BY SARA PALMER

Inspired by the suggestion of “ocean.”

As mentioned in my previous story, I was part of a giant slumber party that took place due to an extreme weather situation. During this slumber party, I met a group of people who I would be taking my next spring break trip with. This is the story of that trip.

We were somewhere in New Mexico on our way to Tucson. It was our second day of driving. I could say at least the scenery was getting better from that of Nebraska and the darkness, which was most of Colorado.

We were excitedly listening to one of several Phish CDs that had played throughout the trip. This was the jam band period of my life; my musical intake consisted of a mixture of Dave Matthews Band, Phish, Grateful Dead and Widespread Panic. Pretty much any car I hopped into or dorm room I entered was guaranteed to have one of these bands playing at any given time. And, yes, my roommate did make her own clothing consisting of a lot of corduroy and colorful patch work. It was beautiful and certainly created a comfortable reason for Birkenstocks to exist.

Our friend Kyle had moved to Tucson from Nebraska the year before. We had planned this trip around seeing him. His proximity to Mexico added a certain allure. The idea was to scoop him up in Tucson and head to Rocky Point, Mexico. The ultimate lap of luxury for a handful of broke, nutritionally deprived, college twenty-somethings.

Once in Mexico, we had our first four nights planned out as far as hotels went, with the fifth night heading back to Kyle’s house where we’d stay for a day before making the two-day trek back to gorgeous Nebraska and the opulence that was our little white house on the corner near campus — a house free of a necessary air conditioning unit that during peak humidity created a sort of spa-like appeal. Yes, of course, we considered ourselves lucky to have snatched up such an ideal arrangement.

Not surprisingly, considering our age and moral maturity, our schedule did not go as planned and due to an excited afternoon of drinking on our fourth day — the day we were to head back to Tucson — we realized there would be no driving and we’d need to find a hotel. After a mediocre try at finding a hotel, we came to the conclusion as a mildly intoxicated group that we could totally just sleep on the beach that night. In fact, how cool would that be? Falling asleep to the ocean, maybe even starting a bonfire with the imaginary wood we did not have. I think you can see why this sounded like a perfect plan and so it went. The day passed along, we continued to drink, play sand volleyball and explore our little area until the sun went down and it was time to find our perfect little spot on the beach.

We laid down some blankets and each grabbed a sweatshirt from the cars. It had been a hot day and after being in the sun all day, most of us, especially our fair-skinned friend, Kyle were pretty burnt. I remember thinking how great a pillow my blue pullover hoodie was going to be. As the night grew on, none of us anticipated how cool or should I say freezing cold it was going to get. I know that we had all taken science as a prerequisite, but for some reason, Newton’s Laws of heating and cooling had managed to escape us all. I blame the excitement of spring break and slushy, fruity, pink and yellow drinks. Also, the little lady that owned the small restaurant with the sand volleyball court and the all day two-for-one drink special. How she turned a profit, I’ll never know.

At any rate, the night grew extremely cold and the eight of us who were once stretched out along three blankets were now packed together like sardines on one blanket with a very passive aggressive game of tug-of-war between the two remaining blankets going strong most of the night.

Eventually, we all grew tired from shivering and passed out. I’d like to say that the warm sun gently woke us, but it was mostly its sheer brightness. We woke slowly, peeling ourselves from each other’s backsides after some intense spooning, when suddenly Kyle expressed some confusion as to where his shoes had gone. Gradually, we all started to notice that our shoes had disappeared. How could this be? I hadn’t even taken mine off. My Midwestern naivety stepped forward as I thought: what kind of animal would take off with our shoes? Where mid-thought someone else in the group stated a more realistic scenario that they were probably being sold somewhere down the beach. My mind quickly agreed that theft was more likely possibility here. Tired from lack of sleep and the long day prior, we gave less than a college try at finding our shoes on the beach before calling it a loss and heading back to the cars.

