another week

My Typical Appearance and Thought Progression Throughout an Average Week
You can click to enlarge the picture

how it aaaalll began

   Since all the blogger-folk I follow are reminiscing about their love stories in celebration of Valentine’s Day, it made me want to tell mine. So you get to read it. Yay, you!

   It was my sophomore year in high school and I had the BIGGEST crush on this kid, who I will refer to as J. J was funny, athletic, had good morals, and was pretty cute despite the mild acne and remaining baby fat. My good friend, who is actually my current roommate in college (weird!), and I hung out with J and his good friend A quite a bit. We’d have movie nights at least once a month and hang out during lunch break at school.

   As the annual girl-ask-guy dance (aka, “Sweetheart”) approached, I decided I’d muster up the confidence and ask J to be my date. I had it all planned out; I was going to decorate his locker (obviously), decorate his red pickup, and make him a big card out of cardstock asking him to the dance. It was very unoriginal but still awesome.

   Much to my dismay, J got snatched up by one of my gal pals a few days before my attack. I was severely disappointed. Now who would I ask?! Almost everyone was taken. My four other backups had been asked already. I was SOL and not happy about it.

   Until…

   I had choir with a girl named D who was a year below me. She and I stood next to each other in class and she told me about her  life while I nodded and listened along. One good thing about our friendship was that she had an older brother, who will be referred to as G, that was a Junior. I didn’t know him very well but had French with him on B days. Due to the fact our high school consisted of barely over 400 students, it was kind of difficult to not know at least five facts about someone. This is what I knew about G:

1. He's very, very tall
2. He lives on a farm
3. He hangs with the "cool crowd"
4. He's in band
5. He has a good French accent

   And that was about it! I also found him pretty cute but, due to my current semi-permed hair and braces state of appearance, I didn’t see there being much of a chance. D tried for a few days to convince me to ask her brother to Sweetheart. I kept telling her there was no way he’d say yes, that he’d probably already been asked by 27 girls, and that I didn’t even know him that well. Nonetheless, she never gave up. About a week before the dance, she told me she’d get me his locker number and give me his phone number if I grew a pair and asked him to go with me. Nervous but slightly excited, I agreed.

   That next day after school, one of my friends and I scurried to G’s locker in the Junior hallway and decorated it with giant red paper hearts and little notes that said “Will you go to Sweetheart with me?”, signed “anonymous” but with my phone number attached. The plan was that D would tell G to check his locker after basketball practice so he’d see it

   That night I was extremely nervous as I awaited his phone call. Hours went by even after I knew his practice had ended. Had he seen it? Did I put it on the wrong locker? Did he think it was weird and not want to go with some amateur-locker-decorator to the dance? All those thoughts echoed through my head.

   Finally I couldn’t take the anxiety anymore and picked up the phone myself to ask him if he’d seen his locker. Normally I would never, ever, under any circumstances call a boy because my face would get all hot and my hands would sweat and my voice would sound like I was trying to imitate a helium-induced squeal-like pitch. And, not surprisingly, that’s exactly what happened when I called G. This is how our conversation went:

   G: “Hello?”

   Me: “HEY IT’S ANNA I WAS WONDERING IF YOU HAD SEEN YOUR LOCKER AND I JUST WANTED TO TELL YOU IT WAS ME”.

   G: “Oh yeah, I know.”

   Me: “You know? How?”

   G: “D told me.”

   Me: “Oh, gotcha.”

   G: “Yeah.”

   Insert extremely awkward 5-10 second pause…HERE.

   Me: “So you don’t really have to if you don’t want to…”

   G: “No I want to.”

   Me: “Ok…”

   G: “It’s just that this other girl already asked me.”

   Me: “Well you can go with her.”

   G: “No, I’ll go with you. I just don’t know what to tell her.”

   Me (in my head): Well how ‘bout “no” for starters…

   Me: “Oh ok.”

   Insert another pause…here…

   G: “Ok well I’ll tell her you asked me first. Plus I think she asked like four people. So I’ll go with you.”

