Chickens are Synonymous with the Word "Jerk"

Coming home this weekend I have had the opportunity to take care of the neighbor's chickens again like I used to all over the summer. Chickens are the root of all evil. EVIIIIIIL.

I'm not even kidding. The first time I started taking care of them months ago, I thought they were these silly little birds. A butterfly would float by and the chickens would all immediately run after it all in single file. I would think to myself, "Ah, look at the cute little chickens, they're so adorable!" WRONGGGGG! Those stinking little things are JERKS!

Turns out those first few days of taking care of them was the honeymoon. They soon decided they hated me and I got to endure their torture for the rest of the summer. Those little jerks peck and glare like nobody's business!

Now that I have had the chance to take care of them again this winter I have seen another side of them. Those stinking little things aren't as rude when they're cold. Now they stay in a corner and fluff their feathers to stay warm. They don't even cluck at me anymore! In conclusion, a cold chicken makes for a happier mickelle.

P.S. That brown chicken right there is always the leader in the little ring of jerk-ness.

Dancing Bachata in the Kitchen

The trek and time spent back home this weekend has been disappointing in no way whatsoever. Again I found myself in the backseat of the car, this time with Whitney in the back with me, Lindsey in the driver's seat, and Lindsey's boyfriend in the front seat (this is the first time Lindsey's boyfriend has experienced the family vacation experience).

The trip itself was surprisingly quite uneventful, except for a few bad roads and some slippery, sloppy snow. Ten hours and we came flying out of the car doors to the fresh, familiar scent of pine and crisp mountain air. Never was a girl more happy! Haha well anyway, there are a few notable experiences at home that I feel should be documented.

1. Whitney has a HUGE obsession with Latin dancing. Huge. She especially loves a dance called Bachata. She dances Bachata all the time, morning or night, no matter the music. The other afternoon I walked into the kitchen to find Whitney Bachata-ing with my daddio. That would only be the start...

2. My grandpa came up for the holiday as well, which means I have been on an air mattress with impeccable skills for losing air right next to the french doors in my parents' bedroom. Every night has been the world's stormiest/windiest night on all earth. Last night I woke up to a strange pounding outside the window (aka right next to my head). I realized the porch swing had been blown across the deck and was now wacking into the side of the house with every gust of wind. I began wondering if I would make it through the night or whether the swing would at some point crash through the window onto my head crushing and impaling me. Nothing like a deathbed repentance.

Home life has been the usual oh-so-wonderfulness and I cannot wait to come back!

Reflections on Turkeys Past

The year was 1893, the Stevens' newly settled homestead covered with a fresh blanket of snow, a puff of chimney smoke bubbling out of the chimney...

Oh wait just kidding, this story takes place like three years ago when we were all over at my grandparent's house. It was Thanksgiving week and my grandmother had just passed away. But that is a whole different story, and is better meant for a different day. The point is, all of my aunts uncles, cousins, grandpa, and immediate family had decided to have Thanksgiving dinner all together.

After hours of cooking over a hot stove, family member crowded against family member in the small crowded kitchen, we all set the table and sat down to get ready to eat. Whitney[my sister] and I were up and about, still collecting knives and forks for everyone sitting, when we were told to hurry and stand by the table for a prayer. After the prayer all the drinks were poured and then....

KABAMMMMMMMM!!!! The table collapsed all over everyone's legs and grape juice was spilling... Everywhere. At this point Whitney and I had to leave the room of all our poor struggling relatives because we were laughing so hard. Luckily, there were no lasting casualties and we will now forever remember that Thanksgiving as the Thanksgiving we all became very thankful for paper towels.

If You Can’t Stand the Heat, Get Out of the Backseat

     I am fifteen.  My eyes open as Mom walks into my room.  The sun is still making the voyage through my window, telling me it’s early. It’s much too early. Mom tells me it’s time to get ready for our vacation to Wyoming.  “Vacation. Hah!” I think as I roll over and shut my eyes for another hour and a half.  I wake up at last and pack a few socks and a tooth brush.  Water bottles filled, car packed, bathroom used, I now wait and wait and wait.  I clean my room, watch reruns of I Love Lucy, go out for a walk around the yard, pet my cat, get some lunch, and just sit down to play a few tunes on my trumpet when the sounds of Dad’s footsteps come up the stairs.  He wasn’t supposed to have to work today, but he always does.  The light is always on in his office, electrical drawings rustling.  Mom’s antsy and I’m agitated.  He announces he is done with work for the day.  Thirty minutes later, I’m in the backseat and the wheels crunch on the gravel as the sun falls further toward the Rocky Mountains.  I ask Dad how long of a drive he figures we have.  He sighs and responds, “five hours or so.” 

     The trip wears on and on.  Hours pass--more than five. It’s the middle of the night and still the car moves on.  The shadows sink in deep until all that is left is a blanket of shadow and still the night gets darker.  I lose track of time as I slip in and out of consciousness until the car comes to a slow stop.  I sit up and look around.  We’re at Walmart.  We’re one of those families that camps out in the parking lot of Walmart because they don’t want to pay for a hotel.  How embarrassing! But we only stay for one hour until Dad sighs and clicks the key in the ignition.

