Falling: Variations On A Theme

In my life, I like doing things I am good at and generally avoid things I am the opposite-of-good at. I also enjoy feeling like I am in control of the direction of and the speed in which my body is moving. Turns out this is hard to accomplish when one is hurling down the side of a mountain with sticks strapped to one's feet. But let's move backward for a minute.

When I was in elementary school, a big chunk of my extended family used to go cross-country skiing every MLK Jr. weekend. I loved getting together with all my cousins, driving to bend, making big dinners in the hotel kitchenette, watching Back to the Future marathons on TV and playing poker for matchsticks.

I hated skiing.

People (mostly Peter but let's just say people) have been trying to convince me that downhill skiing is different. I was told it was less work and that you have way more control because the bindings on the skiis are different. After eight years of convincing, Peter finally got me to hit the slopes of Mt. Baker last week right before the new year.

It was a humbling experience. Luckily for me, I checked my dignity along with my snow boots at the ski rental desk.

This is the only only picture I could snap before my camera died. Not as impressive as the actual slopes, but pretty. Can’t you just feel the optimism in the air?

My goal for the day= Not to hate every second of it.

There were a few indicators that downhill skiing may not have been a good fit for my safety-conscious-self.

First red flag, signing the liability release form. It went a little something like this.

Desk Man: I just need you to sign this before you can get started.

Me: Okay no problem.

[Reads most of release form stating that skiing is inherently dangerous and may result in injury or death and that skier is held personally responsible for any injury or death caused by running into a fellow skier]

Me: I am not sure reading this is a good idea.

Desk Man: No, no, you’re just reading it wrong. Basically it says skiing is tons of fun and that you will have loads of fun and leave remembering how fun it all was. Fun, fun, fun.

Me: Uh, okay.

The second red flag, the rental guy almost forgot to get me the helmet I rented (not included with the ski rental). Apparently not very many downhill-skier-type-people past elementary school wear helmets when careening down the sides of mountains. I told him my brain was my best feature and there was no way I was flying down the slopes with a naked cranium. I think that pegged me as the not-a-downhill-skier-type.

Onward to the skiing. After a brief tutorial by Peter, I took a 1.5 hour lesson, in which I learned a little and fell a lot. But the real falling came later, when I tried to show off my skills to Peter. Turns out I lost my bravery somewhere after lunch. At that point I learned that holding yourself perfectly still on a slope takes an excessive amount of muscular energy, and that I fall a lot when frustrated.

In the days leading up to the ski trip, friends told me repeatedly “if you get going too fast or in the wrong direction, just fall. Falling doesn’t hurt.” I guess those people don’t fall the same way as I do, because coming down hard on one hip with your legs tangled up, sliding across the snow and hitting yourself in the face with your ski pole definitely hurts.

Overall, my success was limited and fleeting, but existent. My biggest success was at the very bottom of the very last run, where I had 5 or 6 really great turns in a row (meaning, without crashing into snow banks in-between).

People keep asking me if I had fun. I decided that what I had resembled fun intermittently, especially the times when I felt I was truly deciding where my body went. Perhaps what I had was a close relative to fun? Maybe something that was also distantly related to panic/fear? However, I will say that the sun was shining, the mountains were beautiful, the snow looked incredible on the trees, riding the ski lift was really nice (until I was required to dismount) and I was with my favorite person in the whole world. Those parts were definitely fun.

That night when we got home Peter said "I figure if I can get you to go skiing once every eight years and we live to be 100, we can go together eight times! That is pretty good, right?"

Honestly, I think eight times might be optimistic, and I am by no means ready to try again tomorrow, but I didn't hate it.

P.S. Between the trying to stay motionless on hills, the falling and the schlumping around the lodge in ski boots my body was trashed. It was almost comical to try to walk the next day. Who am I kidding. It was hilarious.

Nicol-E

I have been putting of writing this post because it makes my heart squeeze in a painful and persistent way and immediately as I type the words, all the muscles in my larynx tense up until it feels like I have a golf ball wedged somewhere past my tonsils. I am not sure why I needed you to know that, but I did.

[Deep breath]

Two and a half weeks ago, on October 2, my friend Nicole died surrounded by her family. It was not unexpected, but it was hard just the same. I have already shared an abbreviated version of Nicole's story, so I won't go into that again here.

