Flashback Friday: The other reason we ski

In December 1999, I went skiing for the first time while home from college on Winter break . My sister-in-law Laurel took me to Mt. Hood Meadows with her sister, and although I was the only first-timer, the entire party consisted of beginners. If you ignore the time that I almost skied right past the lift entrance, off a small cliff, and into the parking lot full of cars, it was fun and I picked up the sport reasonably quickly. Oh yes, and you'd also then have to overlook the time that Laurel and I gained undeserved confidence in our newly acquired skills, and attempted a blue run. The slope became so steep that we scooted down most of it on our butts. Other than those two minor details, great fun.

I was attending college in Provo, a small town nestled quaintly at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains in central Utah. The skiing in Utah is tremendous, which even if you don't ski, you probably realize, since the claim is immortalized on official state license plates: "Greatest Snow on Earth." After the holidays, I returned to my new apartment off campus, just down a flight of stairs from my cousin. We were best buds throughout the semester that followed, and since she has been skiing since age 3, I imagine she was pretty glad I finally learned how so we could go together.

And we did, as often as we could afford to spend the money and time away from studying (the latter sacrifice was never much of a debatable predicament for me). We viewed each mountain trip as not only a snowy escape into extreme athletics, but also a prime opportunity for flirting. We always invited guys to come along with us, and usually succeeded in finding willing participants. Whether they were privy to our ulterior motives will forever remain unknown.

Today I am sharing a collection of photos and commentary from skiing with these cute boys from my (currently seeming very distant) past. Well, actually, none of the pictures depict any actual skiing, but they were taken at ski resorts, in the snow. I am upholding my cousin's request not to post any photos of her; it is not vanity that led me to post all these pictures of myself, and I would never dream of cropping out her beautiful face if it were not out of respect for her own wishes.

flirt /flurt'/ vb: 1. to behave amorously without serious intent. 2. to trifle or toy, as with an idea [or person's fragile heart?] 3. the other reason we ski.

ALTA -- January 21, 2000

Dave and Greg

I didn't even know this Greg person. He was a friend of our friend Dave, who was standing on the other side of my cousin in this photo. Greg is pretty cute though, don't you think?

DEER VALLEY -- March 4, 2000

Mike and Pat

Ah, Mike. He remains one of my all-time favorite crushes. I think the feeling was at least somewhat mutual; at least we were pretty good friends. He was so funny!

A dogpile with Mike and Pat. I swear we did, in fact, ski on these trips too.

Aren't we adorable?

SNOWBIRD -- March 10, 2000

Miles and Ben (plus cousins Rachel and Jennifer!)

Miles (top right) and I were beginning to feel romantically toward each other--until this trip. The poor guy could not get the hang of skiing. I wouldn't hold that alone against a person, but it was hard not to feel pity rather than affection when he was so defeated, and let the embarrassment and emotion show. I never felt romantically inclined toward Ben, despite his interest. But he was a good friend, and I'll flirt with anyone for sport. He did kiss me once. And only once.

DEER VALLEY -- April 1, 2000

Ben and Nick

Disgusting picture of me, but Nick looks handsome. He was one of those guys who was very attractive until he opened his mouth. And the same Ben from above was on this trip too. My cousin and I tried out snowblades for the first time on this trip, and it was AWESOME. I think I like snowblades better than both skis and snowboard. The drawback is that they don't perform in powder (and I have some "splat" photos to prove it). They would be perfect for Mt. Hood, though. I've got to get me some.

SHOWDOWN, MONTANA -- March 18, 2000

On our trip to Montana, we went skiing with Ben (the same one) and a female friend of his from high school (we drove up to visit my sister and her new husband, and Ben grew up in the same hometown). Flirting with Ben proved not to be such a great idea, and he brought his own chick along this time anyway. So sometimes you just have to seek flirting opportunities, and create them when necessitated.

Suspended by Jason, Showdown Ski Patrol. Mmmm. The caption in my embarrassing scrapbook reads: "Who's 'patrolling' who?"

Whitewashed by Jeremy, Lift Ops. Notice the exposed skin on my back when you consider the following photo.

It is a sign of interest and affection to wrestle a person in freezing snow, right? Worked on me, obviously.

Lastly, here is a photo which embodies my idea of a perfect day on the slopes:

Forget the jacket--I want a hat, gloves, and a tank top! A very rare day here in the Cascade Range, but I have plenty of memories like this in the Rockies.

Flashback Friday: What happens in Vegas...

...eventually gets posted on my blog for your entertainment, it would seem.

Some of my best vacation memories are from the one I took after my freshman (only) year of college with my cousin Emily and her mom. My Aunt Linda invited me to join them in Las Vegas to celebrate Em's 22nd birthday...her treat!

Emily and I were basically Siamese twins during my stint at BYU. I moved out of the on-campus housing into her apartment building for the second semester. Although I was lucky enough to live in Heritage Halls, the more apartment-like dorms on campus, it all still felt like an extension of high school where you are forced to live with your pretentious classmates. What could be worse?

