7th Grade Stories: Entry 1

Occasionally I do write about things not concerning the Bachelor. I'm working on two memoir series one called Seventh Grade Stories, and the other will be titled Bus Stories. Some of these posts will be sad, but most of them are too funny and embarrassing to not record. I Hope you enjoy them. And how about this 7th grade picture? 

When I was 13 my family moved from Sandy, Ut to Draper, Ut. The distance between where I grew up and where I was suppose to finish growing up was approximately a 20 minute car ride. However, for my sisters and I it meant a change of schools and a change in friends. Soon it would become a changed life.   

I, being a very reasonable adolescent, thought my parents did this to me, at this time because, of course, they hated me and wanted my life as I knew it to be over. Like I said, I was reasonable.

My parents dream home took quite awhile to build. By the time the new school year came around we still were living in Sandy. My parents thought it best to start the new school year out at our new schools. This was the worst possible decision my parents could have made. And keep in mind my dad did wear pleated khaki short-shorts in the 90’s.

I remember my mom driving me to my new school on my first day. “When we move you’ll get to take the bus. Won’t that be fun?” She said. I hopped in the front seat of our tan mini van. Mom looked over at me, “Oh, and honey I know I promised to let you wear a little makeup, now that you’re a seventh grader it must have slipped my mind. We’ll get you some this weekend.” As if I wasn’t nervous enough. Now, I was going to be the only girl not wearing makeup.

I walked into the school, wearing no make up, tan pants, a purple sweater vest with a bold strip across the chest and light brown Doc Martins. I think the outfit was okay, except for the fact that it was entirely too hot for the end of August.

I found my locker right away, but was unable to open it. It was a top locker, and my short stature didn’t allow me to the numbers once they spun to the top arrow. I couldn’t ask for a bottom locker, no one wanted a bottom locker that would be social suicide.

There was a girl next to me opening her locker, she was gorgeous, probably because her mom remembered to buy her some makeup. She had curly blond hair. She seemed awfully cool and collected for the first day of school. Must be a 9th grader, I thought. She looked down at me and said, “You have really pretty hair.”

“Oh thanks,” I said quietly. My hair was dark, thick and fell well below my underdeveloped chest. My mom insisted I wear my hair long, never allowing more than a trim. My whole life people raved about how beautiful my hair was. It must have been like Joe from Little Women. My hair as my only beauty.

I kept my backpack and resolved to figure out my locker problem later. I looked down at my schedule. First period Room 201. I walked right into room 201 and sat down. I had found my first class, alas something had gone right. I took another glance at the my schedule the teacher’s name read, Mrs. Pfeifer. The teacher at the front of the class didn’t look like a Mrs. My chest tightened, oh no I’m in the wrong class. The class all stood up and began to recite the pledge of allegiance. I knew this was my chance to escape, but where would I go. This is room 201! The class sat back down and the teacher began taking roll. I knew I wasn’t going to be on the roll. He slowly read through the names, “Tanya Mortenson.”

“Here,” Said Tonya. We past the M’s now it was onto the P’s. I’m a P. I listened intently. “Joy Price.” The teacher read. Joy Price was my cousin. I knew for sure I was in the wrong class, Joy was a year older than me. But at least I knew somebody.

“If any of you did not hear your name then you are in the wrong class.” I stood up not knowing what I was going to do, or where I was going to head. Just as I began to walk out Joy said to the teacher, “I’ll just help her find her class.” The teacher gave her a nod of approval. Joy walked toward me and I thought for a moment that she must be the love of my life. Joy looked like me. Short with really dark hair and olive skin. She was family, and on that day she was a saint. She showed me that room 201 actually held three different classes within it.

“Could this be your class?” She pointed around the wall-like barrier. The chalkboard in this section of the room read, Mrs. Pfeifer.

“Yes, thank you Joy.” Joy went back to her class I found a desk as quickly as I could.

“And your name is?” Mrs. Pfeifer asked. “I’m Lindy Phippen.”

“Did you have a little trouble finding the class?”

“Yes, sorry.” I was so embarrassed I could have cried.

(p.s. Who knew saving my 7th grade yearbook would prove to be such an invaluable keepsake? Oh My!)