Within a few of hours we arrived back at Kyle’s house in Tucson. Tired, dirty and each down a pair of shoes, we crowded into his living room and reminisced about the last few days. There was a silence that fell over the room as everyone mentally traveled someplace elsewhere. Suddenly Matt spoke: “Man, those where my favorite shoes!” We all laughed and talked into the night agreeing that we’d have to just chalk it up as a story we might tell down the road sometime.

Sara Palmer is a an improviser-writer-storyteller based in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Share your ideas for her next blog in the comments below.

The post A magical spring break in Mexico first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Inspired by the suggestion of “heartbreak.”

When I was young, I was a collector of sorts. Some, like my immediate family, may have called me a pack rat. Yet, everything in my room had its place. That place was unrecognizable to most and I was totally OK with that. Although, it did not come without explanations, I felt like I was constantly having to explain this to my mother, but it was a process.

“Ask me where something is and I’ll tell you.” I’d often say to her. To which she would frustratingly sigh and tell me to pick things up and put them away. She didn’t get it, I would think. I mean, I just told you everything was in its place. These sort of interactions between my mother and I would continue and I would hesitantly move things off the floor or table tops and put them on the shelves where she believed they should reside.

Then off I’d go, taking to the sidewalks on bike with neighborhood friends. We’d ride around all day, exploring new building sites, making ramps and daring each other to ride down steep entrances into what would eventually become the foundations of apartment buildings or business parks; then, off to the gas station to load up on penny and nickel candies. I always loved the flavored Tootsie Rolls. The green and blue wrapped ones; representing green apple and blue raspberry were always first picks, while the yellow, banana flavor, was skipped over every time. If there was cherry, that’s all I’d get.

We’d ride down, through the wooded bike trails where the trees would cut out the sun, leaving the running water cool and the rocks green with moss. Throwing our bikes to the side of the trail and taking off on foot, jumping from rock to rock until we’d reach the water’s edge. Then daring each other to skip the path where the tips of the rocks protruded through the water like miniature icebergs. Foraging along as if we were giants hopping across a great body of water by way of such iceberg.

Our imaginations ran wild as we created many worlds, and our bikes were never just bikes. They were motorcycles, animals (generally horses) or fast cars; mine, usually a Trans Am, black with a gold eagle on the front. Second choice, also a Trans Am, but white this time with a royal blue eagle on the front, and blue and yellow stripes on the sides. This represented a Matchbox car I once owned.

Believe me, I know — and am still not sure why that was my cool car of choice — but I will also mention that this lasted well into my teenage years, until I somehow flipped to the complete opposite side of the spectrum where the more practical Land Cruiser became the obvious choice.

As the day would pass and adventures would grow far beyond anything we could ever imagine, we’d see the end closing in. Soon it would be dinnertime and everyone would file off to his or her appropriated homes.

As I made my way up my street, turning into the driveway without cutting my speed, instead leaning to the side and dragging my foot on the ground, I noticed my mother packing up the garage sale she had set up that morning. As I looked to the table still set up on the south side of the driveway, I noticed, in horror, some of my stuffed animals.

I screeched my brakes, dropped my bike and ran to the table shouting frantically to my mother: “What are these doing out here? These aren’t for sale.”

I ran to my room, looking to see if anything was out of place. My stuffed dog, where was it?

Shouting through the house and into the garage about this stuffed dog. My mother calmly explained to me that it must have sold during the garage sale. Then, adding that she never saw me playing with it or any of the stuff she had put on sale. I guess she figured I wouldn’t notice or miss it.

I went back into my room, cleared a space on my bed full of stuffed animals and sat there. Twelve years old and heartbroken over a small stuffed dog with oversized eyes, wearing a green t-shirt that said “hugs” or something like that on it.

Sara Palmer is a an improviser-writer-storyteller based in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Share your ideas for her next blog in the comments below.

The post A place for everything, heartbreak, too first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Inspired by the suggestion of “radio edit.”

It was the day I was to graduate from college. I awoke to a blizzard. The city was covered in a fresh blanket of snow that seemed to pour like cotton from the clouds above. I stared out the window, watching its beauty before wondering how I was going to make the trip to the city.

