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.