In 1987, I went to Disneyworld for the first time. I got this ginormous Minnie Mouse doll that still sits in my bedroom in Georgia. I fed the ducks with my dad in the wind in Florida and I remember trying to climb futher up his chest because I was convinced the ducks would capture me in their duck-billed haste to devour all of the bread within our souls.

My first sibling, my sweet brother, was born in 1986. I always used to think that when Daniel got to be x years old, he’d be an adult and I’d think of him as such. Twelve, 13, 15, 21, etc. And still, he’s my baby brother. And this week, I learned that the man who killed Destiny Norton was born the same year as my brother. Now I don’t know what to think.

My first concert was Shedaisy, 31 May 1999. So much has happened since then.

My first car was a Chrysler New Yorker. It sat about 20. So hurry up and bring your jukebox money.

My first room in Utah was in a townhouse in Taylorsville. I lived with three other girls and a dog named Sadie. Pretty much after the picture on the left was taken, the floor suddenly grew piles of crap, seen in the picture on the right, that didn’t go away until I moved out … on my own.

My first apartment on my own was a one-bedroom on Capitol Hill. It was ginormous, for $380/month, except the landlord liked to walk into my apartment unannounced and leave dirty work gloves on the couch. Next to my laundry basket. Full of clean laundry. Underwear laundry.

And now I’m paying $475 for no air-conditioning and half the room, but with a money-devouring puppy named Ethel. My first.

Hi everyone.

I thought I would sit here and listen to Jack Johnson and tell you about Saturday—from two weeks ago since I can’t seem to write anything at all in less than a month—and because if there’s one thing this world needs more than American Idol, it’s posts from me. Straight up. Now tell me.

Saturday, my dog was awake at an unearthly hour but I don’t want to talk about that. I figured since we were awake and there would be no more sleeping—ever—that we really ought to go up to the Tanger Outlets at Kimball Junction. If for nothing else, to search in vain for a bed set to fit the full bed I would be trading for on Monday.

Let’s take this tangent as far as we can run, ok? So my work-person (not quite a co-worker, not quite a boss—but since this is the Internet, from now on we’ll call her my very much subordinate file clerk), Jane, needed a guest bed. She didn’t quite have room enough for the full-sized bed her parents offered but knew I had a twin-sized bed. She initiated and followed through on the exchange, which involved my receiving a Sertapedic Luxury full-sized mattress and boxspring and her receiving a twin-sized Deseret Industries set.

Not that the DI mattress set isn’t wonderful, it is. And it only had Diet Coke spilled all over it once. The beauty of it all was that she was worried I would be unsatisfied with the situation.

Back to reality. I needed a bed set for the new mattress because Hello, if there’s one thing I like to do, it’s to buy things and with a good excuse. Preferably very shiny things.

There wasn’t anything at the Westpoint store, but just to make sure I wasn’t missing anything, I checked Fossil, Ann Taylor, and GAP and came away with two beanies, two blouses, a hooded sweatshirt, and cropped pants.

After the shopping was all shopped out and after a visit to the local PetCo where there was much treat-and-portable-dish-garnering, we set off in an Eastward way. I didn’t know where we were going (except for east) and I didn’t know how long it would take, but I did have half a tank of gas and had been wanting to just … drive … for a long time.

The Southerner in me liked the idea that one side of the road was covered in snow while the other was dry. Something about sun shining and rising in the east or west or something.

We drove through the curvy way and stopped at the scenic overlook to whatever it was that was scenic but was most certainly covered in snow. Which was also scenic, I guess.

Scenic. Also, cold.

It may or may not have been Echo Reservoir. Either way, Ethel loved running around in the snow and sniffing beer cans. Boy, does that dog love beer.

Gazing off into the distance wistfully and asking why I don’t keep more Heineken in her crate at home.

We ended up in Echo, Utah—not too far from Echo Reservoir, it would seem—and rambled our way through “town.” Turns out there’s an historic church there, complete with historic cemetery and GAS CAFE MOTEL.

The church has a plaque, and that’s nice and everything but I haven’t even read it. Nor do I know if it is a Mormon church or a Protestant church or if it is a government front for a church. Nor do I know if a Pastor, Priest, or Rabbi have ever walked in and ordered drinks from a duck.

Church.

I have this thing about cemeteries. The thing is, I don’t care. I don’t particularly like a cemetery if perhaps I have a close relative interred therein. But that is just that it freaks me out that I knew someone who is now in the ground there. Ok, so back to reality. I don’t have many “close relatives” interred in Utah … nor do I have any “close relatives” who have ever or will ever set foot in Utah for fear of being baptized. But the cemeteries are fine.

Cemetery.

I wasn’t kidding.

On the way back to Salt Lake by way of Park City and Kimball Junction, the snow started falling and did not stop until Sunday morning. Because I am an absolute idiot and because the laws of nature do not apply to me, I drove only slightly nervously through two inches of ice-snow-slush on Interstate 80 out of Parley’s Canyon. And because I am an absolute idiot with a death wish, I photographed the effort. I’ll close with one, which may have easily become my visual suicide note to flickr.

Goodbye, cruel world.