Please Mr. Postman

"Agent M, did you find the post man, is the package secure?"

This is just a sample of the text conversation Mabel (aka Agent C) and I have been having as we try to track down our mail. Thursday we received a notice that our mailbox was full and that we needed to pick up our mail at a secret location (the post office). Slightly embarrassed that we had ignored our mailbox that long, I made my way to the secret location to pick up "the package," but I was told that the carrier still had it. So I was faced with a new mission: look out for the carrier. A few hours into that mission, I decided that I have a life and quit waiting.

So today, after a full weekend of checking the mailbox and occasionally looking out the window to see if I could spot the carrier, I went back to the secret location to see if "the package" had been dropped off. Nope. I was given a number to call tomorrow before a certain time which doesn't help the whole secret-agent-on-a-mission thing that Mabel and I have concocted, but if that fails I have an equally fantastic scenario: my mail has been stolen because it was too awesome!

It's the only logical explanation. Why else would he or she hold onto something so boring as the ads that normally filled our mailbox?

Fortunately there are a slew of pop songs that describe my situation. Okay, so only two that I know of and even then, I had to do some tweaking, but be sure that I've utilized both for this post. As the Presidents of the United States of America sing "Some postman is grooving to all our love letters," or in my case, awesome letters/packages, but agents m and c will catch the mastermind behind this, or at least get our mail back.

Update: I had a chat with the postman. Turns out he's not an evil mastermind, but actually a pretty nice guy and we finally have all our mail. Mission accomplished.

Dinner at Kranky Franks

My favorite adventures are the ones that find me on otherwise perfectly mundane days. Revise that. My favorite adventures are ones that find me when I'm with my friend who wishes to be called Mabel.

Mabel and I had to drive to a neighboring town so she could get a blood test. You see Mabel has decided to serve a church mission. During her blood test, the nurse asked Mabel a series of questions that seemed odd to her, but she went along with it anyway. It wasn't until the nurse asked who her baby doctor would be that she realized that she was answering questions for a pregnancy test. She quickly explained to the nurse that she wasn't pregnant, she needed a blood test to go on a mission. The nurse responded by saying, "Oh. Being pregnant might be awkward then, unless it was a Jesus or something."

Even though Mabel wasn't eating for two, we decided her experience warranted a meal so we stopped at a local eatery called Kranky Franks. Turns out Kranky Franks is a hot dog stand and I'm a hot dog philistine. Instead of ordering the famous dangerous dog with the works, I ordered a brat with a sauce on it and I only got the sauce because the man running the stand asked me three times if I was sure I didn't want anything on my brat. Mabel made up for my heathenism. We sat down, ate our brats and fries (amazing fries!), and talked to the notably cheerful man. He talked to us about school and what we want to do with our majors without the usual skepticism towards the English major. In fact, he gave me an encouraging tale of a friend who found a job right out of college. At that point, I wished I was one of those people who can get the life story out of complete strangers because he seemed like the kind of guy who'd have an interesting story to tell.

All in all, we were satisfied with our side trip, but thinking over our little adventure, Mabel and I decided we will return to Kranky Franks, mostly for the fries, but also to answer some important questions: Is there a Kranky Frank? Was the nice man serving us hot dogs Frank? And if so, why wasn't he cranky?

I Can Be Domestic

My roommate jokes that I can cook, I just choose not to. I'm not saying I became Julia Child over Christmas, but I did happen to show a little more of my domestic side.

It all started with the Christmas tree. I put it together (our first fake tree), decided where it would reside, and decorated it all by myself.


Then I made fudge which I do almost every Christmas, but this Christmas I didn't make a practice batch.


Finally, I spoiled my Dad for his birthday by making him meringue. You might think big deal, she didn't make the actual pie. But I feel like this was the crowning glory of my experiment with domesticity, mostly because I made this meringue with my mom and both my grandmas looking over my shoulder. Talk about pressure! I made my Dad blow out a candle I put in the pie just so he'd appreciate my handiwork before it was sliced and served.

