I Don't Always Clean My Room, but when I do...

I possibly just experienced the least productive day of my life.  Everything this morning was scheduled out perfectly and I was going to be right on track, but it all changed when I got a phone call during class.  After I got out of class I listened to the message on my phone, then called the lady back.  “Sure,” I said.  “Moving the interview to Friday at the same time will work just fine for me.” 

Changing the interview time for a job downtown meant I had three more hours of time to spare, so I kicked off my boots, climbed up onto my bunk bed, and snuggled under my cover while I watched an episode of Hart of Dixie.  (Let me tell you, watching the pilot episode of that TV show on Netflix is going to be the death of me, because now I’m outright addicted no matter how bad the acting may be.) 

Before I knew it, it was lunchtime, so I unwound myself from my cocoon and scrambled off my bed to grab some left over spaghetti out of the fridge.  People tell me it’s terribly unhealthy to warm up food in Tupperware containers since they’re plastic, but I do it anyway.  After my food had been nuked for a solid 2 minutes I climbed back into bed and watched another episode of my show.  As soon as that one finished I knew I had to start studying but, like any normal procrastinating college student, I had to check FB first. 

Which meant that I saw a post on my floor wall from one of the girls reminding the rest of us that the floor had to be decorated for Ashton Haunted Ball, which was occurring in 5 hours.  Other floors had started decorating a couple days ago. 

Let me tell you how much time we had invested into decorating.

None. 

So I took it upon myself, instead of studying, to walk down the hallway and pick up a wad of cotton “spider web-making” material to help aid in the decorating process.  For a solid hour I worked on my own, stringing spider web around the elevator and throughout the hallway.  Then a couple other girls joined me in the decorating process and I got sucked even further into it.  I couldn’t just leave after I had already done so much. 

Around 4pm I called it quits and went back to my room to study and get ready to go to dinner with my dad. 

I ended up cleaning my room instead.  Ironically, my roommate posted this photo on my wall right as I was in the middle of the cleaning process and it couldn’t have been more correct.

*sigh* I was wasting time away and I knew it. 

Needless to say, I didn’t study.  When my dad showed up (flowers in hand!) I took him through my hall, introducing him to various people and then I walked him to the guy’s side to show them that they had decorated for Halloween… with a Christmas theme.  They even had a TV, playing a never-ending clip of a crackling fireplace.  The last time I saw one of those was in a nursing home.

My dad and I left after a bit and drove to Ballard to find a restaurant I had chosen online, called “The Walrus and the Carpenter”, which is apparently named due to an Alice and Wonderland reference.  When we walked in and discovered it was a 45-minute wait we put our names on the waiting list and walked down the street to eat dessert at “Hot Cakes”. 

Delicious.  Always has been. 

We walked back to the restaurant and a blissful night of eating ensued.  When I eat real food it’s as if my stomach is a bottomless pit and I think I can proudly say I might have eaten just as much, or more, than my dad did.  We made sure we documented every food we tried on Forkly, a wonderful iPhone app that I highly recommend.  (If you want to read about my dad's last visit to Seattle, nearly a year ago, read Eating Happiness.)  

After dinner I got back to my room around 9:30pm since my dad and I first went to Will’s room to say hello.  They talked a lot about sports, no surprises there, and I would occasionally try to interject with something slightly smart and knowledgeable sounding.  Compared to most girls, I know a lot more about sports.  But, when a hearty conversation about terrible team-management is occurring between two guys, it’s hard to get a word in. 

So, eventually I get back to my room.  Did I study?  A little bit.  But a lot of other things happened within the span of three hours that were pretty distracting, and most of them won’t be served justice in a few words so I’ll save myself the trouble of trying to summarize.  After all, it was Halloween and no one wanted to settle in for a normal night. 

Welcome to my college life.  

A Really Good Liar

For the past 5 weeks (maybe a little more) I had been lying to everyone on my Dad’s side of the family, and most people on my Mom’s side of the family. 

