I'm not on a jet plane, but I'm still leaving.

So we're on the road.

Finally.

After Scott woke up "early" and proceeded to run every errand he's had since 1997. (Seriously, why don't boys plan ahead?)

I know I told him I'd be "relaxed" and not make a schedule for today, but holy shit, I guess I didn't realize I'd turn 90 before he was ready.

I don't know what he did to create the hour difference between the time I was ready, (having packed my stuff, the car, and ran a marathon) and the time he was ready. All I know is he took a long time.

Are all boys this helpless? And if so, how is murdering your husband not legal in all 50 states?

Regardless, we're on the second leg of summer vacation (did I mention he took 6 weeks off to hang with me this summer?). We're headed to Utah where we'll be camping, biking, and trying to button our pants after eating down-home country food.

Oh yeah, and getting hitched. When I return to SD, I'll be a married woman.

This is the scariest vacation ever.

But something tells me I'm going to enjoy it, anyway.

Country Walks and Death

After we ate Thanksgiving dinner, Scott suggested we go for a walk. I didn't really want to go, because, let's face it, the only appropriate activity after eating that much food is napping. I agreed, though, for a purely selfish reason: I thought this might be the day. I thought he might finally pop the question.

We walked down Talbert Lane, a dirt road in my town. I have ran on this road for as long as I can remember without ever seeing another human being, yet this particular day, the road was the busiest in town. There were at least 2 quads and 1 dirt bike cruising up and down, up and down this road the entire time we walked it. Which was annoying, because all we wanted was privacy, if you know what I mean.

The drivers of said vehicles were teenagers, and we noticed that they kept congregating around a tree. We assumed they were either praying or smoking pot, and since they were laughing our conclusion was the latter.

This was the going assumption until we came closer to the tree and noticed a cow laying stiffly on her side. She had obviously died giving birth--I'm going to let your imagination figure out how we knew this to be a fact--and was stiff and bloated with methane gas. Apparently dead cows are much like trampolines. Again, I will let your imagination figure out how we knew this.

A further walk into the foothills revealed a dead fox (broken leg) and dead deer (no clue).

It's not so much that I appreciate death--even though my new found obsession with vampires will tell you differently--it's that I appreciate the country for what it is: natural, humble, naked earth. I know I can be shallow at times, but these are my roots, and this is really who I am. I appreciate the land and know how to work it (the land, that is).

And even though the walk did not produce the results I had expected, it was much more productive than I could have hoped. It brought me home to my roots. To the Real OC, a place that will always humble and inspire me.

SLC and Me

I've been spending my time in SLC having my ass served to me on a Wasatch platter, or, as the locals like to call it, mountain biking. The first day I tried out an SLC trail (Bobsled), I ate so much shit that I wasn't hungry for 2 days afteward.

Now, Scott grew up in Canada, so sometimes I have to infer meaning from stuff he says. When he said, "Bobsled is the easiest trail in Utah." I translated that to US English and basically, that statement means I suck at biking.
Which I don't understand at all. I mean, I have never had this problem in SD, so I think it must be the fact that Jesus is mad at me for corrupting his promised land. The good news is, though, that I redeemed myself by being honest at the bike shop where I rented a mountain bike. When I went to return it, the girl was like "Okay, thanks!" And I said, "Um...don't I need to pay?"

Actually, looking back, I wasn't being honest so much as stupid. That $40 could buy a heck of a lot of 3.2 beer--at least enough to give me a good buzz.

Regardless, I'm taking the day off biking to cruise around the SLC by way of a car. Someone was soo impressed by my scooter-driving abilities that she is trusting me in her car. She either really thinks cars are like tractors and therefore indestructable or doesn't care about her car. Either way, she'll probably disown me as a friend when she gets it back. Good thing she has that cute little scooter and lots of other friends.

The Real OC

I've been safely tucked away in God's country for the past few days. When I went to my hometown, I was welcomed by a parade, lunch with the whole town, and dial-up internet. No, seriously. If I left a comment on your page during the past few days, please appreciate the fact that it took at least 2 hours per character. You are THAT important to me. And I'm so important to the Real OC that all 20 of the townspeople gathered on mainstreet to watch me drive the mule down the road, while my kinsfolk threw out candy. In the country, we know how to represent.
Well, that and the fact that it happened to be Oak City Days, a yearly celebration that involves lots of booze, food, square dancing, and just plain fun. Okay, so the booze part was only enjoyed by the select few who could fit in the front seat of a parked car, chug whiskey and boxed wine (smuggled into the town by one very hot, brave fellow country girl), and mumble a prayer-- just in case Jesus was taking a break from the square dance and watching and/or listening to us. The rest of the townsfolk chugged their root beer and danced the night away in a Jesus-induced high that we neve quite reached since those little bottles of Jack only take you so far....

My Eternal Farmer Tan

My bike ride today reminded me of growing up on a farm.  Or, more appropriately, my tan line from my bike ride today reminded me of growing up on a farm.  Driving open-cab tractors in a bikini, only the top half of my legs got a tan--from the knees down, I remained glaringly pale.     Okay, honestly, maybe I didn't always farm in a bikini.  Definitely not when the polygamists were at the field buying hay (this is in Utah, remember)--that was the only time my dad insisted we sisters cover up....but I'm straying from my point.  I'm sure I have one.

When I was a kid, my dad used to holler up the stairs at 5:30AM and wake us up-- which is why, to this day, I cannot sleep in past 6AM.  It's my worst trait--especially after a night of drinking--but I'll never be able to break it.   Anyway, this is pretty much how I learned to drive a tractor when I was 8:

"Okay.  I think you're set.  See you when you're done."

"But I don't know how to stop!"

"You don't need to know how to stop.  I'll be back when you're done.  Don't break anything."

"But what if I....."

"See you when you're done."

And then he left me with a box of crackers and a jug of water.  And that was that.  Farmers can't be bothered to explain common sense things to people.  Eventually, I learned how to stop a tractor without crashing into a haystack.  Or ditch.  Or parked car.  Thank God.  

Home?

I grew up in a very, very small town.   The kind of town that is glorified in Sandra Bullock movies and cheesy romance novels.  The kind of town where my parents, to this day, have never once used the locks on their doors.

  

When I was a kid, though, I despised living in the country.  I always dreamed of living by the beach, of coming back to my roots where it all began.  I promptly moved away to the city (Salt Lake City, to be exact) when I turned 18, but that wasn't enough.  I made the venture to San Diego a little more than 7 years ago.  I have been extremely happy here and mostly love the craziness that is my life.  But.....

Today, I am homesick.  I'm homesick for my family, of course, but also for those lazy summer nights, the sound of the creek, and the smell of fresh-cut hay on the farm.  I miss seeing a cattle drive going right down main street and having to drive very slowly in the dark lest you hit a cow on the road (incidently, this happened to my little brother just last week) and have to pay for it (open range, my friends, can be a very expensive indeed!).  I miss rodeos, county fairs, big trucks and big hair.   

Anyway, I will be going back soon, and I'm sure the minute I get there, I will be wondering why I left this paradise of a home (SD, baby!) to go....home.  And sometimes, I'm just not sure where that is.