I cannot remember the first time I met Nicole, but based on the fact that I met her cousin Stacey (my best friend and the closest thing I will ever have to a sister) when I was three, I am guessing I met her somewhere in my preschool-kindergarten years. I started seeing her a lot more frequently when Nicole's family built a house right next door to Stacey's when Stace and I were five or six.

As you may know from knowing Nicole, or as you may have assumed from experience, the "e" in Nicole is intended to be silent. I liked to pronounce it anyway.

So many of my memories with Stacey include Nicole. Some of them are just everyday kid-things (or at least everyday things for kids in the country) like picking blueberries, riding horses/four-wheelers/bikes/scooters/pogo sticks, building forts, catching kittens, tire-swinging and walking the tracks. Others are from special occasions, like the fourth of July, camping trips, sleepovers and birthday parties. Some of my all time favorite memories of Nicole are from playing one of our favorite sleepover games, fondly known as hide-and-go-seek-tag-in-the-dark.

In case you are not familiar with the game or played with different rules, a quick explanation. In my world, this game is played exclusively at Stacey's house and it must be dark, not dusky with the last rays of the sun slowly fading, but dark. People split off in teams of two and one team guards the base (aka the big tree in Stacey's yard) while the other teams hide. Once the hiding time is over, one person on the team guarding the base leaves in hunt of the hiders while the other stays to try and tag those brave enough to leave their hiding places to make a run for the tree. Your team is only safe if both members reach the tree without being tagged. Stacey's house is perfect for it, because her family lives on a good deal of property with several buildings on it. Lots of barns and sheds and carports means lots of shadowy hiding places.

I love this game. It is best when you have lots of people, so Stacey's summer birthday sleepover was a great time to play, but it is also the kind of game that is hard to pass up on a nice summer night. I spent a lot of my summer nights at Stacey's and we often put together a game consisting of me, Stacey, her sister April, Nicole, Nicole's brother Ryan, and whoever else was staying over at either house (often another cousin or friend.) Nicole was fun to team up with because she knew the property so well, but also because she liked to scare the people she was hiding with. You have to remember, this game is played in the dark, on property right next to the railroad tracks. We abandoned more than one night of sleeping in the yard in a tent by sharing horror stories about people who walked the tracks looking for unsuspecting youngsters to murder while they slept in tents.

We played less as we got older, but we always played. Some of the best games were the ones that Shefali played in. Nicole was really good at scaring Shefali. I can remember more than one occasion when I would be off hiding or guarding the tree and I would hear Shef's scream and Nicole's peal of laughter.

The last time I played this game was just over a year ago at my bachelorette party. The whole night was fun, but this particular game definitely ranks as a highlight. At this point in her treatment Nicole was a little unsteady on her feet, but there was no way she was sitting out a game of hide-and-go-seek-tag-in-the-dark. She rotated as part of the team guarding the base, tagging people as they tried to sneak by her. When she got tired of guarding she took a turn hiding. Her intimate knowledge of her surroundings and her keen ability to only make a break for it when both guarders were distracted outweighed her physical limitations and helped to her make it to the tree safely.

Her memorial service was October 9th. It was good but so hard. I tried to choke down the golf ball-in-throat sensation, but generally speaking failed spectacularly. And even though I was clinging to it so desperately, I completely lost my composure on three occasions, only just managing to wrestle it back each time.

I can't remember exactly when I met Nicole, but I do know I recognized all of her faces in the slide show that played at the memorial, even the ones from when she was tiny. So many of my memories are laced with her presence.

I can say without hesitation that she is the strongest person I have ever met. I am so glad to have known her.



Rest in peace friend. And if you get a chance, start scoping out a good base tree because as soon as I get up there we are organizing a round of hide-and-go-seek-tag-in-the-dark and I am going to need someone who knows the territory.

Awkward Neighbor Situation: Resolution

If you read this post, you know that I have been dealing with smelly, carcinogenic neighbor fumes. If you read this post, you know that smoker neighbor has been intermittently absent. If you did not read either of those posts, this is what the outside of my building looked like at the time of earlier postings.



However, this is what the outside of my building looks like as of today.



That's right, smoker neighbor has not only left his balcony, he has vacated the premises entirely.

I discovered the happy news two weeks ago. It was 7:25am on a Thursday and I was heading out to catch my ride to the train station to leave for Hillsboro. I was in a hurry, but I paused to investigate the packet of papers laying on smoker neighbor's doorstep. I stopped reading after "Thanks for choosing Apex! Please note your lease ends on August 10th at noon. All your belonging must be out of the apartment at that time." I didn't have time for shouting and dancing, but I smiled a toothy grin on my way out.

