Why EVERYONE should read this book.....

I recently gave it a read for the second time, well half reading and half listening to it via audio-book on my iPod. Though I had read the book a couple years back, I thought I would do it again given that he could be the next president. It's no secret. I have a love and admiration for Barack Obama that borders on an inappropriate crush. I like his politics, his positive outlook, his wife, his fairness and his courage. But that is not the reason I think everyone should read it. During election campaigns candidate issues and platforms get muddied by irrelevant nonsense blown up in the media i.e. he's old, he's young, he swore, he didn't wear a pin, he's black, his wife looks plastic, her husband did it with an intern, and his reverend is racist. But "The Audacity of Hope" is a straight-forward look at Obama's ideals, values and insights and provides explanations on where he is coming from and why. Among many other things, he talks about health care, immigration, education, welfare, race, religion and family. You don't have to agree with him, in fact he fairly acknowledges those who don't and why. But it helps you get to know him as not just as a rock-starish political figure but as the normal guy, the father, the husband, and the American citizen. And more importantly, for those critics, his views may not differ from your own as much as you originally thought. Give it a read, or come over and I will let you put the audio book on your iPod. If anything you will come away a little more prepared to cast your vote.

River of Tears

My 2008 has pretty much subscribed to the provisions of Murphy's Law, "If anything can go wrong, it will." Of late, I have basically accepted it. So the fact that I actually thought I could float down the #@$#&!! Provo River without a hitch was a naive sentiment, bordering on moronic. If I were to review the events of those four harrowing hours in deserved detail this entry would be a small novel, so I will condense the chapters.

Chap 1: Lambs and Flowers
We went to the river in high spirits ready to take on the day, be sun kissed by the flawless sky and have some good clean fun with old and new friends. Since I have never floated a river before my M.O. was "When in Rome" and since about half of the "Romans" were going barefoot, I did the same.

Chap 2: Ummm Crap?
We didn't have a plan. Instead, some of us had preconceived notions that we would be slowly making our way down a lazy river with friendly banks and a few exciting "bumps" every once in a while. Even as I was getting into the river I grossly underestimate the malevolent current that tossed me into a side of a bridge about 1.2 minutes after I got in the water. The water was only shoulder to waste-deep but it didn't matter since the current forbade me to stand, stop or get back on my tube. Instead it dragged my legs feet and toes over rocks and I could do nothing about it. When I would try to put my feet in front of me to stop I would just go through a series of toe-stubbing, resulting in torn and broken toe-nails. Either way it was incredibly painful, and on top of that the water was roughly the same temperature as the water that comes out of the door in my fridge. So breathing was hard. I don't know if it was the water temperature or the drum roll taking place on my legs that hindered breathing, but either way all I could do was gasp. I can't tell you how long this lasted. My legs, which today look like a bruised banana, if given voice would say something around 10 minutes. But it was probably closer to five minutes when the current slammed me into a spiky large bush/tree where, after being stabbed a few times, I was able to grab a branch and finally stand up.

Chap 3: Crap
While the branch by the side of the river granted sweet relief from being stoned, it presented another large problem. The current was still really strong and my tube, which was closed off on the bottom, had flipped upside down. I had a hold of the branch with one hand and the handle of the tube with another but the current was so strong, and was also filling the inside of the tube with water, that I couldn't pull it back, nor could I flip it back over with one hand.
So I just stood there stretched out like I was on the rack with the river rocks torturing my feet. I had NO idea what to do. Everyone I was with had floated by me, just as helpless as I was, so there I stood for maybe another 6-8 minutes. With no other options I finally just let go and went back to the river-bottom torture for another two minutes until I came to a calmer more shallow part of the River. I was bleeding, numb and alone but at least I wasn't being dragged. If I could have gotten out of there I would have. But the bank was covered in bushes and trees and there was no way. So I got back on my tube and headed down the river, bracing for the next bout of hell.

