Hi

For reasons I can't explain coherently, I am writing here now.

 If you would like to follow me as I trapeze gracefully (haha) across the country, you may do so. If you don't want to, you don't have to.

 You can stay here and stare at my blog reel hoping that someone else updates their blog. Most days, that's what I do, too.

I think I'm out of things to say. At least for a while.

Thanks for playing along.

Paris

Life is weird.

Despite all your best planning, figuring and dreaming, you never know what you're going to get.


On one very normal day in November, my family was pulling out of the parking lot of a Courtyard hotel in Page, Arizona. We were coming home from two Thanksgivings, one in Logan and one in St. George.

In the hotel lobby, my mom and I ran into people speaking French.

I was thirty minutes into French-teaching podcasts, and I listened intently to the french speakers' conversation. I was pretty sure if I just focused hard enough, I would be able to understand what they were saying. After all, I did have 30 minutes worth of French instruction.

I didn't understand a single word. Well maybe one. Oui.

My sisters and I got into our rental call named Bertha, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

Then my mom said to my dad, "So are you going to tell them?"

"No, you go ahead," my dad said.

If I remember correctly, this conversation was not light. And so I immediately assumed someone was dying. Because that's what I do. I assume someone is dying.

"What?" cries that backseat. "What are you going to tell us?"

My sister's sound excited, and I'm just scared. And while we try to figure out what's going on, my parents sit in the front debating over who should tell us what's going on.

"It was your idea," my mom says. "You tell them."

My dad ho's and hums and then says, "Do you guys want to go to Paris?"

My sisters and give each other sideways glances with half smiles. Because what kind of question is that? Did we hear right? Is this real life?

I can't remember exactly what came next, but basically we asked a series of questions verifying the validity of his statement.

"Is this a rhetorical question?"

"Are you talking about the eiffel tower in Vegas?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"Why are you asking this?"

And most importantly,

"Are you serious?"


After a half hour or so, we had nailed down that this was in fact a real question about the real Paris, and our half smiles turned to full ones.

We decided on spring.

Because summers are busy.

And I committed to learning more than a half-hour worth of French.



Three and a half months later, I am home from Paris.

In a way, the trip was everything I thought it would be.

I expected to be inspired.

And I was.

I expected to eat incredible food.

And I did.

I expected to be amazed.

And I was.

I expected to fall in love.

And I did.


Paris was magic.

And that's exactly what I expected.

London Calling

Today, I met the Queen of England.

And by met, I mean I saw her driving into Westminster Abby.

And by saw her, I mean I saw the big, red, double-decker bus intentionally blocking her as she arrived to Westminster Abby.

I will have to show you a picture of her sometime.

The red bus, that is.

Call Me Nichole Parks

Well, it's past 12am here. Which means plenty of girls across the Mountain Standard Time Zone are watching Rachael McAdams wake up in a hospital bed with no recollection of her undying love for Channing Tatum.

Some of the movie goers are likely already crying. But they should save their tears. Because, let's face it, it's probably only going to get more sad.

I am not watching this movie because:

1. I thought I would be asleep by now.

2. The last Nicholas Sparks movie I saw was such a disappointment that I vowed to think long and hard before I paid seven and a half dollars to see another movie based on a book by the man who loves dying characters.

I *now* realize this movie is not actually based on a Nicholas Sparks book. BUT I wrote this post before coming upon that knowledge, AND it's close enough to Nicholas Sparksish style for me, SO I'm going to leave this post as is.

Besides, if someone else can turn a based-on-a-true story into a quasi-Nicholas-Sparks sap fest, so can I.

Which is why I have decided to spend the next 20 minutes visualizing myself as the main character of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

--Not the one who dies. Obviously.--

Well that reason, AND because I am bored and am avoiding productive things. Like sleep.

I think if Nicholas Sparks wrote my life, this is how it would go--

(Note: I am changing my name to Nichole Parks for this post on account of using my real name for this display of unadulterated sappiness might make me gag.)

It didn't take long.

Nichole Parks rarely did things quickly. In fact, in fourth grade her classmates issued a complaint about her during circle time, citing her propensity to slowly eat lunch.

