My last college class ever. Earth Science is my only Friday class, and we are a little upset that Dr. Nichols is making us watch a movie.
"What a weird end to our college career," I whisper to Kimi and Ciera.
After class we walk down Caf Lane, a little disappointed at how anticlimactic this last day of college classes turned out to be. Dr. Nichols left class after he put in the VHS about Supernovas. He never came back.
I get into line in front of the Cafeteria with Katrin and my brother. The Caf gets worse and worse as the year dwindles down. Especially for a vegetarian, there are few options, so I grab a veggie burger from the Grill and some potatoes and green beans from the Classics line.
I get a glass of water and make my way to the silverware as I spot my roommate Abby at a nearby table. I step in front of the silverware table, but there is something on the ground. It's wet, and I begin to slip. It's like slow motion. Had I not been holding my water glass in my right hand and my plate and phone in my left, I would have easily been able to grab the table and catch my balance.
No such luck. My feet slip completely out from under me. In an attempt to not fall completely on my butt, I put my left hand out behind me. This means everything I was holding in my left hand goes flying onto the floor. My plate shatters.
I am sitting on the ground next to shards of plate interspersed with veggie burger, mashed potatoes, green beans, and my phone right in the middle of the pile.
I look up at the Dining Hall to see hundreds of faces turn toward me. Not two seconds later, the entire Cafeteria is clapping.
I've been dreading this moment my entire college career. Every time someone drops something in the Cafeteria, there is some sort of applause. I am pretty clumsy, so I was pretty surprised that up until this point I had never had one of these Caf accidents.
Well, this last day of school made up for my four years of never dropping a plate. The worst part is that I have to go back in and get more food. I see my brother in line at the Grill and ask if he heard my applause.
"That was you?" he asks. But he isn't surprised.
After lunch I am still sitting at a table with Abby. Syd and Katrin come over to laugh at me.
"Wait," Katrin asks me. "Did you fall right there?" She points to the silverware.
"Yeah."
"Was there something on the ground?"
"Yeah, there was water or something."
Katrin turns to Syd. "It was you!"
It turns out Syd had spilled just a little bit of lemonade as he grabbed his silverware. When Katrin heard the crash, she wondered if it had been Syd's fault. Of course, the one time I fall in my entire four years at this school, it is my brother's fault.
For the rest of the day, people come up to me and ask if I'm okay. Or say, "Hey, I saw you in the Caf..." Or they just point and laugh.
Thank you, Nicholson Dining Commons, for an eventful four years. I'm not sure I can say you will be missed, but you will at least be remembered.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Remembering Dale
“Have you voted yet, Abby?” Dale asked as I walked into class on Election Day.
I told him I hadn’t and gave him my excuses, but he shook his head in disappointment. He wasn’t as disappointed as he made himself out to be, though. Dale was never completely serious. Every Tuesday and Thursday night when the 20 or so students straggled into our 6:00pm Editing class, Dale made as many jokes as he could, all at our expense. However, none of us minded being teased by Dale; he was almost like a father figure.
At the end of the night, as we all packed up to leave a little before 7:15 (Dale usually let us out a little bit early. He once told me it was just for me: he wanted to make sure I didn’t miss any of Glee.), Dale addressed me as I walked out the side door.
“Abby, there’s still time for you to hit the polls!”
Being college students, we, of course, all heard “poles” rather than “polls.” What was Dale suggesting I spend my Tuesday night doing? A couple friends and I glanced at each other, trying to figure out what our professor was insinuating.
“Oh!” I realized after a minute. “The election polls!”
Another day, it just happened to be Brenda’s birthday, the phone rang in the middle of class.
“All the years I’ve taught in this classroom, the phone has never rung once,” Dale said as he walked to the back of the room.
“Hello?” we heard him say as he picked up the phone.
“No, Brenda cannot come out and play.”
“I’m sorry; we’re in class right now. Good bye.”
We were all very confused, Brenda probably the most. We asked Dale who had just called, and he wouldn’t tell us for a minute. After more prodding, though, he finally told us what had happened.
“There was no one there; it was a dial tone.”