Chap 4: My Knights
After floating solo for about a half-hour I saw another fellow loner in the river and as I got closer I saw that it was Josh. It was like Christmas. He had gotten out to wait for me at one point and then was slowing his pace until I caught up. He had had his own river drama and got separated from the rest of the group but had gotten a large stick that doubled as an ore and also helped guide his direction using the river bottom. We hadn't gone far together when we saw Dave. He had capsized going through a particularly rough slab of river and had done the worst: lost his tube. So there he was at the river’s edge - barefoot alone and tubeless. We paddled over to him (we could because it was a calmer spot), got out and stood at the bottom of the steep bank trying to decide what was next. Screw it. We're walkin.

Chap 5: Naked hiking.
It's no secret. I don't look the best in a bathing suit, so I try and only wear them for the intended use of swimming and laying out. I don't walk around in them for kicks, and I certainly don't hike or climb in them. But I didn't have much choice. The river bank was a good 25 feet up and I was climbing it barefoot with a tube. I felt totally naked, but luckily the pain of being scratched and poked by the native weeds and bushes took my focus off the fact that I was climbing on all fours with my formidable booty in the air for fellow floaters to get a good look at along with my rapidly forming wedgy. Dave and Josh pulled me up once I got close to the top and after our bare feet made it through another 20 feet of rocks and stickers, we were on a smoother 4-wheeler trail. As we started hoofin' it down the road problem #432 presented itself. Even though the path was much softer, the hot gray dirt was burning our feet to the point that walking in the pokey brush was just as comfortable. Enter: David.

Chap 6: Swaddling Clothes
He burns easily. Since Dave forgot to put sunscreen on he decided to deprive the females on the river by wearing a t-shirt so he wouldn't burn. I don't know if was my whining or his own foot pain but out of nowhere he stopped walking, ripped off his shirt and said. "I'm gonna make some shoes for you." It was genius. He shredded his shirt into strips and Josh fashioned them into sandals on my feet.
Dave made himself a pair, and Josh made his own out of his bandana and what was left of Dave's shirt. And so we continued on in discomfort, but not pain, for another 15 minutes or so until some river goers shouted to us that if we had lost a tube, one of their buddies had it and was coming down right behind them. Though the makeshift shoes alleviated a lot of pain we still jumped at the idea of giving our feet a break - even if it meant getting back into that #$%*&@&#^@&*#! river. We found a way to get back down to the bank at a place that we also discovered was the shoe graveyard. Shoes for everyone!! Albeit mismatched, Josh found a pair of flip flops for him and Dave, while I strapped on a lone Croc on top of my swaddling shoes. We stepped back into the river pain-free with all three tubes and were ready to go. But Dave wasn't having it. "I'm not getting back in this river."

Chap 7: He Took a Few for the Team
Josh and I left Dave with his new shoes on the bank and made our way back into the river while Dave said he would meet us at the end via the trail. The two of us latched on to each other and Josh navigated our pitiful two-tube vessel around jutting rocks, dead trees and branches. We were fine until the bridge.
Damn the bridge.
The water was really rough right before the bridge and we were moving fast. There were four walls holding the bridge up and we were trying to make it through the middle slot without hitting. No dice. Josh hit it first we exchanged a glance that conveyed both panic and resignation right before I hit him. His body and tube soften my blow but he wasn't so lucky. With the same look he let go of his tube, made an attempt to push me on through, and then disappeared momentarily in the churning ice water under the bridge. It was there that he got a bloody goose egg on the front of his leg and a few more bruises and scratches but at least he recovered his tube. He was shivering, with some chips gone from his spirit, but after a few minutes was back latched to my side. I think it was there that I may or may not have told him that a part of me would love him for the rest of my life. Or it could have been after the second disaster, when we were attacked by a mostly dead, evil tree. We had purposely chosen to hug the deeper bank for a while in order to avoided getting beached on a shallow bar in the middle of the %#$@%^#% river. The current took us right into the tree. Josh grabbed large branch to slow us, let go of me and said "keep going because if I let go it's going to hit you!” I did. He let the branch go, and he was gone. By the time he had once again recovered his tube and had caught up to me again his spirit was broken, his teeth were chattering and he was in a bit of pain. But it was almost over, right?