Even after reading it with my very own two eyes, I was hesitant to accept the move-out date as fact. But, when August 10th rolled around, the balcony was empty and on my way back in from the gym I caught a glimpse of who I can only assume was smoker neighbor heading to the elevator with a box. I can only assume it was smoker neighbor because he left from the apartment next to me and he had blondish-colored hair.

Truthfully, I would not recognize smoker neighbor if he passed me on the street. I only ever caught glimpses of his profile sneakily through my blinds way back when I was trying to figure out where the smoke was coming from. He could have a pink unicorn tattoo on his left cheek for all I know. It might even look like this one.



I digress.

Anyway, I am content to enjoy a secondhand-smoke-free existence in the comfort of my home. I plan on hanging onto the diplomatic solutions I cooked up for my new neighbor and whatever obnoxious vice he/she may have.

An Exceptional Individual

Alright, I am going to pick up where I left off, which was two Thursday’s ago. I already told you that I bailed on my summer graduate work two days early, but I didn’t tell you why, so here it is. I finished early so I could go to a party.

Not just any party, a princess party. Enter, the princess.



Nicole is my friend (and my best friend Stacey’s cousin.) She is 20 years old. She was first diagnosed with a brain tumor when she was 12 years old. She fought it for two years, went into remission for 4 (ish) years, and found out it had returned just after graduating from high school. For the last 2 years, she has undergone numerous hospitalizations, surgeries, and experimental chemotherapy.

Recent complications have negatively influenced Nicole's prognosis. On July 14th, she was told that she would have somewhere between 4 weeks and 6 months left, depending on how fast the tumor continued to grow.

The thing about Nicole is that she is the strongest, bravest, most vivacious person I know. People cannot help but fall in love with her. Case in point, the princess party.

In light of the news from her doctors, Nicole has spent the last four weeks doing things she loves and hitting some milestones early that she is unlikely to get to on a more traditional timeline. For instance, a few weekends ago she had a 21st birthday party. [photos courtesy of Stacey, but probably taken by Karla]







The following week, Nicole went with Stacey to a bridal fitting (Stacey is getting married next summer) to see Stacey in her dress and to try on some dresses of her own (another early milestone.) Nicole found a dress that she loved, wore it around the store, smiled, laughed, and generally had a good time in it, and then went home.

The next day, Stacey got a phone call from the manager of the store. She and some of the girls who worked there wanted to buy Nicole her favorite dress. They also offered their talents to do Nicole’s hair and make-up if she wanted to have a party to show it off (which she did.) Thus, the idea of the princess party was born.

As word got out, the party evolved into an extravaganza. The bridal shop’s photographer offered to shoot the party, the bridal shop (Bridal Exclusives) offered to feature her on their website, a videographer volunteered to take footage, and three different bakeries donated sweet goodies. Nicole invited tons of friends and family (who also brought food and desserts) and a celebration of epic proportions was created. On the day of the event, channel 12 caught wind of the party and sent a reporter out to cover it. Here are some of my favorite photos from the night.

The princess and her family



Her adoring fans (over 150 people came!)



The cupcakes



The Princess and her mom (Karla)



The Princess and I [Courtesy of Ali]



It was an amazing night and everyone had a great time. Stacey, Karla and I finally helped Nicole out of her dress just after midnight.

If you want to see images and video from the party, check out the channel 12 story on Nicole, the photographer, Rebecca Dryer's slideshow, or her blog post about the event. If you want to read more about Nicole's fight with cancer, check out her blog. If you want to see Nicole in that beautiful dress one more time, check out Bridal Exclusive's featured bride page.

Seriously, I dare you not to fall in love with this girl.

On a side note, August 28th, Nicole and her posse of family and friends are participating in Portland’s annual Brain Tumor Walk. Nicole’s team is called the Midnight Angels. If you want to help out a great cause, sign up and walk with us, or make a donation to Nicole Callaghan (as an individual.)

Here are some pictures from last year’s Brain Tumor Walk [courtesy of Stacey]. So fun!

Treasure Hunting

Alright, I have been all over the place in the last week and I have tons of stories to tell. Even though some are more significant than others, I am going to proceed chronologically.

Last Thursday, I bailed on my last two days of summer school and took the morning train down to Portland. The reason for doing so is central to the next story, so I am going to leave that part out for now. By the way, taking the train is way better than driving. I read the last 600 pages of The Girl Who Played with Fire and watched The Lives of Others on my laptop. Much more entertaining than sitting in traffic juggling NPR stations trying to avoid repeat programs. I digress.

