Our little corner of the world

Since it has been such a long time since I have consistently posted, here's a QUICK update so I can move on to the more exciting and current storytelling ventures of my life:

 Got married.....

 Graduated from BYU-Idaho with a public health degree....

 Got a dog....
(just kidding, this is my family's dog but I love her like she's my own. Whoever said love can't be bought has never slipped pieces of meat to a dog at dinner.)

Moved to Salt Lake to both do internships (Franklin Covey for Eric, Salt Lake Aging Services for me)....

 Took a fun trip/belated honeymoon to London, Scotland, and Ireland.

Lots of other things have happened too, but I really am feeling too lazy to vaguely gloss over anything else.

Which bring us to now!

After weeks searching for gross, overpriced apartments in Salt Lake, we found a great basement apartment of a friend of my mom's. She lives with her 102 year old mother who we LOVE. Back to Roselle in a moment.

I generally hate basement apartments because they are dark, dingy and tend to ruin your whole living space when a flash flood comes rolling through town, forcing you to sleep on your living room floor for three weeks, kayak to the grocery store, and rotate the only two outfits you have access to since your bedroom is a giant construction project. I can't make these details up. This happened to us this summer.

However, our current basement apartment walks out to the most beautiful backyard on a hill that overlooks Salt Lake. It is twice as big as any of our other apartments. And we help around the house in exchange for most of our rent. It has been a blessing since both of our internships are unpaid.

Roselle is the 102 year old woman that lives above us. Sometimes my duties include putting her to bed when her daughter is out of town. Normally, I would not look forward to taking off adult diapers/dentures/wigs and lathering ointment on someone's legs, but Roselle is sassy and hilarious, two of my favorite things.

Things that regularly come out of Roselle's mouth:
"Well, I only robbed one bank today, so let's hope tomorrow is better."
"What size feet do you have?! I sure am glad I don't have those big things."
"At least I have outlived all of my enemies" (said with a sigh while I am putting her to bed).

Her heart is healthier than an average 30 year old. I am pretty sure she will live forever. So chatting with Roselle is actually kind of the highlight of our day.

Not to say that our living situation is perfect. When we first moved in, we had to spend the first several nights at my parents house because our apartment was littered with spiders. Big ones, little ones, hairy ones, ones with big butts, jumping ones. You name it, it was in our shower or closet. So I had the place sprayed and the guy told me we would be seeing lots of dead spiders around the apartment. He also gave us some of those sticky spiders traps that you put against the wall.

Conceptually, these traps are great, but in reality, it's upsetting to see that dozens of spiders have crawled along your walls in a matter of days. The sticky stuff has long stopped being sticky, but I am too creeped out to pick them up. Right now I am looking at one sticky trap next to the computer that has a spider that is literally three times the size of the rest. So much for sleeping tonight.

We also have a rat problem. Actually, I don't know if they are rats or mice, but what's the difference really? I could never tell, except that rats are bigger? Anyway, since we live on a slope, there are stairs that wrap around the house to the driveway. These...rats...have burrowed holes in the grass at the top of the stairs and I think they have a whole tunnel system/rat kingdom under there. Every time I walk up or down the stairs, I hear rustling. I am unsettled by this as well. I have no logical reason to be scared of anything creepy or crawly unless it's poisonous. But fear is almost never logical.

My illogical fear-ridden mind is positive that there is a rat king down in the rat kingdom that for months has been ordering the other rats to dig a rachael-sized grave underneath the stairs and that one of these nights, they will swarm me and drag me down to my grave and no one will ever know where I went. This fear has driven me to literally run around the stairs at night, giving the rat kingdom the widest berth the lawn will let me.

On the plus side, we have a little kitty cat that comes and sits on our porch chair that I named Felix. I may have left out some deli meat for him, sealing our fate as his forever second family. I am so naughty with feeding animals. Sorry to Felix's family and my parents for teaching your pets to beg.