I was sitting in Sea-Tac airport, getting ready to board a flight to Los Angeles, and my Grandma from Ohio was texting me about Thanksgiving and asking about where I was going.

I texted, I’ll be at a friends house.  I leave this afternoon, without a second thought.  I still had to be careful.  I had kept my secret this long and it wasn’t going to be unveiled until I was standing on my cousins’ doorstep. 

All my friends from school knew.  I had to explain why I wasn’t going back to Colorado, but to California instead.

I had done a pretty good job of texting my cousin and telling her how much I was going to miss her, and I occasionally posted the same message on her Facebook wall.  I did it to my brothers as well, telling them how jealous I was that they got to be in Cali and I didn’t. 

I did more than just lie.  I was downright conniving. 

I could hardly contain my excitement as I boarded the flight, and I texted my Dad, “I’m leaving school now, have a great Thanksgiving!”  My Dad and Mom actually knew I was coming, so those were simply code words just in case someone over read the text on accident. 

I had the very last seat on the plane.  20D and I ended up sitting next to a couple with a six year old girl across the isle, and a 2 year old ginger-haired boy that they were keeping on their laps. 

Most people would have mentally prepared themselves for disaster, but I hadn’t interacted with kids nearly at all since I left for school.  I was more than thrilled to talk to him and I eventually got to hold him for a while. 

Eventually, he got worn out and fell asleep, which allowed me time to read for school.  I read more in those 2 hours than I would have read in 6 had I still been in my dorm. 

After I landed I called my Dad, made my way to the baggage claim, and then out the sliding doors to stand on the gray sidewalk of terminal three.  I had a long sleeve gray shirt on, a Rockies baseball cap, and jeans.  It was 72 degrees out and I felt like I was suffocating.  

When my parents pulled up in a mini van a huge grin spread across my face, and when my Mom got out I pulled her into a hug and didn’t want to let go.  I had seen my Dad a few weeks earlier in Seattle, but I hadn’t seen my Mom in months. 

My Dad threw my suitcase in the back and we were off.  I had a plan about how I wanted to surprise everyone, but since it didn’t happen that way I won’t bother to explain it. 

I’m not one that normally asks, “Are we there yet?”  I tend to leave that job to my six-year-old cousin, and youngest brother, but I recall asking it at least twice on the ride to my cousins’ house, which was pointless since I knew almost exactly where we were the whole ride back. 

As we pulled up to the side of the house I slid down between the seats just in case someone was outside, and my parents went into the house to scope out where everyone was. 

My Dad texted me:  Everyone is all over the place.  Come ring the doorbell. 

I opened the van door, and climbed out feeling like a stowaway or criminal.  I walked across the street as casually as I could and walked up to the front door.  Then I rang the doorbell, which was an odd feeling because whenever I had arrived in the past it had always been wide open to greet me.

My dear cousin Mackenzie answered the door (I had been pulling her leg the most) and when she saw me she said, “What?” and backed away from the door.  I yelled, “Surprise!” and then we were laughing and hugging and my youngest cousin Ruby joined in on the hugs as well. 

My brother Robert was standing there, just staring at me.  I’m pretty sure he went into shock and remained in that state the rest of the night.  He told me later he had been super confused because he was absolutely certain I should still be in Washington and not in California.  That’s how good I had been at lying.  It took him a while to adjust to the fact I was actually present.

After surprising those three, I walked out back to where the pool is.  Sure enough, Mark and Xander, the inspirable family members, were floating on inner tubes in the pool.  I was walking toward them and they were looking at me when I got tackled by my sister, and engulfed in a hug.  Then the boys were yelling and climbing out of the pool and joining in and soaking everyone. 

I couldn’t believe it was finally happening!

Next I surprised my Grandparents, who were next door in the guesthouse practicing for the “Battle of the Bands” which ended up not happening because I showed up.  My Grandpa was the first to realize that it was me standing there and not one of the other grandchildren.  He started saying, “Oh my goodness!” while my Grandma continued to bang on the drums.  When she finally saw me she covered her mouth and got up to come hug me.   I definitely can’t count on all my fingers and toes how many hugs and kisses I received within the first 10 minutes of arriving.