I guess it’s fitting that a professor of Editing would always keep us on our toes. As we sat in class editing stories, he would sneak up behind us. At times I would be glued to the computer screen, feel a presence behind me, and turn to see Dale’s face right over my shoulder. He made Kimi scream a few times.
There are so many more stories I could tell about Dale. Every day we spent with him, he was an endless source of entertainment. Except for the last day of class.
I was rushing to class because I was about five minutes late. Dale wouldn’t care, but I still felt bad. I was late because my roommate had just done my hair so that I had a braid starting in the back of my head and looping around behind my ear. I was surprised when I reached the classroom and found the entire class standing outside. Dale was always there before us.
A student with an iPhone checked to see if he had sent an email; he hadn’t. We waited for probably another ten minutes. There is a rule that students are allowed to leave if a professor is a certain number of minutes late, but none of us would want to miss out on Dale’s class.
He finally walked into the building. He looked weak and pale.
“Nice hair,” he said to me as he let us into the classroom. He then said he had to go to the bathroom. We all stared at each other, wondering what was wrong. My seat was closest to the door, and five minutes later when he came back, I saw him attempt to open the door, but then stop for a minute. He looked dizzy and lightheaded. The door was heavy, but he had never had a problem with it before.
That day he taught us with a straight face. There was no chatter among the students. We couldn’t really pay attention, though. We were all on Google Chat, messaging each other:
“What is wrong with Dale?”
“=(”
“Look, he is wearing a hospital bracelet.”
Dale didn’t make any jokes as we all said goodbye.
We found out later that he had had a blood clot in his heart. The next week, which was our finals week, he had a quintuple bypass surgery.
The last email Dale sent us, on the morning of that last class period, said:
“Tis sad…but tonight is our last class before the final. So bring crying towels in addition to your TOYS story.”
Little did we know that we really would need crying towels, but not until the next month when we went to his memorial service.
I think of Dale Fetherling every time I use my AP Stylebook or see a Welsh Corgi (my favorite dog, and also the breed of Dale’s dog, Wink). As I pursue a career in editing, I know that no one has helped me as much as Dale, and I just hope I can be as fun and quirky of an editor as he was.
I told him I hadn’t and gave him my excuses, but he shook his head in disappointment. He wasn’t as disappointed as he made himself out to be, though. Dale was never completely serious. Every Tuesday and Thursday night when the 20 or so students straggled into our 6:00pm Editing class, Dale made as many jokes as he could, all at our expense. However, none of us minded being teased by Dale; he was almost like a father figure.
At the end of the night, as we all packed up to leave a little before 7:15 (Dale usually let us out a little bit early. He once told me it was just for me: he wanted to make sure I didn’t miss any of Glee.), Dale addressed me as I walked out the side door.
“Abby, there’s still time for you to hit the polls!”
Being college students, we, of course, all heard “poles” rather than “polls.” What was Dale suggesting I spend my Tuesday night doing? A couple friends and I glanced at each other, trying to figure out what our professor was insinuating.
“Oh!” I realized after a minute. “The election polls!”
Another day, it just happened to be Brenda’s birthday, the phone rang in the middle of class.
“All the years I’ve taught in this classroom, the phone has never rung once,” Dale said as he walked to the back of the room.
“Hello?” we heard him say as he picked up the phone.
“No, Brenda cannot come out and play.”
“I’m sorry; we’re in class right now. Good bye.”
We were all very confused, Brenda probably the most. We asked Dale who had just called, and he wouldn’t tell us for a minute. After more prodding, though, he finally told us what had happened.
“There was no one there; it was a dial tone.”
I guess it’s fitting that a professor of Editing would always keep us on our toes. As we sat in class editing stories, he would sneak up behind us. At times I would be glued to the computer screen, feel a presence behind me, and turn to see Dale’s face right over my shoulder. He made Kimi scream a few times.
There are so many more stories I could tell about Dale. Every day we spent with him, he was an endless source of entertainment. Except for the last day of class.
I was rushing to class because I was about five minutes late. Dale wouldn’t care, but I still felt bad. I was late because my roommate had just done my hair so that I had a braid starting in the back of my head and looping around behind my ear. I was surprised when I reached the classroom and found the entire class standing outside. Dale was always there before us.