A Good Week

I simply have to note this week. I grabbed two ski days in one week. Yes two! Our famous Utah snow storms have been few and far between this winter. Rare, but true. I feel like I’ve just been waiting around for the sky to deliver something, anything.

This week the sky delivered. Mason was comparing accumulated inches. He determined Snowbasin was close enough with seven new inches. He took off work, arranged a sitter and said, “We’re going.”

We met up with a couple of friends and the day was underway. I can’t tell you we got untouched stuff, but it was soft, it was fluffy and it was the best day I’ve had this winter.

We’d discuss what run we were going to take next while we were on the lift. We’d take off in that direction and periodically meet up. On one run in particular we were traversing trying to determine what line to take. What line would give us the softest stuff. We’re standing there lined up along a traverse. Mason points with his pole, “That looks okay.” His friend sticks his pole out only slightly left, “That way could be good.” I’m at the back of the line thinking these guys look like they’re Babe Ruth pointing out their home run. I like to think we did have a few home runs that day.

Well, as many of you know the sky kept at it. Thursday more snow and friday didn’t let up. Mason calls me up, “You seeing this Lin? Find a sitter.”

“Okay, I’ll work on it.” I said.

Hours later Mason calls again, “If you like powder I’d suggest you find a sitter.”

Fifteen minutes later I text Mason, “Found a sitter. it’s on.”

It was such fabulous day. Fresh tracks run after run. When powder is fresh it’s quiet, it’s kind, it’s easy. You just kind of hop down the hill. I can’t tell you how refreshing this day was.

Oh snow, I love you dearly.

Mason, you’re the cutest powder hound I know.  
photo

This Got Me Thinking

A question was posed on twitter last week by writer, Angela, whom I admire and follow. The question: “Would you recognize yourself if you peered in from ten years ago?"

This question had me thinking all week. My immediate response? Hell no. My 17 year old self would have been mortified. What? I’m 27 with a 2 year old daughter and another baby on the way, wearing some unfortunate maternity shirt looking chubby and exhausted. I would have most likely been shocked by her stay-at-home-mom status, spending her days cleaning up puddles of pee and folding laundry.

After I spent some time thinking about how different my life could have been without the overwhelming calling of motherhood I realized, perhaps, I should not be taking the opinion of my 17 year old self so seriously. Today I opposed her view with the same jaw-dropped shock in mind. No I never thought by 27 I’d live in such a beautiful home, have the opportunity to watch my beautiful little daughter grow up. Never thought I’d be lucky enough to be having another baby with a husband I adore and admire. Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have known that what seems to be such an ordinary life may be one of the more extraordinary ones.

So, how would you have answered Angela’s question?

The Lake

I’m packing up to go to the lake this weekend, like I’ve done over a hundred times before. As I place the two basic necessities in my duffel bag, a swimsuit and sweats, memories begin to flood my mind.

My family has been journeying to our Bear lake cabin for so long; I can’t recall a single summer when I didn’t have a fling with this big cold mass of water.

As a kid I remember the three hour long drive taking forever. As our Astro Van cruised through the last few turns of the canyon my Dad would challenge us, “After which bend can you first spot the lake?” Our eyes glued to the window as we tried to be the first to witness the blue brilliance.

Bear Lake and its surrounding beaches taught me how to create the perfect sandcastle. It allowed for barefoot softball games. It fed us with hot dogs and S’mores roasted to perfection by our home made fire pit. The lake has, on many occasions, blessed me with its graces, a break in the weather and suddenly the water is as smooth as glass and the only single cut is made by my ski. Nothing feels better.

Some would say, “It’s too choppy, too cold.” Yet for me, it is ever the opposite. It is stillness and peace.
***Blogger's Note***
This was a prompt inspired by Write on Edge.

Good Intentions

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions consider me “Bob the Builder."

For example I had every intention on bringing you a fictional piece of writing today, to chip away at some long term goals, yet here I am writing about how I’m too exhausted to write.