Anyway, my mom picked me up at the train station around four. We had been in the car not more than five minutes when she informed me that we were “going on an adventure.” As it turns out, my brother had lost his wedding ring and we were supposed to look for it. Our conversation went a little like this.

Me: Does he know where he lost it?

Mom: Well, he was working for Dad.

Me: He lost it in the field?(!) Does he know when he lost it?

Mom: On Tuesday.

Me: Can he narrow it down a little?

Mom: Your dad thinks he saw it on his finger at lunch.

Me: Where exactly was he working?

Mom: Well, he ran the combine in three different fields.

Me: Three? (!)

Mom: If your dad is right, we only need to look in one field.

Me: Great.

As it turns out, he could have lost it anywhere, at any point during his 12-hour work day. Let me summarize the situation for you.

The Needle.

The Haystack.

Excuse me, one of three possible haystacks. Mom, Willow and I combed this particular haystack (the last one he worked in) for roughly an hour and a half with rakes and a borrowed metal detector. No dice.

I know what you’re thinking. This is going to be like The Mango Incident all over again. How could a girl who loses a mango in laundry basket, find a wedding ring in a field (or three for that matter?)

What you don’t know about me, is that I am generally good at finding things. Not my things (case in point, the mango,) but other people’s things. What you don't know about my brother, is that he is generally lucky.

Fast forward to Saturday morning. We have looked for the ring a bunch, but have pretty much resigned ourselves to the fact we will have to wait for the hay to be baled before we can continue searching. Mom and I cut hydrangeas to take to a friend. I am wrapping the ends of the flowers and walking toward the truck, when I happen to glance down.

That’s right, I found it. It was sitting right about here in the driveway.

Shouting and dancing ensued.

Sister of the year? Yeah, I think so.

Why You Shouldn't Take Meat from Strangers

This is one of my favorite travel stories, mostly because it is so ridiculous. But before I get started, a little background information.

Spring quarter of my sophomore year of college (so a little over three years ago) I studied abroad in Siena, Italy. I spent three months living in the most beautiful place on earth soaking up the Italian language with some of the coolest people I have ever met. We spent all morning and part of the afternoon at the Universita per Stranieri (studying Italian) and the late afternoon at the AHA office (studying Art History and Italian Culture.) Fortunately for us, Italy is a Roman Catholic country; this meant quite a few days off for religious observances. We used these long weekends (and our week-long break between class sessions) to travel around Italy.

On one of our breaks, Andrea, Kate, Megan, Jess, Ali and I traveled south for a visit to the famously picturesque Almalfi Coast. Honestly, just the bus ride along the coast would have been worth the trip. I am not joking people, it was one hell-of-a panorama. It looked a lot like this. [Note: I did not take this picture, I got it off the internet.]


On the trip, we stayed in a cute cabin at a camping hostel in Sorrento. The bathroom was kinda funky and a tail-less lizard lived in it, but overall it was perfect. The best part was that the cabin was only a short, steep walk away from the hostel’s private beach.


I could write an entire book using only stories from this trip as material. Regardless, I am going to try my best to stay focused on the story at hand and leave the other pieces for another day.

Ok. The story. So somewhere around the third day of the trip, we walked from the hostel to these castle ruins that were a mile or two away. When I say ruins, I mean it. There was really nothing left that you could recognize as castle. But, it was beautiful and right next to the ocean. [*Note: from this point forward, all photos are courtesy of Andrea, as I cannot find my own from this adventure.]

It was a gorgeous day and we weren’t in any hurry, so we sat down on the ruins and tried to take in all the incredibly blue sky and ocean for a bit. We hadn’t been sitting long when a young (ish) Italian man with a backpack strolls up.

One thing you should know is that I LOVE speaking Italian, especially with honest-to-god Italians. While I was in Italy I jumped on any chance to talk to strangers because it meant I got to practice my language skills. Another thing you should know is that I had at least a year more language experience than anyone on that trip, so I tended to assume the role of interpreter.