I was much happier living in a real apartment with real college students. Now that I'm thinking about it, I have lots of fodder for the Flashback Friday fire from that semester. But today, we're talking about the Post-finals Vegas Vacation.

One night, while Aunt Linda entertained herself with some blinking, clinking machines, Emily and I went out on the town. At this time in our lives, our priority at any given moment was to meet and flirt with cute boys. During the Bellagio fountain performance, we set sights on our prey: a couple of normal-looking guys staked out a short distance down the concrete railing who looked as though they might have a similar goal for the evening. Naturally, we struck up a witty and charming conversation, and soon learned that Dave and J.J. were both returned Mormon missionaries. We were confident that of all the men we could have picked up on in the middle of the Las Vegas Strip, these two would be a pretty safe bet. What a strange coincidence.

The rest of the evening was spent wandering through the Hot Spots of Las Vegas nightflife flirting innocuously with our new friends.

J.J., Emily, Kristen, and Dave in V Bar at the Venetian on the coolest couch ever. The only other sofa like it is owned by Madonna.

The pinnacle of our risque evening came sometime in the wee hours. We thought it would be amusing to find a wedding chapel, I suppose just to take some hilarious pictures. Not a drop of alcohol had been ingested, so there were no intentions of using the facilities for a regrettable purpose. A spontaneous wedding would be representative of a truly wild Vegas night, so I guess poking fun at it is the kind of thing a bunch of Mormon college kids do for ironic fun. When you don't drink or gamble, what's left to do in Vegas?

We meandered down to the lower level of some casino where we found the wedding chapel, nestled tastefully between storefronts, including the Harley Davidson store and a souvenir shop offering an unrivaled collection of refrigerator magnets. Unfortunately, the chapel was closed in the middle of the night. This was an unanticipated snag in our plan, considering tales of impulsive mid-night unions in Vegas abound. I guess those take place at the Church-of-Elvis types, not in chapels associated with the fancy resorts.

We weren't about to relinquish our scandalous objective though, so Dave and I posed for this intrepidly romantic photo:

Much to J.J.'s dismay, Emily was too chicken to kiss a stranger. Or at least her sense of moral integrity was more persuasive than mine. That thrill is the sort I lived for once upon a time. And this photo would have made another good schocker to send to my mom.


That story is pretty fun all on its own, but for the cherry on top, let's fast-forward three years. I had been dating Gary for about a year when his mother became engaged to the man who had been like his Step-Dad since the tender age of eight. Bonnie and Dale decided to get married in Vegas, and Gary and I took a fun road trip so we could be there to support them. Walking through the mall level of Ballys Resort brought some hazy memories to the surface. When we reached the chapel, I saw a white vinyl emblem on the window identical to the one in the photo above, and realized that Gary's parents had chosen to solemnize their marital commitment at the precise location where my rebellious teenaged escapade transpired. I took pleasure in reflecting on some treasured memories that weekend, but I don't think I ever mentioned the bizarre twist of fate to my future in-laws.

Flashback Friday: Scantily clad teens in distress

Last week I told you a story from Girls' Camp 1997. Today I'll be exposing a tale from another quintessential Mormon teen experience during the very same summer.

Between our sophomore and junior years of high school, my cousin Rachel and I took part in a program called Especially for Youth, or EFY. The session we attended was hosted at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. The premise is similar to Girls' Camp, chock-a-block full of spiritually uplifting activities and wholesome camaraderie, except EFY attendees typically reside in college dormitories instead of cabins or tents. The most fundamental difference between the two events is that while one would never consider attending Girls' Camp intending to meet cute boys, that is the primary motivation of a teen heading across state lines to EFY.

Possibly due to the logistics of flight schedules, or possibly because our parents couldn't wait any longer to be rid of us, Rachel and I arrived on campus a day early. For a couple of moderately rebellious nearly-16-year-olds, the freedom was exhilarating. The campus was deserted, as it was summer term. Our parental release forms stated that there would be "minimal supervision in the housing area" for early arrivers. Awesome. We hit the local convenience store to stock up on necessities such as Cheese-Whiz and Twizzlers, and decided that we also couldn't survive the week without a couple of ringing toy cell phones filled with gumballs. This was back before children had their own cell phones, so they undoubtedly held the mystique of novelty.

My embarrassing scrapbook says that we stayed up until 3 a.m. “decorating” our dorm room. Corresponding photos indicate that the decorations consisted of collages of our high school friends and ROXY magazine ads, a Simpsons poster, and copious hand-written signs Scotch-taped to the painted cinderblock walls. The signs are barely legible in the small photos, but I can make out the words “Top Ten” on several, presumably homage to David Letterman, and I speculate that the rest are Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey.

We opened our plastic phones and smacked away on the neon spheres of gum within. For some reason I felt that the sticker representing my phone’s buttons and screens was impeding my ability to fully enjoy it. This sticker was a stubborn one, so I attempted washing it off in the dorm room sink. The effort was minimally successful.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, in what can only be explained as an attempt to increase our defiance quotient, we put on our bikinis. Our motivation for doing so is one piece of this memory tapestry that made no lasting imprint.

