Skiing

It is ALMOST winter break. What are my fantastic plans for winter break? I don't have any.

I would love to go somewhere warm and wonderful. However, I am happy to just be without plans. Perhaps, Joey and I will go skiing. Well, I'll go skiing and he'll go snowboarding.

I am a good skier, not amazing, but not bad either. I attribute this to my above average rollerblading skills. In middle school, I rollerbladed (Is that a verb? Sure, why not?) anywhere from 3 - 8 miles every day after school. I would carry my discman. Wait, your wait? My discman, a portable CD player. It was a thing. The iPod hit big in 2001 while I was in 8th grade. Before that, we had portable CD players. They were large, inconvenient, and unreliable. If your CD had a scratch, it wouldn't play the song or it would get stuck in a loop. 

Just to give you an idea of the size, I googled, "holding a portable CD player." 

That's right, as a middle schooler  it took two hands to hold this bad boy. I played one song over and over again, I can't believe I am even admitting this due to the fact that this song is so embarrassingly awful, it was O - Town's All or Nothing. Simply watching the first thirty seconds of the music video makes me cringe. 

The outfits, the serious boy-band addressing the camera, the outfits, the hair, the combination of the hair and the outfits. 

 They were really an amazing band with countless #1 hits, such as "All or Nothing", "Liquid Dreams", and... nope, that's it. Two big songs. Then they faded from the spotlight, never to be heard from again. 

O-town, lovers of the color red and denim.

Please note, I did not drool over these guys. They weren't close to the Backstreet Boys' Brian Littrell level of cute. Look at this adorableness - 

Adorable Brian Littrell circa 2000

From the ages of 9 to 11, this was my celebrity crush.

Wait, PAUSE THE STORY, Joey just walked in the door. He didn't say anything, he just let the door swing open. He then stepped aside to reveal that my keys were sitting in the door's lock. I looked at him and he shook his head and started to laugh. I am silly.  

Back to the story, I was really sidetracked. For rollerblading, you use each leg individually, so skiing came naturally. Snowboarding, well that's another story. 

I AM TERRIBLE AT SNOWBOARDING. I've tried many times. I'm just awful. You strap both feet to one board. Ew. Then, once both feet are strapped in, you contort yourself into an uncomfortable crouched position. You stay in this position for the duration. Ew. And because you have to be in this crouched position to keep balance, if you want to come to a stop, you have to fall down. FALL DOWN? What? That is the exact opposite of what I want to do. Fall into ice and snow? Pass.

I don't care if snowboarding "looks" cooler, I am a skier. My mom is a skier. My dad was a skier. Oh, that reminds me of ANOTHER story. 

This is the story of how I learned to ski. I learned to ski at the age of 5 or 6. Somewhere in that age range. 

Our family took a trip one winter to ski. We packed the car and headed to the mountain. Wearing a giant poofy winter jacket, which covered uncomfortable waterproof snow overalls, they're a thing, I was ready to take on any mountain.

We arrived at the resort. At the ticket counter, my parents enrolled my younger sister, Jessa and I in skiing lessons. I didn't want to take lessons. I just wanted to ski. 

After setting up the lessons, my family headed to the equipment center. A nice woman fitted my boots and skis. At the tender age of 5-6, you are required to wear a helmet when skiing. I guess requiring helmets benefited me, seeing as how much damage I managed to inflict on my head over the years. That just left the ski poles, which hung along the wall. I walked up to the wall, looking for poles appropriate for my small height. 

"You're too little for those" a voice boomed behind me. 

I spun around to see an adult, a man, a stranger. I looked at him with big eyes, frozen in fear. When the feeling returned to my legs, I bolted back to my parents and Jessa. 

I wanted those poles. How was I supposed to balance on skis without the use of poles? I couldn't wrap my little 5-6 year old brain around the idea of skiing without poles. 

To be fair, I can imagine giving small children poles seems like it would be a major safety concern. If you a bunch of kids poles, I imagine at least some of them would use them as swords, light sabers, and hit each other with them, leading to accidents. Without a doubt, someone would be without an eyeball very quickly. 

We left the equipment room and headed outside. My parents brought us over to a group of kids, who looked just as confused, terrified, and excited as I was. I noticed they too were lacking poles. This was ski school. This was lame.

I stood around for a few minutes, anxiously awaiting my chance to glide down the freshly powdered slopes. As I stood there, day-dreaming about my time on the slopes, two college-aged instructors introduced themselves. 5-6 year old thoughts while the instructors talked: They look nice. They talk a lot. Why are they still talking? Please, stop talking and let's ski already. Why do I have to wear these pants? Why are these pants connected with straps? What did Mom call them? Overalls? Well, overall, I don't like them. I don't like these poofy clothes. Can we ski? "Ok, everybody line up  at the lift" they announced, snapping me back to attention. We lined up for the mini ski lift that would take us to the top of the bunny slope.

