White Pages, RIP

On the radio this morning, I heard a brief story about the death of the printed White Pages. My heart sank a bit. It’s true I don’t use them any more...at all...ever. It’s true the last time I really looked at one was to watch my brother rip it in half. And it’s true I get a little annoyed when that book is left at my doorstep because now I have to get rid of it. Nevertheless, I have so many fond memories of the White Pages and it stings just a little to see it go.

I remember giggling with my girlfriends as we used our white pal to prank call boys in 5th grade. I remember having to flip pages to look up a friends’ phone number and then calling three wrong numbers first. I remember counting how many people had my same exact name. I remember hearing people telling other people to look them up, they are in the ‘book’. I remember having to tell people that we were not listed because my dad was convinced it was a socialists' agenda. As the Internet started taking over our lives, the printed White Pages became less and less used...for their primary purpose. They were outdated and rather tedious. But still, their departure marks an end of times, at least in my life. (I’m convinced half of my Ward would not even know what the White Pages were.)

Recently, I saw the new Facebook movie. It was really enjoyable, but I can not tell you how dated I felt during and after. I don’t think I realized how ‘old’ I was until I realized I was well out of college before the phenomena that now defines social interaction was even thought up. Not to mention how strange it is to watch a dramatized history of something that is still basically in it’s infancy. I still remember Atari, pagers, corded phones, clunky Nokias, creepy chat rooms, Lycos, VHS and of course, the birth of Napster. Now half of that is extinct.

I’m very aware that I still rank a member of the young generation, but I’m starting to feel the steady stream of new things aging me, fast. Now is the generation where the phrase “that is so last season” applies to more than clothes. My computer is out of date. My iPhone is out of date. My web browser is out of date. The email I just sent is out of date. I do not think it is even possible to keep up at this point. And yet, it’s so exciting! The awesome gadgets on Star Trek are getting eerily close and the pure ease of communication and accessibility is absolutely astonishing.

There are, of course, an equal share of yucky bits that accompany these rapid evolutions we must stay wary of, but it is so glorious to watch people think bigger, work harder, communicate faster, and generally be more ambitious. It is a 'get moving' or 'get left' world. It’s harsh and it’s empowering.

And on that note, I formally say goodbye to printed telephonic information. We forgot about you years ago anyway. Peace. Here is to the future of more cool things!

Oh and I’m still hoping for a Replicator...

Dear...

Building 2 neighbors,

To whoever let their dog poo on our pretty welcome mat,

1) Your dog appears to be rather ill.
2) You owe us a new welcome mat from Crate and Barrel.

Thank you,
The girls in 226

It Could Be Worse

Just as with any memorable road trip, the journey of life is bound to hit a bump or two or even a seemingly never ending wave of them. I’ve spent a lot of time the past few months trying to figure out how to train myself to better handle these frustrating and rather discouraging bumps. After all, there are some cars that can take a speed bump at 60 without even flinching. How do they do that? Others have to slow to a snail pace, twist sideways and still bear down for impact. Blasted lowriders.

A professor in my department stops by my office at least once a week. I ask him how he is doing and he replies the same way every time in his thick New York accent, “It could be woerse”. I wish you could hear it. Old men make me laugh. Still he has a valid point. I’ve been using this line a lot recently to lessen the utter life-sucking overwhelmingness that manages to accompany life's road hazards. For example:

1) I was recently t-boned by a red light runner. My beautiful brand new car spent 3 weeks in intensive care and still has a few bruises and my neck is still sore. However, it could be worse. The other guy could have had no insurance or failed to claim responsibility and I’d be stuck with a very hefty bill and no car. Also, if I was in my old car, I am pretty sure I’d have no legs.

2 ) I now have to share my glorious window-filled office. This has been rather upsetting for a variety of reasons. However, it could be worse, I could be back in a stupid cubicle or I could have no job at all.

I am not convinced this is the perfect coping mechanism, but right now it seems to be a fairly accessible. When I think something is terrible, it's always possible to find a worse thing. There is something slightly cathartic in that.

So even though life isn't as fairy tale as I’d like it to be right now, and there is no way I could be the spokesperson for how to gracefully punch stress in the face; things could most definitely worse. I could be Lindsey Lohan. Yikes.

Eavestopping

The other day I was quietly standing near a conversation I was rather interested in. I was not a part of the conversation in any way, shape or form, but I was very intent on quiet, harmless, non-participation. So I stood there, listening closely looking as normal and breezy as I could manage.

