/Orem. Who knew.  Interesting people from all over Utah Valley flock to this tiny stage and proceed to sing songs that should really not be performed in public EVER, but especially not when under the influence of various substances (my favorite performance, besides the one I am about to describe, was the group of drunken frat boys singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the key of B flat, sans shirts...or more..., while intermittently yelling "phi kappa phi for life bro").

Anyways, I really just went because it was my friend's birthday and I wanted to say hi to some friends- but before long, I was captivated by the painful and strangely entertaining musical performances- and one blew me away (literally. I was sitting two feet from the speakers and I could feel the sound waves coming from those things).  I am minding my own business (and trying really hard to appear cute and normal to the guy next to me, which is hard to do while yelling,) when a microphone is thrust into my ear.  I look up into the face of an old coworker. Awkward.  He then proceeded to sing (well, yell) "Love Stinks." Now, whenever I find myself failing in the "love department,"  I remember my wise drunk coworker - sometimes love stinks.

To demonstrate this sentiment, let me recount my most recent attempt at attracting a male.  I helped organize/run my friend's wedding reception last Saturday afternoon - it was a beautiful day and a gorgeous venue (pictures to come later).  I spent all morning and afternoon setting up and preparing for the reception, but luckily I got in a quick shower and clothing change, because one of the caterers turned out to be a cute young guy.  "Perfect" I thought.  I'm at a reception, he has no idea who I am, I have no idea who he is, we'll probably never see each other again, no ring- I'll just flirt it up.  This will be great, right?

Wrong.

After spending an hour finding excuses to talk to him, having him help me with stuff, borrowing his white sheet that he happened to have in his truck (don't ask), a friend of mine decided to take the initiative and, without my knowledge, pull the old fourth grade trick (where you have a friend go tell the friend of the sister of the friend's friend of the guy you like that you might think he's cute).  A few minutes later, my friend comes over to where I was serving food and said "uhh I have some bad news.  I told that guy that you thought he was cute.... turns out he's married.  With FOUR kids."

Well, I sure can pick them, huh.  Needless to say, the rest of the night was slightly awkward.  But I laughed it off, and to the married guy, I have only one thing to say: Get a wedding ring. They work wonders.

So that's my story.  Love stinks.  I mean, I'm sure it's great... for those who actually succeed at finding cute, nice, normal, non-drunken, SINGLE men.  But I'm sure they're out there somewhere...

And in case you would like to hear what my friend at the bar sounded like, here you go.  He might have even done a better job than Adam Sandler...

http://youtu.be/1n8p5Mihi4w

Promises.

One of my family's favorite movies is the timeless Christmas classic, Jingle All the Way... starring Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sinbad.  If you haven't seen it, please take two hours and enjoy this hilarious movie. Even if it's the middle of May.  You will not regret it.

Anyway,  this movie is full of great one-liners, and it's hard for me to choose a favorite, but I was recently reminded of something that the little 8 year old boy, Jamie, says. "Always keep your promises if you want to keep your friends."  He says it in this deep "turbo-man" voice and it's adorable. Unfortunately there is no trace of it on youtube- and when I googled it I got results like "President Clinton addresses Congress" and "Jesus Loves You"...

 But this post isn't about Christmas movies or Arnold or turbo-man - it's about promises.  Actually it's more about expectations.  Actually it's more just me venting about things not happening.

I was clearly not meant for the "limelight," as evidenced by recent events.  Or as evidenced by my entire life history.  For example, back in April, my friend Britt and I went to Salt Lake for General Conference.  Every time I go, I try to strategically place myself in front of the people with cameras, hoping to "accidentally" make it into the Ensign.  It never works.  However, this year THEY approached ME.  I posed in front of some beautiful snow covered bushes behind the temple as they shot some photos and had me sign a piece of paper waiving my life away.  I was pretty excited and have been anxiously awaiting this month's edition of the Ensign... until today.  Needless to say, I am NOT in the Ensign.  Whatever.  I'm sure they had a perfectly good reason for not using my picture.  They probably already had too many redheads in there... ha. NOT.

Lest you think I am being dramatic, here is example #2.  I was slightly bummed about not being in the church magazine, but I thought to myself "hey don't worry- you'll be in the newspaper tomorrow, remember??!!"  Yesterday, while walking on campus, I was stopped by a Daily Universe reporter and asked tons of questions about my "feelings and insights" on the death of Osama bin Laden.  I mean, I'm no expert, but I am a political science major and I did watch the news for like an hour on Sunday night, so I felt like I had something semi-worthwhile to say... Open up today's newspaper and BAM. Nothing.  Both articles about bin Laden quote all of the current Washington Seminar students.  Thanks a lot Obama- waiting until I leave DC to catch Osama.  Perfect.

And those are just the most recent occurances.  There was the time that I was asked to be a bookstore model and I had to go have a million pictures taken of me in some hideous BYU t-shirt while I did awkward things like "jumping into rain puddles" and "blowing air kisses" and holding a fake umbrella.  Do you know how hard it is to hold a fake umbrella and "jump" into a make-believe puddle while still smiling for a camera?  Obviously my discomfort and pain showed in the photo shoot because after TWO years of waiting to see my picture in the BYU bookstore advertisements, I have realized that this is just another dream of mine that has been crushed.

There was the hair model incident (some salon-owner asked me to be their model for the advertisements/sign for their salon. Got my #, made an appointment, gave me a haircut, promised me a free one, and then never called),  the failed C-SPAN coverage (one time, while interning in Congress, I decided it would be fun to be on TV. My coworker and I ran over to where they were filming Mitch McConnell and Harry Reid and stood right behind them.  Just as the camera turned and they started to film me, my coworker stepped right in front of me.  Thanks bud), and the fake MTV appearance (my high school principal took all of the seniors up to NYC to be on MTV's TRL with Avril Lavigne. My mom was so excited to see me on tv and even taped the episode.  I was pretty excited too... until we watched it and realized that I had faced the wrong way the whole time.  All you see are a few pathetic shots of the back of my head).

There you have it.  A lifetime of failed attempts to be famous.  So next time you think you see me on tv, don't get your hopes up.  It's probably not me.

And in an effort to make myself feel better, here is our group shot from DC.  I just love it.
I also somehow find a twisted sort of pride in the fact that President Samuelson is the focal point of the picture but somehow I managed to weasel my way to the center. HA.