Going to college in your hometown is almost like a glorified high school, especially when you live at home. So it wasn't until I was done with that little 2-year associates degree, just one summer shy of turning twenty, that I officially cut the cord. My dad said I could take the truck, and I gave them a nonchalant wave hoping it wouldn't betray my beating heart. I glided away from the potato and wheat fields, down past the college campus lined with big trees, peeking in the rearview mirror every 5 seconds and thinking I'll never be the little punk running around Apache Avenue again...I have to grow up now.

My destination? Utah. Time for a school break, get a job, and work on residency so I could eventually go to Utah State University nestled in between peaks, forests, and waterways.

But before I made it to USU, I made a pit stop in Pleasant Grove, Utah. Left mommy and moved in with my dear friend Sophia, and her mother (my new second mom, what a wimp I was!). I flooded Happy Valley with my resume showcasing my newly earned degree:

Craft store? Never called.
Secretary at a respectable office? Oh, yes my resume has an impressive sidebar thank you. Um, well my mother designed it, that's how. When can I expect a second interview?
Salesclerk for unfinished furniture? Not hiring.

I finally settled in at exit 276, an all-night truck stop just off the interstate and right across the street from the steel mill pooping into Utah Lake and cranking their factory run-off after the sun went down.

The first few days, I worked on memorizing four digit codes for the register, determining when the big rigs needed to stop on the scales, and filling the ice machine. It wasn't until later that I realized I had been seeing the same people over and over. The Old Asian man full with a sensai beard burrowing into his clavicle. He honestly looked like the wise man on top of the mountain. He smoked Pall Malls, and I once joked I needed to see his I.D. and he tugged his beard and gave me a wink.

The red-faced steel worker who faithfully purchased a 24-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer every time I saw him. I would see him twice during one 8-hour shift. It wasn't until months later I thought I probably could have called the cops on him, he was forever glazed and always on the go.

Of course we had the not-so-regular and just-passing-through as well. Daddy truck drivers bringing their kids along during summer break. Big rigs filled with a fridge, TV, VCR, and a bed all behind the cab. I determined that most truckers were oversized teenagers with no concept of mortality or health-consciousness...snarfing down hotdogs and twinkies, chuggin' cola and beer, and watching movies until it was time to hit the road again. Every kid I saw that summer skipping in their daddy's shadow was in hog heaven I tell you.

One swaggering driver had brought his kid, probably around 12 years old and mentally handicapped. I figured he must have been a real sweet guy to bring his son that had extra needs. He came into the store and dropped the big bucks for a hot shower for both of them. When he came back with the key and wet towel I ask "How was your shower?". He started laughing at himself before even finishing his punchline: It was better than sex! Up runs his sweet little kid, gazing up with adoration "What dad? What did you say?". Well son, she asked me how the shower was and I said it was better than sex! He was probably the first grown-up I wanted to smack across the head.

While in High School, I maintained my own circle of friends, had my own hobbies, got into my own trouble, and yet there was a shadow I could never quite fall out of. Besides my graduating peers, anyone older then me generally referred to me as "Clay's little sister". Clay was the Golden Son who played on the varsity team as a sophomore, was the only blue-eyed child of the entire family, and solidified his status as high school heart-throb by shopping for school clothes 100 miles away, over a dreaded winding mountain pass, among the hoity-toity shops in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

Clay to offspring: You gonna share those mcnuggets? Get back to the dollar menu!

Clay to offspring: (pause) [shocked stifled laugh peeps from his bewildered face]

For the most part, his secret lays safely hidden due to long-tall Salina (see left).

Twenty minutes a day is all her teacher asks of her. Couple of homework pages, some spelling words, and twenty minutes of reading make up the weekly schoolwork routine for Rainbow Girl. To make sure we don't lag behind on her reading requirements, it helps when you have some text that reall engages the kid, keeps them interested, excited, and anxious to turn the next page. This week, the book that has consumed my kids has been this one:

Literacy puts a whole new spin of involvement with the beloved JCPenney Toy Catalog. Rainbow Girl pored over each page and then wrote out her official "Christmas List". Here she is showing one of her favorites on the list: Microscope Mega-Screen.

It reminds me of when I was a kid. The JCPenney book was always getting stuck on the page with the two-person cars for kids. I dreamt of driving around Apache Avenue free of menacing pedal-power. The widow with the full cookie jar, Mrs. Hyde, I could drive right up to her front step and relive the glories of Halloween every day of the year. I could always count on getting some sugar from her house, along with a shoulder-wrenching hug. Mrs. Hyde, the Archibald's next door, my best friend Beth, they'd all become my #1 fans. Me and my car...I'd be the coolest kid on Apache Avenue.