Chap 8: Officer Buttface
Every bend we came to we silently begged for the end. And when I saw it I didn't care that I had to slam my body into a sharp rock to stop myself or that I had to, yet again, climb another steep bank in my suit. By the time we got to the top I half expected people to be there waiting with awards or medals for our success in finally making it - or maybe just a bouquet of flowers or a congratulatory hug. Instead we got hassled by law enforcement peeps who were apparently charged with the noble task of leaning against a fence and heckling the broken, yet lucky members of the public who made it back. "You know you have to have a life jacket to be in this river!?" "We could give you a ticket, there are signs everywhere." "Get off the train track - that is federal property, that's against the law!" At least that is what I thought he said. However all I really heard was "I am a sad little man who was picked on in high school, who dropped out of college but needed to find some way to conjure the illusion of power and dominion over others to make up for my colossal failures in life so I became a typical jackass cop. But even though I wear a badge I am afraid of real criminals and would rather intimidate and harass river-floaters and small children." I fought the urge to say “Officer, are you going to take me in? No? Ok, then kindly shut your hole.”


Chap 9: Sunburns and contusions
We found the rest of the group not long after. Courtney, who had on river shoes, experienced a crash and burn early on and had called it a day then and there and got out of the river. Dave, finding that the trusty river trail that we were on ended about a half a mile down, had turned around and walked back and was picked up on the road by the more fortunate part of our group. Yes, there were some who made it down without a scratch. They were the same friends who couldn't stop laughing when they saw our make-shift shoes. They wanted to stay in the canyon and have a bonfire later that night. But we were out of there...I don't even think we said goodbye to anyone. Walking was painful, I had half of my big toenail broken and dangling, Josh was limping and Dave was sunburned beyond belief. We drove in silence for a long time. And when we stopped to eat we inhaled our dinner. It wasn't until later that night that I realized that almost exactly a year ago to the day I was stung by a stingray on a California beach. Give me that damn river any day.

I do.....

Last month I was in Texas, alone at a fancy resort on a work trip. I had to stay at the resort since every hotel downtown was full which is why I got so cozy with cab drivers. Nonetheless, I was pretty bummed because I was in this amazing place alone so I figured I really couldn't have the experience that is traditionally intended for resort-goers. Anyway on my last night there I got done early at work, went back to the hotel and decided to have a honeymoon for myself.
And I gotta say it is something that EVERY girl should do. I hiked the trail, went for an evening swim, walked the grounds, took an hour-long bubble bath, ordered room service, watched a Sandra Bullock movie and walked around naked the whole night. I did talk to my boyfriend for about 15 minutes but other than than it was all me. By the end of the night I had rejuvenated my love for myself.It was awesome and I could have done that a few more days. I highly recommend a solo vacay. My brother has done a ton and I always thought he was crazy and quite frankly a little weird, but I am down with it now. I am going to end the story right there because I don't want to go into how the feeling of bliss with myself was short-lived...how I missed my plane the next morning and how I was unable to get on a flight for the rest of the day. I am not going to tell you how the following night I was staying in a motel room that made me want to anti-bacterial-ize myself every two seconds, or how when I got on a plane the next day the right engine was on the fritz and we had to get off. I will spare you the story of how I had to get in a cab, along with three yuppies, and drive to Austin and then fly to Atlanta in order to get back. Telling you that getting back took two days and visits to four different airports in 14 hours would probably ruin the feeling of bliss during my self-honeymoon that I am trying to portray here. So I'll just end the story there.

The verdict's in....