At the time, the bunny slope looked HUGE! Sitting next to my sister, I felt a knot in my stomach turning as we ascended. I looked behind me to see how far the ski lift had traveled, when who was in the lift behind me? My dad! What? My dad wasn't supposed to be there. The other kids from the group were supposed to be behind us. I thought it was the COOLEST THING EVER that my dad managed to secure the lift behind us.

I kept looking back to make sure he was still there. This was very good as the options were a) still be seated comfortably behind us or b) laying on the ground after a traumatic fall from the ski lift. At 5-6 years old, option B hadn't crossed my mind. I just thought I would turn around and he would be gone. You see, my dad was magic. If something needed to happen, he made it happen. That sounds slightly old school mafia-ish. My dad was not in the mafia. My Zeide knew some men in the mafia, but that's another story. 

Anyway, as we got off the ski lift, we shuffled off to the bunny slope. All twelve of us lined up at the top of the hill. Now, in the eyes of my 5-6 year old self, I was looking down a GIANT mountain, not some easy-peasy bunny slope. 

Instructor: "To go, your skis should be french fries, side by side. If you want to stop, make a pizza. Let's try together."

They still teach this. 

This is the worst advice EVER. You DON'T make pizza to stop. If you do this, the tips of your skis will overlap, you will lose your balance and fall down. 

In the above picture, you see two girls trying to stop by making the pizza shape with their skis. The girl in the front is about to have her skis overlap, lose her balance, and fall. The girl behind her is already has her skis overlapping, she is going to fall. This is how it works because small children don't have the strongest ankles, so when the skis overlap, your ankles turn inwards, you start to feel wobbly, you try to use your arms to regain balance, but because they refuse to give small children the poles, the child is left with nothing. All they can do is wave their arms in the air, trying to grab onto anything within their arm's reach, but alas, there is nothing to grab, and instead, the child crashes to the ground, face covered in snow. All because of the pizza shape and a lack of poles. 


 To the left of the bunny slope was the ski lift while to the right of the bunny slope, woods. The instructor ushered us closer to the woods. We lined up prepared to descend down the colossal slope. "Alright, ready, set, go!" The instructor called to us. I watched as different kids attempted their way down the mountain. At first, they all appeared to to have a handle on this new activity. "Well, that's easy enough," I thought to myself. 

With that, I took off, repeating, "french fries, pizza, french fries, pizza" over and over again  in my head. I looked up and panic overcame me with the realization that I was headed directly into the woods, more specifically, I was about to run into a giant, snow-covered pine tree. 

Does anyone see me? Does anyone realize that I am about to be lost in the woods? TREE!

I can only imagine onlookers watching my struggle. The slope couldn't have been at more than a 10 degree angle. Therefore, I barely gained any speed and inched my way down the hill. Then, for no reason whatsoever, I turned and made my way towards the woods, at a crawling speed. I am sure the onlooker would think, "There she goes, down the hill. She is doing ok. Hm, why is she turning? She's turning to the right towards the woods. She is headed straight towards that tree. Well, she isn't going fast enough to reach the tree. She won't hit it. I'm sure she will stop in time. -pause- She's not stopping. Uh-oh.  -Watch me hit the tree - Oh, I hope she is alright. She looks alright."

That's right, I crashed into the giant pine tree. And by crashed, I mean slowly approached and bumped the tree. I was fine, but I decided at that point that perhaps skiing wasn't for me. 

I didn't ski again until I was 12. This time, I made sure I used poles. It turns out, I am really good at skiing. Again, it is probably due to its similarity to rollerblading. After going again and realizing that the pizza method is quite useless for me at least, as using a different method to slow down, which I call weaving, I found myself hooked on skiing. Joey and I make sure to go at least once a year. However, we usually go more frequently than that. 

Well, I guess I do have plans for the break now. I am going skiing. Hooray!

Point of the Story: Just because you don't do something well the first time doesn't mean you should give up. If I had, I wouldn't know how much I love skiing. Other point, my middle school years were fantastically embarrassing, but I'm ok with that. 

Interactive Notebook

Going home for the holidays is not a hassle for us as our family homes are a mere 30 minutes away from where we currently live.

Spending time with my family is always interesting. First, I was introduced to what I can only describe as my mom’s interactive science journal without any science.

A Sample Page of Mom's Notebook

Let's look at this notebook together. First, everything is in lowercase cursive. The left page has a message written on it, business card pasted in, and then the curious part, a sticky note stuck to the notebook. Why didn't Mom just write the phone number down in the book? I know what you are thinking, maybe she didn't have the book with her, that's fair. However, once she had the notebook, why not just pick up a pen and copy the information from the sticky note on to the paper? But maybe that's just me. 

Now, let's look at the right page. This page better exemplifies the entirety of the Interactive Notebook. 

First, we have a cupcake turkey. I asked my mom why she cut this out and put it in the Notebook of Wonders. She explained that Jessa had made this one year and she wanted to remember.*** WHAT? Wouldn't you take a picture of the actual cupcakes Jessa made? Unless the cupcakes looked really bad and in that case you wanted a happy cupcake memory. 

