Viral Death

It’s That Time of Year

I don’t know what it is about late winter/early spring, but this seems the time of year I’m most susceptible to experiencing what I have affectionately named: The Upper Respiratory Viral Death from Hell.

Last year I wrote a very funny post on the subject: http://rebekahspeak.blogspot.com/2009_02_01_archive.html

Out comes my usual arsenal:
1. Airbourne—grapefruit flavor (I’m not entirely sure this isn’t a placebo).
2. Orange Juice—at least a gallon
3. Sudafed—the real kind, where you have to show an ID to get it
4. Ibuprofen—generic, by the bottle full
5. Aloe Tissues—sometimes saving the skin underneath my nose is worth the extra money
6. Caffeine—usually in the form of a Sobe or Diet Coke (oooh…with maraschino cherries. Yum!)

What makes you feel better, when you feel like dying?
I’m open to suggestions.

Pepper Potts in the Desert

Last week on Wednesday, I went through my habitual routine of puttering through the KSL ads [online local classifieds] in search of used motorcycle deals. I never really have any intention of buying anything on these excursions. I just like to read and dream about things that will take me years to acquire, if ever.

However, on this particular occasion, I came across something that made my jaw drop and my fingers race for my cell phone.

St. George, UT
USED KLR 2005: $1500
10,000 miles
Sun-faded Fairings [the plastics that cover the bike]
Good Mechanical Condition

Let me put this into a little bit of perspective for you. KLRs from 2004-2007 go for $2,500-$3,000. So naturally, you can see why I was excited.

In spite of my initial worries over impulsive shopping and the possibility of a scam [KSL has recently fallen victim to those kinds of listings], I finally dialed. The ad had only been up for a half an hour, but the owner said he already had a couple of offers. I told him I had cash in hand, but I couldn’t make it down to St. George until Saturday morning. He finally agreed to hold it, when I told him I lived in Salt Lake and was willing to transport the bike myself. We agreed to meet at 7:00 on Saturday morning.

Thus, an adventure began.

Friday night, after work, I got everything ready to go. I packed my sleeping bag, one of my many blow-up mattresses, a brand new mattress pump [thanks, Mom], a lantern [thanks for that too, Mom], a thermos of piping hot tea and oatmeal water [minus the water, Mom also], two boards for getting the bike into the truck [thanks, Professor Cheney], and tie downs for the trip back [Mom]. (Obviously this trip might not have been possible were it not for my Mother and Father’s excellent taste in camping equipment and gear, and their admonishing advice on always coming prepared.)

I left Salt Lake at around 20:00 (8:00 pm), drove four and a half hours, and decided to bunker down about 20 miles outside of St. George city limits. I figured I wasn’t paying for sleep in a hotel, when I could get sleep for free in the desert.

I pulled off at a ranch exit, and as I set everything up in the bed of my truck, I couldn’t help but feel excited. Here I was in the desert, on my way to possibly becoming the owner of my very own KLR. The air was warm; the sky was full of stars; my life felt full of possibility. I took off my shoes, crawled into my sleeping bag, and felt certain that sleep and opportunity were fast approaching.

Then a hoot owl hooted. He wasn’t more than thirty feet from my truck. I was pretty tired, so stupidly, I tried ignoring him. Unfortunately, he didn’t stop until two in the morning. That’s right about the time the coyotes got going. I decided to leave at about 6:00, with a grand total of three hours of sleep.

There’s a lot to be said for “free” sleep.

I arrived at the guy’s house early. Everything in his front yard (camper, cars, the house itself) had a “For Sale” sign on it.
He never said, but the set up reeked of divorce or lack of work. And since he said he would have been at work were it not for the sale, I assumed divorce.

It also didn’t take me long to discover why he was selling the bike for such a small price tag. After looking at it for a few minutes, I had a laundry list of replacement or upgrade to-dos.

Battery $45
Oil & Filter $45
Shift Lever $45
Back Tire $100
Brake Pads $120
Chain $120

It needed roughly $500 worth of “get into fighting shape work.”

I also had a list of things I needed for the bike regardless of how much I had to pay for it.

Lowering Links $200 (KLRs are built for taller people)
Valve Adjustment $200 (For peace of mind)
Doohickey $300-$500 (Kawasaki engineering flaw…I’d have to replace it, anyway)

The idea of getting the bike so cheaply did have a few perks, however. I could afford to license, title, and register it for a much cheaper price. I also realized I could slowly do the upgrades, while waiting for spring, summer and most like early fall to arrive.

It didn’t take much more “thinking about it.” We put her into the back of my truck, and I drove the whole way, wondering how I would make this project work for me.

She’s at the shop right now. She’s still there, waiting for her slew of initial work and aftermarket parts to arrive.

I’ve decided to call her Pepper Potts (Iron Man Reference for you fanboys out there), because she’s red, and she comes from a piping hot desert.

PS The Beast will soon be sold. I’ll be sure to write a solid obituary when she finally goes.

Troubles in Idaho

A few weeks ago I went for a visit to the Utah neighboring states of Idaho and Wyoming. I’d been planning this trip for a little over a month—ever since I found out there would be a Brandi Carlile concert in Jackson, and realized that I could also conveniently check out Idaho State’s English Ph. D. program in Pocatello on the way.