Shortly after I was fully immersed in active although not technically welcomed listening, a sweet old lady came up to me. She grabbed my arm and went on and on about something I really could care very little about. My mom has always made me be nice to old people so I did my best to seem pleasant and act like I was paying attention. I was seriously stuck in politeness prison. I was technically preoccupied, but there was simply no safe way to explain that. Left with no enjoyable options, I sucked it up and put on my happy face. I nodded and smiled in response to whatever she was saying all while trying real hard to focus my other ear on the tantalizing voices just a few feet away. Seconds painfully passed until chatty grandma left me alone, hopefully not realizing I had no idea what she was talking about. Anxiously I returned my full attention to the conversation that was now over...fudgepops! Nothing could be more aggravating.

There really is just no polite way to ask someone to stop talking to your face so you can continue eavesdropping on some other far more interesting conversation. What is a girl to do?

Minute to Win It?

I was just watching a new game show where contestants are asked to perform random, seemingly simple and random yet ridiculously challenging tasks in less than a minute. The person to accomplish the most rounds can win some absurd amount of money.

The edition I tuned into was filled with former beauty queens. The wardrobe and camera angles were just a little too skewed for me, but really I just couldn't handle watching these girls humiliate themselves on national television. I thought surely they'd have some skill allowing them to get a decent job, but then one girl cried over unfortunately stacked cups.

About 10 seconds later, I realized how appealing this game would be for members of my religious social network. Silly, simple challenges with only community-specific prestige at stake. The kids will love it.

Why is it that when someone says 'competition' we are so eager to willingly embarrass ourselves? Excuse me while I go beef-up my cup stacking skills...

All the Small Things

Yesterday I had an appointment with the eye doctor. I got a sweet parking spot right up front so naturally I gave myself a mental high five. Then I hopped out of my car into a huge puddle. Oh right, that's why it was available. What a sucker.

The Doc asked me how much I smoked.
Me: Excuse me?
Doc: It says here (pointing to the screen) you smoke.
Me: No, no I don't. Look at this amazing skin.

Then he proceeded to drill me on personal information to make sure I was in fact the person sitting in the chair needing a check up and not the the random assortment of facts making up some person on his computer screen.

Me: Sir, I promise. I don’t smoke.
Doc: Hm...(rather discriminant) Must have been a typo.
Me: Um yeah, pretty sure.

He lowered my prescription by a lot which explains all my recently traumatic headaches. Phew. I got out of the chair feeling so proud of my eyes. They have corrected themselves to compensate for the beautifully massive high resolution computer screen I get paid to stare at all day long. They are so smart. As I walked over to the sink to put my new contacts, I searched around only to find the mirror was far out of my visual range. I glanced over at the Doc who was handing me the much more accessible child's mirror with a sympathetic smirk. Thanks.

Later, I stopped by the Wal-Mart to pick up some milk. I walked by the produce section and saw mini bananas. I had to adopt them. They are adorable. I walked by another aisle and saw purple plastic cups. I had to buy them. They are purple. After the cashier rung up all my essential items, I proceeded to stand on my tippy-toes to reach the thingy to swipe my card and sign my name. Now I have been too short for a lot of things, but I’ve never been too short to spend money. Really, Wal-Mart, when did you add the height restrictions? C'est la vie

That's New

Today I ran in a dress. I thought it would be really awkward, but I kind of liked it. I think I’m going to try it more often. Those tennis chicks may really be on to something.

I was running to catch a bus. When I got on the bus I got very dizzy. We will never know if it was the run or the bus, but good thing I carry Dramamine in my purse now. Curse you David Bowie!

Tonight I have to walk home in the rain in a dress and flip-flops. I have a feeling it will not be as fun as finding out how glorious it is to run in a dress.

You just can’t plan for some things. I love Austin, it keeps you on your toes.

On a totally unrelated note, I recently learned that 'con man' is short for 'confidence man'. It makes perfect sense and somehow it changes everything.

Otis

Sad news hit the Hall household yesterday. Our family dog was hit and killed by a careless driver.

As the shock set in I was surprised how much it affected me. Our family is not really a dog family; we are cat people. We don’t know how to give the attention required of dogs and yet Otis found a way into our hearts and became a part of our family.