UPDATE***: Apparently, Jessa never made these cupcakes. This means that my mom cut out a picture of a cupcake turkey and pasted it in the notebook because it was cute. Oh wow, that sounds like something I would do. I am my mother's daughter. 

Below the turkey cupcake is a recipe. The recipe doesn't have a title, so we have no idea of what this dish is called. The recipe doesn't have measurements because those are overrated, but it does call for 2 eggs. Thank goodness the egg amount was written down, otherwise this recipe may be somewhat confusing. 

This let's-write-down-a-recipe-but-not-include-any-measurements-except-for-the-eggs-since-egg-amounts-are-crucial is a thing with my mom. One time I asked her for our recipe to make latkes and this was our conversation

Me: Mom, what is the recipe to make latkes?

Mom: Get some potatoes, peel them, boil them, shred them, add some onion, egg. Then add some flour

Me: How much flour, Mom?

Mom: Until it looks right. 

I am going to pause here to let you take in what my mom said. "Until it looks right." That has to be the most useless direction ever. I have no idea what "right" looks like. I will never be able to recreate some family recipes that have been passed down for generations because I have no idea how much of each ingredient to use. 

Me: -confused silence- What does right look like?

Mom: Oh, you know. It looks - right.

At this point, I usually become slightly aggravated as "right" is not a standard measurement. If she had said, "one or two cups," I would have very easily dealt with the 16 oz variance. But by giving absolutely no indication to the amount means it could be as small as 1 tbsp of flour or it could be 1000 cups of flour. I have no way of knowing!

Me: Ok,  - deep breath, trying not to sound annoyed - you didn't actually tell me anything there. 

Mom: I don't know, it just looks right.

Me: -annoyed - Great, thank you. This has been incredibly helpful. 

Mom: Oh and add salt and pepper. 

I have no words. The worst part is we have this conversation over and over again for different recipes. Perhaps, I will never learn. 

Mom uses her interactive journal to remember things. The only problem is, she doesn’t always remember what it means.

The top half  has "ms. pacman" in reference to our Ms. Pacman machine. Side Note: My ENTIRE family is AMAZING at Ms. Pacman. My mom was always really good at Ms. Pacman. Then one Chanukah, my dad got us a Ms. Pacman. My sisters and I played it every day for years. We became really good at Ms. Pacman. We never get the opportunity to demonstrate our skill though as playing Ms. Pacman isn't really needed in everyday life. I couldn't add it to my resume. That would look silly. I am not the best Ms. Pacman player in the world, but I am better than your average Ms. Pacman player. However, our Ms. Pacman broke years ago. So now, it sits in our basement, collecting dust. We called all of these different repair places who told us to bring it in. 

Bring it in. Bring in the heavy machine. Even after we tell them it's in our basement, they still expect us to manage to carry the machine up the stairs. A Ms. Pacman machine weighs 300lbs. It is also incredibly bulky as it is 3 feet wide, 3 feet long, and 6.25 feet tall. A standard interior door is between 30 and 36 inches, or 2.5 to 3 feet wide. That means after we somehow managed to get the 300 pound machine up the stairs, we would have to get it through a doorway that is too narrow. 

HOW DID MY DAD GET THIS MACHINE IN OUR BASEMENT IN THE FIRST PLACE? 

After we somehow managed to either a) defy the laws of physics and magically gets the arcade game through the doorway without issue or b) destroy the door, putting countless dents in the walls, and probably rip chunks of dry wall onto the floor, (definitely b) we would then put it in our truck, OH WAIT, we DON'T HAVE A TRUCK, I can't magically make trucks appear when I want them, load Ms. Pacman, and then bring it to them. 

Then AFTER they repair it, we have to go through the same hassle again. Meaning, we would again need to find a truck, load Ms. Pacman, get it into our house, and then through at least 2 doorways. That whole ordeal leaves way too much room for possible and probable destruction of rooms, doors, imaginary trucks, etc. 

Wouldn't it be so much easier just to send someone out? According to the Ms. Pacman Repair Companies, no. Rude.

So my mom is forever stuck with a sad, broken, lonely Ms. Pacman machine, who longs for the days when children gathered around her, playing her game, laughter and happiness enveloped her world, and all was right. Woah, too much personification there. Now I am sad for the Ms. Pacman machine. Poor Ms. Pacman. 

Ok, let's move on.

In case you can’t read the bottom half of the page, it says, “spoke with that letter c with a line over it means “with.” Growing up, I thought this was the normal way to abbreviate the word “with.” As if it was an accepted abbreviation in the English language. It turns out this is NOT the case and most people have absolutely NO IDEA what it means.

I just looked it up and that symbol is latin word for with, “cum”( prounounced koo-m) for example graduating magna CUM lade means graduating WITH great honor.  Look at how much you are learning by reading my blog!

According to the internet, this abbreviation is used for medical prescriptions. This explains why when everyone else in middle school was using cool abbreviations like, “brb” and “g2g”, I was deemed odd for using the c with a line over it.