I still had to surprise my Aunt and Uncle, and within a few minutes my Uncle came back to the house after a run.  I hid behind a wall and jumped out as he rounded the corner. 

“Elisabeth!  Wow!  Don’t hug me!”  He was pretty sweaty after his run, but I proceeded to hug him anyway. 

Surprising my Aunt was possibly the funniest.  Everyone sat down around the dinner table, and I had my back to the entry of the kitchen.  My brothers, sister, and cousins then began improvising a discussion about what would happen during “Battle of the Bands” later that night.  As they were talking my Aunt walked into the kitchen. 

“Hey guys!” she said as she placed some groceries on the counter.

Everyone responded through a mixed chorus of hellos and continued to talk, and snicker.  In the reflection of the French doors by the table I caught my Aunt leaning toward my Uncle and asking, “Who is that at the table?” 

I started laughing, I couldn’t help it, and I turned around to reveal myself.  My Aunt was definitely surprised, and both of us had tears in our eyes as we hugged.  At that point everyone was screaming and laughing and some of us were crying.  My sister had been crying throughout the whole thing, so I made sure to give her another hug.

Everyone began to ask me about all of the texts and Facebook posts and how long have you known you were going to do this again?  How did you manage to hide it from us? 

“Guys!”  I laughed, “I guess I’m just a really good liar.”  

Eating Happiness

I changed six different times last night when I was trying to decide what to wear to dinner.  My friend Kendra can attest to that.  She kept counting and every few minutes or so the number would once more increase as I continuously vetoed various outfits.  

She said, “Elisabeth, stop freaking out!  Your Dad doesn’t care what you look like and you’ll look great in anything you wear!”

Here’s the thing.  I hadn’t seen him in over a month and I wanted to dress up and look my best, just for him.  If I dress up for someone it’s a big deal—it means I care a lot.  And I had been looking forward to dinner with my Dad for weeks.

I texted him, “Tell me when you’re here” and two minutes later I was walking down the hall toward the door that leads to the lounge.  Before I realized what was going on, my Dad was in the hallway with a bunch of flowers just for me.  He had somehow managed to get into the lounge, and then into the hallway just so he could surprise me with a bouquet of flowers.

I hugged him and couldn’t let go.  I couldn’t believe he was actually there!  I believe one of my friends managed to catch the moment on camera, but I have not yet seen the picture. 

He made the rounds with me as I introduced him to various people.  I showed him my room to prove that it was still intact and organized, and I also pointed out how much the plant from my Mom had grown.  

I told my Dad I wanted him to chose where we ate (the one requirement was that the restaurant would have good steak) and after the flowers were placed safely in a vase we headed out.

I’m surprised how well I know the city now.  I was able to help direct my Dad where he wanted to go, I could tell him the easiest way to get to main roads, and I recognized where we were.  To a point, I was impressed with my knowledge.

We successfully reached Daniel’s Broiler, which rests right beside Lake Union.  My Dad gave me the seat with the better view, but I only had a few moments to look because when the menus appeared my attention was captivated by the thought of food. 

After we ordered our food I called my on my phone Mom to talk to her.  The waiter was probably wondering what in the world was going on—he must have passed at least three times while I was on the phone in front of my Dad, and I’m afraid I looked rather rude since he didn’t know whom I was talking to.  I wanted to say, It’s ok!  I’m talking to my mom and she loves my dad and me and we’re just talking.  I’m not trying to be rude at all, I promise!  I’m sure it didn’t even matter that much, but I want to act professional and courteous when I’m at a fancy restaurant.

The first food that arrived was a shrimp cocktail.  I haven’t had shrimp in months and I just about died of happiness.  From that point on I could not stop smiling the entire meal and my Dad took a picture of me every time I ate something new because he couldn’t get over the expression of glee on my face.  I felt like a kid eating cotton candy for the first time—the only difference is that I’m an 18 year old who was freaking out about shrimp, salad, steak and mashed potatoes. 

