My Dinner With Michelle...Obama.

So Ken started out this Valentines week writing about breakups and I got super excited to join the fray! Is there anything better then remembering when you were totally right and justified and able to conjure the exact magnificent phrase at the exact magnificent moment?! Well, there's nothing better, but that's because it doesn't happen and when it does, it's because it's fake.

For example:

Once when I was breaking up with this girl, her name was...let's say Michelle Obama, she was all, "You never take me places anymore!"  and I was all, "Really?!"  I mean, we were sitting in the Empire State Building on Valentine's Day when she hit me up.

"What more can I do?!  Here we are having a lovely night and you are complaining?"

"I didn't ask you to bring me here!  Am I some cliché ingenue in some Tom Hanks movie?!  I'm MICHELLE OBAMA, take me somewhere interesting."

She had me there.  It's true, I was on autopilot.  I had been ever since Christmas when she took me to meet her grandmother.  It was fine, she was nice, but I knew it was over. But it was the Holidays and I'm not one to make a fuss.  The truth is, I had forgotten it was Valentine's Day, and all the nice places were booked...or so I assumed, I didn't really have time to check, I just called New York and when there was a table available, I had to take it.  So what if it was sorta hokey? I was trying, which is more then I can say for Michelle.

"Is this why you wore sweats?" I asked.

"What?"

"Is this why you wore sweats...on our Valentine's date?  Are you just done with this?"

"These aren't sweats. I got them from Anthropologie."

This is what she was wearing:

"Those-are-sweats." I stated slowly and with punctuated pauses between each word. "You wear whatever shoes you want, you showed up tonight ready for a light sprint out of here, and now I know why...I don't take you places."

"I don't want to do this here."

"Are you kidding?!  I don't want to do this here?  I don't want to do this until after St. Patrick's Day."

"Of course you don't.  It's all about keeping the peace with you isn't it.  Well, I can see right through you...I saw how you were with my Grandmother!"

"What are you talking about?!!!"

"You were all weird and distant."

"Pull yourself together, Michelle, I was causal and aloof. I didn't want to seem like some nutcase who's all up in your Grandma's business."

"Are you joking right now?  Is that what you're telling me, that you didn't want my 90 year old Grandmother to think you were into her?!"

"I didn't!"

"I'm leaving. Would you hand me my coat."

"No!  You don't get to drop your bombs and walk out!  Oh, No, you get to sit there coatless while I tell you a thing or two!"

"Keep the coat."  Then she shoves her chair out and it sorta bangs into the man sitting behind her. "Oh, excuse me."  She says, but to him and not me.

"Oh yeah," I jump in, "Please don't let her chair tap interrupt your lovely dinner of listening to us scream at each other at the top of our lungs!"

I could tell the guy was embarrassed to be dragged in, but what did I care?

"You are a real jerk sometimes, Patrick, you know that...a real jerk."  Her face was flush with her own embarrassment.

"You know what, Michelle Obama...I don't think this is working out."

"Are you kidding me?"  Her forehead tilled to one side.

"No, I mean it.  I'm not going to drag this on any longer.  We're done."

"You got that right, buddy."  She came straight at me and I lifted my arms up to protect my face, but she only grabbed her coat and walked out.  She didn't look back, and she didn't pay the bill.  When you are dating Michelle Obama, then you get used to a certain lifestyle and there she was, walking out the door.  

The guy whose chair she hit started this slow clap and soon the whole restaurant was clapping. All I could do was fumble through my pockets pretending to search for a wallet I knew was on my dresser.

In the end I walked out moments after she did, only to meet her waiting for the elevator.  It was the longest 102 floors of my life.

  

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

We're coming up on Valentine's Day this week, kids. Love abounds! Except when it doesn't. And you know who you are. And believe me - though I am crazy-insane in love with my wife for decades now, there was a time when I treaded the ground of "Having to Figure Love Out." And that inevitably included break-ups. And man, I hated those.