The sad realities of me blooming late and peaking early in life

I have been thinking a lot about my 14 year-old sister and where she is right now compared to where I was at that age. I mean, it's not really great to be in the business of reminiscing about your 14 year-old self because that's just asking for a good case of depression and cringing. So I will make it brief. But let me paint you a picture:

When I was in middle school, I was walking around with the most terrible bangs that I had impulsively cut (and then got sick of, so re-cut right to the hairline and was then trying to grow out) (I am thinking of bangs again. Is that just asking for trouble? Am I predetermined to cut them to the hairline again when I hate them?) My hair is curly so I straightened the bangs and wore a greasy ponytail everyday. I owned maybe 4 pairs of baggy pants in shades of beige, navy, and black (school uniform colors, ya know). In seventh grade I had two pairs of shoes: a black, chunky heeled boot and an Avia sneaker from Costco. I wore the Costco sneakers every day with, say, khaki capris and a non-logo red polo shirt with my greasy bang ponytail and lavender/hot pink braces. At home, I wore baggy shirts and soccer shorts.

I also had a fresh smattering of acne on my forehead so yeah, I was the object of every pubescent boy's desire. It's not that my parents were so poor that they couldn't afford good clothes. I just was an awkward, shy girl whose daily vernacular did not include words like "shopping", "jewelry" and "shower."

Emma, on the other hand, has several pair of Lululemon leggings, long and luscious hair, clothes that I would steal if I could fit into (unlike Emma, I was NOT a size 00 in middle school), the perfect two-swipe and age-appropriate mascara routine, and a fresh, zit-free face. If I could sum up Emma in one phrase, it would be this one that she said last week upon seeing a picture of her two year-old self:

"Oh, my eyebrows have been on point since day one."

Emma is popular. I was not. Emma likes to hang out with boys on the weekends. I was much too scared of boys and read books instead. My parents have to call Emma and tell her to come home. My parents had to coax me with bribes to go out and socialize. Emma is growing up much sooner than I did.

What are sisters for, except perfecting each other's lip gloss and jewelry game 

The difference between 14 year-old Rachael and 14 year-old Emma probably stems from personality differences, my parents making more money than they used to and therefore, um, spending more money on their younger children, and I also think it's a generational thing (that one scares me a bit.)

So anyway, I grew up very slowly. And then, very rapidly, I peaked during my senior year of high school and freshman year of college. I became much more social. I went on trips with  my friends to India, Mexico, and St. George. I wanted to be in student government, so I created a position for myself and had the school constitution changed (high school Rachael, you're awesome). I dated so many boys my first semester of college that my aunt and girl cousins recall constantly being updated on the new drama every sunday dinner from my mom. I rock climbed/mud caved/mountain biked my way around China for four months. It was all very adventurous and romantic.

Now that I am married and "have to pay bills" and "be responsible" I look back on my peak years and can't help but feel that I have back-peddled to 14-year old Rachael. I spend most of my weekends reading. I wear lots of baggy shirts and soccer shorts. If I end up cutting bangs again, I have a suspicion that I will look like my middle school self instead of the effortlessly put-together girls on Pinterest. I constantly plan imaginary trips to faraway places that I probably should forgo so I can, like, go to grad school or have kids one day.

Emma is repeatedly telling me what's trendy. I feel like I should be in the loop too. It makes me feel like a 40 year-old mom, truthfully.

On Halloween, I was at the grocery store, buying candy for trick or treaters, and I saw some high school girls, all dressed up and ready to go to a party and I thought, "Oh, how cute. You are so young and darling and in the prime of your life!" And then I immediately rolled my eyes at myself because older adults say those same kinds of things to me all the time. So I guess I've still maybe got it? But "having it" is relative because a 50-year old still "has it" to an 80 year-old.

So there you have it, the rise and fall of the Rachael Ely empire. My small, tiny window of being at the top of my game. I definitely know that I will read this post when I'm 35 and laugh and think that in my early twenties, I was at the top of my game. And then, at 80, I'll think the same thing of being 35. Does anyone else think that we tend to romanticize our pasts and remember events and time periods being more ideal that they really were? I totally do. Except at 14. I wish I saw the middle school years through rose-colored glasses so it doesn't make me shudder when I try to fall asleep. 