College food does that to you, no matter if it’s ranked on "America’s Best College Cafeteria Food" or not. 

I had a great time eating everything.  Even the bread tasted a million times better.  I kept eating no matter how full I felt.  When food is good I have no limit, and last night I could have eaten for hours. 

I’m totally serious.  Hours.

When I took a bite of the steak it melted in my mouth.  I didn’t know it was possible for steak to melt when I ate it.  I had the huge urge to laugh or dance… but I didn’t.  I just continued to smile real big, eat, and catch up with my Dad on life. 

Unfortunately dinner didn’t last long enough.  I finished off strong with a beautiful crème brulee and felt totally content.  Having my Dad in the beautiful city of Seattle with me, and eating good food made the night one of the best so far this year. 

When he dropped me off at school and we said our goodbyes it felt like the first weekend of school all over, but it was also very different.  This time my Mom wasn’t there, this time I wasn’t scared out of my mind, and this time I knew what I would walk back inside to. 

Plus, my stomach was full of good food.

Which made my life look even brighter.

The Struggle Bus

More than a year ago I was in Pennsylvania previewing Grove City College.  It was my second choice at the time, SPU was my first, but I was fairly interested since I would be only an hour and a half from my grandparents if I needed somewhere to stay during the weekend. 

I was visiting with my Dad and when we stopped by the admissions office for some information there was hot chocolate available for the taking.  I helped myself to some immediately since it was rather chilly and rainy. 

After we left and begin to walk around campus I tripped slightly and spilled some hot chocolate on my hand.  A few steps later I did the same thing again.

“Man, I’m riding the struggle bus today.”

My Dad looked over me and said, “What in the world are you talking about?”

“I’m riding the struggle bus, Dad.  As in I’m struggling today and riding the struggle bus, you know?”

“No.”  He laughed.  “I’ve never heard of that saying in my entire life.”

Apparently no one at SPU has either.

Whenever I say it everyone asks for me to repeat it, since they have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. 

I guess I assumed it was something that everyone knew.

By the end of the year everyone will know what I'm talking about because I’m going to continue to say it no matter how ridiculous it may sound.

For now, it’ll just have to be my signature thing here, and maybe someday it will catch on.

I Just Want a Steak

When I previewed SPU and ate at Gwinn the food was good, and I didn’t mind eating it. 

Here’s why: on preview weekends the food is always better to make a good impression on potential students.

Now that I’ve eaten in Gwinn every day I don’t think it’s very good anymore.  In fact, every time the scent of Gwinn crosses my nose as I walk in, I want to turn around and walk right back out. 

A couple of my friends work there and they tell me what not to eat.  I’ll never touch any of the hamburgers again.  I’m pretty much wary about any meat they serve because none of it seems to be cooked right. 

When I escaped the SPU campus a few weekends ago, I had the one of the greatest meals I’ve ever eaten.

It was home-cooked and spectacular.  (I also had the chance to eat a fresh peach, which was like finding gold since I hadn’t eaten one, much less seen one since I was in CO.)  The friend I was visiting couldn’t understand why I was so excited and happy.  “You will understand when you have to eat college food all the time,” I told her.  “You’ll miss the food your parents make.”

Not only do I miss my family, or my best friends from high school, I miss eating the amazing food my Mom (and occasionally my Dad) cooked.  The first night I’m home for break will be the greatest ever.  I’ll have my family and I’ll have real food. 

Right now I would give anything to have a well-done, seasoned, steak.  

The Truth About Fire Trucks

There’s something about fire trucks that get children really excited.  Perhaps it’s the flashing lights or the blaring sirens, or the honking of the horn.  Maybe it’s just the color red that catches their attention.

My brother had a fire truck birthday party one year, which all of us thought was the greatest thing ever.  My Mom and Dad transformed a giant refrigerator box into a fire truck and we pretended to drive it around while screaming siren noises.  We became heroes in our own minds as we rescued people and put out fires.      

I don’t know if any child truly knows what a fire truck stands for, but I can remember the first time I realized what it was all about. 