A student with an iPhone checked to see if he had sent an email; he hadn’t. We waited for probably another ten minutes. There is a rule that students are allowed to leave if a professor is a certain number of minutes late, but none of us would want to miss out on Dale’s class.
He finally walked into the building. He looked weak and pale.
“Nice hair,” he said to me as he let us into the classroom. He then said he had to go to the bathroom. We all stared at each other, wondering what was wrong. My seat was closest to the door, and five minutes later when he came back, I saw him attempt to open the door, but then stop for a minute. He looked dizzy and lightheaded. The door was heavy, but he had never had a problem with it before.
That day he taught us with a straight face. There was no chatter among the students. We couldn’t really pay attention, though. We were all on Google Chat, messaging each other:
“What is wrong with Dale?”
“=(”
“Look, he is wearing a hospital bracelet.”
Dale didn’t make any jokes as we all said goodbye.
We found out later that he had had a blood clot in his heart. The next week, which was our finals week, he had a quintuple bypass surgery.
The last email Dale sent us, on the morning of that last class period, said:
“Tis sad…but tonight is our last class before the final. So bring crying towels in addition to your TOYS story.”
Little did we know that we really would need crying towels, but not until the next month when we went to his memorial service.
I think of Dale Fetherling every time I use my AP Stylebook or see a Welsh Corgi (my favorite dog, and also the breed of Dale’s dog, Wink). As I pursue a career in editing, I know that no one has helped me as much as Dale, and I just hope I can be as fun and quirky of an editor as he was.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Where to Meet Guys: Fashion Nail
Every girl needs to get her nails done every once in a while. Especially in the middle of the semester, when everything gets really crazy, it's good to take some "me" time every once in a while.
So last week Katrin, Alicia, and I decided to go down to Fashion Nails, our favorite nail salon on Rosecrans. It is, of course, run by cute little Asian ladies. And they only charge $19.99 for a Mani Pedi!
We went in at about 6:30, picked out our colors, and were each assigned to a cute little Asian lady. As usual, I picked out the brightest, most obnoxious pink I could find. When I get my nails done, I like people to notice.
I was the first to get my nails painted and was sent to the driers at the front of the salon while Katrin and Alicia got their nails painted in the back. I stuck my hands in the hand drier and my toes in the toe drier and sat gazing out the window at Rosecrans Street. It wasn't very exciting, but my nails were wet, so I didn't dare open People Magazine to find out what Carrie Underwood had to teach me about style. (Too bad, too, I would have really liked to find some jeans to fit my body and budget.)
I glanced at the magazine cover from time to time, but mostly just stared blankly into the darkness of the street. A few people walked by, but not too many because by this time it was about 7:30. However, as I stared out the window, a face suddenly appeared. A rather attractive man of about 30 stood with his face inches away from the window, smiling at me.
I am generally a friendly person, so I smiled back. He and his friend walked past the open door about ten feet away from me and he yelled in, "Hey! What's up?"
"Hi..." I replied, a little hesitantly. He and his friend then walked across the street to Jack in the Box. I giggled to myself and glanced at Carrie Underwood again.
Ten minutes later I looked up to see the two guys walking back across the street. Instead of just walking past the window again, the guy who had smiled and said hi earlier walked in the front door of Fashion Nails.
"Hey! How's it going?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Pretty good..." I replied, smiling.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, you know... just got my nails done."
"Oh yeah? How much did that cost?"
I have never met a guy who was so interested in nails.
"So, what's that thing your hands are in?"
"It dries them..."
"Oh, so it just blows on them? I could do that for you."
We made small talk for another couple minutes before we said our goodbyes.
"We always see girls sitting there staring out the window," my new friend told me. "It was really nice of you to smile back and say hi; usually they just stare back like 'huh?'."
Katrin and Alicia finished up in the back, and we all walked out to Alicia's car.
"Did you see my friend?" I asked.
"Yeah!" Alicia said. "Did you know him?"
I told her the story, and she laughed and said something like that would happen to me.
"Yeah, I do have some random stories," I agreed. "But I never thought I would get hit on at Fashion Nail."