But when Nichole moved to a small town in the South and met Brady Bobby Billy Joe she fell in love faster than a kite catches the wind.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the movies and said "Nichole. I like you more than I like peach pie with sugar on top. And that's saying something."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the fair. And the fair was nothing like the temporary carnival set up in the Saver's parking lot that Nichole went to once. So Nichole rode the ferris wheel and nary even fretted for her life.

Then Nichole played the piano for Brady Bobby Billy Joe. After, of course, they walked a few circles around a nearby swimming hole that was filled with thousands of fuzzy baby ducklings.

It was love at first note. For both of them.

Two years later, after having been split by the great earthquake that divided the soft South from the real South, Nichole and Brady Bobby Billy Joe reunited in a trendy, metropolitan cafe where Nichole had started training to become a barista-- a day job, while she worked toward her real dream of being a teacher/crossword writer.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe ran to Nichole to sweep her up in his arms and apologize for not being on her side of the earthquake split (think Land Before Time if you're having trouble picturing the earthquake separation).

Unfortunately, Nichole had always struggled with names, and she stuttered as she attempted o remember all four of Brady Bobby Billy Joe's names.

"B.. b... b... Baby, it's good to see you," Nichole tried.

"You. You don't remember?" Tears filled Brady Bobby Billy Joe's eyes (and the audience sobs).

"I'm sorry. It's just, it's been so long," Nichole said, letting out a desperate sob. "But I'm so happy to see you. I just wish I wasn't married to your brother."

"I'm sick," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said, ignoring Nichole's confession.

"Say it isn't so," Nichole cried.

"It's true. Hundreds were affected after the earthquake. And I'm one of them. I have Valley Fever."

Another sob escaped Nichole's small mouth.

"Are you sure?" Nichole asked.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe looked sullen. "Yes, the x-ray confirmed what I already knew."

"I'll leave your brother," Nichole said. "I only loved him because he reminded me of you. I'll go to the doctor with you for check ups and make sure you get plenty of fluids."

"It's too late," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said. "It's too late."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe walked out of the cafe. And Nichole mixed tears into an otherwise perfect Frappuccino.

The End.

You Heard It Here First

http://www.cnn.com/2012/02/03/living/overweight-pets/index.html

I'll admit though, their photos are better than mine.

My Side of the Bed

Well guys, Roxy has decided she wants to sleep on my bed.

I spent the better part of my high school days trying to coax, convince and coddle Roxy into sleeping at the foot of my bed, so she could be the golden retriever from Homeward Bound and I could be... Oh wait, I don't want to be the teenage boy who goes on playing basketball even after he finds out his childhood pet got lost in the woods and was probably eaten by a MOUNTAIN LION.

But you get the point, I wanted Roxy to prove her unconditional love for me by sleeping at the foot of my bed.

Instead she slept in a corner, under my bed.

I was offended. But after years of self-consolation I finally decided it was probably more sanitary if she slept on the floor.

And now, suddenly, Roxy wants to be Shadow, the unconditionally-loving golden retriever from the movie I haven't seen in years.

So I'm letting her stay.

Sometimes compassion overrules sanitation.

Besides, she was recently bathed.

And I love her.

Until recently, Roxy was snoring away on my side of the bed. Which, incidentally, is why I'm writing in the first place. Because apparently I can only sleep on one side of the bed. And so I decided I'd open my computer and type something in my unsatisfied sleep haze. (You don't know what an unsatisfied sleep haze is? That's okay. Me either. I think it's when you're tired, but you can't sleep, because you have words floating around your head and your dog is on your side of the bed.)

Which brings me to my next point:

Kitchen Aids.

(I know, my ability to successfully transition from one point to the next is awe-inspiring.)

I want to own a Kitchen Aid.

I don't know. I guess it's because I think the red one is really pretty.

Maybe it comes from a subconscious desire to eat cookies.

And bake bread.

Someday I'm going to figure out how to know what I really want.

I'm going to learn how to be brave enough to want things bigger and more important than Kitchen Aids.

But for now, I'll look for a red mixer to sit on my counter.

Actually, on an almost related note, I have a lot of faith in hope. (And after much consideration, I have decided that does, in fact, make sense. So don't question me on it okay? I have faith in hope. So there.)

And, despite my better judgement, I believe dreams come true.

I mean, just look at Roxy. She is sleeping on my bed.