Where was I? Oh yes, “spoke with bill; divorce texas.” Please note the fact that my mom has some weird thing against capital letters. All letters are lowercase in my mom’s world. The only reason she has any capital letters in her papers is when the computer autocorrects for her. I believe she once explained that she didn’t see the point of capital letters. “They know what I mean” was  my mom’s argument.  

I tried my best to decipher my mom’s cryptic message. Who is Bill? Was he planning to divorce a state? Was Bill secretly trying to get Texas to secede from the United States? Doesn’t he know secession is illegal in the USA? Also, why was my mom involved in this possible secession? My mom has never even been to Texas. Not true. One time, we took a flight to somewhere, maybe FL? Anyway, we stopped over in Texas for an hour. It was a really nice airport. I was 10 years old. There was a cool sculpture for the kids to play in. The sculpture had different piano keys on the floor and when you ran over one, the key played its note. 

That's a really cool idea when you have one, two, or maybe even three kids running around. It makes a cool tune. However, when you have FIFTY kids running around, it sounds a hot mess. BLARRGGGHHH was all I heard while running around. It was still fun. I liked that place. 

But stopping in an airport does not count as visiting a place, so never mind. 

I showed my mom her note. She looked at it and thought hard. Then she began laughing at the realization that she had no idea what it meant. Therefore, this interactive notebook that my mom keeps to help her REMEMBER things is clearly not doing it's job. 

Point of the Story: Today you learned about secession. It was ruled illegal in 1869 by Supreme Court Justice Salmon, yes Salmon, P. Chase. Also, don't put full-sized arcade games in your basement unless you know someone who will come fix them if they break. Also, if you know this person, please tell me who they are. 

Final Question of the Story: How did my dad get the Ms. Pacman machine in our basement in the first place?

Career Options

Over the weekend, Joey and I discovered that I could be a part-time truck driver. You see, we moved 15 minutes away. This required us to rent a moving truck, a 20 footer.

I had a great time driving that baby. The reason for this is I used to drive a mini bus. And not just any mini bus, an obnoxiously splatter painted with hand prints bus, filled with children.

This is the bus I drove all over Southwest Virginia - 

Now, I know what you are thinking. You're thinking, "that's a pretty sweet minibus. I wish I could ride something that cool." I know. 

Imagine you, being all lame, walking on the sidewalk, then something pulls up next to you. You look up to see a smorgasbord of color, blues, yellows, reds, greens. You look through the door to see the driver and kids, ages six to twelve years old rocking out.  This thing had up pretty sweet surround sound. This occurred twice a day, five days a week for an entire school year.

One time as I drove to pick up one of my kids from their school and bring them to day care, I came across an odd sight in the road. No, it wasn't a chicken! It was a turtle shell. It was in the middle of the road and I didn't want to risk running it over. What if I squished a turtle? 

So, I looked behind me and checked to make sure there weren't any cars behind me. I then, stopped the bus, in the dead center of the road, a few feet behind the turtle shell. I walked up to the turtle shell and out popped a turtle! I named him Pablo. 

A woman in her seventies came rushing out of a worn down building. She shuffled forward, wagging her finger in the air. "Is that turtle back again? If I've told him once, I've told him a million times, don't walk across the street!" 

This woman seemed VERY familiar with this turtle. The clearly had a history. We stood over the turtle as she peered down, disappointed by the turtle's decision to again cross the road. While she listed the different times she moved this turtle, I decided to name him. 

"Pablo. Your name will be Pablo" I thought. "Hm, where is Pablo's family?" I wondered. "Pablo, where is your family?" I asked aloud. The turtle looked at me, the woman continued talking about how she picked him up here and moved him all the way over there. A lot of hand gestures went along with this. Approximately every 20 seconds, I nodded in agreement with whatever she was saying. Sometimes I would catch pieces of it, along the lines of "there used to be water here, but it's gone" and "why doesn't he get it? I told him to find a pond." I wasn't sure how to explain that Pablo didn't comprehend English or any other language for that matter. He only spoke turtle, unlike Lila, who I am convinced understands me sometimes. 

I picked up Pablo and decided I would bring him to Duck Pond, a popular pond at Virginia Tech. There he could spend his days lounging on rocks, swimming in deep waters, and not being run over. 

"Where you takin' the turtle?" The woman asked. 

"To a nice pond, far away from any dangerous roads." With that, I scooped up Pablo and we headed back to the bus. 

As I climbed onto the bus, I realized a snafu in my plan. There was a point to driving the minibus around town, it was to pick up children from their schools and take them back to daycare.

I was supposed to pick up a 6 year old girl at 3:10pm. It was currently 3:00pm. There was no way I could make it to the pond and drop Pablo off before that. I couldn't take the girl on a random field trip, or could I? 

I called up the day center and quickly rambled the details of Pablo. It went along the lines of, "found turtle, need Hailey's mom's phone number, setting Pablo free at Duck Pond, spontaneous field trip - it's a thing. It is SO a thing. Well, I just made it a thing."