So last week Katrin, Alicia, and I decided to go down to Fashion Nails, our favorite nail salon on Rosecrans. It is, of course, run by cute little Asian ladies. And they only charge $19.99 for a Mani Pedi!
We went in at about 6:30, picked out our colors, and were each assigned to a cute little Asian lady. As usual, I picked out the brightest, most obnoxious pink I could find. When I get my nails done, I like people to notice.
I was the first to get my nails painted and was sent to the driers at the front of the salon while Katrin and Alicia got their nails painted in the back. I stuck my hands in the hand drier and my toes in the toe drier and sat gazing out the window at Rosecrans Street. It wasn't very exciting, but my nails were wet, so I didn't dare open People Magazine to find out what Carrie Underwood had to teach me about style. (Too bad, too, I would have really liked to find some jeans to fit my body and budget.)
I glanced at the magazine cover from time to time, but mostly just stared blankly into the darkness of the street. A few people walked by, but not too many because by this time it was about 7:30. However, as I stared out the window, a face suddenly appeared. A rather attractive man of about 30 stood with his face inches away from the window, smiling at me.
I am generally a friendly person, so I smiled back. He and his friend walked past the open door about ten feet away from me and he yelled in, "Hey! What's up?"
"Hi..." I replied, a little hesitantly. He and his friend then walked across the street to Jack in the Box. I giggled to myself and glanced at Carrie Underwood again.
Ten minutes later I looked up to see the two guys walking back across the street. Instead of just walking past the window again, the guy who had smiled and said hi earlier walked in the front door of Fashion Nails.
"Hey! How's it going?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Pretty good..." I replied, smiling.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, you know... just got my nails done."
"Oh yeah? How much did that cost?"
I have never met a guy who was so interested in nails.
"So, what's that thing your hands are in?"
"It dries them..."
"Oh, so it just blows on them? I could do that for you."
We made small talk for another couple minutes before we said our goodbyes.
"We always see girls sitting there staring out the window," my new friend told me. "It was really nice of you to smile back and say hi; usually they just stare back like 'huh?'."
Katrin and Alicia finished up in the back, and we all walked out to Alicia's car.
"Did you see my friend?" I asked.
"Yeah!" Alicia said. "Did you know him?"
I told her the story, and she laughed and said something like that would happen to me.
"Yeah, I do have some random stories," I agreed. "But I never thought I would get hit on at Fashion Nail."
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Lost in the Woods
One beautiful day in Eureka the Hills family was visiting from San Diego. It must have been summer because it was so sunny and warm; I think they were on their way to visit some family in Idaho or Oregon.
I decided to take the girls (Maggie, who was about my age, and Dakota, her little sister) on a walk. I live on a little lane with just a couple other houses, and at the end of the lane is a gate that leads to the woods.
I have never been afraid of the woods. Maybe it's because I have grown up surrounded by trees. As long as I remember I have gone for walks on trails in the woods, and apparently I've always made it out alright. My good friend Nina and I used to go walk in the woods. We never knew where we were going, but we always popped out somewhere familiar before too long. The trails always lead out, so what is there to fear? And besides, I have an excellent sense of direction.
So at about 5:00pm the two out-of-towners and I began our trek in the woods. It started out as the exact same walk I had taken many times before. The beginning is always familiar, but we take slightly different routes every time we go. Once Nina and I had to cross a pretty big stream. Another time we walked through an overgrown field for twenty minutes. We hit neither of these landmarks, so after a little while everything on this walk was new.
We walked along the trails in the woods for about an hour before I thought I recognized where we were.
"I know where we are," I told my friends. "I'm pretty sure we're really close to my friend Kyle's house." So I led them along these trails, which I was sure I had been on before.
Half an hour later we were still on those same familiar trails. When we passed the same tire for the third time we decided to take the fork there that went the other way. But somehow this trail ended up leading us back to the same place.
Now we were starting to get a little bit worried. It was starting to get dark, none of us had a cell phone with us, and I had finally admitted that I had no idea where we were going.
We continued to take different forks in the trails, but somehow they all led back to the same place. We were lost.