I used to work with a girl named Tobie.* Tobie had lived in Las Vegas for a number of years, but originally heralds from Planet Drama, where she is considered royalty. (*Names have been changed. Kind of. She spells it without the “e.”) Each morning when I walked into the office, I couldn't wait to see what the Crisis De Jour would be. The dramatic episodes ranged from “Last night I talked to my mom for the first time in three years!” to “I lost 1.5 pounds!” And most memorably, when she broke up with her boyfriend of eight months. Or more accurately, he broke up with her. And what, I ask you, could be more dramatic than that?! (Well, if you’re Tobie, then just about anything.)

So I’m listening to her heartbreaking story, line upon line and precept by precept, when I suddenly begin having flashbacks to my own breakups. I start getting knots in my stomach, I get a little moist under the arms, and I find myself looking for the opportunity to assure Tobie that her and I can still be friends, even though we aren’t the ones breaking up. It’s just instinct.

For me, breakups were the absolute worst. I avoided them like they were cancer. Oh, how they pained me to the core of my dating soul. It’s still hard to talk about some of them…

Tess Dresher. Fourth Grade. I can still recall the day she walked up to me during recess and asked me to “go with her.” “Sure,” I answered. And those were the last words every exchanged between Tess and myself. We occasionally sat by each other, and I gave her a very special Peanuts Valentine’s Day card, but we never did speak, or even make eye contact. So I guess technically we are still “going together.” Boy is she going to be mad when she finds out I got married and had eight children. She’ll want to break up for sure. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

Julia Zimmerman. High School. It was the summer of 1987, and I was sixteen years old – with a license to drive and to date! I knew Julia really liked me when her mom had grounded her and she promptly ignored said house arrest to go to the movies with me. Yes, we were young and crazy in love! I was pretty sure that after the summer of 1987 I could die happy. By fall of 1987 I was so miserable I was praying for death. We went to different high schools and Julia was first to acknowledge that our long distance relationship wasn’t really going to make it. I nodded my head in agreement, but inside I felt like somebody was cramming my heart through a paper shredder.

College break-ups were the toughest, obviously. You've all been there. Sometimes it's almost cliche. But there was genuine pain, due to genuine feelings and possibilities. It might be too soon. I don't think I can talk about it. Her name was Danielle. It was Halloween night. We had gone to a party and we were sitting in my car in the parking lot of her apartment complex. I was dressed as Aladdin, she was Jasmine. Things had been in the pooper for quite some time, and it felt like a stranger walking by could glance in our direction and know exactly what was happening. It was silent for a few minutes, and then I spoke up. Tell me if you've had this exact conversation before:

“I think we should see other people.”

"Define our relationship,” she said.

“What?”

“Define our relationship!”

“Uhm…we should…see other people…but we can still be -”

“Are you giving me the Friend Speech? Don’t you DARE give me the Friend Speech!”

“Uh…NO…never, never. I think it’s just me.”

“OH, NO – the ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ bit?”

“Noooo! That’s not what I mean at all...”

An eternal silence. Like…three days have passed while we’ve sat in the car. And finally she speaks.

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I…don’t understand the question.”

“I can’t do this!” she yelled, and bailed out of the car.

Joy to the world.

It was truly painful. Of course, not as painful as Tobie’s overly dramatic reaction to the hair she found in her salad at lunch one day. “I almost ate this and diiiiiiieeeeedddddd!”

The 16 Traits to Look for When You Want to Be with Someone Sexy

What a week of LOVE! I will say, on the record, that I love each of my fellow Part Time Authors and their significant others. What stories they have about love. I enjoy hearing them again and again over the years because I'm always so happy and inspired by how their relationships started, grew to what they are today, and continue to grow.

Onto the sexy ...

Finding someone sexy is completely subjective, isn't it? I've seen two people together that I would normally not view as sexy but they sure love each other and probably find one another sexy quite often. So, what is sexy? Are there sexy qualities that sexy mean that someone will sexy like someone else? Why do I sexy care? Sexy.

I think my wife, Amelia, is very sexy so it follows that my definition of it is informed by her and all that she is. This is my tribute to her, really. But I'm sure you've all also wondered what I find sexy. So here it is.

Attractive - Let's get this out of the way first. In order to be sexy, you have to have be at least a little attractive and, to the person you love, they have to think you are unbelievably gorgeous.

Chemistry - It's sexy when someone can finish your ... cake. And sentences.