I called the little girl's mom at work and explained that her daughter was fine and she needn't be worried. I just wanted to take her to a pond to free a turtle and we would be a little late to day care. The mom, confused, agreed after I promised her daughter's safety and well-being would not be jeopardized. 

Now, I had to drive the bus and pick up the little girl. BUT what about Pablo? If I put him on a seat on the bus, he would fall off or climb off. What if he fell and cracked his shell open? I couldn't sew his shell shut. He couldn't be buckled into the seat. I would have to hold him on my lap while driving*. 

*DON'T EVER DO THAT. EVER.

I did just that, carefully driving to the little girl's school. I was 10 minutes late and she was standing there crying, being comforted by a teacher. I pulled up and opened the door. I didn't even get the chance to apologize because the moment she saw the turtle, her disgruntled demeanor disappeared. 

"I want to hold it!" She shouted with glee. 

Now, I have always been taught to use manners and expect nothing less from your average 6 year old. 

"Let's try that again," I said. 

"May I please hold that?" 

"This is Pablo, the turtle. He is scared right now, but once we get to the pond, I will let you set him free."

"Ok." She sat down and patiently waited as we drove to the pond.

"Wait, the pond?" She asked as we arrived. "This isn't daycare." 

"I know, I called your mom and she said it was alright for me to bring you to the pond to release Pablo." 

We released Pablo into Duckpond. Wait, this was not at all the story I intended to tell. I meant to tell you all about my time moving to the new apartment and driving the truck. 

I wanted to tell you about my mom coming to help and then driving off with a car full of stuff and Lila in the opposite direction of my new apartment (not the first time she got lost that day, even with the GPS). I planned on telling you about Lila frantically barking in my mom's car as she watched me drive the truck off in the proper direction, drinking endless Dunkin Donuts Hot Chocolate to get me through the move, and my new neighbors confusion over the word base and bass, but no, I got distracted - as I do. 

Point of the Story: Well, it was supposed to be that I am currently living out of cardboard boxes and can't find the forks. We unpacked the spoons and knives, but somehow the forks are nowhere to be found. Also, the contents of my fridge are: eggs, pasta sauce, and maple syrup from Maine. It is the most amazing syrup ever. I love it. It makes pancakes and waffles EVEN BETTER. It's so good, that I bought it in Maine, bubble wrapped it, and had it shipped home. Oh my goodness, so good. I want pancakes right now, but I don't have pancake mix, or a spatula, or the griddle, or plates. Where are our plates? Wait, where are our plates? I definitely packed them. Oh, they may be in my car underneath the crab costume. That's possible.

Therefore, the point of the story is: go with the flow, even if the flow includes driving a colorful miniature bus to a pond to set free a confused little creature. Also, have you seen my plates? Or forks? Maybe my forks are with my plates.  

Summer Adventures - The Tree

In June, Lila and I were walking through the woods. We approached a newly fallen tree. In that moment, I thought, “I could chop that in half.” Yes, I had once again inadvertently challenged myself to a seemingly pointless endeavor.

I needed to procure an ax. Home Depot seemed like a great place for that.

I drove to Home Depot excited for my axe purchase. I entered Home Depot with big eyes, looking for a sign to point me towards axes. I walked around and inadvertently walked right past the axes. After completing a full lap around the store, I resigned to the fact that I was completely unaware as to which grouping axes belonged. An ax didn't fit in Gardening, Power Tools, Paint although I did spend some time just looking at all of the different paint chips for no other reason besides, “oohh pretty colors.” Nor did an ax fit into Lighting and Ceiling Fans, Flooring, Kitchen and Bath, Cleaning Supplies, Lumber and Building Materials, and Hardware.

I found a man in a bright orange apron and he pointed me to the very left end of the store. I walked over to the aisle and found that axes come in many different sizes and styles. If you go to HomeDepot.com and type axe in the search bar, over 50 different types of axes will appear along with this guy --

That’s right, because I go to Home Depot solely for their garden statues of anthropomorphic amphibians with a passion for fighting fires.  

Slightly overwhelmed, I picked up an ax and read the attached tag. It’s Rock Forge Premium Log Splitter with Fiberglass Handle. Clearly this ax is for PREMIUM logs. I imagine logs from only the finest of trees being split by this fiberglass handled beauty. Trees are just really big logs. However, I think they mean firewood. This tree is definitely bigger than your average firewood log. Let’s move on. I am holding the ax as two men walk past me, no, they didn’t just casually walk past me, let’s discuss what they did.

At first, the two men were far down the aisle, carrying on a normal conversation. They headed my way, unaware of me. But, as they came closer, the sight they witnessed boggled their minds. I imagine their thoughts were along the lines of: “What is a 25 year old woman in stylish navy pants, paired with a green, blue, white, and purple floral print tank top covered by a deep purple cardigan, with sensible silver metallic flats, doing with an ax? Why does she look so intense? What is she going to do?” Their walk slowed as their conversation came to a stand-still. I could feel their heavy stares and endless internal questions burning a hole through my back. I looked up and smiled brightly, making direct eye contact. I can’t even begin to imagine the awkwardness the men felt as we silently smiled at one another. After a solid 5 seconds of smiling, the men snapped back to life and continued down the aisle. 