My Soapbox

Every December church talks and tv specials focus on “The Spirit of Christmas,” and people talk about how we’ve lost this spirit and how Christmas has become too commercialized. Along with the pessimistic chatter come inspirational stories of charity and faith to remind us that there is good in the world and that we should take this time to stop and seek it. Every year I hear this, but I think this year is the first year I understand it.

These past few weeks my apartment has been the headquarters for a sub-for-Santa project which has turned my thoughts to charity. While I was working on a paper, I was often interrupted by the knock at the door which meant another donation for these two needy families. Smiles were on the faces of the donators and my roommates who accepted the donations. At one point my roommate came into the room, overcome with gratitude because someone had donated a $30 dollar jacket. I admire the time and money spent on this project and I’m sure that the families will be grateful come Christmas morning. Moreover, this generous spirit is greatly needed, but I think we run into a problem when charity is measured by the amount of gifts we give.

When I say charity, I mean the charity that Moroni writes about in the Book of Mormon:
And charity suffereth long, and is kind, and envieth not, and is not puffed up, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh not evil, and rejoiceth not in iniquity but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things…charity is the love of Christ, and it endureth forever. (Moroni 7:45, 47)

Although I cannot speak for the other donators, I found myself troubled because I thought I had done something good and was ready to turn back to my paper and the other cares in my life. But as I thought about it more, I realized the act of buying a toy for a little boy wasn’t charity. Did I do something good? Yes, but I could buy a thousand toys for a thousand boys and still not be charitable. I am not discouraging or critiquing the project I participated in, but rather, I’m asking that we each take time to consider charity and what it means to us. For me, it is taking the time and thought to care for another human being. Charity shouldn’t stop with a donation, but should extend to the way I treat my roommates, family, co-workers, neighbors, and even strangers I pass on the street. Charity is all the times I put aside my own agenda to help another person. This kind of charity can happen all year round. So while this season brings many beautiful opportunities to help out those who aren’t as fortunate as us, I hope that we won’t forget the little acts of service we can do all year round.

Procrastination

One of the benefits of being an English grad student is that I get to write about songs like this:

A translation of the title is "May it Rain Coffee"; however, as I listen to it over and over again, I'm beginning to wish that it would rain completed seminar papers. Much more useful to me than coffee.

Past Basketball Photo

Back when I was an official player...

and still a stick figure.

Always a Valley Girl: Smells Like Basketball

I was walking out of school on one of those winter days that warmed up just enough so you'd remember that spring existed when my friend turned to me and said, "It smells like baseball." It's been our joke ever since. He texts me when baseball season approaches and I text him when it's time for basketball. Five years later, I think I finally know what he meant by "smells like baseball."

Saying that it's time for basketball or that I'm excited for basketball just doesn't cover it. The anticipation takes over all my senses, even smell. For eighteen years, my weekends between mid-October and mid-March revolved around basketball. And I mean eighteen years since my dad left during the championship game to be there for my birth the next day. The earliest birthday I can remember was in a hotel because it was during playoffs. I just assumed I'd be at every home game and at most of the away games because my dad coached and going to the games was how we supported him.

I couldn't even comprehend life without basketball until my freshmen year in college. No players I knew. No personal investment in the outcome. Was this still basketball? Don't get me wrong; I still love going to a game, especially in the Marriot Center with thousands of fans cheering for one purpose, but even that doesn't quite live up to the nostalgic sense of basketball I've built up from all the other games I've watched.

So when I walk out into the first chilly day of autumn, I take a deep breath and remember:

the warmth of microwaved burritos from the concession stand

my cheek bulging with a sucker my grandma brought so we wouldn't yell at the refs too much

falling asleep on the coat my mom laid on the bleachers

pretending to be sportscasters with my brother

covering my eyes when I couldn't take the excitement of a close game

the burnt smell of mozzarella sticks from the only restaurant open after the game

being the last people to leave the gym

chasing my little cousins around in the half-lit court while we waited

wearing green lipstick and nail polish--proof that I was a true Grizzly fan

the clean swish of a three pointer

the explosion of cheers after a dunk

spinning a basketball in my hand, my fingertips brushing over a thousand tiny hills

Saturday afternoons playing 21 with my dad and my brother

the sense of awe every time I walked into an empty gym and heard my own footsteps.


That is what I mean when I say "smells like basketball."