     We keep driving as the sun slowly wakes up, melting away the night sky.  We drive and drive. I know not to bring up that it’s been over ten hours of driving.  We keep driving.  Just when I give into the impending doom that I will never be leaving this backseat, we pull off on a dirt road in the middle of a dirt patch.  Looking out the window, a campground comes nearer and we stop.  The second we stop, great aunts, second cousins, and a million family members I don’t know run up to the car all wearing pioneer clothing and pulling hand carts. “Well look who finally showed up!” shouts an exasperated Grandpa from across the parking lot.  He walks toward us saying, “You look like the walking dead!”  We grimace in response.  We are about to go on a pioneer trek in hot Wyoming summer after one hour of sleep.  Kids are running in circles around the handcarts, their bonnets and straw hats hanging from their necks by the strings, while their parents hustle them onto the trail.  We have five minutes to prepare ourselves for the further ensuing torture. 

     Miraculously, the trek hike does not produce any casualties, but the hard times are far from being over. There is no running water in this campground.  There is one outhouse. It gets tundra cold at night and stifling hot during the day.  One night there is a storm. Hail, thunder, rain, and wind pound down and rock the trailer back and forth, adding to the dark circles under our eyes and the yawns in our throats. Whitney is sick.  She is so sick she has to stay in the trailer all day.  She feels sick, and I am sick of this vacation.  There is nothing here but the wind and the swaying grasses.  Even the wild animals are bored.  I wonder when this vacation will be over.

     I am seventeen.  Back I find myself in the family car.  Good old car, I must spend about a third of my life riding in this backseat, always on the passenger side.  Another late start for us today.  I have heard people refer to tardiness now as “pulling-a-Stevens.”  But there is nothing much to do about it, and getting upset doesn’t make for changing anything.  Into more mountain passes and long winding roads we go before opening onto wide, empty fields filled only with wind turbines.  The usual darkness fills the backseat and I sit, headphones in, a glazed expression over my eyes.  The wheels come to a stop and minutes later we crash into the hotel bedroom, forcing ourselves to brush our teeth and take off our shoes before face-planting onto our pillows. 

    My eyes barely shut when the alarm beep, beep, beeps its way into my dreams.  Now we are here, we relax.  Relaxing means we run around all day, driving from Latino store to Latino store looking for pan dulce.  We buy bags and bags of the sweet bread.  We are such an oddity that when we come, all the workers come up front to watch the silly gringos.  Mom and Dad have a small obsession for the Mexican bakeries and using their Spanish on the people.  Somehow we always find ourselves in the Latin communities in other states.  There are no Mexican shops in Montana.  After we spend the morning sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of Latinos, we drive from family member to family member.  We see Auntie and Uncle, Suzie and JimmyBob, Fido, Freckles, Daisy, Todo: everyone and their dog and their dog’s best friend.  There is no rest, there is no funny business. Enjoying a vacation is for the weak. 

     I am nineteen. I’m sitting in my apartment, crouching over calculus formulas, hand scribbling and erasing back and forth in the golden light of my lamp.  The clock ticks 8:00 and night falls faster and faster. I jump at the buzz of my phone.  Whitney’s out of her test and ready to go.  I grab my bags and run out the door, shoes pounding down the cement steps.  Whitney apologizes for how late it is, but that’s quickly shrugged off as we jump into the car and speed away.  We drive for hours, talking, laughing, and singing to the radio until it is deep into the morning. 

     The car eventually becomes quiet in thought, the beat of the music rushing into our heads and leaking out of our tapping fingers.  The darkness outside is plain and sleepy.  Something huge and furry creeps into our path.  It’s so big I think it must be a baby deer, until I smell the awful stench and register the fur is black and white. A sickening crunch, and I know the car will never smell the same again.  A moment of shocked silence and wide eyes, and then the laughter starts.  Shaking and gasping for breath (skunk breath that is), the silence is shattered and that’s the way we like it best.

     We stop to get gas at an abandoned gas station in a little podunk town in the middle of nowhere.  We get the gas and jump back into the car, eager to get the heat on high and the wheels back on the highway.  But we don’t get back on the highway.  The road curves up an abandoned hill and becomes creepy.  This winding road is not the “cute Charlie Brown Halloween” kind of creepy; it’s the “Frankenstein’s monster is going to come out of his hiding place and jump on your car and attack you and nobody will hear because you are in the middle of nowhere” kind of creepy.  Whitney looks over at me out of the corner of her eye and we are both thinking the same thing.  At the same split second, the skunky air inside of the car is filled with a sudden piercing, “Aaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!” as our voices blend into one.  The screaming doesn’t stop until we are back on the highway. 