   Me: “Ok!”

   G: “Ok. Well I gotta go but I’ll see you in French tomorrow.”

   Me: “OKAY BYE!”

   So definitely not the most romantic conversation. I mean, it’s not like I expected him to squeal with delight that I had “chosen” him to be my date and talk about how excited he was. But a little tiny bit of glee would’ve been appreciated. From that point on, I commenced Operation Awkward Anna. I knew the next few weeks would be hell with all the inquiries of “do you like G?” and resulting assumptions of “OMG! You totally have a crush on G!”

   I also started to realize they were kind of right. I don’t know if it was just my mid-teen hormones getting super excited about the slight possibility of a guy liking me or if I subconsciously knew there was some mutual interest. I did know, however, that every time I saw him at school, and I mean every time, my face would turn purple and my heart would start beating abnormally fast and I would scan my location for the nearest possible exit so I didn’t have to talk to him looking like some psycho sweaty purple-faced person. That went on for the entire duration of time before the dance. People would ask me why I even asked G to go with me if I couldn’t even talk to him in public. They reminded me I’d kind of have to talk to him at the dance. Not even that, I’d have to make physical contact with him because, after all, it was a dance.

   Ah, shit.

   I had completely forgotten what had started this whole emotion frenzy. I had to show up with him in front of everyone at school and dance with him?! Not only that, but I’d have to probably spend time with him before the dance because apparently the cool thing to do was go out to dinner together beforehand. Gee whiz.

   Thanks to my friend volunteering my house for me, it was decided that I would host the pre-dance dinner. It would be me, G, my friend that asked J, and J. Wonderful. Let the awkwardness begin!

   The night of the dinner, G called me and asked for directions to my house. For some reason, he said he kind of knew how to get there which was strange to me because I lived in the middle of NOWHERE. Seriously. I could stand out on my porch for hours and the only voice I’d hear was the farmer on the lot below us yelling at his sheep.

   Anyway, G, J, and my friend all showed up and we ate a delicious dinner of Chinese take-out in our little cabin that sits on our property which doubles as my dad’s office. Our main house was so small that we wouldn’t have been able to host our group while still allowing my parents and sibling to inhabit the structure.

   During the course of the meal, we tried at conversation but mainly stuffed our faces with eggrolls and fried rice. This was before I realized shoveling forkfuls of carbohydrates into my mouth with limited breaks for breathing wasn’t the most ladylike behavior. A majority of the conversation consisted of my friend and I laughing about stupid things only 15 year old girls would think were funny and complimenting each other’s liquid eyeliner. About halfway through our feast, G cleared his throat and began the strangest conversation of my life.

   G: “So, uh, this might be a weird question…”

   Me: blank stare.

   G: “But uh, do you have a room in your house, upstairs, with a little tiny door?”

   Me: after exchanging a quizzical look with my friend, “yes…”

   G: “Oh ok,” slight pause. “And uh, do you have a spiral staircase?”

   Me: “Um…yes…”

   G: “Oh ok. I used to live here.”

   That really happened. So it turns out that G and his mom rented my house (before I lived there, obviously) after his parents got divorced. His bedroom was my sister’s room and his favorite place to play was the little attic space that was accessible through the tiny door upstairs. What’s weirder is when we moved in, my sister and I found a little toy tractor up in a grove of pine trees and we figured a cute little boy must’ve lived there at one point and played where we played. And yes, that cute little boy is now my boyfriend of almost five and a half years.

   Since I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16, G waited for me and we’ve been together ever since. I am so blessed to have been able to spend those trying years with someone so special and I hope there are many more in our future. So many more stories come from those first few months of trying to asses each other that will require more than just one blog post!  But that is the tale of the beginning… 

Back in 2008

"I think I'll put the diaper...here."

Warning: this story might be disturbing to readers who can’t handle dirty diapers.

