Weather Report

Yesterday there was a wind storm in Salt Lake. It was disgusting.

When you think of Salt Lake, do you think of smog? People think of Los Angeles and think of smog. Ironically, I never noticed any REAL smog in LA. It was sunny and hot and tanned, you could see the brown on the horizon or blocking the mountains sometimes, but it was never so thick that I couldn’t see through it, and it was always limited to one level of the atmosphere. I grew up there, and while the smog would build up gradually, if it ever got too bad on the horizon, we always knew that it would blow away in the next windstorm, or fall to the ground in the next rain.

…Safe to say, I am acquainted with smog. In Salt Lake, air pollution is a whole different story.

I’ve lived in Provo off and on since 2003. Maybe I was too blinded by the young adult independence and intense social life, but I never noticed the air tasting like an industrial deep frier that has been used too much, or going for a walk outside and coming back with my hair smelling like dirt. I have worked in Salt Lake for 6 months, now, and have noticed those things and more. As I make my 37.9 mile commute every morning, I am welcomed to the half way point by coming over “point of the mountain” and into the bowl of soupy air. On a good morning, it just looks like early morning haze and blows smoke in from the ventilation ducts in your car. On a bad morning, you can’t see two cars ahead of you. “No, that must be just early morning fog,” you may be thinking to yourself, and maybe it does just burn off, but I wouldn’t know. The only times I step outside are during my drive in and out in the evening, and the two 15 minute walks I take, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. The air often tastes like old French fries.

I know there’s Geneva Steel that apparently polluted the hell out of Utah Lake, but when I think of Salt Lake, I’m not usually comparing it to Detroit. So where did all of this come from? It’s been explained to me that it’s something called “inversion.” The first thing that you need to know about inversion is that Salt Lake is actually in the Salt Lake Valley, bordered immediately on the East by the Rocky Mountains. This makes a lovely bowl with a densely packed eastern border that averages at a height of 11,000 feet. This allows Salt Lake to collect all of the passing pollution blowing out of such cities as Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Las Vegas.

I found an article in the Salt Lake Magazine that described it best for me

““Inversion” is a meteorological term that every valley dweller in Northern Utah knows and fears. A layer of warm air sits on a layer of colder air, slamming the cold down like a meat locker door. During January 1992, my first term at USU, there was a period of eight days where the average high on campus was 23 degrees and the lows averaged 5. It’s a deep, soul-sucking cold. The wind never stirs. Ice crystals wander amid stagnant air. Nothing thaws, not even a trickle.

And it’s gray. The sun does not, in any sense of the word, “shine.” It flickers like a dim bulb. In Cache Valley, where the tighter valley walls exacerbate the effect, there are times when you can’t see 50 yards. A grim smoke fills in the edges of your vision, made worse by the knowledge that every wisp from every tailpipe, chimney belch, cow fart or exhaled cigarette is floating in this toxic stew.

A prolonged inversion is a natural joke. The punchline? It defies Utah’s clean-cut, caffeine-free, low-calorie image. The Utah winter in the mind’s eye is snowcapped mountains soaring into clear blue skies, and besweatered families cuddling on couches in front of roaring fires while thick flakes fall in the moonlit night…. But each winter, for a few days it gets bad enough that the Wasatch Front and Cache Valley make the EPA’s most-wanted list. Children and the elderly are kept indoors. The curtain is drawn on the blue skies and snowy mountaintops and the roaring fires are extinguished by the Red Burn proscription. Utah routinely beats the smog capital of the world, Los Angeles, in this race toward the toxic.”

It gives me hope that the nasty inversion is going to stop eventually. After yesterday’s wind storm mixing the soup of dirty air, I’m pretty glad it’s snowing today. Maybe all that air pollution will come down to earth and all I’ll have to worry about is my feet.

Message of this post: visit Salt Lake in the summer only.

(The picture above is a combination of a Sunday when the pollution was bad, and the Wednesday following after a winter storm blew the pollution away)

I enjoy cooking… a lot

I was watching the cooking channel this weekend and found myself craving every single thing they cooked (minus sea food—YUCK!). I watched Rachel Ray and Missy Paula put together chicken salad and cheesy biscuits with bacon bits… I even watched a chef battle of the Mac ‘n Cheese. I came home and made my own. Kind of a let down if you’re in the mood to combine ingredients, chop vegetables, and get caught up in the romance of cooking a beautifully complicated dish… but really tastey, and pretty darn easy.

Alana’s Mac ‘n Cheese
Boil water over stove and add 4 oz of pasta
When pasta is al dente, drain water and move pasta from saucepan to mixing bowl
Add 1 ½ TBS margarine to pasta, allowing it to melt on hot noodles and mix so all pasta has an equal coating
Add 1/3 -½ Cup shaker cheese (usually parmesian)
Shake in Garlic (to taste)
Add whatever dry steak seasoning you happen to have in your cupboard (to taste)
Stir until dry cheese melts with butter and all ingredients are equally mixed.

Dang good, man. I had left overs for lunch today.

“How I met your Father” …As I might say to my children in the distant future.

How to tell this without beginning with my entire life story… Dale and I had each finished an LDS mission at the end of the year 2007—Dale at around Thanksgiving, and me just after the New Year. Dale immediately jumped back into school, where he would stay for a marathon 4 semesters before taking a break. I spent 8 months recouping at my parent’s home, enjoying sunny Southern California, and working part-time in a civil service job, trying to get back in the pace of Social Work. Dale had been beefing up his social life in Utah when I came into the Roman Garden’s complex, determined to maintain my Los Angeles Mystique and finish my last 8 months of school.