He was quite the character our little, overweight pug. He couldn’t sleep without snoring, control his portions or jump on the couch, but he was sweet and innocent. He would stand by the window and wait for us to come home, not giving you a moment to breath before demanding a belly pat. He could run surprisingly fast when it was time for a bath or a nail clipping. It took 3 people to hold him down for medicine time. He was filled with dedication and loyalty. He warned us when cars drove by, when cats came downstairs and when he was hungry. He followed us around the house (when we had food) and kept our feet warm in the winter. We trained him to do a few tricks and that was always entertaining. He was an expert swimming and stair hopper. He was such a good sport about being dressed up. In his spare time he roamed the neighborhood, keeping things in order. Everyone knew and loved him (except for the crazy lady next door, but we ignored her anyway). He didn’t really love being outside unless of course you wanted him to stay inside, then he’d stare you down in the middle of the road just daring for a chase back home. He loved nothing more than to curl up next to us and take a nap.

It’s remarkable how attached we become to animals. Otis was getting really old and suffered increasing health problems, but I could never imagine him not being there when I came home. I always felt like Otis really appreciated the simple things in life and he was always happy. We loved him and he will forever be a Hall.

Goodbye, Otis, we will miss you, and I have no doubt there is an all you can eat buffet in doggie heaven just for you.

Patriotic Explosion

After my tribute to Canada, I really wanted to say something profound or touching about America. I started, then stopped many times trying to flesh out an awesome analogy about fireworks. I paused recalling childhood memories of the hot nights on the 4th of July. No string of words managed to accurately express my feelings about how American I am.

I find it hard to think about our Nation’s past without getting a little choked up. I really don’t know what it’s like to fight for my freedom. I don’t know what it’s like to risk my life for my family, my home, my beliefs; I’ve been blessed with it all. I simply cannot imagine a life full of oppression and fear or the inability to express my opinions or demand simple justice. How lucky I am to be here, in this time, to enjoy all the things in life that so many people before me and even now fight for every single day. To all those who cast aside fear, who stood with courage for what they knew was right, I can only offer my humble gratitude and highest respect.

This past 4th of July I spent the evening with friends as close as family. We watched the broadcast of the D.C. firework display. It is the same as I remember watching live on the lawn as a kid. We then blew up our own fun in the street. I am not really sure how fireworks became a staple of our Independence Day, but I know I can’t celebrate without them. Just as music brightens my soul, fireworks bring about feelings of pride, excitement, resolve and unity. No matter the time or place, that really is what America is to me.

Happy birthday, America. I love you.

O Canada

Today is Canada Day. I figure it is their version of our America Day. To honor them, I’m pondering all the things I know about Canada.

They have a maple leaf on their flag, but at least it’s red. I went to Canada once. They own half of Niagara Falls. I had to use funny coins to buy a beverage when we were on that side. That was exciting.

One year in college, I lived across the way from a Canadian. She was funny, friendly, beautiful and normal. I liked her. I gave her the unique nickname of Canada. I’m pretty sure she liked it. She taught me the Canadian anthem. Ours is better.

My mom served a mission in Quebec. It was so cold she still cannot speak about it without shivering.

I’ve watched Strange Brew more than is humanly necessary. They really like beers. Rick Moranis rocks. Also, it is still fun to say ‘eh’ excessively.

There was a Canadian in my career development course. He was not of the pleasant variety. There may have been a passionate, verbal discussion between us during one class. The professor could do nothing but stare in awesome wonder. I closed by telling him to go back to Canada. A year later he showed up in my home ward as a missionary. He definitely remembered me. Karma.

They sold a lot of silly hats during the 2002 Winter Olympics.

Ryan Reynolds is Canadian.

O Canada, our brisk neighbor, thank you for shielding us from the Arctic, providing an endless amount of hilarity and taking care of all the moose. You're not all hosers.

Single de Mayo

I got an email yesterday from an online dating site. They were offering a special deal for Cinco de May, 5/5 = 25% off registration. Who doesn't love clever math and marginally offensive advertising? If only they included a piñata...I might not still be single on the 6th of May.

Score!

This morning I got a golden parking spot on the ground level of the seven story parking garage. This is like the rarest of the rarest occurrences for someone as tardy as me. Something in the cosmos must have aligned today and dumped all its glory on me. Needless to say, I did an awesome dance of humble success outside my parked car. I really hope the security cameras caught that one because it’s a keeper.

Today is going to be a good day.