   Back in the summer of 2009, I was extremely pumped to be heading off to college in a few months. I also knew, however, that money was going to be of importance for my venture to semi-adulthood so I began looking for jobs. I had been working at a little grocery store/gas station/deli/gift shop/liquor store/coffee shop, a.k.a. the only real “store” in town, for over three years. I was definitely ready to move onto something new; some place where half-drunk middle-aged men wouldn’t invite me to the river after work and where drug deals didn’t happen in the women’s bathroom every few weeks.

   My parents had recently started a new vacation rental business in town and extended the offer to me to become a part of the cleaning team. The “team” consisted of my mom. I felt bad making her clean all the properties alone, and frankly I was super desperate to find somewhere new to work, so I agreed and signed my summer away to be a cleaning lady.

   At first it was exciting because I only had to work a few hours a day, which was usually in the morning. My mom and I would get Arnold Palmers, (if you don’t know what those are, you are severely missing out in life), and head toward whichever cabin needed to be cleaned. Sometimes the car rides would last over an hour, those were the best. I loved going up the West Fork of the Bitterroot River because everything was so green and pure.

   Over time, however, the whole prospect of cleaning up after rich people became severely irritating. I found myself resenting every morning because I knew what I would be facing: dirty sheets, filthy kitchens, smudgy windows, and nasty toilets.

   Sometimes I would get a “surprise”. One time we were changing sheets on a twin bed where a child must’ve slept, at least I hope it was a child, because the sheets were completely soaked with pee. Like, a lot of pee. Another time, we were stripping the sheets off of the master bed and found a pair of dirty men’s underwear. Awesome. After a huge wedding party stayed at one of the larger properties, I found a used condom stuck to the trash can. Uber awesome.

   There are more…descriptive stories I could tell but I will spare you.

   One of my favorites, however, I will go into detail about.

   It was at one of the larger properties where families come to stay for reunions because it sleeps twenty people and could easily fit a lot more. It’s also the most common place to bring babies for some reason.

   Since it was nearing the end of the summer, I’m pretty sure I was only half-sane from having cleaned almost every day for the past three months. That factor plays a significant part in the hilarity of this story.

   My mom and I were in the downstairs bedroom refreshing the sheets as my dad cleaned the kitchen upstairs. My dad is extremely particular in his cleaning requirements and trusted my mom and me to reach his expectations. As we were making the bed, I reached underneath the top right corner of the mattress to tuck in the top sheet. It was a difficult thing to do because, a) the room is small and b) there was a huge wooden bed stand preventing me from properly sheet-tucking. I maneuvered myself and had just accomplished my duty when I saw something white stuck behind the bedside table. I paused and tilted my head, trying to investigate the item.

   My mom walked over to my side to take a look and, being the braver of the two of us, reached down and pulled said item out.

   It was a diaper.

   A diaper full of…diaper stuff.

   We both shrieked and she dropped it on the floor. What in Heaven’s name was a used diaper doing shoved behind a bedside table? Why would someone do that? How long had it been there? Why was it so heavy? Why???

   Of course, at almost that exact moment my dad just happened to decide to check on our progress. We heard him approaching and exchanged panicked looks. We both realized the last group with a baby that had stayed there was a few weeks ago…people had stayed there since…and my dad would know that. How had we missed this diaper?!

   My mom bent over and snatched the diaper off the ground and stood behind the door, I’m not sure why. That left me standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with a half-terrified, half-nauseous look on my face. Apparently deciding hiding wasn’t the best plan, my mom stepped out of the room to greet my dad in the hallway instead, chucking the diaper at me.

   I didn’t know what to do. I most definitely did not want to touch the thing but I also didn’t want to risk it hitting the floor and becoming unwrapped. So I instinctively reached out and caught it. Then tasted a little bile in the back of my throat.

   I could hear my dad asking how things were coming as I ran around the room trying to find somewhere to stash the thing. There was nowhere to put it! So I rolled it under the bed. My dad could tell something was up, partly due to the fact that my mom was basically in hysterics trying not to bust out laughing because she could see me frantically dashing around the room.