It's funny how much scarier being lost is once the sun starts setting. I hadn't been concerned at all when our paths were still brightly lit, but now that all was getting darker, I was starting to doubt my navigational skills more and more.
But we kept going. We are not the type to give up.
All of a sudden Dakota screamed. Three figures ran toward us from behind. I turned around.
"Kyle!" It was my friend running shirtless with his two dogs. One of the dogs is black and quite large, so apparently Dakota had mistaken it for a bear. But I had never been so excited to see Kyle.
"What are you doing here?" he asked us, so we told him the whole story. "You just turn right here, then right again," he pointed and instructed us.
Surely enough, we had been really close to Kyle's house in Lundbar Hills, just as I had thought. We had approached the correct fork in the trail multiple times, but I guess we had always turned the wrong way.
Kyle gave us a ride back to my parents' house, and by the time we got there it was around 8:00, and they had just begun to wonder where we were.
"We just got lost in the woods," we told them.
"Oh, okay," they replied. "Well, I guess you made it."
Monday, April 11, 2011
The Touching Game
Yesterday Abby, Kri, and I were standing in line for the Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage at Disneyland at around 1:00.
As I talked to them, out of the corner of my eye I kept seeing the two guys behind us doing weird things. The guy in the aviator hat leaned over the railing and touched a plant. The guy with a beard jumped up and hit a sign. They kept making eye contact with each other as they were apparently taking turns touching things. Then I thought I saw the guy in the aviator hat poke Abby’s backpack and then look at his friend.
I continued to ignore them until the guy with the beard intentionally, and very obviously, dropped a bottle cap right next to Kri’s foot and bent down to pick it up.
We all looked at the guys.
“Are you playing a game or something?” I asked.
“Yeah,” they told us without hesitation. “It’s the touching game.”
“So…you just touch people and things?”
“Yeah,” they said. “It’s really good to play in crowded places like amusement parks.”
As the guys continued to touch people and things in line, they told us all about the touching game. Apparently it’s a game they play in amusement parks, in church, in museums, and anywhere else where there are a lot of people.
We apparently had no choice in the matter; we were now a part of the touching game. As we all waited for the ride, we tried to touch one another and other people without being noticed.
As the game continued, we began making small talk with our new friends. Abby and I told them where we were from, and the bearded guy told us they were from Ohio. Minutes later, however, he showed us his California license.
“You’re not from Ohio…”
“No, we’re not,” aviator hat guy told us. He seemed like the more reliable of the two.
We talked with them until we finally boarded our submarine, where the guys were upset that there was not really much to touch.
“Pirates of the Caribbean is the best ride for the touching game,” they told us. “You can touch everything on that ride!”
However, they high fived me when I touched our submarine operator, who was standing right behind me.
After the ride we waved goodbye to our line friends.
“Unless you want to go on a couple more rides with us…”
“Where are you going?” I asked. “We’re heading to Space Mountain.”
And just like that, we headed over to Space Mountain with our new friends. We made a stop at the Jedi Training Academy and watched the show before getting in line for the ride.
And it was in the line for Space Mountain, about two hours after we had met these guys, that we realized that none of us knew one another’s names. We introduced ourselves and learned that the bearded guy’s name was Ates (pronounced ah-TESH, or TESH for short) and the guy in the aviator hat was named Albert.
“Are you Mormon?” Ates kept asking me as we waited in line.
“No!” I told him after the fourth time. “Why do you keep asking me if I’m Mormon?”
“Are you Mormon?” Kri asked.
“Yes,” he said.
However, we soon learned from Albert that Ates is Catholic.
We ended up hanging out with these guys for the remainder of our time in Disneyland. By the end of the night there were jokes about Albert marrying and having children with all three of us girls. Ates even stopped lying to us. They came to dinner with us, where we had some surprisingly deep conversations, considering they were people who had been strangers just hours ago.
I am now Facebook friends with both of them and have Albert’s phone number. We also have tentative plans to meet up with them when we go to Disneyland again next month. It just goes to show that you never know when, where (or how!) you’ll meet cool people.
“Yeah,” Ates said after dinner before Abby, Kri, and I left for San Diego. “Usually when people catch us playing the touching game it means we need to run away. This was really cool.”