So I couldn't help bust up laughing when Rainbow Girl started reading off her own Christmas List. Here's her list in all it's phonetic glory:

Pink ipod

telascop

computer

(by this time, Mrs. Olsen is laughing her head off. "Nice try kid". But wait, it gets better)

camera

Dough-Na-matic

Marshmallow Blaster

buble gum masheen

phone

Julre Box

neclise

bracelet

ring

cottin candy Masheen

electric gutar

Play Kichin

Play farm with animals

Green Dragon

Mrs. Olsen: You were just telling me all you wanted was Pet Shop stuff.

(Rainbow Girl scrambles to the list and returns with 2 more additions)

100 Pet Shops

a cat

You know, I never got that car I drooled over year after year in the JCPenney catalog. But looking back, there are no heart-breaking disappointments I can recall during my Apache Avenue Christmases. So I think Rainbow Girl will be alright not winning the kid lottery this Christmas.

For the most part, we can thank M.T.V. and The Disney Channel for unifying budding American Adolescents into a common tribe of obnoxiousness from coast to coast. Take Sara Jane in the backwoods of Tennessee, then add Estabella Grape from Hollywood, awkward eye-rolling ensues. Then insert Hannah Montana into the mix and all of a sudden Sara Jane and Estee-G are grooving in sync.

In my early pre-teen years of Friday Night Sleepovers, before Hannah Montana and multiple cartoon channels, our unifying source came from Friday Night Videos hosted by Casey Kasem. This just worked us up into a lather for the channel dedicated solely to non-stop music video coolness: M.T.V. I remember walking the two blocks home from Lincoln School, when out of the blue me and my buddies would scream “I Want my M.T.V.!!” and then laugh uncontrollably. It was the battle cry of high-schoolers everywhere, and I was happy to repeat their mantra even though I still thought my parents were cool.

By the time I finally entered High School, having been brainwashed by self-absorbed rock ‘n rollers for years, the older generation finally fought back. They pulled out their old copies of Better Homes and Manners and got on the school board to create one of my favorite electives in High School: Poison Personality.

School Board Granny: Tssssk!! It’s not Poison Personality. Mind your manners young lady. And holes in the knees make you look like a Jezebel!


Little Mrs. Olsen: Oh right. Too much music videos, sorry. Poise [pause and await nod of approval] and Personality. Yes?


School Board Granny: Better!

The ironic thing about this conversation I never had with a school board granny is that I would give anything today, as the wise and grown up Mrs. Olsen that I am, to enter into the halls of Middle Schools everywhere and teach those punks a few things about respect….and manners.

My own enrollment in the High School Elective “Poise and Personality” had more to do with easy credit from my neighbor that lived down the street, then “sticking it to The Man”, although my rock-n-roll senses told me it was old-fashioned to say the least. After going to class the first day and realizing that there were NO BOYS in sight, it soon turned into the haven where females could let loose without the worry of flirting, eye-rolling or sounding too smart for their fellow male students.

Core curriculum issues that I learned:

• Always pass the salt and pepper together (even if someone only asks for one)
• And by the way, when they ask for S&P, it’s rude to use them first before passing (unless you ask to do so)
• Never let your soup bowl leave the table, the air slurp reeks of bad breeding
• Speaking of soup, don’t crush crackers in the air and drop them in. You place the whole cracker in the soup, then break with your spoon.
• Walk as if you’re holding a nickel in your rear
• Always apply under-eye concealer with your ring finger (it's the weakest and will pull the skin the least). Apply outside in.
• When tweezing eyebrows, tweeze from the bottom up. Don’t tweeze the top hairs.

Between these core curriculum issues, the class would sit mesmerized with tales of college glory days when Mrs. M met her husband. He was a rugged frat boy, and she was a sorority queen nominated by the frats, and was voted University-Wide as having the best legs.

Years later, well into their married life, they had struggled to have kids. I’ll never forget the baited breath of all the female students, myself included, with eyes affixed on Mrs. M as she described the years of longing for another child, and the continual disappointment of not being able to conceive a child. Then detailing an especially princess date with her husband, followed by a passionate session in the bedroom (that’s about as much detail as we got there darnit) left her perfectly female senses to gloriously exclaim: Honey, we made a baby tonight.

Gasp! Loong silence.

Mrs. M: Nine months later my son was born.
[aaaaaand scene]

RRrRRrriiing! She had timed it perfectly. Bell rings and we go to our next class feeling shocked and empowered at the same time.

