Rainbows

I saw a full-arc rainbow stretching across the mountains on the way home from work today. It brought back memories of one very special rainbow. On the night before I married my wonderful husband, as I drove into town for our rehearsal dinner, I saw another full-arc rainbow stretching across the mountains. During the dinner, my big brother commented on the rainbow. He too had noticed it, but he mentioned that it seemed to stretch from my childhood home to my husband's childhood home, which are about two miles apart. To him, it represented the miraculous connection we found in each other and would share for the eternities. Now rainbows are no longer just a spectacle but also a symbol for the colorful and endless bond between my husband and me.

Peach Woes

Last week, a massive earwig, with antenna and everything, climbed out of a peach that I was washing for lunch. Needless to say, I was itchy for the rest of the day.

I had bought said peach at a local food stand in attempt to be more "local" and "organic" and whatnot. Man, did that backfire. Normally, encounters with foreign objects in my food cause me to place a boycott, but I seriously LOVE peaches and with several weeks of peach season remaining, I just couldn't give them up.

So, I went to my regular ol' grocery store, where I was hoping to procure some peaches hopped up with pesticides. No more earwigs for me! After a couple days of ripening, my grocery store peaches were perfect. Juicy, sweet, slighty tart, and no earwigs.

So, I went back for more. This next batch, though, tasted like nail polish. That's right, if nail polish were a flavor of smoothie, these peaches would be the main ingredient. To make sure I wasn't crazy, I consulted Google. Turns out, others have also noticed the odd flavor too. The most reasonable answer Google provided is that the chemical flavor comes from pesticides sprayed on the peaches while they're in the orchard. Foiled again!

This appears to be a lose-lose situation. If you want to be "organic," hopefully you don't mind bugs. If you don't want to be "organic", hopefully you don't mind nail polish. If you mind both bugs and nail polish and you have a constant craving for peaches, you lose.

West: The Beginning

It was a grayish May day when Destiny and I met at a Chevron station to begin our summerlong adventure. I'm not being figurative here, Destiny is the name of the friend who invited me to work and live with her in West Yellowstone. Despite all of the disclaimers given to me by Dest about the often miserable conditions of West and against my better judgment, I packed-up my things in Gurdie, my '94 beat-up Buick, and took off—little did I know that I would never return home the same.

The first three and a half hours spent on the plush velour seats of gurdie weren’t bad. I had Fleetwood Mac and James Taylor to keep me company. The bleak clouds that were abundant on the drive foreshadowed the snow that would trouble the final half hour of our trek. Because of the conditions, we proceeded through the canyon which opens into West at no faster than 20 mph. Although it was a miserable shade of grey, the sky began to grow. It is that giant, endless sky that is my favorite thing about the drive to West.

I knew we were there when the highway slowly became lined with hotel billboards. One turn off the highway and we were at our new place, the place we would eventually name “the hell-hole”. The snow had ceased, but the pavement was still wet and the gravel parking lot of the apartment complex was full of deep potholes that, in these conditions, became deep puddles. I’ll never forget the look on Destiny’s face as we got out of our separate cars in front of the apartment building. It said: “don’t kill me for letting you live in a place like this.” Frankly, because of all of her disclaimers I was expecting much worse; this place seemed a good enough. I was wrong. This place was the cherry on top of a overwhelmingly hellish summer.

No Thanks, I'll Brown Bag

Remember the school lunch entree pork choppy? When I was younger, I thought they named it that because they were talking to kids and the 'y' made it sound cuter. Kids will eat anything if it sounds cute. It's like: "Oh cute...it's a pork choppy...nothing suspicious about that...bring it on." Turns out, the lunch entree naming people weren't trying to use audience appropriate language. Truth is, they were legally restricted from calling it a pork 'chop' because it wasn't in fact a chop at all, but rather a mix of sundry pork meats pressed into the shape of a chop. Another reason PB&J is a gift.

West: Effective People Swimming in Ranch and OJ

This is the second installment of (hopefully) many about my adventures living and working in West Yellowstone, Montana.

I groggily reached for the ringing phone; it was my co-waitress Tara, frantic. I glanced at the clock incredulously. It was 7:30 a.m., and I was supposed to be there a half-hour ago. In a mad dash, I added some holey jeans and chuck taylors to my tie-dye pajama shirt to create an ensemble that would soon make friends with all manner of food items.

When I arrived at the restuarant, there was a customer to waitress ratio of 20 to 1. I apologized to Tara and immediately started filling coffee cups and busing tables. But by 8:00 a.m., I had only had a taste of the complete bedlam that would ensue.