Number of people concerned with my possession of an ax: 2. 

I put down the PREMIUM log splitter and picked up the Ludell 4lb. Log Splitter with 34 in. INDESTRUCTIBLE Fiberglass Handle. Ooooh, INDESTRUCTIBLE you say? I knew I needed something other than a log splitter, but the promise of indestructible was very tempting. To know that no matter what I did, I wasn't going to manage to destroy the ax brought me comfort. However, I knew I couldn't buy it. A log splitter wasn't up to the task of chopping the tree in half.

I ultimately went with a single-bit ax with a fiberglass handle that weighed 5.26 lbs. I could easily swing the ax and the grip was comfortable. I had my ax.

As I made my way to the check-out counter, I remembered that Joey and I were running low on bathroom cleaner. I have been very successful with a bleach foam cleaner and went and grabbed it in the cleaning section of Home Depot.

Right before arriving at the checkout counter, I noticed duct tape. Joey had just mentioned that he needed duct tape. I grabbed a roll and placed my three items on the belt. As I stood there, looking at my items, duct tape, an ax, and bleach foam cleaner. Oh no. I look like Dexter.

I needed to grab another item, but it was too late. I watched as the checkout woman’s face turned pale as she put the pieces together in her head. She looked at me carefully, trying to memorize my every detail as she believed I would most likely end up on the nightly news in handcuffs. She would be a witness, her eye-witness account would be crucial.

I knew what she was thinking and part of me wanted to explain that the three items I purchased were not linked, nor was I planning on causing any harm to anyone. However, I decided it was better to say nothing. I’m sure it livened up her day. Plus, now she had a great story to share with her other cash register counterparts.

Number of people concerned about my possession of an ax: 3.

I checked out and loaded up the items in my car. I returned home, unloaded the items, and turned around with my axe in tow. I brought Lila with me into the woods. She was thrilled as the woods is one of her most favorite places. It has smells, animals, sticks, mud, and animal poop. Oh yes, the woods is a wonderland for Lila.

Lila is a naturally timid dog. She disliked the ax from first sight. I let her sniff it, but she had already decided she didn’t like it. This kept Lila a safe distance away from me whilst I chopped the tree. She instead found puddles filled with frogs. Lila LOVES frogs. She loves that they hop. If she sees a frog that isn't hopping, she will take her nose, put it under the frog’s bottom, and quickly lift her nose up, sending the frog through the air. Essentially, she forces the frog to hop. Poor frogs.

While Lila focused on her new froggy friends, I approached the tree. I surveyed it from all angles, and concluded that yes, this was, in fact, a tree. Seriously, what was I looking for? Maybe I was looking to see if an animal had made a home there or where to start chopping.

I took a solid stance, planting my feet firmly in the ground and swung the axe with all of my might. Pieces of bark went flying through the air. I liked this. I continued until I was out of breath, heart racing, sweat dripping down my face. I inhaled deeply, looked around for Lila who was surveying a ground hog hole. I wiped off the sweat, and continued. My mind had the chance to wander as the metal penetrated the log. An hour passed. My hands were raw, blisters formed and I decided to call it a day.

I called for Lila, who had now ventured partially INTO the groundhog hole. All I could see was her tail sticking out, furiously wagging. I shook my head, knowing the groundhogs had many exits out of their homes and were most likely in a completely different area of the woods. I once again called Lila’s name. She wiggled herself out of the hole. Covered in dirt, Lila walked over to me, proud of the day’s excursion. Her tongue hung out and the corners of her mouth turned up gave the impression of her smiling. Lila was having a fantastic day.

We walked out of the woods towards the apartment parking lot. Knowing that I didn't have a suitable place in the apartment for the ax, I instead put it in my car’s trunk.

I examined my throbbing, blistered hands. If I was going to chop this tree again, which I most definitely was, I would have to get gloves. While showering that evening, one of the blisters popped open. I bandaged the open wound and realized that I must limit tree chopping to once every few days.

Lila and I continued our tree chopping adventures once every few days for seven weeks. At one point, after a chopping session, I emerged from the woods, only to be greeted by an older resident of the apartment complex.

“I’ve been watching you for a while now” he said.

Number of people concerned by my possession of an axe and my actions: 5 (Joey also mentioned his concern over my new hobby.)

“Have you?” I asked, slighty perturbed  by his bold revelation.

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?” Had this man just responded to my question by ignoring it and instead asking a different question? 

“Why are you chopping that tree? You aren't clearing the path for the ATVs, are you? They are so loud. They are such a nuisance.”

“Oh, no, I’m just chopping the tree in half.”

“Oh.” The man turned away, confused by the answer given.