Sense of Humor - This is the ability to laugh at life and to find comedy funny. Yet, there is a fine line between comedy and tragedy and a sexy person knows the difference. But, if the person can't laugh at themselves, they aren't sexy.

Dorkiness - Generally, nerds aren't sexy. Dorks are. It's sexy to be comfortable enough in your own skin that you can spaz out to a song, make an ugly face at the right time or turn your foot into a life-like puppet. Dorky? Yes, but also super sexy because it shows you are comfortable and confident.

Confidence - Wow. When a person knows who they are, what they want, where they are going and what to do to get there, it's ultra sexy. "For there is nothing either meh or sexy but thinking makes it so." - Shakespeare?

Wit/Funny - This is different than a sense of humor because it takes it to the next level. Not only can a sexy person laugh at life but they can make others laugh too. Wit is the older, smarter version of being funny but they are both sexy.

Eyes - If you don't have intriguing eyes or if you don't make eye contact, then you can't be sexy. Sorry. Those with blank, dark soulless eyes need to report to their Lord Satan and leave sexy to those with light and life in their gaze.

Intelligence - When someone knows a lot about something it's quite awesome. It's even more awesome when they're humble about it, open to other ideas, but know they could lick any sonuvaB in the house with their particular smarts. E=mcSexy

Independent - It's really awesome when someone can take care of themselves and their life. They don't necessarily "need" someone as much as they love the things you bring to the relationship that adds to their strengths, making one sexy combination of sexiness.

Vulnerable - Show your layers. Acting like a stone when there are problems or pretending there aren't problems prohibits others from getting to know who you really are. If you let people in, they'll see who you are. That's alluring.

An Interest in Others - Don't always talk about yourself and your problems. It gets old so fast. When you, instead, show interest in others' problems, interests, goals, and then do things to show you listened to them, it shows off your kindness/sexiness.

Loyalty - Just stay faithful. Don't cheat. Stick up for your friends and significant other. Take her/his side often. Invest. Be present.

Courage - This is more than standing up to bullies or going to war. It's waking up, seeing how awful the day could be and forging ahead anyway. When people see you battling your own trials and various inner and outer demons, it's inspiring and attractive.

Conviction - Believe in something. Wishy-washiness isn't cute. "So then because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor [sexy], I will spew you out of my mouth." - The Bible

Sensitive - Similar to being vulnerable but if you can't cry in front of a person you love, shed a tear at the end of "Ordinary People" or "Glory" or, I don't know, "Toy Story 3," then you are cold and soulless. (Not really, but you get what I mean.)

Selfless - Service is sexy especially when you know the person giving service has a huge mountain of their own problems that they are putting on hold to help others for a bit. When you see someone making an effort on behalf of humankind, I defy you to not find it at least a degree of sexy.

Happy - The most sexy people are the ones that seem to be genuinely happy about life. Not pretending that everything's fine. That's different. People see through that. Also it doesn't mean ALWAYS being happy. It's impossible in life to face some of our challenges and smile but a happy person will persevere and live to smile big another day. Smiling is sexy and happy people smile a lot.

There you have it. Happy Valentines Week. Let me know in the comments what you think is sexy.

Love is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; 

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink 

And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 

Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, 

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 

Yet many a man is making friends with death 

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 

It well may be that in a difficult hour, 

Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, 

Or nagged by want past resolution's power, 

I might be driven to sell your love for peace, 

Or trade the memory of this night for food. 

It well may be. I do not think I would. 

Love is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Milay

When Amy and I were married (10 years ago last week!) we didn't have a traditional wedding reception with a line and nuts in a paper cup and cubes of cheese on toothpicks and 500 people from our ward and our parents work. We got married in the morning and then had a nice lunch in the afternoon with about 100 people. Really just our closest family and friends. We wanted it to be fun and we wanted to have good food and we didn't want it to be exhausting for us or for our guests. And it was, by my recollections, super fun and awesome. 

One of the things I loved was that we had friends do toasts - you know, not with alcohol because we're Mormon, y'all. But they would give some sort of tribute, or sing a song or whatever. Our good friend Topher (yes, THAT Topher!) read that poem above, Love is Not All by Edna St. Vincent Milay. Most people wouldn't think this appropriate wedding fare, what with its talk of blood and thickened lung and fractured bones. But I adore it.