When I lost my marbles in Edinburgh and an old Scottish man made it all better

While visiting my aunt and uncle in London this summer, Eric and I took a quick weekend voyage up to Edinburgh. Starting and ending with a train ride that made all my Potter dreams come true (Harry and Beatrix), it was magically lush, misty, green, and everything a twenty-something year old could ever hope for. Holding hands with strangers at a bagpipe tattoo while all swaying back and forth and singing "Auld Lang Syne" changes a person, I am telling you.

Anyway, on friday morning, we woke up early in London, slept on the train, and then hit the ground running once we pulled up to the Waverly train station, determined to make the most of our three days there. I had decided before our Europe trip that I would NOT wear sneakers/chacos/tevas. I believe my thought process was: Please. A little sole discomfort means NOTHING to this well-seasoned traveller. Less than three hours into walking around Edinburgh in my salt water sandals (might as well have been pieces of cardboard), lugging around my weekend bag, my feet were red, swollen and I am pretty sure throbbing so much that there was a visible pulse in them.

Fast forward two hours and I was walking around in a brand spanking new pair of Birkenstocks, which isn't quite so bad as chacos, seeing as they're all the rage in Europe and Steve Madden has a knockoff version.

However, I was moaning and groaning because they were so awkwardly uncomfortable and my feet were still swollen and pounding like a 2 a.m. rave. Eric decided for the both of us that we should call it a night and hailed a taxi to take us to our on-the-edge-of-Edinburgh apartment for the weekend, which we had strategically booked because it was much cheaper than the rooms right in town. (By the way, I am now devoted to Airbnb.com. It is the cheapest way to bunk for sure.)

I showed the taxi driver the address our host had given us. He drove us out to the suburbs of Edinburgh and then kept driving, driving, driving. By this time, it was a little dark and the road we were on was empty in a creepy middle-of-nowhere-where-are-you-taking-us kind of way. We finally turned into an apartment complex--one that you had to drive for half a mile off the road to even get to.

The taxi driver said "OK, here you go."

I said, "which apartment is it?"

He said, "I don't know. The address doesn't say."

Me, "that number isn't the apartment number???"

Him, "noooo...that's the zip code."

He drove off, leaving me in a mild panic, in front of a massive apartment complex, at dusk, many miles away from the city center or any other building in site for that matter, and with no way to call our host. My uncle had given us a cell phone for the weekend that has a data plan, but it was conveniently dead. Eric meandered and I waddled over to one of the apartment buildings and peered inside to see an array of wall outlets where we could charge Uncle Jim's phone and call our host. We tugged on the door. Locked.

Eric started ringing telecoms and all but begged tenants to let us in--perfect strangers with melon sized feet--so we could charge our phone. Clearly, clearly every person thought he was a serial killer and hung up in fright.

To this day, Eric will tell you that it was NO big deal. We were so fine. I submit we were not fine. We were miles away from anything, standing in front of a hundred apartments, any of which could be ours, with a dead phone. OK, now that I write it out, I can see it for what it really was--a minor glitch. But at the time, we were not going to be alright, OH NO WE WERE NOT.

We were not going to find her.

We were going to have to sleep on the lawn.

We would be freezing and hungry.

OUR TRIP WAS RUINED.

It's possible that all of the blood in my body had rushed to my swollen feet and therefore, I could not think a single rational thought, so I sunk to the lawn and start crying while Eric yelled to some drunk girls on a patio, asking if they knew of an "Alina" who has some sort of Russian or Ukrainian last name that he couldn't remember.

Eric basically picked me up off the ground and dragged me out to the street where we lugged all of our stuff down the empty, dark street. Luckily, after 30 minutes of walking (Eric will tell you it was five) and a few tears, we saw a gas station. I shuffled through the door and literally flung my bags and myself on the floor next to the door where I could plug our phone into an outlet right behind the ice cream bar freezer.