   After asking us “what’s going on?!” about a hundred times as my mom and I rolled around on the floor, clutching our sides as we laughed uncontrollably, we finally had to tell him the story. I think he would’ve found it more entertaining had we not looked like mental patients having a strange reaction to laughing gas. We, however, thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Ever. Luckily for us, he wasn’t angry.

   We never could figure out why in the world someone would’ve taken the time to shove a used, compacted diaper behind the bed stand, especially when there was a trashcan literally two feet away. People are weird. We still joke about that day whenever I go home and help clean a property.  We also always make sure to ask, “Did you check for a diaper?”

Big, scary man.

   Last year I was faced with the reality that the age difference between my boyfriend and I had reached its first downside. The almost exact one and a half year gap between us allowed him to turn 21…without me.

   I never had a desire to go to the bars before because we found other things to keep us busy before the fateful day he left me in Underage Land. But now the idea of him being able to go struttin’ around downtown, drinking Vodka Sours and squeezing through crowds sans-me was perturbing.

   I’m not a particularly adventurous person, especially when it comes to things that could potentially get me in big trouble, but sometimes I like to pretend. I definitely wasn’t about to go pay $200 for some smarty-pants with a good printer to make me a fake ID, so I went with option B: use my boyfriend’s roommate’s brother’s wife’s old ID. Obviously.

   I was super anxious when my boyfriend and the other Of-Agers decided they’d be going downtown for the evening. They asked me to join and I had to convince myself it was time to put my poorly developed lying skills to the test. I tried to make myself look older by applying more eyeliner than normal, wearing my Victoria’s Secret ultra-padded pink bra, and my only pair of skinny jeans. I realized all that effort had the opposite effect. I simply looked like a girl trying to look older. So I started over and, remembering I’m only a year under age, decided I’d probably pass.

   On the way downtown, I dutifully memorized all the details of my new ID. I had my boyfriend quiz me about each detail to make sure I knew who I would be this fateful evening. He assured me no one would come up to me and demand I spell my middle name but I couldn’t be too careful.

   We went downtown fairly early, before the bouncers appeared, so I had no trouble getting into bar #1. Our crew found a booth-like area near the back of the bar to inhabit and in no time a scandalously clad girl appeared to ask us what we’d like to drink. I was taken off guard because between all my ID studying, I hadn’t even thought about drinking. I had no idea what to order and everyone was looking at me expectantly as the chick asked me what I would like. I could feel my throat tightening out of pure stress and I’m sure my cheeks were the color of her unflattering red lipstick. Thankfully, my boyfriend came to my aid and said “She’d like a rum and Coke”.

   Oh, really? Actually I would’ve preferred something a little less…manly, but I was thankful that all attention was off of me so I could wipe the sweat from my eyebrows discretely. I was also thankful that the girl didn’t ask for my ID. So far so good. Kind of.

   We stayed at that bar for a couple hours until it started to get pretty crowded and the only thing we could see from our booth location were people’s rear ends. I was more than ok with just staying there, sipping my man-drink and concentrating on ensuring people I really could hold my alcohol even though I can’t. But the guys were insisting on going down the street for some discount hour at another bar. By this time, I was already feeling my beverage and was definitely not thinking clearly so I just followed them along like a puppy.

   I was amazed at how many people were downtown! So that’s where everyone goes on the weekends. Not to the bowling alley, not to the movies, not to IHop, my usual locations. I always wondered…

   I clung to my boyfriend’s arm as he directed our hoard toward the next stop. I kept mentally repeating the details of my ID on the off chance someone at our new bar would ask me to recite them. Once again, I was assured no one would bother because I was with a group of people who definitely looked 21. We got to bar #2 and had to stand in a fairly long line as people squeezed through the single door entry just to squeeze through the crowded interior I could see through the frosty paned windows. It was exciting! Out of my excitement, I offered to go first.

   The line slowly moved along until I caught a glimpse of the real hold-up: a bouncer. A giant of a man with the stereotypical too-tight black shirt and over-gelled dark hair. He seemed to be scrutinizing everyone’s IDs. My heart started beating 120 times faster than normal.