It was rough. It was beautiful. It was gut-wrenching. It was amazing. Those of you who have read The Kite Runner, by the same author, know what I mean. Aside from being beautifully written, it was punctuated with historical events in Afghanistan through Afghani eyes. I learned a lot about what that big mess over there has been all about and it was hard to put down. But if you like reading about lambs, flowers and rainbows this book is not for you. Its raw, it’s real and it gives you a dose of what people over there have gone through – especially the women – and it is not pretty. There were times I was incensed, and there may or may not have been some tears shed. But there is light at the end - I tell you that because knowing that helped me get through it. I finished reading it yesterday afternoon and I went to the store that night and ran into a woman in a black burka (the thing women wear that cover their whole body and their faces). It was all I could do to not stare because I wanted so badly to hear about her life. I don’t want to make judgment calls on what her level of happiness is or quality of life might have been, but my heart certainly went out for her. After reading the book I have a new found gratitude for being raised in this country, in this culture. I can read, work, laugh, sing, wear shorts, speak to whomever I want and most of all put a man in his place when the occasion calls for it. Give it a read. And when you are done, give me a call and we’ll do lunch.

Broken spleens and healed hearts

A year ago today my 14-year old brother was hit by a pickup truck. He is the artsy one, the original one, the funny one. The one who can crack you up just by being him. He started calling me "Uncle" a few years ago, no idea why. He has since changed the nicknames a few times - to Nun Priestess, last year, and the latest, Senator Amidala. He both talks and walks during slumber, insists I sing him three songs before he goes to sleep and likes to debate political issues he knows nothing about. Three things brings him mind-blowing, toe-tapping excitement: elevators, drive through car washes and beating the pants off opponents in everything from card games to Foosball. Braden is a whole lot of personality and during that first 24 hours after he was hit on the road - stopping to check the gas tank on his motorcycle - the shades of life seemed a little less brilliant. I got the news from my brother, Jarad, that night and it felt like I was kicked in the chest. "Hit by a truck... internal bleeding... intensive care."
I heard the details in fragments and the drive to Idaho was a blur. People don't cope with fear and grief the way you see it on Full House. We like to turn inward, go off on our own and lick our wounds, hide how scared we are and cry alone. It can be a lonely time but luckily he didn't leave us in that grayish-brown place for long. Instead, while the doctors were keeping him a few days to monitor his spleen, he took us hostage. He was "Braden" again by day three and we were playing card games for roughly 43 hours straight. When he would start to lose and would get caught cheating, he would say "but I got hit by a truck.." Well played boy, well played. (he rode that wave for another 6 months) That week most of us spent a night beside him in a recliner which, though those nights were uncomfortable and sleepless they also served as sweet release from Uno, Phase 10, Skipbo and some damn apple game that I have blocked from my memory. Now a year later things are back to normal. His spleen is in tact, he can play football, basketball, swing dance and take deserved poundings from his siblings...I actually owe him one from June 23, when he gave me some serious lip. Yes, I keep them logged. Anyway looking back he is lucky. We are lucky, blessed. He is yet to get on a bike again. His motorcycle is still broken. But I think that is fine by all of us. Love you bubba.