Easter Pickles

A few years ago I sat down at the dining room table for Easter dinner with the family. The table was bright and set as usual with a beautiful honey ham, deviled eggs, Steve’s jello salad, potatoes, some greens, some fruit and…pickles. Pickles. Hm. That is an unusual thing to be on our table all by their lonesome in a pretty dish, I thought to myself. So, me being me, proceeded with something like this:

Me: What is with the pickles?
Mom: Uh Stephanie, they are pickles, you eat them.
Me: I know, but like are they special or are we supposed to do anything with them?
Mom: Yeah, you eat them.
Me: I know, but we never just have pickles on the table unless we have like hamburgers or something. (this it totally true by the way)
Mom: Stephanie, they are just pickles, if you don’t want them don’t eat them.
Me: Hm ok, but it’s weird.
Mom: It’s not weird, they are just PICKLES!
Me: Ok, yikes, I’m sorry.

I didn’t eat the Easter pickles that year out of sheer confusion.

That was all it took. Now every year we have pickles on the table for Easter. They are a family tradition. A random placement that turned into a mandatory item we all now love and laugh about.

Thanks to this year’s Easter pickles, I was thinking a lot about traditions this weekend. I went to an egg hunting/coloring party where we had some non-American born guests. They were fascinated by our hunting and coloring of eggs. It had never really occurred to me that this was almost solely an American tradition and how funny that was. I don’t know exactly how the tradition came about, I’ve heard a few theories. My guess, it came about the same way our Easter pickles did. Somebody just decided to try something new and it stuck. What makes some last so long is what they start meaning to us, individually.

Even if created haphazard, traditions are a beautiful thing. They often provide joyous anticipation, bring back wonderful memories and offer something to share and pass on. It would take me forever to write down all the traditions that have become a part of my life. Some have expired, some are brand new and some have been around and will live on forever. I don’t know why I color Easter eggs, but I know it reminds me of spring, being around friends and family and that alone brings a smile to my face. I will never understand why there were pickles in a dish that Easter, but I know now they remind me of my mom and being at home with people I love. That is enough for the Easter pickles to always have a special place in my heart from now on.

Ides of Memories

“Beware of the Ides of March,” Julius Caesar is warned…a tad bit late. Did you know there is a toga run in Rome to celebrate this day? I’m going to start one.

I didn’t know much about this “holiday” until my later college years when theatrical BYU students pranced around quoting Shakespeare all day. Unfortunately, this wasn’t really an odd occurrence so it took me a while to recognize the significance to the date.

When I returned back to Austin, I was surprised to find there was in fact a collection of celebrators who also embraced the holiday in the classiest of ways. They put on a Shakespeare show! Cast members would prepare and present various adaptations of the famed originals. It was brilliant! We sadly skipped this tradition last year and as it occurred to me this morning, it was sadly overlooked again. A true tragedy.

I remember past events: a controversial kiss between two friends in the climatic scenes of Romeo and Juliet that is still talked about. A ghettofied version of the Macbeth’s witches three and the hilariously driest delivery of Julies Cesar I’ve ever witnessed. One year, I was somehow volunteered to be Juliet in a quick and witty opener as co-emcee. I managed to miss the queue and it never started. Mid-festival people began to ask what happened to R&J, which coerced us onto the stage at the end. I hung longingly out of the balcony with a very clever script displayed on a laptop next to me. After my very passionate, “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo,” the computer knocked over, the screen went blank and I was left to my own devices. Red-faced and totally clueless, I stumbled through what can only be described as the most technologically awkward Juliet of all time. “O Romeo, the screen has blanketh and my computer has faileth, but alas what is a rose by any other rose, other than rose.” Oh how I wish that were not a direct quote.

Shakespeare must have been rolling…in his grave. Alas, it was an offbeat hit, a very palpable hit. No doubt it will stand as one of my most memorable performances of all time.

Regardless of what lack of thespian talent existed, the Idles of March was always a wonderful experience. Great friends, beautiful art, hearty laughs and endearing memories. For someone like me who often overlooks the finer arts for fast paced modern tales, I will never forget those sweet moments when embracing classic tales of life, loss and love meant more to me than any cheesy romantic comedy.

So, Ides of March, thank you for the memories and little reminders of the beauty in written word, friends and life. After all, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.