My Dad, brother, and I were in the car one day driving through the neighborhood and I spotted smoke on the horizon.  “Daddy, there’s a fire,” I said.  He told me that, no, it wasn’t a fire, it was just smoke from a grill.  But I continued to insist that it was a fire and he drove us through the neighborhood until we reached a house that was engulfed in flames.

We got out of the car and stood along the other side of the street while we watched the house burn.  I can’t remember exactly how I felt but I did realize that there was no fire truck in sight.  My Dad and several other people were calling 911 and requesting help. 

I must have been 6 or so and I had never seen anything so real in my entire life.  The fire truck didn’t get there in time and there wasn’t much left of the house.  No one was hurt, but everything was gone. 

After that I went through a stage where I was paranoid about my house catching fire and burning to the ground.  I was most concerned about having my stuffed turtle, pet goldfish or dog get lost in the fire.  At some point it also crossed my mind that I could lose someone in my family…

If the fire truck doesn’t get there in time when someone is in the house, then what happens?  I started saying prayers whenever I heard sirens.  I wanted everyone to be ok.  It was still exciting to see a fire truck, but at the same time I knew what was on the other side.  Someone could be really hurt.  Whether it’s a car accident, a fire or other mishap, someone could die.

As soon as I started driving with a permit when I was 15 I would always get out of the way of a fire truck or ambulance as soon as I heard one.  Even if it was driving on the other side of the road I would pull over.  That’s what you were supposed to do, and everyone did it.  In Colorado it was fairly easy for emergency vehicles to get around quickly, and no matter where I was, no matter the time, the sound of sirens would diminish as soon as I heard them.

That’s not how it works here.  Once I hear sirens it seems like they go on forever.  This is partially due to the fact that the roads are small and hard to drive through in many places, but it is also due to the fact that people don’t get out of the way.  One of my friends was expressing her frustration at this the other day.  She told me, “People in Seattle don’t get out of the way like they should.  I can’t stand it.” 

I can’t either.  Granted, there is traffic because I live in a packed-in city but I want people to make the effort—there is someone on the other side that needs help. 

I would like to have a kids’ view of fire trucks again.  They see it as someone rushing to the rescue, which is true (I admire firemen greatly), but in the back of my mind I can’t help wondering who is hurt.  I want to believe that a fire truck always represents safety, but I can’t quite do that anymore.

This past summer when I was visiting Ohio I saw smoke on the horizon.

Here is what I wrote: 

Something is burning

On the horizon,

Black clouds of smoke

Permeate the blue

In sky, and I am

Sitting in my car

Watching through the

Window, from a distance

While someone is

Screaming—silently—

Surely someone is

Screaming, while

I watch (unfeeling)

The burning sky.

e.carlson

I might be doing ok, but there’s always someone who isn’t. 

This is reality.

And I just want to be the girl at the fire truck party.

Where's the Team?

The airport is always an interesting experience. Whether the experience is good or bad depends a lot on who helps you at the bag check counter.

When I rolled my seven jeep bags into the airport and up to the counter, which took a few trips, I received many “looks” from various people. Some people could tell what was going on, probably because they’ve gone through the same thing, and other people seemed rather confused, or even flustered by the fact that one person had so much baggage.

One lady, Vicki, a Frontier employee asked me, “Where’s the team?”

I was caught off guard at first and then I realized what she meant. All of my bags looked exactly the same and she thought that a bunch of girls in matching sweats and t-shirts should be paired with each one of the bags.

“Oh, it’s just me,” I told her. “I’m going off to college, I’m the first one in my family so we haven’t really done this before.”

We conversed more about the same things I’ve told everyone, I did my best to remember that it was new to her and give her as many details as I could.

My Dad began to place all the bags one by one on the scale next to the counter; none of them were overweight, I double-checked many times on the bathroom scale at home. Vicky, the lady who I had talked to minutes before was working to the left of my Dad across the counter, and another lady (who will not be named) was working to the right.

We were prepared for the fact that one of the bags would cost extra, since you are only allowed to have 2 bags per person.