As I talked to them, out of the corner of my eye I kept seeing the two guys behind us doing weird things. The guy in the aviator hat leaned over the railing and touched a plant. The guy with a beard jumped up and hit a sign. They kept making eye contact with each other as they were apparently taking turns touching things. Then I thought I saw the guy in the aviator hat poke Abby’s backpack and then look at his friend.
I continued to ignore them until the guy with the beard intentionally, and very obviously, dropped a bottle cap right next to Kri’s foot and bent down to pick it up.
We all looked at the guys.
“Are you playing a game or something?” I asked.
“Yeah,” they told us without hesitation. “It’s the touching game.”
“So…you just touch people and things?”
“Yeah,” they said. “It’s really good to play in crowded places like amusement parks.”
As the guys continued to touch people and things in line, they told us all about the touching game. Apparently it’s a game they play in amusement parks, in church, in museums, and anywhere else where there are a lot of people.
We apparently had no choice in the matter; we were now a part of the touching game. As we all waited for the ride, we tried to touch one another and other people without being noticed.
As the game continued, we began making small talk with our new friends. Abby and I told them where we were from, and the bearded guy told us they were from Ohio. Minutes later, however, he showed us his California license.
“You’re not from Ohio…”
“No, we’re not,” aviator hat guy told us. He seemed like the more reliable of the two.
We talked with them until we finally boarded our submarine, where the guys were upset that there was not really much to touch.
“Pirates of the Caribbean is the best ride for the touching game,” they told us. “You can touch everything on that ride!”
However, they high fived me when I touched our submarine operator, who was standing right behind me.
After the ride we waved goodbye to our line friends.
“Unless you want to go on a couple more rides with us…”
“Where are you going?” I asked. “We’re heading to Space Mountain.”
And just like that, we headed over to Space Mountain with our new friends. We made a stop at the Jedi Training Academy and watched the show before getting in line for the ride.
And it was in the line for Space Mountain, about two hours after we had met these guys, that we realized that none of us knew one another’s names. We introduced ourselves and learned that the bearded guy’s name was Ates (pronounced ah-TESH, or TESH for short) and the guy in the aviator hat was named Albert.
“Are you Mormon?” Ates kept asking me as we waited in line.
“No!” I told him after the fourth time. “Why do you keep asking me if I’m Mormon?”
“Are you Mormon?” Kri asked.
“Yes,” he said.
However, we soon learned from Albert that Ates is Catholic.
We ended up hanging out with these guys for the remainder of our time in Disneyland. By the end of the night there were jokes about Albert marrying and having children with all three of us girls. Ates even stopped lying to us. They came to dinner with us, where we had some surprisingly deep conversations, considering they were people who had been strangers just hours ago.
I am now Facebook friends with both of them and have Albert’s phone number. We also have tentative plans to meet up with them when we go to Disneyland again next month. It just goes to show that you never know when, where (or how!) you’ll meet cool people.
“Yeah,” Ates said after dinner before Abby, Kri, and I left for San Diego. “Usually when people catch us playing the touching game it means we need to run away. This was really cool.”
 |
| Ates, Albert, Abby, Kri, and me! Yay for new friends! |
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Lil Wayne and Drake
Carlie and I woke up at our friend Lindsey’s house in La Mirada with no plans for the sunny November Saturday. Obviously, we had to do something exciting.
“Let’s go to China Town!” We decided. Within an hour or two we were in the car driving toward Los Angeles. We figured it would be easy to find; we had all been there before.
I guess we forgot that Los Angeles is a little bit bigger than our hometown of Eureka, because we drove around, down many one-way streets, through Little Tokyo, and past the Walt Disney Concert Hall about four times before we decided to stop at a Starbuck’s for coffee and directions.
“Down the block, turn left, and turn left again in two blocks,” the Starbuck’s worker told us. Almost positive we had already tried that, we followed his directions and, of course, drove into China Town minutes later.
The three of us were walking down the main street when Carlie and I spotted some little plastic aquariums on the tables of some of the street vendors.
“Oh my gosh!” we squealed. “Baby turtles! They’re so cute!”
“Wow,” I said to Carlie. “They’re only five dollars!”