To me, what it is saying is that your grand romantic gestures are all well and good but love, true love, isn't only about that. It's about the day to day. Living your life, raising your kids, emptying the dishwasher so your spouse doesn't have to. And even though on its own love can't fix everything - marriage takes work and dedication and compromise - it is because of love that you do it all.

For our 10th wedding anniversary last week Amy and I left the kids with the in-laws and went to stay overnight downtown. There were no roses or candles or harps on the agenda. We had dinner at Malawi Pizza (they don't even have waiters), went to a movie and went shopping. And for us, that is a dream day. Sure, it may not seem that romantic. But for us to be away from the kids and remember that we are human beings (not just the robots that keep reminding the 8 year old to do his homework again and again) and laugh and talk and hold hands without our 7 year old getting grossed out by our PDA was delightful and romantic in its own way.

I want to make sure that Amy, who is my best friend, remains my best friend for the next 70 years. Because while our lives now are busy and full of school projects and doctors appointments and dance classes, there will come a day in the not too distant future where the kids grow up and move away and it's just the two of us. And when that flood of day to day activities and schedules and pick up times has slowed to a trickle, I know that I will still have my best friend to spend the rest of my life with and that she still will be the person that I want to laugh with and talk to and hold hands with. And we will probably spend our time going to movies, and eating and shopping. And that is my definition of true love.  

HAPPY Lisa VALENTINE Clark DAY!

Here is a photo of 4 of the 5 wives of the Part Time Authors, from 2003. 

From left to right: Katie Craig, Amy Bingham, Lisa Clark, Lindsay Livingston. And our lovely friend, Chanel. 

Nope, I don't remember why Katie is holding a bottle of wine. 

More recently, the Craigs, Clarks and Binghams out to dinner. 

Dear Devoted Reader,

You may have noticed that Patrick and I kind of had a theme going this week on Part Time Authors. That theme? Hoping that writing wonderful and true things about our wives on this here blog will count as our Valentine Gifts to our wives. Well, today is Chris’ turn to write about Lisa….and wouldn’t you know it, the man is out of the state on bidness. Maaaan – he must have gotten Lisa something AWESOME and luxurious and pricey and HUGE to make up for THAT! I can’t wait to hear what it is, Lisa! Congratulations!

Nevertheless, I am not going to sit idly by and have Lisa go unnoticed on this, her Special Day. She deserves this, this amazing and lovely lady. This mysterious female. This woman who’s maiden name is actually, literally VALENTINE, for crying-gosh-sakes-out-loud!

Where do I start? The face. Lisa’s face is…what? What, should I start with the hair? Oh, I see. I'm making everyone uncomfortable? No, you’re right. Let’s go another direction with this.

Of all of us on Part Time Authors, my wife, Katie, and I have known the Clarks the longest. In fact, we knew them before we were the Craigs and they were the Clarks. 

See. Here’s a photo of us from our dating years at Chris’ family cabin in Wallsburg, Utah. Chris and Lisa on the left, in the back. Katie and I on the right, in the front.

Katie and I met in The Garrens, a comedy troupe that performed sketches and improvisations weekly on BYU campus. We had been friends for just over a year, when in the fall of 1994 we started dating. By complete serendipity, we had a class together that semester, and though we didn't know it at the time, that class included two individuals that would become two of our favorite people ever. Chris Clark and Lisa Valentine.

From the fall of 1994 to the summer of 1995 the four of us seemed to be walking very similar paths. Katie and I started dating about the same time as Chris and Lisa. Things started to get more serious about the same time. All of us had similar emotions, similar interests, similar points of reference. But it was more than that. There was something very effortless about our friendships. And born out of all this was this level of trust and safety and acceptance. And genuine happiness for each other. And the hilarity. My gosh, the hilarity. So entertaining and amusing were our conversations (to us), that it became burdensome to find a break in the banter and return to our regularly scheduled reality. It usually came to an end when somebody would say something like, “Well, I’m already late for class, I better go” or “ I've got to get up in three hours to take a test” or “I’m going to the bathroom, please don’t follow me.” And even the occasional, “You guys, seriously, shut up, ER is starting.”