The visit to Idaho State turned out to be a huge disappointment. I was hopeful about the program, because it meant that I could stay close to home for my Ph. D. and enjoy the benefits of in-state tuition (Idaho and Utah have reciprocal funding programs).

Alas, it was not meant to be. I was told I was a very viable candidate, but the recession had all but stopped any opportunity for additional funding. Tuition would be around $6,000 (in-state), and living expenses would be about $8,000—$14,000 of debt a year with no guarantee of a job in the Arts after graduation is NOT an option. I would finish the program with approximately $60,000 of debt. To put this sum into perspective for myself, I started to count how many BMW motorcycles (the most expensive motorcycles on the market) I could buy for that kind of money, and the total came to three—two new and one used, fully loaded BMW GS1200 Adventurers.

In addition to the bad fiscal news, I was also told the Ph. D. program at ISU would not even prepare me to teach in a level one research school (BYU, U of U). If I earned my degree there, I would only be able to teach at two-year institutions. I can already do that with my Masters.

Consequently, my future plans in Idaho came to an abrupt end. I am currently considering alternative, slower-cooking possibilities.

Thankfully, to drown my sorrows, I went to the Mangy Moose Saloon, located in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to see Brandi Carlile sing some good old-fashioned folk-rock. It was wonderful.

Even better, the Mangy Moose was euphoric. I’m not sure how many of you know I am a Moose Nut, but I was up to my eyeballs in the gift shop. I got a Mangy Moose shirt, mug, bumper sticker, and even a pocketknife. It was pathetic how little control I had. I was a very happy camper.

However, the most exciting event of the night actually happened on the way back to Idaho Falls, where my copilot and I were staying the night. It was approximately 1:30 in the morning, just as we had driven over Moose Creek, when we saw something huge in the road: a Moose Cow, with baby in tow.

Can you freakin’ believe it? What are the chances? “On my way back from the Mangy Moose, as I was driving over Moose Creek, I nearly ran into two moose, at 1:30 in the morning.” You have to smile at the coincidence of it all. I was tickled pink.

A Face Only a Mother Could Love

When I was a freshman in college, I went through a deep funk. I couldn’t manage to pass any of my classes (One aspect of my life that has definitely changed over the years), and my love-life was a wasteland (Another aspect of my life that hasn’t changed at all).

To console myself in my misery, I decided I would buy myself a rodent friend: a hamster.
So I went to the local pet shop on Main Street in Provo (I think it was called “Jay’s Jungle, and I’m fairly certain it’s still there), in search of a brainless fur-ball. Unfortunately, when I arrived, I discovered three cages full of mice, two cages of feeder rats, and not one blessed hamster in the whole stinkin’ store.

Useless!

Be that as it may, I would not be deterred: I had just purchased a $10 ten-gallon tank from off a Wilk-board advertisement and bought nine-hundred pounds of cedar shavings. I was determined not to leave the store without a friend. So I went back to reexamine the mice and rat selections.

The mice were pitiful, with their blind stares and pink albino eyes. I became totally uninterested.
Then, I looked at the rat cages.

I stared for a long time.

First, I saw two rats licking each other’s faces and cuddling together to stay warm, and I thought how bizarrely endearing they both were, if not somewhat disgusting. Then a little black-hooded boy popped his head up from out of a mass of others eating from a communal food bowl. He was smaller than the others, but he looked curiously straight up at me.

I bought him five minutes later.

I was obsessed with Jackie Chan movies at the time, and I wanted to name him something Chinese. My roommate’s fiancé spoke Mandarin (I didn’t realize at the time, Jackie Chan was from Hong Kong, where only Cantonese is spoken), so we named him “Way-ba” or “tail.”

Wayba was something special. His disposition was sweet, and he was smart. He learned tricks, and he would sit on my shoulders for hours while I wrote papers or talked on the phone. He was the perfect friend, and when I would cry, he would lick the tears from my face. He was not unlike a very, very small dog.

I kept Wayba for two and a half years. During that time, I moved three times. He handled it well. For a while, he even lived at my sister’s apartment, when an unreasonable roommate would not let me keep him in the apartment (Neener, a best friend, would hide him during winter cleaning checks by rapping his cage up like a gift for a day or two).

When he died in the spring of 2003, my heart was broken. I don’t think, with exception of one dog I had, I ever loved an animal more.

I took his little body to the mountains, and buried it in Rock Canyon, after digging a more than adequate hole in the sand stone with a pick axe I “borrowed” from BYU Grounds Crew.

I tell this story, because after two years of being petless, and almost five years of being ratless, I’ve been looking into the possibility of some new friends.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

(You can have this baby for a song and a cool $800.)

A number of years ago, in the midst of unfocused undergraduate boredom, my best friend Jemima and I got what she called, “a scathingly brilliant idea.” We would plan a trip to Europe.

I wanted to visit Belgium, because I had friends living there at the time, and she wanted to visit a place where people actually spoke German, because she had taken all those years of German classes.