“Do you want to get them?”
“Yes! Do you?”
“Yes!”
A Chinese woman approached us. “You want to buy?”
“Yes!”
“Five dollars for two turtles, and one dollar for food.” She handed me a bag of little brown pellets. Within 30 seconds of spotting the little creatures, Carlie and I were the owners of two baby red-eared sliders (which, we later discovered, were too small to be sold legally).
“What are you going to name them?” Lindsey asked.
“Lindsey,” I said, a little bit condescendingly. “We’re going to have to think about it for a while... Mine’s Lil Wayne!”
Apparently Carlie had thought for long enough, too. “Mine’s Drake!”
That evening we showed up at our friend Dillon’s dorm room with our new babies.
“Why did you buy those?”
“Dillon! They’re so cute!”
Dillon seemed to think it was ridiculous that we bought Lil Wayne and Drake after so little consideration. We maintained that it was a good decision because—hello!—they are so cute.
Then we realized that aquariums are kind of expensive. And that the turtles wouldn’t eat the “food” the Chinese lady had sold us. And that they needed a lamp and an island.
Our $5 turtles ended up costing us about $70 that week. But the bottom line is that we have baby turtles now. Maybe we don’t always think things through, but the outcome is almost always amazing.
“Let’s go to China Town!” We decided. Within an hour or two we were in the car driving toward Los Angeles. We figured it would be easy to find; we had all been there before.
I guess we forgot that Los Angeles is a little bit bigger than our hometown of Eureka, because we drove around, down many one-way streets, through Little Tokyo, and past the Walt Disney Concert Hall about four times before we decided to stop at a Starbuck’s for coffee and directions.
“Down the block, turn left, and turn left again in two blocks,” the Starbuck’s worker told us. Almost positive we had already tried that, we followed his directions and, of course, drove into China Town minutes later.
The three of us were walking down the main street when Carlie and I spotted some little plastic aquariums on the tables of some of the street vendors.
“Oh my gosh!” we squealed. “Baby turtles! They’re so cute!”
“Wow,” I said to Carlie. “They’re only five dollars!”
“Do you want to get them?”
“Yes! Do you?”
“Yes!”
A Chinese woman approached us. “You want to buy?”
“Yes!”
“Five dollars for two turtles, and one dollar for food.” She handed me a bag of little brown pellets. Within 30 seconds of spotting the little creatures, Carlie and I were the owners of two baby red-eared sliders (which, we later discovered, were too small to be sold legally).
“What are you going to name them?” Lindsey asked.
“Lindsey,” I said, a little bit condescendingly. “We’re going to have to think about it for a while... Mine’s Lil Wayne!”
Apparently Carlie had thought for long enough, too. “Mine’s Drake!”
That evening we showed up at our friend Dillon’s dorm room with our new babies.
“Why did you buy those?”
“Dillon! They’re so cute!”
Dillon seemed to think it was ridiculous that we bought Lil Wayne and Drake after so little consideration. We maintained that it was a good decision because—hello!—they are so cute.
Then we realized that aquariums are kind of expensive. And that the turtles wouldn’t eat the “food” the Chinese lady had sold us. And that they needed a lamp and an island.
Our $5 turtles ended up costing us about $70 that week. But the bottom line is that we have baby turtles now. Maybe we don’t always think things through, but the outcome is almost always amazing.
 |
| Drake in the front and Lil Wayne in the back. (This is the container we bought them in. Their new home is MUCH bigger and nicer.) Just look at them! They are so cute! |
Friday, April 8, 2011
No, a Fence
“Cross country is more fun,” I explained to Mike at track practice one day. “But track is safer. One time in a cross country race…”
“What?” he asked. “Did you run into a tree?”
“No, a fence.”
Mike was confused for a few seconds before he got it. “Oh, a fence! I was wondering what you could have run into that would offend me!”
It is true that I sometimes have a lack of depth perception. My sophomore year of high school I was running in a race that was at a campground and turned a corner too tight, ramming half my body into a fence. I was fine, I didn’t fall or anything, but it was a little bit embarrassing.
