What Kind of Life?

Recently I had the pleasure of driving from Irvine, California to Orem, Utah.

D2 sat in the front seat and kept me company the entire way home. For the first 4 hours from Irvine to Las Vegas this meant non-stop chatter. At one point, she asked,

"Mom, do you ski with sticks or without?"

"Neither," I replied.

"What?" she asked. My little snow bunny was certain she had heard me incorrectly. Growing up in the state with unarguably the best snow on earth, she has been in countless snowboarding lessons and enjoyed many hours at a local ski resort.

I, however, was raised in Iowa. Although the Hawkeye state is known for many great things, powdery ski slopes is not one of them.

"Neither," I repeated. "I've never been skiing."

"Snowboarding?" she asked.

"No," I confirmed.

"No skiing either?" she double checked.

"No. No skiing. No snowboarding."

Shaking her head in disappointment, she sympathized,

"What kind of life have you lived?"

Sing, Sing a Song, Make it Simple To Last Your Whole Life Long Part One

Vacations provide families with fond memories, photo album pictures, and souvenirs. My friends' parents would take them skiing at resorts in Colorado, or swimming along the sandy beaches of Florida, or even sight seeing across Europe. Their vacations always involved powdery snow in the mountains, or palm trees and hammocks by the ocean, or world famous museums and landmarks. My vacations were just as thrilling since my parents took me to a relative's house where I didn't have to do gardening chores for an entire week.

My parents did not believe in hotels. Ever. Which is why our vacations always involved a close relative. Or a distant relative. Or close friend of the family. Or a not-so-close friend of the family. Or friend of a friend of the family.

Since hotels were out of the question, instead of stopping to rest along the way, my parents would drive 30 hours straight across the United States until they reached our destination. One parent slept while the other drove. Every four to six hours they would trade off. In this manner we left Iowa to drive across Nebraska, then Wyoming, then Utah, then Nevada...

In order to pass the monotonous stretch, my sisters and I sat in the back of the station wagon singing songs. After countless hours of singing every song we knew numerous times, we would eventually make up songs. One such original ditty went as follows (complete with actions):

Oh, I'm broken up to here, (put your hand on your forehead)

I fell apart last year, (droop your head and shoulders)

I'm so mad, (look angry)

The people are so glad, (smile broadly)

'cause I'm broken up to here, (put your hand on your forehead)

I fell apart last year, (droop your head and shoulders)

I'm so mad, (look angry)

The people are so glad, (smile broadly)

'cause I'm broken up to here... (put your hand on your forehead)

And so it continued. For eternity. Or at least until we reached Grandma and Grandpa's house in California.