After a steady (and by steady, I mean pull-your-hair-out crazy) morning, Stephen R. Covey, you know the expert on highly effective people, proved he wasn't all that effective while he and his family of 30 (mostly young children) terrorized the restaurant for lunch. They ordered 15 shakes; perhaps that's not a huge deal for a place like Wendy's, but when you hand-scoop every shake and make them on a machine that makes a mere three at a time, you're in trouble. The children ran across the place screaming and littering the floor with crumbs and shreds of napkins. It wasn't all bad, though. Mr. Covey gave us a $100 tip and complimented me on my enduring patience by saying I'd be a great mother someday. So, I was somewhat pacified as I cleaned up the hot mess they left in my restaurant.

Then came the ranch. In a moment of sheer clumsiness, I poured an entire five-gallon vat of the slimy substance all the way down my front and onto the kitchen floor, ending a 20-year friendship between me and mayonnaise-based dressing. There's nothing like slopping ranch dressing up off a dingy restaurant floor to make you feel like a second-rate citizen. Smelling like dill weed and garlic for the rest of the day also doesn't help. I figured this had to be the pinnacle of my horrible day. I misunderstood Murphy's Law.

Next came the bus-full of teenage delinquents, out of detention for a day of recreation and buffalo burgers. I don't care what anyone says; picky teenagers are a delight to serve, really. And it's even better when their advisers just plumb forget to tip you. delightful.

I thought I was finally safe from the curse of the restaurant gods while doing my post-shift chores, but I had nonesuch luck. Another reusable 5-gallon ice cream bucket with a loose fitting lid had it in for me. This time, it was filled with orange juice. With all the gracefulness I could muster, I dumped the OJ all over my shoes and onto the same floor previously flooded with ranch. Me plus the restaurant had been a losing combo all day, so I begged the cook to clean up the sticky mess, so I could get the heck out of there. Out of pity, or just because he was a nice guy, he did it, and I was free.

I wish I could say this was the worst day I ever had at Old Town Cafe, but unfortunately, that would be untrue. Stay tuned for an episode titled "Black Wednesday."

9.11.01

I stumbled into my first period English class with wet hair. It was picture day, and like a typical 11th grade girl, I was ticked that I had overslept and hadn't had enough time to primp. I took my seat, and the teacher was nowhere to be found. Nothing too out of the ordinary; he was a pretty crappy teacher. Then, I noticed a radio news program playing quietly from the back of the room. The reporters seemed frantic. They were describing a devastating act of "terrorism" on American soil. The bell had rung minutes ago, and my teachers still hadn't begun class, so I figured that the radio program he was playing must have been part of the lesson. I listened-in more intently. They kept mentioning this word, "terrorism." At 16, I knew little of terrorism. Pearl Harbor was the only real attack I could think of, so I concluded that my teacher had found some archival news program from that attack and was playing it to prep us for a unit on World War II or something. But the program kept playing, and the teacher kept ignoring us. Finally, I leaned over to another student and asked what was going on. He informed me that he saw it on TV before he left for school. Another student said he had heard about it on the radio on his way to school. I felt so out of the loop. My morning had been so hectic, I hadn't heard a word. Until now. Planes. Crashing into the World Trade Center. What's the World Trade Center? Oh, those two identical sky-scrapers in New York City. The Twin Towers. Yeah, I've heard of those. It was incredibly difficult to wrap my teenage mind around the event. Until my teacher found a TV, so I could see for myself. The TV was rolled into our classroom just in time to see the second plane hit the second tower. And finally, it was real. Suddenly, picture day was the last thing on my mind.

Rumors flew around the high school as I went from class to class. Rumors about who was responsible and why they wanted to harm us. Rumors about the Winter Olympics, which were to be held in my city in less than six months, being their next target. Rumors of the budding war. In every class, the teacher either played the radio or showed TV footage. It was a day free from lessons and books, but we were all more captivated than ever. We learned more on that day than any other single day of school.

I was so young, but I was old enough to understand. I was old enough for the attacks to have an impact on my life. For the weeks and months that ensued, I witnessed my country come together as one to mourn and to celebrate our freedom. For the first time, I truly understood what it meant to be a patriot.

I'm Human, I Promise

I recently became a follower of 30 blogs in less than 30 minutes. On around my 15th blog, Blogger decided that I may be a threat to its system because it started making me type in a jibberishy-nonsense code every time I wanted to follow a blog. You know the kind of codes I'm talking about. The ones that have the right mix of vowels and consonants to kinda-sorta sound like real words but not words you or I have ever heard. The ones that real creative types derive their childrens' names from. The ones that are written in funky fonts that make it nye impossible to figure out what the right letters are, even though I'm not even some trojan horse or cyborg hellbent on hacking into the system. Though they are certainly annoying, they are, I'd say, much better than a kick in the pants. I giggle slightly at the sight of words like precali, ferin, eproplop, and figure out what definition I'd give them in my fantastic fantasy world. For example, eproplop: (noun) the sound of stage props crashing on the stage floor. Ferin: (noun) a minature ferritt bred to be someone's totally cute pet. Precali: (proper noun) the newfangled name for Nevada, because it comes before California.