One of the things I truly love about Lisa is her loyalty to her friends. I love to observe her friendship with Katie. I also love that Lisa doesn't treat me like I’m her friend’s husband. You know what I mean? I’m not just Katie’s husband, or Chris’ friend. I’m Lisa’s friend. I like that.

I have never seen Lisa look more like her mom than in this photo. 

So, since Patrick and I shared memories from yesteryear, here are some memories of Lisa from the mid-90s.

1.  Before any of us were married there was one sunny afternoon when I was walking across BYU campus with Katie and Lisa, when it became abundantly clear  that I was merely a backdrop in their world. They were lost in their conversation, like school girls, laughing and discussing how they would always be friends, and it went like this:

Katie: “And it’ll be, like 20 years from now, and I’ll be calling you and saying, ‘Well, we’re just coming to town for a graduation and we’d love to see you; we’re just going to be staying at the Motel 6 –’

Lisa: (Cutting Katie off). “A Motel 6?! Absolutely not, I will not hear of it! You will be staying with us!”

Katie: “Oh, no – we couldn’t.”

Lisa: “Katie, this conversation is over, you are staying HERE!”

More laughter from both of them. And wouldn’t you know it – they’ve had that conversation/inside-joke for almost 20 years now. Every time we would be coming into town we would call to let Lisa know, and I would get to hear Katie and Lisa having this exact dialogue and laughing hysterically. We just moved back to Utah a few months ago, and that’s the only thing that makes me sad about living near the Clarks. I don’t get to hear that joke anymore.

2.  Also before we were all married, Chris and Lisa and I were in a play together. Ordinary People. Everybody saw it, right? Anybody? Nobody? Ok. Well, after practices, Lisa and I would go on long walks. This was so she could tell me what was going on with her and Chris, and I could tell her what was going on with me and Katie. And during these walks, we usually shared a lot of shoulder shrugs and head shakes and the phrase “ignorant bliss” was thrown around a lot. But somehow, it was always comforting to be reassured by a friend that everything was going to work out fantastic. And guess what, it sure did.

3. Lisa later joined The Garrens comedy troupe with Katie and I. During the early part of the summer of 1995, after Chris and Lisa were married, but before Katie and I were later that summer, The Garrens had a midnight radio show on Monday nights, at the KSTR studio. I would pick up Lisa around 11:30 p.m. and we would drive over to the studio together, singing Dionne Farris’ “I Know What You’re Doin’” at the very top of our lungs. Also, Lisa would tell me how great married life was and how excited she was for me and Katie. And when you’re engaged, you LOVE having people excited for you!

4. I remember when Abbie, our oldest, was born. And I remember the day we brought Abbie home and Lisa came running over to see her. And she scooped up a sleeping Abbie in her arms and held her close. And I watched Lisa cry. And watching Lisa cry because she is so happy for you…well, that is simply a beautiful thing to watch.

5. In 1997, when Katie and I finished college and moved away from Utah, and the Clarks stayed, Lisa asked if there was any possible way we could stay. I explained that I had looked for advertising jobs in Utah and just couldn't find anything. She said, “Well, let’s build your portfolio.” And then she and Chris posed for an ad I had written about these new car tires that wouldn't go flat. And here are the photos. We ended up having to move for work, anyway. But I was flattered at what Lisa was willing to give to try to support us in staying.

So Happy Valentine’s Day, Lisa Valentine Clark! I love that we are friends. I love that you and Katie are friends. I love you, period.

One Upping Ken.

Ken thinks he has the corner on cute meets because he and Katie met when I was a freshman, but have I got a tale for you:


It was the spring of 2003 (Ken had 6 kids by then...maybe more, maybe less) and I was doing improv in a little club in a tiny suburb of LA called, Provo Utah.  I was younger and thinner but just as funny, my eyes just as blue and my front tooth just as fake.  I don't remember the first time I saw Lindsay, but she does, but you have to understand that she was SO FAR out of my league that my mind didn't even think to hold on to that moment.  As a mid-attractive man there are women that you see who are at your level and you mind spins off into the eternities and crates a whole fiction of what life would be if you were to fall in love.  My mind did no such thing when I met my wife, certainly my mind spun a filthy web of debauchery, too indecent to blog about here, (that's for my other adult blog, tableandsinglepot) but that was all my mind was ever doing at 24 so why would it hold on to this one perfect moment.  Anyway she says I picked her up and spun her around.  Who knows?!  Why?! This must have been right at the end of my 'Spinning Strangers' phase...it was only, like, two weeks.