   Before I knew it, I was up. I stepped forward with mustered confidence and tried to just squeeze by, hoping to just be let through by my pure casualty and sexy facial expression. It didn’t work apparently because suddenly a huge, hairy arm shot out in front of my neck, blocking my path. I stepped backwards and looked my adversary in the eyes as steadily as I could.

   “ID,” he stated, his arm still outstretched, but this time waiting for me to hand him the license. I reached into my back pocket and withdrew it then stuck it in his enormous palm. He looked it over and glanced up at me a few times, a weird sly look on his face. I thought nothing of it and kept looking into the crowd inside to make it seem like my homies were in there already and that being held up was simply preposterous.

   A girl who apparently worked there suddenly appeared at the bouncer’s side as well as another, smaller bouncer-looking guy. I was internally starting to panic but my current inebriated state was forcing me to stay cool and collected on the exterior.

   “What’s your name,” he asked. I said it, nice and slow.

   “What’s your address,” he demanded again. I told him, nice and slow.

   “Your birthdate,” he inquired. It took me a second to remember the month, but I told him. Nice and slow.

   I had done it! I had passed the test! He lowered the ID from in front of his face and reached out with is other hand, I assumed to pat me on the shoulder for being so….I don’t know, mature. But then his arm was around my shoulders and I was being pulled to the side, out of the front of the line. I didn’t know what was happening but I tried to grab the ID from his hand. He held it up out of my reach and said, “Ok, so here’s the deal. This isn’t your ID. You know it and I know it. So you’ve got two options. One, you can just stand right here while I call the cops and they come talk to you about a little thing called identity theft. Or two, you let me keep this ID and I’ll tack it over there onto the Wall of Shame along with all the others, and when you actually turn 21 you can come back and we’ll get you drunk for free! So, what’s it gonna be?”

   Everyone in line was watching me. I’m sure I looked like I was either about to throw up or start crying. After a few seconds I did the best thing I could think of.

   I gave him the peace sign, said “peace out”, and ran away.

   I was swiftly walking along the sidewalk, momentarily forgetting I came with at least seven other people, but simply wanting to escape what had just happened. The cops! The bouncer definitely called them because I ran! They’d be after me any seconds, chasing me with their night sticks and yelling “you’re under arrest!” My heart was pounding and I was evaluating every alley I passed to determine whether or not I would be able to hide there for a few hours because I’m sure I was now a fugitive. They were all too scary and dark so I decided I’d walk home even though I couldn’t remember what direction home was in.

   Suddenly I felt my boyfriend’s arms on my shoulders and he whipped me around. He was mad that I left them but after he saw my facial expression, he started laughing uncontrollably. Everyone was laughing.

   “What’s so funny?!” I asked, irritated and overwhelmed. Between the laughs, someone informed me I was horrible at recanting my name, address, and birthday to the bouncer and that there was no way anyone would’ve bought my act. Apparently, “nice and slow” when you’re slightly intoxicated is extremely slow to someone who is not. So I looked like an idiot with an obvious fake ID. Awesome.

   They also informed me that the cops wouldn’t waste their time chasing a girl over a fake ID that had already been taken away. Thank God. That would have been difficult to explain to my parents.

   It was definitely the talk of the next few weeks as different people did their own impressions of my encounter with that big, scary man. I was bummed that I lost the ID, especially because I’d borrowed it from someone, but I couldn’t help laughing along with the rest.

   Needless to say, I haven’t tried that again. 

different.

   It’s definitely the little things you notice about your hometown after being absent for a while. When I left for college, I pictured my new town being larger and with more activity than in the place I was leaving behind. I pictured people out downtown on the weekends, dressed up with somewhere to go. I pictured countless concerts and performances to attend whenever I needed something to do. I imagined the glow of city lights and the hum of traffic from outside my apartment. I was excited for the new setting and the endless possibilities that came along with it.