Remembering this scene as a married woman years later, I share a dichotomy of emotions. First is gratitude for making me and all my fellow female classmates a part of what is an adult conversation, and part of a circle of sisterhood that we didn’t quite understand. The other part of me, the Mrs. Olsen who is now part of the adult world, is left with the eyebrow curl wondering What was she thinking?! What on earth possessed her to share those intimate details with a bunch of teenage girls!

Speaking of eyebrows, after years of perfectly poised living, I finally threw out the "Only-Tweeze-From-the-Bottom-Up" rule after seeing this unauthorized picture of me. No wonder my High School primping routine included brushing my eyebrows with a hairspray soaked toothbrush. O the distractions of motherhood!

Growing up in Idaho, we experienced what some would call an “extensive” winter season. As in, good luck treat-or-treating without your snow boots on, and make sure your snow shovel is in your car when you come home from Spring Break. For a kid who didn’t know any different, it was the blessed time you could fly down Apache Avenue on the Flexible Flyer Sled, build snowmen in the yard, and beg your parents to sign you up for Ski School, when you and 200 other kids got to ride the after-school bus once a week and arrive at the icy slopes of Kelly Canyon just as the sun was setting. Brrrrr!

p.s. sun is our friend in winter

By the time the fourth and final week of ski school rolled around, you cursed the unknown fashion-setters of the 80’s that determined you should try to ski in your levis at all costs. Add to that the under-layers of pantyhose, long johns, and lycra and the lack of circulation enforced a pre-emptive hypothermia attack on your lower half, not to mention making your cute Guess Jeans Butt no longer cute.

It was also the time that the season started to morph from blessed to a bore. And a chore. There was only so much a mini-Idahoan could do to keep warm throughout the sunshine drought we experienced every winter. When the constantly dewey winter coats and boots started smelling like wet dog, then you worked on keeping yourself busy in the great indoors. There was always much to do, or get into, to keep yourself active during this point in the eternal Idaho Winter Season. After hunting down all the sugar cereal in the basement food storage, snooping through your older sister’s yearbooks, watching all of the Brady Bunch re-runs, and choreographing your own version of Footloose in the basement family room, after that? There was always your parents closet.

I loved snooping around that place. Floor-to-ceiling shoe cubbies held my mother's high heeled shoes that I loved to slip onto my dirty feet. I would admire my flexed calf, and then walk along my dad's many suit jackets while checking all of his inside pockets. He always had gum at church, and so I would regularly harvest his chewy leftovers forgotten in his Sunday suits.

Afterwards I would throw the heels off, then curl my toes on the edges of the stacked cubbies and monkey up to the top shelf of the closet. With the remaining inch available to my shriveled feet, I would practice my odds at reaching my dad’s money jar, or drop to the ground while leaning towards my mom’s personal weakness, individually wrapped gumdrops.

Eventually, all of my poising, leaning, falling, and balancing paid off.



It was a shoebox. A shoebox of secrets pushed deep on the tip-top shelf and practically out of reach. I positioned myself the best I could, then lunged and grabbed the shoebox in my hands. Got it! I carefully wormed back to my safety zone, then climbed down the shoe ladder to the floor where I could more easily examine the contents.



I cracked the lid and peeked inside. Before I could even see my treasure, I could smell the jackpot I had discovered: chocolate! Oh man, and not just a little box of chocolates either. A BIG Hershey Kiss of chocolate. The foil wrapper had already been taken off, and so I immediately pulled it out of the box and examined further. The underside of the chocolate kiss showed the settled krispy crunchy gems that we all love so much in our chocolate. How could I be so lucky? The base of the “kiss” was as big as a dessert plate! I could bite into this thing like an apple and hardly make a dent. Who makes this stuff? How does chocolate get this big? And why hadn’t it already been eaten by my parents?

I sat and contemplated my next course of action. I mean, how much trouble could I get into if I just replaced my next thirteen meals with my cocoa treasure? I pulled back the lid and put the oversized kiss back in the box, only to realize that it had a twin! Whaaat!? Wooo-hoooo! Hmmmm, except why are the tips of the kisses rounded off instead of curled like the regular Hershey kisses? And why are the tops orange instead of the milky brown? Why are there two big Hershey kisses that aren’t really kisses? With rounded tops instead of curls? With orange nipples?


Why do my parents have CHOCOLATE BOOBS!??


Shock swept over me! I didn’t have a full set yet, but it was unmistakable…these were boobs. Looking back now, it reminds me of a similar process I went through a few of years ago in the Health Office. While in the waiting room, I noticed a breastfeeding campaign plastered all over the walls.







Sheesh, these nurses are taking a long time to get us into the office. Oh look, dandelions! Man I loved to blow those when I was little.

Waaait a second.........Boobs!




Sheesh, these nurses are taking a long time to get us into the office. Ear scopes? I hope the doctor doesn’t jam those into my kids ear.