Anyway, the guy approached us and we started talking. Turns out he was a refrigerator repairman from a nearby hilltop town. He seemed nice enough, but in retrospect I should have noticed some troubling signs. For example, after stunted introductions our “conversation” went a lot like this;

Random guy: Barca. [“boat,” as he points to one in the water]
Me: Si, e una barca. [“Yep, that is a boat”]
Random guy: Cielo. [“sky,” as he points to, you guessed it, the sky]
Me: Si, e il cielo. [“Yep, that is the sky”]
Random guy: Mare. [“ocean,” again with the pointing]
Me: Lo so. [“I know”]

At first I thought that he was drastically underestimating my Italian skills. But as the conversation continued and he answered my syntactically well-constructed questions (I was using congiuntivo for heavens sake) with object labels I became suspicious. Right about here is where he asked us if we were hungry. Before we could even answer, he opened up his backpack and pulled out kindling, a metal grill rack and a Tupperware of marinating meat. At this point, my companions and I are both fascinated and completely sketched-out.

Talking amongst ourselves (safely, as it was clear he did not understand English) we decided there was no freaking way we were going to eat meat that had been taken from a stranger’s backpack and cooked on top of castle ruins. The novelty of the situation kept us sitting there watching him (and in my case, journaling,) despite the fact we were wary of his meat and had no intention of eating it. So, with us watching, he built a fire.

Which turned into a raging flame.

Then it burned down and he started grilling the meat.

As it cooked, the most amazing, mouth-watering, meaty smell you could possible imagine surfaced on that castle-top. I don’t even like meat that much and I was practically drooling. We talked amongst ourselves some more. Ultimately, we decided it was probably safe to eat just a little bit, but only if he ate it first because somehow that made it okay.

When the meat was ready he divided it up into small pieces (necessary, as there were six of us) and then reached into his backpack. Turns out, he still had a box of vino and two plastic cups hiding in there. He graciously offered us the two cups and the whole box of vino and then ate a small piece of the meat. We looked at each other, shrugged, passed around the box wine, and grabbed a piece of meat.

Here is a direct quote from the end of my journal entry from that day, written moments after the picnic was over to immortalize the moment.

We were weirded out at first, but that was some really, really good meat.


So anyway, after we had eaten this stranger’s meat and drank his wine we decided to explore the area a little more.
Too summarize, the guy got weirder and weirder after the picnic. The worst part was that I was the only one really talking to him so no one else had noticed just how strange his one-word-utterances-with-creepy-smiles had gotten. However, once he started asking us for American money it became more apparent.

Another thing you should know. One Italian word that we used a lot, was “andiamo” which can mean “we are going [to someplace]” or “let’s go” depending on the way you say it. In our group of travelers, it had become something of a battle-cry, capturing our excitement for whatever it was we were going to do next.

Anyway, eventually he got too strange for me to be comfortable with, and I signaled the sentiment to the group with a very definitive “andiamo” (as in “We are leaving, now.”) So we jumped up and headed out at a brisk walk.

Long story short, he managed to get even more strange, following us back toward the road labeling trees, bugs, plants, animals and anything else in his field of vision. When I started ignoring him, he began singing “American Pie” at the top of his lungs. Once we got to the road I firmly told him something along the lines of “Thanks for the meat, but we are going now.” He crossed the street but kept following us, still singing, but also managing to intermittently label things. For instance, the big piece of steel he picked up, which he tried to mail by pushing it into a big red mailbox.

Never fear, the story ends well. I am a little fuzzy on the details, but I am pretty sure we lost him before we got to the hostel and that we told the hostel desk guy about him in case he came looking for us.

The moral of the story: Don’t take meat from strangers, especially when it comes from a backpack.

Awkward Neighbor Situation: Update

Hang on to your hats people, I might be telepathic. I may also have a cyber-stalker.

Let me explain. It has been approximately ten days since my senses have been assaulted by my neighbor's toxic cigarette smoke. If you read this post, you may note that ten days ago roughly corresponds to the day after I wrote about the issue. Creepy huh?

The way I see it, there are a few viable possibilities here.

1. I am telepathic and my aura of hate projected through the wall I share with smoker neighbor, causing him to inexplicably quit smoking. Ultimately, the fear of my wrath being stronger than his nicotine addiction.

2. Smoker neighbor,who I have never spoken to and would not recognize if I passed him on the street, somehow stumbled on my blog, recognized my schematic of our balconies and was shamed into quitting.

3. Smoker neighbor went on vacation, but will be back to taunt me soon.

4. Smoker neighbor is in the process of moving and for once, the strategy of "ignoring the problem until it goes away" actually worked. [Note, this possibility is substantiated by Jamie claiming to see boxes stacked in smoker neighbors apartment via the glass door leading to the balcony... I haven't tried to look in yet, but as of now the smoking chair and ashtray are still on his balcony]

I am favoring option one, but willing to admit that it could work in tandem with any of the other possibilities.