So no, I don't remember the first time we met. I do remember our first dinner...well she was actually having dinner with Brett but she sat across from me and I was transfixed.  But again, she was out with Brett and Brett only dated (and eventually married) wildly stunning women (He only married one wildly stunning woman)...he was much broodier than me...and taller. But then summer came and with it magic.  It was all very fast and tremulous and passionate and fraught and wild and there was a phone call to my district manager to transfer to the Pasadena store and then we were signing a lease and then we were forcing her mother to plan the wedding back in Utah and forcing my mom to pay for the HUGE luncheon (we wanted to save the reception money for our honeymoon, so we utilized the 'Grooms Parents pay for the Luncheon' and invited 200 people and then flew off to Puerto Vallarta.

But then...

After that...

Everything went quiet, or rather, calm...

After the most romantic and passionate summer of any summer ever lived by anyone.  We settled, or rather, landed on the first year of our marriage.  And the soft gold dust of LA landed, or rather, settled on our skin.  And we traded our midnight independent movies for 5 o'clock homemade dinners on our balcony, just the two of us, face to face and the whole year, still, stays gold and edge-blurred and perfect.  We had found each other against all odds, my mid-attractiveness and lower middle intelligence and her staggering beauty and insatiable mind not withstanding, we found each other.  It was not in either of our plans but then, one day, it was only ever going to be just like this:

or this...

and this...

or this... 

now this...

And I will love her forever.

If You Like Me, Check This Box

My wife and I when we were dating in 1994.

I was an advertising major in college. I wanted to write commercials for radio and television. My goal was to one day work at a large ad firm in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, or San Luis Obispo. (I don’t think there are any large agencies in San Luis Obispo, but 1. I adore little beach towns, and 2. Don’t you kind of giggle when you say “San Luis Obispo?” Me too.)

In my dreams, I would have a little office with a window view of the ocean, an oversized poster of The Joshua Tree hanging on my wall, a mini-freezer filled with ice cream. Also one of those little basketball hoops rigged atop a little wastebasket for the ultimate cliché of the tortured writer who rips scarcely touched paper with half-written ideas on it out of the typewriter, wads it up into a ball, and throws it at the wastebasket. Also, everyone else in the office would give me a hard time for still using a typewriter in this day and age.

In an effort to stay true to my art form of writing and completely avoid developing any business savvy, I took only one business class in college. It was held in a stadium-style classroom with hundreds of savvy business students and me and my roommate/future commercial writing-partner – Lincoln Hoppe.

We always sat in the front row. I don’t know why we sat there; maybe because we felt out of place with all the snooty business students. What with their briefcases, collared shirts, and large brains. It seemed like the average age in the classroom was 42, and I was at all times slightly uncomfortable, like somebody might stand, call my bluff, and demand my dismissal from this and any business classes. “Pardon me, Mr. Professor, your Honor, but I object to this hoodlum occupying a coveted seat in the front row of this, your stadium classroom. Furthermore, I submit that he has neither the inclination nor the maturation or substantiation for comprehending the volumes of wise and insightful tutorials you have prepared for us, your insatiable business students. Plus I heard him make a fart joke when he walked into class today.”

But I remained dutiful in attending my big business class. After all, I’d paid for it, I needed the credits to graduate…and my future wife, Katie Fillmore, happened to have a class in that same building, about half an hour after my class had started. And she started this little tradition that I adored.

About 25 minutes into every class, I would receive a love note from Katie. As if we were in junior high. They were always thoughtful; but my favorite part was that she would write the note, fold it up, and on the outside of the paper write: “Pass this note to the handsome, dark-haired man on the front row named ‘Ken.’” She would then sneak in the door of this monstrous classroom, tap the suit in the last row, at the top of the stadium-style seating structure, and hand him the note. The guy would read the instructions to pass it down, and he would hand it to the guy in front of him. Down and down. Down and down. Down something like 36 rows of seats the note would go, until somebody would tap me on the shoulder and hand me the note.