Honestly, no shame, just me flinging myself on a dirty gas station floor.

I sat there waiting for the phone to turn on and an old man walked through the door, looked down at me, and moved along. I cannot even bear to imagine the sight: a twenty-something American girl, wearing a blouse and Birkenstocks, nursing her tender feet, while sitting on a gas station floor with several bags and a coat haphazardly strewn about her. I want to say "Oh, honey" to this girl and pity her, but I WAS her.

Anyway, a few minutes later, this same old man came up to me, reached his hand out to grab mine, smiled, and said in the most genuinely sincere, thoughtful and tender voice, " God bless you." Then he handed me a can of salt and vinegar Pringles that he had  just purchased, squeezed my hand, and made for the door.

I managed a lumpy thank you through watery eyes and when he left, I had to compose myself for a minute before I could call our host to get her apartment number. I picked myself up off the floor and we headed back the way we came.

I hate salt and vinegar Pringles so Eric munched on them while he bounced down the road. Eric thinks the Pringle man was drunk, but I am positive he was 100% sober and just saw a girl in need of a little comfort. It's not like we were in a dire situation--I was literally one minute away from talking to Alina on the phone--but it was one of those small, sweet, compassionate moments that makes you feel like your burden (no matter how ridiculous) has been lifted off your shoulders a bit because people are generally kind and understanding. And for some reason, that's hugely comforting. I will honestly always remember that small act of kindness, even though he probably has already forgotten.

We ended up finding the apartment and all was well. Alina, our host, happens to play the harp for a living and apologized profusely for practicing while we fell asleep. It was absolute heaven. So was taking off my Birks.

Side note: I now love my Birkenstocks to no end. Every time I put them on after a long day of work, I feel like this:

How To Throw Away $100

1) Paint your fingernails in bed. Choose the color black.

2) Put the bottle of nail polish on your nightstand when you're done.

3) 30 minutes later, wave your hand haphazardly around (you may be watching an intense TV scene or having a conversation with your husband) and knock the bottle of black nail polish on the beige carpet.

4) Gasp when the bottle breaks and leaks on the carpet--not because you know your mark of stupidity will forever be engrained in the wall-to-wall carpet in your rental, but because that was your favorite nail polish.

5) Scrub furiously with a cloth and slosh copious amounts of rubbing alcohol that the internet itself told you to do.

6) When your husband tells you to be more careful next time, snap at him that his comment was not helpful. Duly, when your husband tells you that you're supposed to blot, not rub, snap at him that you're past the point of blotting when the entire bottle has seeped into the floor.

7) Accept defeat that you will have to have the carpets cleaned.

Alternatively, you could literally THROW the money away and save a really good bottle of polish.

Confession Time

1) Last week, I brought slacks to change into at work after class and while I was trying to pry off my skinny jeans in a bathroom stall on campus, my slacks fell in the toilet. I can assure you only the best thoughts floated through my head as I was already in a hunger-induced bad mood. Since hungry people are not known for making wise decisions, my only solution was to dry them off with the hand dryer and wear them to the office. Yep, that happened.

2) I am having a hard time getting in the spirit of blog-writing since I haven't done it in so long. Not that anyone cares or that there are any rules, but still, I don't know what to write. I keep saying this, but I need a creative outlet, so I am back...again. Maybe I'll get better at this...again.

3) I ate seven dunford donuts in three days. Those things are so heavy, they're like bricks, so I'm a little disgusted with myself. Now if they were Krispy Kremes, I could probably eat a dozen in like, two hours.

4) I had an ovarian cyst rupture last week (I wouldn't recommend it), so I was legit high on lortab the next day in biochem lab.

5) I am married. Weird, huh? I haven't posted on this blog since I've been married, but I'd like to change that. Duh. My husband is the sweetest. Maybe I will post some of our adventures on here. Like three-day long Parenthood marathons on Netflix. The parenthood thing was my confession, not being married. That one is just a cold, hard fact.

Alright....well, I think that was as good of a way to segway back into blogging as anything else.
Rachael OUT.