     We’re both tired and ready to collapse but the smiles don’t leave our faces and every word is jumpy and giggly.  With every misfortune everything is more and more hilarious.  We fall into bed for a couple hours at a friend’s house en transit, but we’re up again with the first crack of daylight. When the sun begins its journey again, we begin ours.  We drive quickly and soon pull into wonderful Montana.  We run to Mom and Dad and Lindsey at the hotel and hugs go all around.  Here the real fun will begin.  We are the crazy Stevens, all ready for mayhem again.  

When Bathrooms Begin Smoking

     This weekend I went to a late showing at a movie theater in the Provo mall on a date. The movie was witty, silly, and just to the important life changing part, when sirens began squealing, lights blinking, and an automated voice saying, "Please exit the theater calmly."  There was a long awkward moment when everyone looked at each other, wondering if it was a joke, or maybe even part of the 3-D experience. Well.... turns out it wasn't a drill.
     We left the theater and went down through a tunnel leading to the underground parking lot and out into fresh air. The smell of smoke drifted through the air and ironically, that just brought everyone back up the hill into the main part of the theater again (I don't know why the doors weren't blocked from people going back in) to see what was going on.  The manager came out and we heard him say there was a fire in the bathrooms and a smell of gas.  He shooed us all out back down the hill again.  Down we went, until we saw the fire trucks coming, and then up the hill we went.... again.  The hill was super slick and steep so there were a lot of falls going up and down, but college students are apparently like cats and can't control their curiosity.
     In essence, it's a good thing it was not a bomb because we probably would have all died from our lack of being smart when we smelled smoke and getting far away. But we got some sick pictures with the firetrucks! And in the commotion, we got to keep the 3-D glasses-- what a steal!

I'm Bleedin' Blue at BYU

Oh BYU.  It is oh-so-wonderful. And getting better all the time. Life at this university definitely took an upswing my second semester when my sister decided to join me here in cougar territory. My first semester here I was homesick, wished I was still a kid, and was anxiously counting down the days until I could go back home. What a weirdo I was! I heard my sista wanted to transfer to BYU and at first I was not thrilled... We hadn't exactly gotten along as kids and I didn't know how I felt about losing my originality in the family from choosing to attend BYU. But what was I gonna do?
She came... and it was the best thing ever!!!! We are best friends. I guess it just takes a little growing up to realize what happiness really is. I stopped counting down the days and now I don't want them to end. Every week is the new best week, every day the new best day. My sister and I do everything together, and rarely are we seen without the other.  We are neighbors now, and we are crazy, and we love it. And we love BYU. I couldn't be more glad/thankful that my sister got the prompting to come down and join me in school.
Sometimes the things we are most apprehensive about turn out to be the greatest things for us. We help each other through the tough things, celebrate the good things, and we keep laughing all the way. Because of my sister, I learned how to love life in the moment, and the moment for me right now is college. Yay BYU!

The Vast Dangers of Provo, UT

The other day, I got quite the surprise running in the neighborhoods by Provo Canyon. After looking down at my music, I looked up in front of me to see a giant animal feet in front of me.  At first I was extremely confused, thinking maybe it was a giant dog or something. Once the confusion subsided, I realized it was a giant RAM, curly horns and all. Looking around, I noticed off in the distance a group of neighbors taking pictures on the other side of the ram.  I tried to inch to the other side of the road toward the other onlookers when the ram looked at me and began grunting and trotting toward me... and the people on the other side of the road weren't doing anything but taking pictures of my nearing immediate death...

Never having come into contact with a ram before, I assumed if I were to run away, it would probably become like a dog and start chasing me, in which case I would surely die. So... I began quickly but totally calmly scurrying back to where I was before. Luckily, the killing machine decided I did not look so tasty after all, and i am here to tell the tale. Provo, what you lack in black bears, you apparently have in rams. Touche.

Reminiscence of the Good Old Days

The first time I drove a car on the Freeway was on a trip down to see my grandparents. The day was growing gray and the freeway began turning through hilly Montana mountain passes. The season being dry and hot, meant there were also orange construction workers out finishing up for the day. Dad was in the passenger seat and Mom in the back, leaving me, tense and awkward, with my hands on the wheel. As night got closer, Mom and Dad began giving more advice. Dad gave advice in a matter-of-fact manner, and Mom in a nervous, untrusting way. "Turn your lights on." "Slow down." "Go into the other lane." Get around that car." "Watch for deer." Flustered, I began up a hill, and out of nowhere orange cones appeared on the middle line with no sign telling me where to go. I picked the right side, only to have Mom start worriedly gasping I was in the wrong lane. This of course, made me stress, but instead of slowing down and calmly going to the other lane, I began weaving in and out of cones while going 70 mph up a dark hill. Mom and Dad were silent now, probably reliving every moment of their lives one last time. Eventually, after a few more swerves between cones, I managed to get and stay in the left lane and after a few minutes of heavy breathing, Mom said "I think you have a career in NASCAR...." That was the last of my driving for that trip.