Every week I set out to do more than I actually accomplish. The question is are my expectations unrealistic or am I just plain lazy. I’ll confess it may be the ladder. In the game of pregnancy I would say I’ve got it pretty easy. Almost no nausea and a baby that is growing as expected. So when people ask, “How are you feeling?” I usually reply, “Feeling great, can’t complain.” And that’s the truth, plus saying anything else feels a little ungrateful, but in raw honesty, I’m absolutely exhausted. I think I forgot about this part of pregnancy, Mason reminds me that, yes, I was this tired the last time. I’m finding it hard to keep up with Millly, and I’m getting glimpses of how much more tired I will feel when the baby is actually here. It makes me feel kind of bad for Milly, in a way. Does anyone else beat themselves up over this kind of stuff?

Anyway, here's to wishing you a restful weekend.

photo credit tumblr.com

The Locker Story

image courtesy of apartment therapy

In seventh grade I was granted a top locker, by any usual circumstances this would have been an honor. My family was in the middle of a move placing me in a brand new school, I didn’t know a soul, but I knew one thing, no one wanted a bottom locker. 

I arrived at my locker as I spun the knob I could not determine which number to stop at, because the line at the top is literally invisible if you stand at 4’11”.  Embarrassed and ashamed my load of books served as my constant companion throughout the day.

Just a Joke

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. Playing up the April Fools theme they challenged us to write about a time when a joke took on  a life of its own in 350 words or less. This story immediately took the front row in my memory. 
photo credit: Pinterest

 

Just after the last bell rang and graduation parties had come to a close me and a few close friends took off to Hawaii for our big senior trip. We would be scattered across colleges soon enough, and this was to be the last big hoorah. 

I had a semi-serious boyfriend at home. My friends and I decided it might be fun to play a little joke on him while I was in Hawaii.

Hope

Computer light glaring at my face, cold fingers skim the keyboard, my head shifts to the window. I gaze with wonder as beautiful flurries appear from the blue abyss. I began to reflect on all the graces snow has granted me. I kind of owe snow, in a way. As the white beauty camouflages my brown grass I’m trying to imagine my life without snow. Only my imagination is not one of wonder, and two, I’ve never really wanted a life without this cold white stuff.

This morning I woke up to a skiff of snow, and admittedly wished for more. I came home from the gym, shoved snow boots on my two year old and we shoveled that skiff off our driveway, not because I had to, but because I wanted to connect with a love that has provided me such joy for as long as I can remember. My daughter and I walked the block in our snow boots, it's fun to see her try to figure it out. To stomp it, slip on it, and gingerly walk the sidewalks. Her cold rosy cheeks warmed my heart. I took a deep breath and inhaled a cold refreshing thought, the thought that everything was, one day, going to be okay. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be today, but it will, someday.

With all snow has given me, it once again, displayed its generosity, as it provided me with one of life's ultimate little treasures, hope. I realized while some things in life are ever-changing, snow is not. It will come every winter, guaranteed. It may come too late, or too early. There may be too much, or not enough, but there will be snow and where there is snow, there is hope.

Those of you who frequent this blog (thank you) and you may have seen this post before. I revised it for the purposes of this prompt from Write on Edge.

The guidelines for this prompt:

This is a piece about (x), illustrated through (y).
So, for this week, we want the (x) to be hope.
Meaning:

This is a piece about hope, illustrated through (y).What is the (y)? Only you know. You have that truth—those stories in you. Now share it with us.In 400 words or less. A true story about hope, illustrated through your experiences

Chocolate

It was 6:00 am she heard the pounding of her toddler jumping in the crib. It was wake-up time. Lindy stumbled over the pillow she had thrown out of her bed in the middle of the night, found a pair of sweat pants, somehow navigated her glasses, and placed some slippers on her feet that she had never bothered to put away.

“Hello baby,” she said with a sweet enthusiasm.

She grabbed the baby, and immediately felt and smelt the urine soaked pajamas. This is going to be a long day, she thought. She fumbled through the clean laundry she hadn’t hassled to fold and dressed her sweetie pie in something dry, not matching, but dry.

Poured her daughter some cheerios and set her in her favorite little green chair. For the moment things seemed content. Lindy stepped into her office, to check her email, vowing she would just be a few minutes. Within those minutes her darling daughter had managed to mess her diaper, dig into this diaper and come up with poop covered hands. A toddler’s treasure, apparently. The little darling shoved Lindy’s office door opened, leaving her evidence smeared down the door, and swirled over the coffee table.