I had maybe $500 saved. I have no idea how much she had. Tickets to Europe were going for $850-$1600 a round trip ticket.

As usual, we hadn’t planned very well, money was tight, and we were running out of time. Then one of our friends told us about an “Internet Deal.” We could get tickets to Europe for $120 round trip.

We were overjoyed with our “luck.” We went home, carefully read the internet site for what seemed like minutes, and then we both pulled out our credit cards.

What were we thinking when we thought that deal was for real?

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Final Conclusion: We didn’t go to Europe and were both out $120.

I was reminded of this story the other day, when my boss came to tell me he had just purchased a used vehicle: a 1998 fuel injected 3/4 Ton 4X4 Chevy Truck with 215,000 miles on it.

“Can you believe it? I got it for only $1700.” He smiled, incredibly pleased with himself.

Let me spell it out for you if you’re not mechanically savvy or much into automobiles: this truck had way too many freakin’ miles on it. If its engine were sound, it would have cost him at least $4,000.

My eyes stared blankly, and then I said with the fakest excited tone I could, “That’s awesome!” Naturally, what I was actually thinking was, “S-M-R-T! Dumbass. You just bought a lemon.”

Three days after he bought it, the engine threw a rod. I kid you not.

These lessons bring to mind Some Principles to Live By:

1. If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.

2. The flavor for hard work has an infinitely better taste than “Quick and Dirty.”

3. NOTHING is for free. You pay for everything eventually.

4. Gambling is a tax for people who are bad at math.

5. You get what you pay for.

6. Resist the tempting moment. There's almost always more than one option.

7. Never be afraid to be honest with yourself. Plenty of people will lie to you; you shouldn't be one of them.

8. Learn your lesson: Eat the humble pie. It's yummy.

The Common Denominator is Me

Hi. My name is Becky. I'm your new roommate, and three things you should know about me are I'm mean, I'm bigger than you, and I enjoy making people cry.

I am about to share a piece of information that isn’t news to anyone who has lived with me, but has come as quite a stinging slap to me:

I suck as a roommate.

I’ve always operated under the precious delusion I was the one being put upon. Year after year, I would end up with a new batch (sometimes up to 20 different roommates in one year) of girls, and I would think to myself:

These people are seriously flawed.

List of Grievances

1. Loud
2. Dirty
3. Lacking in Musical Talent/Expression (You wouldn’t think this would be a factor, but my roommates are/were privy to my unveiled venomous musical criticism. I’ve been downright insulting.)
4. Demanding
5. Temperamental
6. Hormonal
7. Rude
8. Ignorant
9. Unstable
10. Not Very Bright
11. Cantankerous
12. Possess a Myopic Perspective
13. An Intrusion on My Space
14. Incapable of Changing The Toilet Paper Dispenser
15. Insidious
16. Temporary

Naturally, I never once fell into any of these categories. I have never been culpable.

Unfortunately, the years are passing, and I’ve started to see a factor in my roommate failures: The Common Denominator is Me.

Tell Us How You Really Feel

Disclaimer: The following is a gripe-fest against football. Please feel free to either amuse yourself by reading this “misguided/embittered” girl’s blog or click the x button.

A few Saturdays ago, I was asked by a friend if I wanted to attend BYU’s homecoming football game. Before she could even tell me the price of the tickets ($35, BTW), I said with the smuggest tone I could muster, “No. I hate football.” In truth, I have not always held the sport with such distain. But, after working for the BYU Grounds Crew for five years, with four of those years spent exclusively on the turf of Lavell Edwards Stadium, my perspective was forever tainted.

Here are few of my reasons.

1. It takes several dozen employees working year round and hundreds of thousands of dollars to sustain a playing field which is only used twelve times a year.

2. Football is a flawed game. It rewards bulk (juiced-up muscular, fat, guys) and downplays endurance (Hello! Players only play offense or defense). Consequently, contenders only have to be good for essentially half a game.

3. Reinforced individual narcissism has never been so rampant among so many undeserving. Numerous football players, because of their elevated physical and social status, would often justify poor behavior just because they could get away with it. I realize this qualm is true of many athletes, but please remember, I also took care of soccer, baseball, softball, lacrosse, track, and rugby fields. I was never treated poorly until I dealt with football players.

4. Hockey, Ultimate, and Soccer are totally ignored in this area of the country, because the beefbrains of the West don’t want to watch sports that require them to maintain their attention span for longer than 60 second plays. When you can watch a replay of a sequence three times before the next time the ball moves, you’re watching the wrong sport.

5. The Average Game Times—Ultimate: 1 hour 15 minutes. Soccer: 1 hour 30 minutes. Hockey: 1 hour forty five minutes. Football: 3 hours. Do you know how many things you can accomplish in three hours? I wrote this in less than one, so you do the math.

6. I’ve seen men put their marriages in jeopardy, because they were addicted to watching College football. “Jeeze, man. Uncle Rico still lives in a trailer, and you’re 37 with a beer gut. Go run or something.”

7. It cost $35 dollars to attend a BYU football game. It costs $2 (student price) to see a hockey game. Let me ask you this, “Where are you most likely to see more blood?”

So there are my reasons. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.