Great, I had now secured the role of “The Crazy Resident.” This man would undoubtedly tell all of his neighbors about his bizarre encounters with me. The Crazy Resident is the one who walks down the halls and people lock their doors, whispers follow the resident, people go out of their way to avoid this person. I really didn’t want to be this resident. Yet, my goal remained unfulfilled. I would continue chopping the tree in half.

One night, while out walking Lila, I ran into some neighborhood friends. 

"What have you been up to during summer break?" asked one of them. 

I paused, deciding whether or not I should inform them of my hobby. For some reason, the majority of people saw my hobby as odd or unusual. Being one to indulge all details of my life to others, I decided to share my actions. 

"I've been chopping up a fallen tree in the woods." 

"No, you haven't."

"I have. Want to go see it?"

"Yes."

They followed me into the woods and I showed them my tree. 

"Rachel, this is impressive." 

"Thank you. I still have a lot to do."

We walked back from the woods. As we passed my car, I pointed to my trunk, that's where I keep my ax. I opened my trunk and showed it to my neighbors.

"Wait," one said as I pulled the ax out of my car. "Your ax is unsheathed?" 

"I don't have a cover. I don't know where to get a cover, so yeah, I leave it unsheathed."

"Do you know how sketchy that looks?"

Number of people concerned with my possession of an ax: 7 (my two neighbors).

That evening, I took a picture of my tree progress and text it to my mom and sisters. I immediately received three phone calls, one from my mom, and one from each of my sisters, which took the total of Number of people concerned with my possession of an ax: 10.

My mom at first tried to talk me of my new activity, but ultimately accepted it as another one of my many quirks. I promised her to only chop the tree when wearing: a. gloves b. back brace c. sneakers d. sunscreen e. a t-shirt. This would ensure I didn't get severely sun-burned or throw out my back. 

I continued chopping up the tree while meeting all of my mom's constraints. When I finally reached the center of the tree and split it into two giant logs resulting in:

I did it! Also, there's Lila

The tree had a 60 in circumference. (Props to Bridget for finding my mistake as I originally wrote it was a 60 in diameter. Nope! Definitely not that big.) I took this picture while standing on top of the tree.

Point of the Story: I love accomplishing different things every summer. The summer previous to this, I went white water rafting once a week. The year before, I hiked Machu Picchu.  So in comparison, this may seem smaller, I'm still really proud. ALSO, I still have all of my limbs! My mom is very proud of the fact that I managed to accomplish this without injury. 

The Final (Hopefully) Traumatic Head Incident

I have had the misfortune of always having the smallest dorm room on the floor. I don’t know how it happened, but year after year, I ended up in the tiny room, the room where we couldn’t un-bunk our beds due to lack of space. It was miserable.

As someone who loves to be cold at night, I had to sleep on the bottom bunk. The top bunk is equivalent to being suffocated by a hoodie with the hood tied shut. At night, I must have the fan on, circulating air. It drives Joey crazy, but to his credit, he puts up with the fan, plus I went out and bought him an extra comforter to keep him warm – I call that even.

Hm, I just realized that none of that last paragraph actually pertains to the story. Well, now it’s just something else you know about me!

Anyway, my cramped dorm room contained one small, hidden window. It let in a fraction of the light compared to the other dorm rooms, but being someone who needs sunlight, I loved the window open.

My roommate, however, did not embrace sunlight as I did. As a future computer engineer, she enjoyed her time inside, facing a dimly lit computer, coding away through endless hours of the night. I on the other hand will sit outside at any opportunity and will open every window when the weather is nice.

This disagreement caused minor tension, which I learned could quickly be relieved if I closed the window.  The problem was that in order to reach the window, you would have to climb through the bottom bunk and maneuver yourself through the wooden slates, stretching out far enough to reach the handles.

Let’s draw you a diagram!

Ok, so you clearly see the giant metal bar that whose sole purpose was to inconvenience me.

One day, my roommate came back from some random location. She walked in and immediately asked me to close the window, eliminating all fresh air. Dorms are gross. You get that many college aged kids living together and it’s bound to smell, no matter how clean you keep your room. It’s just a fact of life.

I obliged, climbing my bed, avoiding the obnoxious metal bar and wiggling my arms through the metal slats. I closed the window. Pleased with myself, I sat upwards, with full force, full force right into the metal bar. I fell face down onto my bed and just laid there. My roommate had wandered off to say hi to someone.

 Very familiar with this pain, I had bumped my head on the EXACT SAME spot as the previous two incidences. I gently put a finger on the spot radiating the most pain. I pulled my finger away and brought it to my face -  red.  Yes, once again, I had cracked open my head in the same spot and would need to go to the hospital.

Now, I was still face down on my bed, motionless when my roommate returned. “Rachel?” she asked, trying to surmise what just occurred. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah” I responded brightly. By this point, I had become so accustom to my accidental self-inflicted pain that I wasn’t particularly fazed. “I just cracked my head open.” I told her matter of factly. “I am going to call an ambulance and go to the hospital.”

“Oh…” her voice wandered off, confused at my calmness.