Lindy rushed the trouble-maker to the tub, thinking, is this really my life now? She scrubbed the screaming child, and placed her daughter in yet another outfit. Then proceeded to wipe down the feces coated doors and table. Lindy looked up at the clock, 7:30 am, ah shit; this is going to be a very long day. The entire day took on the stink it started with; by nap- time momma was ready to abandon ship.

In her previous life she may have taken to the streets pounding the pavement with steps of frustration. Back then she possessed healthy vices, the kind that would get her heart pumping, sweat flowing and calories burning. Now, stuck at home, she sipped back 32 ounces of diet coke, and crunched her way through almost the entire bag of chocolate Cadbury eggs. Her numb mind formed only one thought. Oh my, how things have changed.

This was a little challenge from Write on Edge: 400 word limit where wine, chocolate, or coffee are featured prominently.

The Bedtime Routine

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. "In the spirit of dialect, slang, and turns of phrase, this week’s RemembeRED prompt is: Write a piece of creative non-fiction in which turns of phrase, dialect, slang, or colloquialisms feature prominently."

“It’s time for bed sweetie.”

“One moye stoyee, pease,” She begged.

I looked down at those big brown eyes, okay one more then it’s off to bed you go.

She did her famous celebratory jump, “Dis one mommy.”

I opened the glittered cover and began to read, “Once upon a time there lived three pretty princesses.”

Tiny hands clapped joyously, “Pitty pincesse, pitty pincess!”

A smile stretched across my face, I continued the story, “One princess had long curly locks as red as an apple and she loved glittery dresses. The next had hair as dark as chocolate; she loved books and telling stories. The blond princess liked to play…”

Her tiny hands flipped to the next page. She ran her fingers across the glitter of the princess dress. “Pitty, pitty,” She exclaimed.

With all the hurried turning of the pages story-time was a bit quicker tonight.

“All the princesses were different, and each was beautiful in her own way.” I closed the book, and kissed her cheek.

“Okay baby, time for bed.” I said without a grin.

“Chalky milk,” She demanded.

I stared down at those big eyes, one hand perched on my hip, “You’re stalling, and I’m not falling for it.”

“Daaa, I some chalky milk,” She yelled down the hall.

“No honey, dad knows your tricks too.” I scooped her body up, laid her down, positioned her worn-out blankie next to her soft cheek, the same way I did every night.

“Nigh, nigh I laa you, I said softly as I began to shut the door.”

“Laa ew, nigh, nigh.”

I closed the door, plopped my heavy body on the couch next to my husband, the stress of the day melted, “She down.”

He put his arm around my neck pulled my face closer and kissed me on the cheek, “Laa you,” He said.

Because You've got to have Friends

We met in the first grade, Mrs. Pulsipher’s class, she was tall, beautiful and girlie in every sense of the word, and as for me I was short, sporty and somewhat rough around the edges. As the rule states, opposites attract, we were no exception.

We carpooled together, played together about everyday and soon we achieved some common interests such as dolls, dollhouses, and sprite.

Before we began each play date we would have to determine the location, your house or mine? She would always ask, “Outside or inside?” I don’t know why she would bother to ask, my reply was annoyingly consistent, “Your house, outside.” I knew perfectly well her preference was the opposite. On occasion she would win the argument, I’d stroll my dolly to her house, of course she always met me half way, we’d play with our dolls, drink sprite and eat Mac N’ Cheese or Top Roman. I loved being at her house because my sisters didn’t live there, she loved being at my house because my sisters were there.

Carissa, throughout most of our years together, was an only child; yet over time the lines between friend and sister became blurred. I would go on trips with her family; her home was my second home. She would come to Bear Lake with my family each summer. I was her sister and she was mine. Even my own sisters adopted her as such.

In the 6^th grade she moved about 30 minutes away. I was devastated; it felt as if a member of my family was plucked out of my home and placed in another city. My mom promised she would drive me to her home as much as possible. She kept her promise. Later my family moved, which made our commute just 15 minutes. Now we are about two hours away, yet with families and responsibilities of our own the miles aren’t the only distance between us. Our visits are few and far between. A random phone call, an email and a text highlighting an inappropriate quote from a movie keep us together. Though our lives have grown in their own different direction we still know at any given moment we could call the other and cry. To have such a friend, is a rare gift.