   Well my new town had all those things after all. It was larger with substantially more activity, but only when you had someplace to go. I missed being able to cross town in less than ten minutes, even during the lunch hour. Instead it would take me twenty minutes just to go from 7^th street to 19^th, and that wasn’t even during 5 o’clock traffic.

   There were people downtown all right. Dressed up and laughing, girls clacking down the snowy streets in their waterproof heels. It was intriguing to see nightlife since there isn’t much of it back home. It was also disgruntling to know I’d have to wait a few years to enjoy it legally. That didn’t entirely stop me, however. Maybe I’ll do a story on that adventure later.

   As far as the countless concerts and performances, they must go under the radar. I still find myself uninformed about the underground bands that pass through. But after realizing what genre of people typically frequent those concerts, I find I’m alright with not joining. Funny how you picture things being then realize how they actually are.

   The glow of the city lights unfortunately does not penetrate more than a few blocks from Main Street. The humming traffic outside my window is comforting at times, but only when I force myself to recall how badly I wanted a city life. I miss hearing the birds outside my window back home and the occasional wild turkey come gobbling by. Instead I hear multiple lawnmowers within varying distances from my apartment, dogs barking at God knows what, and the endless growl of passing traffic. Charming, is it not?

   Upon returning to my hometown for this month-long reprieve from college, I’ve noticed things I never really noticed before:

1. There is an invisible yet known line between “town” and your house where, upon crossing, you must wave to any vehicle you pass on your route to or from home. For instance, if I’m leaving my house and beginning the 15 minute trek to our local coffee shop, I must wave to anyone and anything when we cross paths. Because my route takes me mainly on back roads, this courtesy is extended until I reach the western half of Main Street in which it would be ridiculous to wave to each car I see. That’s where my invisible line is crossed.

   I learned that from watching my parents in my pre-driving days. At first I just thought it was awkward and would tell my parents to stop, that they were embarrassing me. No one waves at you in Utah unless they’re trying to be creepy. I really didn’t want to be known as the new girl with the creepy parents. But once I gained my license, I found myself doing the exact same thing. Not only that, but everyone waves. It’s just what we do.

   I forget that when I come home. No one waves in College Town.

2. Another thing I’ve realized is speed limits aren’t mandatory here. It’s more of a recommendation, an option if you will. It’s rare to see everyone going 45 on a road with a speed limit of 45. Most go faster but a handful go slower. No one goes 45. Back at school, if you’re on a road that’s meant to be traveled at 45, you better dang well be going 45. Not 43, not 47, but 45. I don’t know who’s more relentless, the cops or the others on the road. If you’re going what has been determined as “too slow” for the rest of the folk on the road, you will be tailgated, honked at, flipped the bird, cut in front of. If you go too fast, there will be a cop waiting, just waiting. Needless to say, I’ve enjoyed my worry-free commute to town these past few weeks. Sometimes I go 40 instead of 45, just because I can. Strangely enough, no one honks.

3. Last but most certainly not least, I’ve noticed small-town folk have a very clear understanding of what the yellow light means at an intersection. For some unknown reason, drivers from larger towns correlate “yellow” to “speed up and make it through this light, gosh dangit, because I am in way too much of a hurry to possibly wait for this light to cycle all the way back to green again”. Back home, it’s much different. Yellow means “oh, looky there, yellow. I’ll slow her on down and not be that jerk that barely makes it through the intersection before the adjacent cars start moving”. Such an opposite thought process. Personally, I wish I could get out of my car and yell at the all-too-important person that does that. Where are you going that you need to risk your life, your passengers’ lives, the lives of others on the road? Why are you so impatient? Why can’t you just wait a minute and twenty seconds until you’re free to safely travel through? I guess I’ll never know.

   As annoying as it is to be behind the person that comes to a complete stop when the light turns yellow, I’ve gained a newfound appreciation for them. I respect their lack of impatience and their will to simply wait a second. Sometimes you just need to wait a second.

   I repeat, funny how you picture things being and then realize how they actually are.