“I am going to stand up now. Will you please call the ambulance for me?” and without giving her a moment to respond, I stood up, walked over to the bathroom, got a paper towel, put it on the back of my head, and walked through the dorm as if it were any other day.

On my way back to my dorm room, I called for an ambulance. As I explained to the 911 operator the issue with my skull and giant split down the back of it, I walked past my friend’s room. I forgot that we were supposed to go swimming in an hour. I decided I should probably let her know that I wasn’t going to be able to join.

I walked in, left hand still bracing the paper towel against my head, “I’m really sorry, I want to go swimming with you, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to  as I just cracked my head open and an ambulance is on its way to take me to the hospital. BUT, if we could schedule another time to go, that would be great!”

“You what?” the girls leapt out of their seats, racing towards my damaged skull. The frenzy died down and I returned to my room to wait.

The paramedics rushed in. I noticed they looked a lot closer to my age than any other paramedics I had met before. They explained they were Virginia Tech’s Student Paramedics. 

Fantastic, a bunch of overly excited students were taking me to the hospital.

The lead paramedic asked, “any back or neck injuries?” I responded, “well, I was born without my L5 disc in my back.” WRONG answer.

“A back injury!” they exclaimed with glee “we MUST backboard you.” Oh no.

“I’m really ok. I’ve been walking around and everything,” I replied not wanting to deal with the process of being back boarded.

“You are probably in shock. You could be injuring yourself even more. We MUST backboard you.” Not wanting to argue with the paramedics, I agreed.

The paramedics attempted to bring in the backboard, but with 4 people in the room, it wouldn’t fit. I told you my dorm room was small.)  Everyone except for myself and one paramedic had to leave the room. Then he put the backboard on the ground and told me to lie on top of it. The other paramedics rushed back into the room, strapping all straps, buckling multiple buckles, tightening the brace. I was boarded, but it really felt like I was trapped. 

Me, trapped on a backboard

After the backboarding was completed, the paramedics lifted me up and carried me down the hall. What they didn’t know was my dorm was called The Slusher Wing because it never ended. It was like a giant wing, and was longer than a football field (I did the math.) I was slid out of the room and the four paramedics took their spots. Two were on each side of my body prepared to carry me down the never-ending hallways. They lifted me and we began. With every step they took, a jolt of pain surged through my skull.

We finally reached the elevator. The back board included a neck brace, making me unable to move my head left or right. All I could do was look straight up. The only reason I knew we made it to the elevator was the notification by a paramedic who I will label as Paramedic 2.  

“Finally,” he said, “the elevator.” I heard the door open and I was shuffled into the elevator.

I waited to hear the elevator door shut, but the sound never came. “Um, we have a problem,” announced Paramedic 2. That’s right, the backboard was too long. It didn’t fit in the elevator. That left one solution, THE STAIRS! Sure, I was only on the fourth floor, but stairwells are tricky. They have many turns, many turns that the back board would have to take, plus I would be on a downward slant the entire time. With no other option, we began our trek down the four flights of stairs.

 “We’ve never had to do this before,” divulged Paramedic 2.

“Well that’s reassuring,” I replied, wishing I had taken the bus to the hospital instead. 

“This stairwell is too narrow. We can’t fit on the sides” Paramedic 2 was quickly becoming my least favorite person.

Paramedic 1 positioned himself at the foot of the backboard and my favorite, Paramedic 2, positioned himself at the head.

They lifted me and we began our treacherous hike down the staircase. As we descended, the backboard maintained a 30 degree angle. I was petrified that I would slide off of the backboard and fall down the remainder of the stairs. I held on tight as we went through twists and turns. We finally reached the exit and I breathed a sigh of relief as I was loaded into the ambulance.

By this point, I was feeling light-headed. The paramedics drilled me with questions, such as name, age, birth date. They asked, “Social security number?” and without thinking, I listed off some numbers. I closed my eyes, wanting to fall asleep, but just as I drifted off, I jolted awake, my eyes widened.

“I think I just gave you my bank account number” I announced. “Can you repeat the numbers back to me?”

The paramedic read them off the paper. I recognized the numbers and realized that I had just accidentally given four complete strangers access to my bank account. They knew my full name, home address, birth date, and now my bank account number.

“Yep, that’s my bank account” I said.

“You know your bank account number by heart?” They asked, perplexed by my ability to remember an important sequence of numbers.  

“Yeah, I know my credit card number too,” I paused, “but I’m not giving that to you.”

The paramedics laughed. When we finally arrived at the hospital, I was wheeled right in to the ER. This time the doctor explained that he would staple my head shut.

WOAH NOW! I am not breaking with tradition. I need stitches in my head and they must be BLUE.

I interrupted the doctor to ask for stitches, specifically blue ones. The doctor was confused by my request, but after hearing how I recited my bank account number instead of my social security number, he knew he was dealing with an odd patient.

The doctor obliged. And yet again, I had blue stitches in my head.

Point of the Story: If I ever crack my head open again and am unconscious when the doctor goes to fix my head, let them know I need blue stitches in my head.