The teenage gaiety carried on: comparing photos of our boyfriends and discussing which swear words were cool and which were just going "too far.” Then all of a sudden, my imitation cell phone, previously drying peacefully near the sink, started ringing. And ringing. The tinny, electronic tune kept repeating over and over again. We jumped up and started pushing all the buttons, pleading with it to shut up. It soon became evident that there would be no stopping the foul beast. A couple of minutes passed, with the irritating song playing again and again. At last we couldn’t take it anymore.

Rachel snatched the miserable piece of black plastic from the carpet where it was last stomped upon, threw open our door, ran into the hall, and hurled it down the hall against the opposing cement wall. With a loud crack, the horrid, whiny refrain ceased, and brightly colored gumballs spewed in every direction. The candy-fiend in me instinctually sprung into action, sprawling across the floor to retrieve the errant bits of gum.

Suddenly, and at the very same instant, my cousin and I froze in the hallway. Turning toward our room we saw the heavy, automatically locking door slowly swinging shut, ready to seal our fate: having to wander the religious-school campus in bikinis, shoeless, searching for someone who could let us back inside. Powered by fear and adrenaline, I catapulted my half-naked body from its position scooping up cheap candy on the floor toward the quickly narrowing gap between the door and its critical latching point.

Like something out of an epic adventure movie, my hand slipped in and caught the door a mere fraction of a second before it would have been too late. Rachel and I slunk back inside our well-adorned quarters, laughing hysterically at our reckless situation. But the gravity of what nearly occurred quickly sank in. A couple of teens wandering BYU campus in the middle of the night wearing naught but bikinis would surely have warranted a very awkward phone call to our parents.

And just because it's fun to embarrass my friends on the internet:

Bridget, Julee, Kristen, and Rachel at EFY 1997

Holey me

For my 27th birthday last month, I got my ear pierced. My friend Lindsey suggested that I tell the story of my eight "after-market holes" mentioned previously. So here we go.

As a child, getting my ears piereced was a rite of passage. In my family, we had to wait until we reached the ripe old age of 12 in order to be considered ready for such a life-altering event. It was just like all the other age-bound privileges: baptism at 8, ears pierced at 12, date at 16, vote and smoke at 18, drink at 21...wait, scratch those last two. Anyway, I was a very lucky girl, because I was basically best friends with my cousin Rachel, who is 20 days older than me. It was determined that we could go get our ears pierced together, and the appointed date fell at least several days before my 12th birthday. Scandalous.

In case you don't know or haven't figured it out, I grew up as a Mormon. My mom doesn't approve of body piercing, mainly because it is a desecration of your "holy temple." I have never understood, then, why it is okay to pierce earlobes--one time each--but nowhere else. My first "unapproved" piercing was my upper left ear cartilage. It was very popular at the time, and Rachel (the aforementioned cousin) had one. I tended to get my fashion cues from her (she lived in Lake Oswego and her dad was a lawyer, what would you expect?). I must have been 18, because I didn't need parental approval, and I think Rachel accompanied me to a very nice piercing place--or at least she recommended it. That's about all I remember.

I got a second piercing in each earlobe during my freshman--er, only year at BYU. At that time I was attached at the hip to another awesome cousin, Emily. I did this on a whim at a shop in the mall akin to Claire's where they offer free ear piercing with those horrid needle guns. When I got my ceremonious first piercings at the same type of place, I do not remember the pain being as intense as it was this time. Professional piercing by hand with a needle is SO much gentler.

Number 6 is my favorite: the road-trip-belly-button-piercing. Also during college, Emily and I took a trip to Montana to visit my newly-married sister. Her husband is from Great Falls, and one of the guys in our ward was as well. We stuffed ourselves into his old and tiny Subaru Justy and drove for 10 hours. March 18, 2000 I entered Tattoo York's in Great Falls, MT to experience navel piercing in a not-so-classy establishment. My sister didn't approve, but her husband came in and provided moral support. This was the least painful piercing of all, probably because it was fat, not cartilage. The best part of this story is that I took the following picture with Jed, the piercer, and sent it to my mother along with a very sincere letter saying that I had met the most wonderful guy and felt like he might be "the one" and on and on like this. It was so fun to wait for that phone call!
Next I had my tragus pierced in Las Vegas while attending my first Curves International convention in November 2003. My very good friend Wiyaka, who was one of my Curves employees at the time, got her belly button pierced too.

When I started selling Cookie Lee jewelry as a hobby in 2005, I took out the body jewelry in my ears, as they didn't coordinate well with fashion jewelry. Over time, the holes closed up, which is very disappointing to me. I took out my navel piercing a few months after getting pregnant...bet you can guess why. Although I put it back in one day--just for fun--when I was 8 or 9 months along. I could get it through just fine, but it looked a little silly. Now my "mommy belly" isn't fit for that kind of adornment anymore.

This leads us to hole #8, in my right helix, which you can read about here. Perhaps I'll have a really great tattoo story one of these days. But I'm still seeking the perfect image worthy of permanent ink.