Waaait a second.........Boobs!








Sheesh, these nurses are taking a long time to get us into the office. Ice cream! I love ice cream. Maybe we should get an ice cream cone if we ever get out of here.

Waaait a second.........Boobs!



It was undeniable. All the chocolate in the world couldn’t dissuade me from the fact that my parents harbored oversized edible boobs in their closet. The implications were deep, as chocolate boobs likely included an attached infidelity. I mean just look at my dad! He’s always been the funniest, coolest, handsomest, smartest, and toughest guy I knew. Why wouldn’t other women think so too! (pssst: see handsome cowboy at the top of this post)


There was only one course of action I could take! It was a risk, and it would require courage only found in Back to the Future Movies, but it was the only way to get my questions answered. I took a deep breath and rose up with my secret treasure in hand, then walked into the kitchen.


MoooOom? I found this in your closet!



Wiping off her hands, my mom came over to examine my find.


Aargh! she huffed. We got those at the Archibald’s Christmas party.


When she took them from my hands I was elated and shocked at the same time. No sexy secretaries trying to pick up my handsome dad, phew! But the Archibald’s? Was it from them or from someone at the party? Either way, linking the Archibald’s as the source of my shoebox treasure blew a gasket in my little kid brain. I mean, the Archibald kids couldn’t say fart without getting their mouths filled with paprika!



What a double life these adults lead! And unnatural. Come on and eat them already! Chocolate boobs are still undeniably…..deliciously…delightfully……chocolate!

Once in a while I have these great ideas, like waking up at 6 am and working out before the offspring start running around, and well, I do it. I did it! A couple times anyway, then my alarm couldn't crash through my REM cycle.

So here's a great idea I did a few times, and it's easy to start up again. There's no chocolate splurging that will interfere in round 2 because all you have to do is sit on the floor, let your mind wander back, and remember......out loud.....to your kids. It's bedtime stories with a twist, real-life memories from when you (that big person bossing everyone around) was actually a small person (kids can't quite wrap their little heads around that one). So wash, brush, kiss, tuck, and reminisce.

Hands down, this is Rainbow Girl's favorite childhood memory, of mine. My childhood memory. It all began on Apache Avenue back in the 80's...



Poor sweet Niki. She's the baby, the one on the end. Keep in mind that that thing just kept growing, she's now over 6 feet tall, but then she was still our little baby sister. I'm right next to her, and we always shared a room.


Our next door neighbor was Wendy. This is Wendy now.







She actually stopped growing shortly after the first picture was taken. She's little and cute.


So Wendy and Niki were bestest friends. And one day, they were playing with dolls inside the walk-in closet in our room. Now I was the peacemaker of the family. There were no rivalries with me. But this day I did not establish peace. Instead, I turned off the light to the closet, shut the door, and then propped a chair under the doorknob so they couldn't get out.


Knock-Knock-Knock "Hey, turn on the light. HEY! Let us out!"


I quietly stepped outside of the room. I thought, hey, I'll just scare them a little. I'm make them think nobody is around and then come back and let them right out. So for full effect, I decided to go outside, let them get a good panic about their alone-ness, and then head right back in. Once I got outside, aaah, what a breeze. Then I saw my neighbor Beth and we started to play. Soon it was getting a little twilight-ey and the neighbor kids were starting the nightly routine of running from backyard to backyard to play night games.

Since Mrs. Archibald never demanded a full investigation about her little sweet Wendy, there's no telling how long I was out in la-la land running around. My guess is about forty minutes. A good forty minutes of taking in a wonderful school-free summer evening until all of a sudden, I remembered! Oh no!


I ran into the house and down the stairs and could hear the screams from across the family room. I rushed into the room, threw off the chair (I'm the hero now) and opened the door. I stood to see 2 little girls, curled up on the floor with their mouths full of carpet. *Gasp* Release! *Gasp* Release! "We almost ran out of oxygen!".


Just keep in mind those were the MacGyver days. That guy was constantly being closed off into a sealed room and losing oxygen. Poor Niki and Sweet Little Wendy, they must have just panicked and thought "Death is upon us! Eat carpet and get as much of your mouth under the door crack as possible! Limit your crying dammit! Limit your crying!".


Yes, they could too have said that! Niki didn't know dammit was a bad word yet, since our dad said it all the time.


So, thanks to MacGyver, my sister and Wendy are alive and well. Whenever Rainbow Girl hears this story, for the next week anytime we see family or friends she will turn to me and say Mom, tell about the time that Niki ran out of oxygen.



P.S. Poor little Niki today. She can't even wear heels when she's out on the town with her hubby (but you will all note, she's alive and well).