Short story is that we were in the same apartment complex and attended the same congregation. Long story is more fun to tell…

I was coming home from a long day of school and internship when one of my roommates called me up to play games in a guy’s apartment. I was feeling thrashed from a long day of rush, and the best way to purge a busy day is with a rigorous evening of successful flirting! After changing into one of my new, cute outfits, I went to the designated “guy apartment” ready to break some hearts!

I knew of this apartment. One of my roommates (Janae) had a long and confusing history with one of the other guys there, and I had heard ALL about it J. I had heard of Dale through a “pie party” I’d walked through earlier in the month—but it was so crammed with people, black lights, and loud music, that I’d only said “hi” to the people I already knew. I also knew that the guys living in that apartment didn’t usually flirt or stand welcoming at the open door when you “happened” to walk by. I walked into the apartment feeling ready for a challenge!

Let the Apples to Apples Commence!

I knew all the girls there, and had more fun with them than the guys. The host was busy being animated with a group of other girls, and didn’t look ready or interested in meeting me. I went for Rob first, noticing him sitting alone and perhaps ready for some one-on-one conversation. I wasn’t really paying attention to the game much until I started winning. That’s when the host started addressing me personally. Hello Dale…

I enjoyed the game from there on out, exchanging energetic quips with the most competitive members of the group. When we started watching a movie afterwards, Dale ended up sitting behind me, part of the jumble of legs I was leaning against. I collected his foot and started massaging it. Hey, that’s what I do! Ask any of my previous roommates or social circle. They’ll tell you “Alana is a touch-y gal, and if there’s a foot around, she’s probably massaging it.”

It was a school night, and “Second Hand Lions” just wasn’t enough of a temptation to keep me from getting a full night’s rest, so I left, but not before Dale could ask for my number. I got a text while preparing for bed (ie gabbing with roommates) 15 minutes later stating “You are way too cool not to ask on a date next week. Pick a day and you won’t regret it.” Now the lameness of being asked out over text message was negated by the direct nature of his request and the immediacy of his recognizing that I’m SO cool! I picked a day and he responded “Great! You seem like an adventure.” I was excited about him.

When the appointed evening arrived, I had been analyzing my three current guy interests all day—in true single student fashion—deciding which wisp of an option was most worth my devotion until it sputtered out. While emotionally preparing for all possibilities the evening might present, I wasn’t sure about starting something with Dale and “giving up” on these other guys until I opened the door to my apartment saw the look on Dale’s face. When his eyes focused on me, he stilled and said, “You look great.” Every girl likes to be told she looks nice, but I could tell Dale was impressed with me, which made me want to be out with him.

We went for an evening walk in a baseball park. He had asked me what I want to do, and I had asked for simple. It was a mid-week date. I had work the next day, and I also get nervous when guys plan to spend money on me before we know each other. This was perfect.

We got to talk off an empty field of bleachers, walk down a lane through a field, and sit under the moonlight. Dale was a good conversationalist. He didn’t seem bored or need to be entertained. He was interested in what I had to say, and asked adventurous and provocative questions. The questions weren’t so un-usual as the way he listened for the answers and actually cared about what I had to say, whether or not it was witty or entertaining. Dale actually wanted to know who I was, and wanted to know what my responses were to “why did you choose Social Work” or “how did you like your mission?” Later when we were sitting on the jungle gym swings, I realized how we could relate on things that were tender, and how he would never judge me. I remember my defenses melting when I realized I didn’t have to be afraid.

He had such positive regard, optimism, and humor in the face of ridiculousness, that I found myself agreeing to continue the date late for iced cream and a movie at his place. He even agreed that if I was too tired to watch the whole movie, he wouldn’t be offended if I fell asleep on his couch. He had rented Iron Man just for me, and gave me “two hockey pucks” size of my favorite iced cream. We were lounging on the couch watching the movie when he held my hand. After the iced cream interruption, he picked up my hand again, in that gentle way of asking permission. After I got too tired (I had early mornings that year), Dale set my head against his chest and slowly stroked my curls so I could rest.

I am not a first-date hand holder. You never know what hand holding means to the other person and it’s generally good to wait and see if they are going to ask you out on more than one date to allow your heart to get caught up with your entwined fingers… but after that first date I was hooked. We had our second, third dates and so on, but I was just waiting for him to be as interested in me as I was in him. As soon as he made up his mind, he never ceased to surprise me with his tender concern and interest in my life. I’m glad he became my husband.

What to do when the husband is gone...

Does the spell checker in emails ever make you feel nervous? I've been trying to write this blog for the last hour and a half and those little telltale squigly lines compel me to spell things in an unnatural manner. I want to write things like "kindof" and "eachother" without feeling the subtle reprimand of the computer's ever present red pen! I like to spell things the way I want to! Sometimes while drafting a particularly eloquent sentence, I feel the rush of self-congratulations while writing a five-dollar word, only to get smacked with a red line and feel immediate shame once the last letter is completed.

Stinking computer! Who are you to tell me I'm not as smart as I think I am! If my co-workers, husband, and friends are gracious enough to let me live in the bubble of my own self-satisfaction, I find your whistle-blowing brutal and scathing! You won't make any friends (let alone find a man!) behaving that way!

I've decided to get my revenge by using words that the computer doesn't understand. The easiest way to do this and have it relate to my life is through the pet names that my husband proliferates daily. You see, when I start with even the most simple nickname like "Wifey" that telltale red zigzag doesn't know what to do! And when I upgrade to something like "Wifeykins-rufus" it goes nuts with zigzags all over the place! HAHA! I will defy you with my unknown propper nouns! And now I will continue to torment this computer with words like "Bootykoafer" and "HusbandmcGee!"

P.S. Will someone let me know if "propper" really is spelled with only one "p?" I don't really trust this all-unknowing spellchecker to lead me in the right direction...