Now, we had been dating several months at this point, and I think Katie truly loved me. I think she knew I appreciated getting these little notes. But somewhere in Katie’s psyche, I think she also got the biggest kick out of this little phenomenon. That amidst all the no-nonsense attitudes of these business students, who would just as quickly clock you with their Franklin Planners as shoot you a dirty look for disturbing them during a business lecture, she could single-handedly reduce them to schoolyard behavior in three seconds flat. Inherit in everyone who ever went through adolescence is the knee-jerk, sociological reaction to not ask questions, just do what the note says and pass it along to the receiving end. Like you have no choice in the matter. The instructions are clear; I must pass this note on or endure the consequences!

I loved Katie for that. I loved that she found hilarity in random acts of frivolity. I loved that she thought of me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at 2:25 p.m. I loved that she would write “the handsome dark-haired man in the front row” and assumed everyone would know who that was. And I love that Katie still thinks no matter what other vocation I pursue to support our family, I should never give up on that little writing office with the typewriter that overlooks the ocean.

Happy Valentine’s Week to my very favorite person!

I like gross candy.

I love Valentine's Day. And not because of love and romance. I hate those things. I love it because I love candy hearts. Not the slightly soft, flavorful kind. The really crunchy kind that taste like hard sugar. I like to stock up when they go on sale and eat them all year long.

I know they are not every one's cup of tea because, you know, they taste like hard sugar. But for some strange reason, that's my favorite kind of candy. Candy Hearts, Necco Wafers, Pez. I love them all. I work at a store that sells candy and we sell these:

Candy Buttons. I love them. And I have LITERALLY never seen anyone else buy them in more than a year working there. The only person I ever know who has bought them is me. And I will only buy them when I am in a neighboring store, because I don't want to explain to my employees why I like them. If you've never had them, they taste like this: Remember when you were a kid and your mom would make you a birthday cake in a 9x13 pan and stick those little candy letters on it to spell Happy Birthday? And you would just pull the letters off and throw them away? They taste like those.

I remember once in high school I was with a girl I liked and we went to the local frozen yogurt shop. It was the early 90s! Golden Swirl was the bomb. When it was time to order our toppings she got gummy bears (which I categorically disagree with because the yogurt makes them hard, so gross.) and I ordered...sprinkles. And she was mortified. "Sprinkles!" she gasped, "Who orders those?! They don't taste like anything!!" It was like I had asked them to put baby corpses on my yogurt. (Though I would imagine those have a very distinct flavor.) Needless to say, that relationship didn't last.

So this Valentine's Day if you were planning on sending me a box of chocolates, that is so thoughtful of you but don't bother. I don't want that caramel or chocolate. But send me a box of hearts, buttons, Pez and sprinkles and I'll be your valentine. 

Love at the Rocks

Well, we're coming up on Valentine’s Day, and love is in the air! Or in the toilet, I don’t know. Frankly, I can’t keep up with your love life.

Most of my Valentine’s Day nostalgia takes place in elementary school, where we would gladly hand out Valentine’s cards to everyone in class. Boy, girl, weird smelling kid with a lip fungus – everyone was endowed with a written sentiment. On Valentine’s Day, charity abounded and we were all compassionate. Then junior high happened and we were ashamed of ourselves for ever thinking that we could all be friends, especially with anybody not wearing Guess jeans. In high school, February 14^th was pretty much just February 14^th, and unless you were in love, love was not discussed. However, I do have some very specific Valentine’s Day memories from my college era.

Valentine’s Day, 1994. The scene: a wintery Provo, Utah. My love interest at the time, we’ll call her Tamara (because that’s her name), had only one Valentine’s Day wish: that our special holiday dinner would take place at Olive Garden. Not a high-maintenance, gal, that Tamara; evidenced by the fact she was willing to go out with me in the first place.

I called to make reservations, but was informed by the college student de jour working the hostess desk that Olive Garden did not accept reservations. This should have alarmed me. But for some reason, the only inconvenient consequence I could fathom was that we would be sitting in the lobby of Olive Garden a smidge longer than we had originally thought; no big whoop.