Yet sometimes I wish we were still kids sipping sprite, watching movies and making one decision, outside or inside.

Write on Edge,  thanks again for your inspiration. The picture above is of our daughters at the zoo.

If these Skis Could Talk

We first met when she was in college. Our connection was instantaneous. We’ve seen some pretty remarkable mountains together. We’ve experienced the best of, Utah, Colorado and British Columbia. I’ve been with her through failed relationships. I was there as she out-skied Jonathon and then there was Matt, he was okay, not great. I remember the Targee trip like it was yesterday, it’s where she first knew she had met her match. Mason was the guy to really try us. I knew he was the one before she did.  I was there when her one and only asked for her hand. At the top the “Dream” lift he placed the diamond on her finger. I’ve never felt her legs shake as much as they did on that special day.

I’ve guided her down mountains she thought were too steep to face on her own. I’ve been beat up by a rock or two when she just couldn’t resist going out of bounds, both of us, an absolute sucker for adventure. I am always trying to keep up with boys. I’ve side stepped up traitorous terrain all for only a few more turns in deep powder. I’ve been with her as lasting friendships were created. I am her favorite accessory. I have served as a reliable vehicle to deepen her relationship with her husband.  Needless to say, we’ve had a lot of really memorable days together. I can say with confidence I know her, better than she knows herself. I know she hates the easy stuff; she wants it fluffy and just cold enough to keep it that way. She loves the way I glide just right on top of the powder. We have worn the title, “Powder Hound” a time or two.

I am the one who gently nudges her to make one more turn, push out of the traverse one more time; because I know she’ll thank me in the end. She doubts herself; I wish she wouldn’t.  She’s so much more than she gives herself credit for. In many ways I am her compass pointing her down the hill that will lead to the happiness she deserves.

By the end of each winter she puts me up, I rest in her garage like a trophy, reigning over the other toys with a slight boast in my posture because… I know her.

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. We were challenged to tell our story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less.

If you had to Title Yourself?

For this week's promt over at WOE we were to create a title and a tagline... Here goes.

Short and Sassy

Or at least that's how Mason prefers it.

I do hope when I near the end of my life I'll have accumulated something a little more meaningful than this title, but for now, I think I've earned this one.

The Gym in January

 Treadmills back the day. Hilarious.

Image courtesy of pinterest.

I knew what I wanted; it shouldn’t have been such a hard resolution to stick to. I knew I didn’t want to drive my car around the over-crowded parking lot, only to have someone steal my spot. I knew I didn’t want to elbow the blond next to me for the last treadmill. I knew I didn’t want to arrive at body pump class, only to discover there is no bench or weight set in sight. I knew I didn’t want to speed to the gym, rush up to the spinning room hoping to be five minutes early; only to find everyone else must have been ten minutes early.

Really and truly each year I set out to NOT go to the gym in January. People think I’m kidding when I spout off this resolution. I assure you I am not. January at the gym is a joke. I believe those of us, who go all year long deserve some kind of priority status. Would it be too much if I used a little label maker and starting marking treadmills, a weight set and perhaps a blow dryer?  

This time of year the words diet and exercise take up the majority of conversation and thought. Suddenly everyone is talking veggies and humus. They’re throwing out terms such as squats, sets and intervals. They begin detailing what they are going to eat morning, noon and night, and how many minutes per week they plan to sweat. Sometimes I just want to throw something unexpected into the conversation, like, “Hey you guys, I plan to eat a lot more fiber this year, and I’m hoping this will result in four successful bowel movements a day, instead of my measly three a day I was maintaining in 2011.”  I wouldn’t stop there, why would I? I’d continue to ramble on, “So you keep your food log and I will keep my poop log and then maybe we can go to lunch together. I’ll order water, drop a benfiber tablet in it and obnoxiously crunch one apple after the next. You get your usual order of salad with a side of veggies; and we’ll talk about poop, food and sweat.”

Regrettably I have yet to keep this resolution. Here we are January 9^th and I’ve been shamelessly attending the gym. I guess, there is always next year.

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. ----This week we’d like you to write a memoir piece about an unfulfilled goal or a broken resolution, beginning with the words, “I knew what I wanted."