A couple years later, though, I ran into another fence. We met for cross country practice on the steps behind the gym. We then ran around the tennis courts and onto the street. There was a gate next to the tennis court, but about three feet of space between that gate and the fence surrounding the tennis court made it easy to get through.
Unless the person trying to get through is me. We set off on our run and I apparently misjudged how far I was away from the small gate and ran into it. My shorts got caught on the fence, so they now had a huge hole on the left side. It hurt a little bit, but I just laughed it off and kept running with my friends.
After about a mile of running I looked down and saw blood through the hole in my shorts.
“Oh my gosh, you guys! Look, I’m bleeding!” But I kept running, of course. No need to stop, it was just a little scrape.
After another half-mile the whole team stopped at the park for further instruction from Morris, our coach. Morris was standing facing most of the team, and a couple other girls and I were standing behind him.
“Oh my god! Look at Abby!” Ryan pointed and yelled in the middle of Morris’s talk. Everyone looked. And I actually looked at it for the first time. Not only were my shorts ripped and my leg bleeding, but the cut was a couple inches deep.
“Ooh, you’re going to need stitches on that,” Morris said after brief examination.
I finished the workout with blood running down my leg, then returned to school and examined the gate, which had a huge bolt sticking out the side that I had run into. I went into the gym and asked the volleyball coach for a first-aid kit. She helped me fix my leg up with some butterfly bandages and I was once again told that I should probably get stitches.
But there was a race the next day. If I got stitches, I wouldn’t be able to compete.
So the next day, instead of getting stitches, I went to the cross country meet (which just happened to be at the same campground where I had run into a fence two years prior) with butterfly bandages, gauze, a huge band-aid, and medical tape all over my left leg.
I ran the race and didn’t run into anything. I later told a friend that I “don’t believe in stitches.” While that’s not true, I do think that because I didn’t get stitches, I have a much cooler scar.
“What?” he asked. “Did you run into a tree?”
“No, a fence.”
Mike was confused for a few seconds before he got it. “Oh, a fence! I was wondering what you could have run into that would offend me!”
It is true that I sometimes have a lack of depth perception. My sophomore year of high school I was running in a race that was at a campground and turned a corner too tight, ramming half my body into a fence. I was fine, I didn’t fall or anything, but it was a little bit embarrassing.
A couple years later, though, I ran into another fence. We met for cross country practice on the steps behind the gym. We then ran around the tennis courts and onto the street. There was a gate next to the tennis court, but about three feet of space between that gate and the fence surrounding the tennis court made it easy to get through.
Unless the person trying to get through is me. We set off on our run and I apparently misjudged how far I was away from the small gate and ran into it. My shorts got caught on the fence, so they now had a huge hole on the left side. It hurt a little bit, but I just laughed it off and kept running with my friends.
After about a mile of running I looked down and saw blood through the hole in my shorts.
“Oh my gosh, you guys! Look, I’m bleeding!” But I kept running, of course. No need to stop, it was just a little scrape.
After another half-mile the whole team stopped at the park for further instruction from Morris, our coach. Morris was standing facing most of the team, and a couple other girls and I were standing behind him.
“Oh my god! Look at Abby!” Ryan pointed and yelled in the middle of Morris’s talk. Everyone looked. And I actually looked at it for the first time. Not only were my shorts ripped and my leg bleeding, but the cut was a couple inches deep.
“Ooh, you’re going to need stitches on that,” Morris said after brief examination.
I finished the workout with blood running down my leg, then returned to school and examined the gate, which had a huge bolt sticking out the side that I had run into. I went into the gym and asked the volleyball coach for a first-aid kit. She helped me fix my leg up with some butterfly bandages and I was once again told that I should probably get stitches.
But there was a race the next day. If I got stitches, I wouldn’t be able to compete.
So the next day, instead of getting stitches, I went to the cross country meet (which just happened to be at the same campground where I had run into a fence two years prior) with butterfly bandages, gauze, a huge band-aid, and medical tape all over my left leg.
I ran the race and didn’t run into anything. I later told a friend that I “don’t believe in stitches.” While that’s not true, I do think that because I didn’t get stitches, I have a much cooler scar.
 |
| After the attack! Thanks for the picture, Holly! |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)