We were not prepared for what would happen next.

“Sh*t.”

Dad looked up severely at the lady to the right.

To no one in particular she said, “I think one of those bags got the tag for Spokane.”

What? You what? I’ve spent weeks packing those and deciding what I should take and you think you just sent it to Spokane?! That’s a five-hour drive from Seattle!!

Vicki had been the one putting the tags on the luggage, but the other lady had placed the tags for the people next to us in the wrong spot. They both realized once they were a tag short for the other people that there must have been a mix up.

The lady on the right wasn’t willing to take responsibility or try to fix the problem.

Vicki, nice as she was, quickly volunteered to go out of her way down to the luggage room and find the one bag that had been mislabeled. Dad gave her his cell phone number so that she could call us and let us know if she found it. The worst part about this is that Dad still had to pay the extra money, even though a bag of the luggage might have been sent to the wrong destination.

Vicki called us nearly half an hour later to say that she had found the prodigal bag and made sure that it would be on our flight. I can’t even express how grateful I am for what she did.

We had already made it through security and were headed toward our gate. On our way we passed the food court, which immediately reminded my Mom’s stomach that she hadn’t eaten breakfast. So she stopped to buy food and I proceeded toward the gate with my backpack, guitar and John Deer lunch box. (Yes, I have a John Deer lunch box and it is currently holding the $60 in quarters that I will use for my laundry. So I decided not to let it out of my sight.)

Dad was walking behind me and said, “Biff, your license is falling out of your back pocket.” I stuck it there, along with my boarding pass, so it would be easily accessible when I passed through security.

I reached back and pushed it further into my pocket.

And my heart skipped a beat.

Where was my boarding pass?

I just love having to tell my Dad about things like this. Like when the toilet’s clogged, or I forget to remind him of something important, or the one time that our mail ended up all over the street because of my brother’s carelessness. Things like that.

He gives me the “look”. A wide-eyed, WHAT?

“Uh, Dad? I think my boarding pass fell out of my pocket.”

He looked back at me, with that very expression. I knew it was coming.

“It’s ok!” I said. “I’ll run back and find it! It can’t be far back!”

We had been walking on one of the moving walkways in the airport. My first idea was to turn around and run back across the moving walkway while it worked against me. And then I must have decided that would look idiotic and maybe I should run back to look for my boarding pass once I got off.

So that’s what I did. I dropped my belongings and ran. I doubt many people have seen anyone move faster in an airport before.

I ran past the moving walkway I had just got off of and then past a second one. I ran a little further and there was a piece of paper folded, lying on the white airport tile. I picked it up and opened it up.

It was mine.

I couldn’t help but smile. Laugh almost! How ridiculous. First a piece of luggage, then my boarding pass.

Mom caught up to us, McDonald’s in hand, by the time we reached the gate. Dad was the first to hand his boarding pass to the check-in lady.

I haven’t seen a boarding pass beep red many times in my life, maybe not ever. It’s normally a given it will always beep green and you’ll pass right through, right?

Guess not.

Dad’s beeped red. Good grief.

The lady then mumbled something about how Dad had the same seat as some other guy and my Dad tried to say, that’s impossible! I bought this ticket months ago! And the lady said (not joking), “Well, sir, the computer’s the boss so we have to listen to what he says.” Obviously lady, the computer messed up this time.

Apparently my Dad and a past Marine had been booked for exactly the same seat on the same flight. 7C. The Marine got called to the front of the desk and the lady gave him a new seat, which kept Dad next to Mom and me in his original seat.

We got on the plane, and I took up nearly an entire overhead bin with my guitar.

Awesome.

I settled by the window seat, that’s where I prefer to be.

The plane took off, and I watched the shadow of it get smaller and smaller as the plane flew higher. Eventually it turned into a glare on the earth and I got to thinking that, if the plane stopped, the glare might burn a hole into the ground. Same way you can burn up ants with a magnifying glass, which I’ve never done.

Actually, I think I’ve done it once.

I felt guilty for a week.