John Lennon, Vagrants, and Cheese

Several moons ago, I took a trip to New York City with my husband (then my boyfriend). On our visit to Central Park, after a ubiquitous picnic of exotic cheeses and baguette, we decided to stop by Strawberry Fields, the John Lennon memorial. As we approached the large "Imagine" logo engraved into cement there, we were greeted by the soothing melodies of bongos. Upon a quick inspection of the hobo-esq bongo player, I was convinced that this was a guy I was to become friends with. So, we started up a conversation. Turns out, in a city of a million crazies, he was just one of them. He was the self-proclaimed "protector" of the Imagine memorial. Rather than having a house, because that would be the sensible thing to do, he lived at the memorial. Now that's the life: living at the John Lennon memorial, serenading Beatles fans and lucky passer-bys. Speaking of Beatles fans, they love leaving crap for John. It's so weird how littering is considered okay when it is for dead people. All around the "Imagine' logo there were flowers, coins, stuffed animals, and you know, stuff living people think dead people like. Being a fan myself, I searched through my things for something I thought John might appreciate. Leftover cheese from lunch seemed like a nice, naturally decomposing gesture; he seemed like a cultured dude who would appreciate a fine, imported cheese. So, while all the serious fans with somber faces offered their mementos, I sauntered up to the memorial and placed my cheese on the ground. Though my offering was for John, I can't help but wonder if my vagrant bongo-playing friend found it and made himself a modest meal. Protecting the John Lennon memorial's gotta be a hunger inducing job.

West: The People

Lindsey, the 16 year-old hippie waitress, who littered our restaurant floor with salt anytime she spilled the shaker, is only one of the unique spirits I met while living in that magical 8-block town. Then there was Charles, the trench-coat wearing, bow-staff brandishing, Shakira loving manager of the McDonald's, who had a different fiance every week and was rumored to have traveled to Phoenix just to kill a guy. And who could forget Les, proprietor of the ubiquitous bike shop/movie rental place next door to the restaurant, who always ordered one of two things: a plain sausage patty or a slice of cherry pie, and who I was lucky enough to see sans dentures one winter day at the supermarket? Brothers Courtney and Whitney (yes, I said brothers, not sisters) were perhaps the most afflicted by outside culture with their gauged ear piercings and black leather bracelets; they were always easy to spot near a bonfire of ill repute. There was Kevin: ornery, alcoholic night cook who, I'm told, had been swearing for 14 years that he'd never return to the restaurant just to appear mid-May of the next year; he must have been escaping his mulleted wife and unruly kids (I met them once) who lived 100 miles away in the nearest major town. The Swanson kids, whose parents managed the restaurant and who shacked up in the small trailer at the end of the block, were always good for a laugh. I can't remember all their names, but the youngest one never wore shoes, making my danger radar go into overdrive anytime he'd walk into the restaurant kitchen, while one of the middle ones liked to sing and would belt-out Kelly Clarkson's "Break Away" every once in a while. Our neighbor Mike aka Smokey (I'll let you guess why we called him that) had a motorcycle, which he would ride to the Food Roundup every evening to buy a TV dinner. I had a fondness for Millie, the sweetest 90-year-old church chorister you'll ever meet. And this memoir cannot be complete without a quick mention of Hot Dan with the Shakes, the dreamy fly fishing guide whose hands would shake mercilessly while paying me for his coffee at the Deli register (my second job) and whose red Toyota Four Runner I may have stalked a time or two. It has been four years since I lived amongst these colorful folk. I write this now to sear their memory to my blog forever.

When You're a Stranger

I have four, count them, four blogs. Each has its own theme and has had its own time to shine. That time has come and gone for most, and I find myself a hopeless writer. I have things to say, things to write, but seemingly nowhere to say or write them. I am a blog addict in need of another fix. So here I am embarking upon my FIFTH blog. Yikes. Am I an egocentric product of the information age, or what?

The theme of this blog: memoirs and musings. My one and only rule: no specifics. I’ve heard a lot about the anonymity of the Internet lately and how it tends to get people into trouble. Though anonymous bullies may be breaking hearts all over the country, this blog being anonymous is nothing but good for me. I can write, people can read (I have low hopes of this actually happening), and I don’t have to worry about my precious identity being compromised. And I promise, I’ll keep the hate to a minimum. Win-win-win.