Remember the Alamo

Tonight I cried in a cab. It wasn't the normal soggy eye, look away and cover it up cry, but it was the tears-dripping-off-your -chin-I-wish-could-stop- but-since-I-can't-I-may-as-well- cry-with-dignity cry - all because of a cab driver named Jose. He drove a van-cab. I don't like vans and if it wasn't for a colleague who waved him down for me I would have instead called Badar, the kind Egyptian who picked me up at the airport and gave me his personal phone for all my travel needs. Moreover he is set on taking me to see "the real" San Antonio on my last day, which may or may not include belly dancing (who knew). But I digress. Anyway as soon as I jumped into the back of Jose's van he started spilling his guts. As a former reporter I, of course, started egging him on in his confessions. He started off by telling me that he used to be a welder in the Army and is now enjoying a healthy pension and other nice benefits from his days as a soldier. So I asked which war he fought in. "Vietnam ma'am." I might have known from his tone that we were about to go on an emotional ride but I was intrigued and his story could kick "Pearl Harbor's" cinematic ass. He was in Vietnam for four years straight, leaving a wife of 16 years-old and two children. He was injured by enemy fire and ended up being pronounced dead. But he wasn't dead, and it took the Army nearly a year to reverse his status. Meanwhile his wife received word of his death and ended up remarrying. He said he wrote letters all the time that never made it. He said he knew they wouldn't make it but he had to make the attempts, just for his own sanity, or lack thereof. Upon returning to the states he was pretty much crazy. Trained to kill anything that got in his way - his enemy was anyone that didn't have "round eyes." And while he wasn't dealing with hate and an instinct to annihilate he was fighting haunting memories of dead children, decapitated bodies and unspeakable carnage. The second he returned he searched out his wife, now in a different city, only to find that she was not only remarried but also had children with her new husband. He never did remarry. He tried. He wanted it more than anything but he couldn't fix his heart or his head to where he felt he could, and he claimed all subsequent girlfriends were only after money. He did fall in love with a Mexican woman years ago, gave her a ring and set a date. She got deported after being caught with drugs. And under the advice of his lawyer he refused to send her the money needed to come back for fear she would just use it for drugs. "I think I regret that. I can't forget the day I told her I wasn't sending money, so I guess that is regret." Then two years ago he fought cancer brought on from asbestos in the steel he had welded during the three decades while in the Army. Now, in remission he is a San Antonio cab driver who likes rainy days and curly hair that reminds him of his daughter. He's not sad. "The Army has treated me well ma'am, they bought my house, I have great benefits plus $700 a month - I can't complain." "My kids still remember me and I am so lucky they call me daddy, they didn't for years." My tears started around the description of the war but the hefty dose of perspective kept them going strong. When he pulled up to my hotel I paid the fare, gave him a healthy tip and fought the urge to hug him. "Have a good night ma'am" You do the same. "I certainly will."
I'll make sure I call Badar tomorrow. Belly dancing conversations don't ruin my mascara.

Stop the presses......

I'm a writer. I've considered myself a writer since the fourth grade when I started my oh-so-serious mystery novel called "Witness." In junior high and high school I was an editor/writer and in college I wrote for both the local paper and the school paper. Then from the second I turned my tassel I entered into another glorious stint as a journalist at Deseret Morning News. But this month I did a triple salchow off the writing train and executed a shaky, unstable landing into the world of advertising. Umm. Crap? Well it is something that I ask myself everyday. I went from knowing my stuff and being completely confident in my craft, to sitting nervously in a lobby at Microsoft, marking my moves in how I am going to get up and walk into a meeting after my boss comes to usher me through the high security doors. Notes to self: Make sure your sandal is completely on before you stand up, do a cleavage check before the hand shake to make sure they haven't worked their way out on you, don't trip on your pant legs (they are a little baggy after losing 5 lbs of since starting this job - stress and anxiety becomes me).
Those are the few things I can control. It's not often in my life that I have NO idea what I am doing, but now I am living it day to day. I am the weird silent girl in meetings, like the foreigner who just smiles and nods. I constantly second guess every move - sending an e-mail, making a phone call, going to the restroom. They've said 'in a year, you will be fine." So only 351 more days of bumbling around in the dark. It's a challenge, the people are nice and I know it will get easier. It's a new challenge and a good job and that's that. But my greatest contention is my fall from being a journalist. Jobs are jobs in most cases. But as a journalist, it's a lifestyle. Though I remain comfortable and reinforced in my decision to bail, I am still mourning that departure from the exclusive fraternity that is journalism. Use-to-be's don't count in that world. I may not miss the erratic schedule, the thankless tasks, the long hours, the condescension from high public officials, the pettiness of over-involved and uninformed citizens, the hate mail and the life-sucking legislature, but there are some things that are irreplaceable. I'll miss that fleeting moment of accomplishment after you send a story, the smug satisfaction after you have rightly nailed someone to to the wall and I think I will even miss the flutter of activity before a deadline. Moreover I will miss the newsroom restroom "swap meet," the quote board, the practical jokes, the unique, and often whimsical, personalities that come with journalists (maybe even the lingerers from time to time). And most of all I will miss those damn thrill-seeking window washers that I was on a first name basis. John had kind eyes. I like kind eyes. Good game.