There are questions of mortality that just can’t be answered until the next life. What are the details or how matter was organized to create the earth? Why do some of our personal convictions conflict with scientific evidence? Why do bad things happen to good people? And why, in the face of all practicality, did I think I could simply show up at an extremely popular eatery on the evening of a nationally celebrated romantic holiday in a town that houses a university where dating is obligatory by decree…and think that I would need to merely wait an extra five minutes for a table, and all would be well with the world?

We pulled up to Olive Garden, and it was complete anarchy. Hungry, frustrated crowds without reservations spilled out of the restaurant and into the parking lot, turning on each other. Women openly wept, men used language like “fetchin’” and “flippin’” as they paced around their cars…outrageous! It was clear we were only moments away from someone exhibiting behavior usually reserved for Church basketball games.

I popped the car in reverse, looked over my shoulder, and did my best stuntman driving as we narrowly escaped the parking lot – couples and even restaurant employees jumping on my car, yelling at us, “Are you going to eat somewhere else?! Take us with youuuu!”

I explained to Tamara that we would simply jump on the I-15 and head north until we came across the next Olive Garden, somewhere between Provo and Salt Lake. She seemed on board, but 40 minutes later – with horrible traffic, icy weather, and our starving stomachs now digesting our livers – we decided we would just settle on the next restaurant we spotted.

And that’s when it hit me.

Porter’s Place.

Porter’s Place (as described on their website) is a little, out-of-the-way restaurant located in Lehi on historic Main Street, in a 1915 brick building. And as the name suggests, it’s dedicated to honoring Mormon Pioneer Orrin Porter Rockwell. Porter served as Joseph Smith’s and Brigham Young’s bodyguard and was one of the first converts to the LDS Church. He was a close, personal friend of Joseph Smith, known for being a bit rough around the edges.

Now, if this doesn’t scream Valentine’s Day…I really don’t know what does. Really.

I can’t remember how I’d heard about the place, but I had a hunch that you did not need a reservation, and it would not be crowded. And sure enough, we sat right down. Imagine my delight to see that all the dishes were named after historical LDS people and places. I enjoyed a delectable Parley P. Pratt (French dip pastrami with Swiss cheese) and Tamara had the Orson Hyde (a BLT). I was tempted by The Destroying Angel (a one-pound burger), but decided not to go to the dark side.

Having completely impressed Tamara by taking her to a romantic dinner at what was essentially a saloon, we decided to head back to my apartment for dessert and a video. (I know. HOW did she ever let me slip through her fingers?)

We were hummin’ along the I-15 back to Provo when my car decided to no longer be a part of our plans, and…just…stopped. I pulled over and tried to start it again, but it was pouting and would not cooperate. I zipped up my jacket and jumped out of the car to wave down some help. Nuthin’. Car after car after car sped right on by, its occupants probably stuffed with Olive Garden and romantical thoughts, without a care in the world. Evidently brotherly love takes a holiday around Valentine’s Day.

I jumped back in the car to warm up.

“Here’s the thing,” I said to Tamara. “I don’t think anyone will stop for a strange man on the freeway in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter, this close to the state prison.”

“Agreed,” she smiled, not expecting my next sentence.

“And that’s why I think if you get out, somebody will pull over right away. People will be quicker to help a young lady in distress.”

She approved. At least, verbally.

Romantically, I opened her door for her and helped her out. (And they say chivalry is dead!) Then I watched her, and any chance of a good-night kiss, start walking away. Immediately, a car pulled over. My plan worked, but I still somewhat expected her to just get inside the guy’s car and ride off with him, leaving me in the rain with my decrepit vehicle and a half-eaten Parley P. Pratt. I wouldn’t have blamed her. But instead, he backed up, gave us a jump start, and away we went, before my alternator decided to go on strike again.

Back at my apartment, we dried off, warmed up, had dessert, and borrowed my roommate’s functioning car so I could take Tamara home.

And you know what? Maybe it was because earlier in the day I had filled Tamara’s room with red, pink, and white balloons. Maybe it was because she recognized it wasn’t my fault that the Olive Garden didn’t take reservations. Maybe it was because we spent the night laughing despite the escalating ridiculousness of the evening’s events. But whatever the reasons, the night was highly entertaining, even if the date did not end predictably.