London Bridge

I am a very short woman and I am ok with it. It adds to my cute preciousness and keeps me looking youthful. There are times when this presents interesting challenges like sometimes things are just out of my view or physical range. It can be slightly awkward in a store when I have to call for help reaching something or wait around for someone walking by to take pity on me as I teeter on my tippy toes before resorting to climbing the shelves. Yes, I have done this, and yes I have made a lot of things fall over. Luckily at home I am equipped with a step ladder and a very tall, leggy roommate so, as far as reaching things, I have learned to reasonably adapt with my disability.

Shortness also often seems to equate with immaturity and/or incapability. I am often mistaken for a weak high school girl, which I certainly don't mind in cases of heavy lifting. However, when it comes to buying cough medicine or spray paint my ID is ridiculously scrutinized. One time a guy asked me if it was my older sisters card. Really guy? Just give me the NyQuil! There was even an incident at the airport when I was asked where my mother was and if I was old enough to fly alone. Keep in mind you only have to be 12 to travel alone...I was 25. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind looking younger and I will be most grateful for it in my 50's, but for now I'm really not a huge fan of waitresses, who are most certainly younger than me, calling me kiddo.

Lastly, doors. My disability does not affect my capacity for opening most doors, but I'm a lady so I appreciate the chivalrous gesture of a politely opened door, slight tip of the hat and a good day ma'am on any occasion. However, I'm slightly confused about the kind stranger who asses my height, opens the door and keeps his hand there, above my head, motioning for me to travel under his arm. It's true I don't have to duck and I will graciously accept the offer, but dude, that was a totally awkward game of London Bridge.

Well, it’s colorful.

My mother is a saint. Seriously, if she were Catholic and dead (and I’m grateful she is neither) she would have achieved Sainthood. This is not only because she puts up with all my fiery nonsense but because she is the Queen of the Golden Rule. She never says an unkind thing about anything or anyone except Bill Clinton, she really hated him. She is slow to anger and quick to forgive. She smiles, she laughs, she feeds, she helps, she cares, she dances, she loves and she is way smart. She is the best and I certainly don’t come anywhere near her outstanding character but at least I have an excellent benchmark and I get to claim her.

Anyway, although my mother is very kind she also has very strong opinions and she is not afraid to make them known when need be. Don’t you dare try to sneak any extra charges on her bill. However, with her children, she often chooses the kindly ambiguous approach which I’m certain is intended to avoid bursting our delicate bubbles.

Example: in 3rd grade I picked out my own outfit for class photo day. I proudly selected a white sweatshirt with neon flowers, bright teal sweatpants and 4 assorted neon colored socks that I carefully stacked on top of each other. In my defense I totally matched and it was the 80’s. I came out of my room and my mom smiled, titled her head and said, “Well…it’s certainly colorful”. I will never forget those words and I will never throw out that photo. I wish I still had that sweatshirt.

Over time it has become very easy to tell when mom doesn't totally agree with our choices but nevertheless still stands close by as a great support. Over the Christmas break my brother, as he often does, went through a fierce ‘build things’ spurt. He crafted this beautiful, custom-made entertainment center equipped with under-glow lighting for my mom. It’s absolutely brilliant. In addition, he felt that in order to properly display such a perfect piece of carpentry the accent wall must be repainted. He waited for my mom to head to work and then he and my other brothers ‘garage mixed’ a custom paint color to slap on the wall in record speed. At this point keep in mind that my brothers are all very color blind. One of them still has a purple, and I mean purple comforter on his bed. Hilarious story for another time. Anyway, I stopped by my mom’s house later in the evening and was immediately accosted by a bright peacock blue living room. Now, I love the actual color, in fact I painted my room a very similar color before but, to say the very least, it simple will not do in my mother’s living room with a forest green couch and rich, royal toned curtains.

“Whoa,” I immediately exclaim, “my eyes, my eyes!”

My mother emerges from the back room, “So, you noticed?”

“Uh yeah,” again I exclaim in a very concerned shrill, “did you see it?”

With a sweet smile and a slight head tilt she gently sighs, “Yes and well...it’s colorful.”

She joyfully follows with, “the boys are so proud.”

I could not contain my laughter as all my brothers lined up with very proud grins and blue paint all over the place.

It’s true, the boys were so very proud and they really didn't know that this combination was 6 times worse than my 3rd grade outfit. Even after I have strongly suggested about 10 better shades the boys should paint the wall, it remains a bursting brilliant blue to this day. Turns out, it doesn't matter to my mom, her boys painted that wall and she loves it. It is, after all, colorful.