In any case, I am enjoying my smoke-free environment no matter how temporary it may be, especially since it has been so hot lately that I have to keep my balcony door open. However, I admit I was almost looking forward to what I assumed would be an awkward encounter worth sharing. Who knows, if option three is true I may still need to use the diplomatic solution I was working on. Only time will tell.

Awkward Neighbor Situation

I hate my neighbor. I am going to let you guess what the problem is. Here's a clue, from the street view, my apartment building looks like this.

It is a rough sketch (hyperbole and a half-style,) but I think you get the idea.

If you guessed that my neighbor's nasty, roll-your-own cigarette smoke is wafting into my apartment via my bathroom window and stinking it up with carcinogenic fumes about four times a day, you were right.

Here's the thing. I signed a contract stating that I would not smoke in, or within 30 feet of my apartment building (with threat of a fine.) I am going to go ahead and assume he (the offending neighbor) signed a similar one. Seeing how my balcony extends 4-ish feet from my building (and it was stated explicitly in the contract) that area is off-limits for smoking I am going to venture that his is off-limits as well. So, unless he wants to build a 26-foot extension from his balcony, I have a right to complain about his nicotine addiction.

This has been going on for about 2 months. I would have done something a long time ago, but last term I was gone all day, everyday. That meant that the only one of his fixes I smelled was his late-night smoke. At which point I was already in bed, in my pj's. I don't typically shy away from confrontation with strangers, but I prefer to have these encounters fully dressed.

I figure I have a few options here. I can call my management people and have them fine him (pissing off a neighbor, but saving me an awkward conversation,) or I can warn him myself. Tonight, I am too tired for either.

So, I am going to go to bed and worry about it tomorrow. I think my current strategy can be summed up as "ignore it until it goes away." It hasn't worked very well so far, but I remain hopeful.

PS. Yesterday I made these muffins. They were incredible.

PPS. My building has more than three units in it. I wanted to focus on the relevant factors (I threw the third apartment in for symmetry.)

The Mango Incident

This story is more puzzling than it is interesting; but it has been bothering me, so here it is.

Last Friday, after finishing what is allegedly the hardest term of the graduate program, I went over to my friends' apartment to hang out and celebrate. It was a gorgeous evening and we were in the mood for some celebration-type food, so we walked to the nearby grocery store to look for pink cupcake mix and to meet up with another friend. In brief, the store was out of pink cupcake mix (disappointing) so we started looking for acceptable substitutes. We settled on wine and assorted candies. On a whim, I picked up one more item. Enter, the mango. It looked a lot like this one.
Anyway, all you really need to know about that night is that I bought a mango with the intention of eating it, but did not.

The next morning, I packed up to drive 273 miles down to Hillsboro for first installment of my summer vacation (which is only a week long). It was early and I was tired, so I used my favorite packing method, namely throwing everything I think I might need into a laundry basket and hauling the whole mess down to my car. At the last second, I remembered the mango, set it gently on top of the contents of my basket and left.

Fast forward two days, I am lounging in a hammock with Evan. It's warm outside, so we go in for a glass of water. On his kitchen counter, there is a container with two mangoes in it. I think to myself "Damn, did I ever take that mango out of the laundry basket? Do I even remember seeing it the last time I dug through the basket?" The answer to both questions is "no." I ask Evan for a pen and write "mango" on my left hand as a reminder that I need to look for it when I get home. I manage to forget about it totally and completely for the next three days.

Today, I am buying gas at Costco, and I remember the mango. I try to write "mango" on my hand again (I am certain it will work this time) but all I have is a pencil. No good. I vow to remember anyway. I go over to DL's house. She has a pen, so I write "mango" one more time. We hang out, I go home. I catch a glimpse of "mango" written on my hand as I am watching TV. I start looking immediately. I search through my laundry basket, no mango. Maybe it fell out? I look under my bed, no mango. Did have the foresight to put it in the fridge upon arrival? Short answer, no. Here's the thing, I look everywhere and I cannot find that damn mango. The most troubling part is that my mom thinks she remembers seeing it in the top layer of my laundry basket stuff when I walked in the door on Saturday. That exotic piece of fruit was ripe 6 days ago when I bought it, it is most certainly past it's prime now. I can't let it go. Who loses a mango in laundry basket?