At this point in my college career, I was living outside of town and commuted to class four days a week. I quickly learned from the news and radio that the roads were closed and no highway travel would be allowed. A little secret, I was kind of relieved. It wasn’t as much a dream of mine as it was my mothers to see me walk at graduation. I’ve never really been into all that formal stuff.
It wasn’t long before my mother called and asked if I had heard the news. Surprisingly, she was pretty nonchalant about it and told me to just come to her house in a few hours. “We’ll figure something out,” she said.

I took my time getting ready, watching the snow tumble down and listening to music in my room. I could hardly believe that I would never have to take another college course, if I did not want to. I felt so free and ready to tackle the world.

Then it hit me, I was going to be leaving for Arizona in two weeks. Eight months prior, my cousin had approached me with this idea of moving to Arizona. She had a friend from college that had moved there the year before and the plan was to room with her for a nine-month lease and see how it went.

At eight months out, I said no to my cousin, telling her I would stay back home for a year to save money, and that I was going to move to Northern California. Five months out, my cousin asked me again, and once again, I said no. I had my plan, but this would be a fun adventure: Nope, I had my plan. I think she could sense my hesitation, because, at three months out, my cousin asked again. This time the friend from Arizona was out to visit and we had all gone out for drinks. We got along great and had a fun night together coupled with several alcoholic beverages and my cousin’s notion that I would be over half way to Northern California and it would only be nine months, after all. This seemed to make perfect sense to me. So, that night, I withdrew my “no card” and replaced it with a yes. I was moving to Arizona.

I began packing up sweaters into giant black garbage bags and placing them in the hallway outside of my room. These were going to be donated. What would I need sweaters for in the desert? I looked outside the window again, watching the snow flow from the sky. Hard to believe I would never have to deal with that again.

I took off for my mom’s house and was met there by many relatives that lived in town. As I walked through the door, I received lots of hugs and congratulations on my graduation. I remember joking with my mom that they’d just have to take my word for it, since I couldn’t produce an actual diploma, hoping it could find me in Arizona once I moved. She seemed to snicker, as if she was up to something. Something of which I would only recognize in hindsight. She told me we were going to the country club for dinner. Ugh, I thought, formal setting. I told her we did not have to do anything fancy and that eating at the house would be fine. She reminded me that it was a special day, plus they had already made the reservations.

We got to the country club and were seated at a long table in a private room. There was a stand with a microphone a few steps back from the center of the table that I had assumed was left from a previous event earlier in the day or night before.

Suddenly, my mom got up to make a toast and out came my stepfather dressed head to toe in his academic regalia. He was formerly a dean of a university in the state I grew up in. He gave a speech and presented me with a modified diploma, entitled “Blizzard Diploma.” I still have it to this day, and I have to say — best graduation remix ever.

Sara Palmer is a an improviser-writer-storyteller based in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Share your ideas for her next blog in the comments below.

The post Blizzard prompts change in graduation plans first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Story inspired by the suggestion of “fire alarms in hotel rooms.”

It was one of our many family trips to Minneapolis. My mother and her twin being the masterminds behind these trips; it was called “school shopping,” but we all knew better. This was just a chance for the two of them to get to America’s shopping mecca, also known as, The Mall of America.

Being twins, they obviously share a lot of similarities, but none quite so profound as their passion for shopping. For instance, my mother takes my grandmother for coffee every Saturday, at none other than the mall. Every time I call home, my mother is either going to, or has already been to the mall. When she comes to visit me in Arizona and a city is named, she will reference a shopping area in that city. Not to mention, whenever my aunt, her twin, and she are in the same city, they have to make a quick jaunt out to-you guessed it — the mall. Which always turns into “blipping” into multiple stores to take a look at the sale racks.

This is one thing I will give my mother, she can find a deal. I mean, I ended up with a lot of shirts and pants in high school that my mom got “such a deal” on that if I wore it once, I would get my money’s worth out of it. To which I always replied: “There’s a reason no one bought this, mom.”

This particular trip, my mother got stuck in a hotel room with my older sister, my cousin and myself. We had gone to bed hours ago when suddenly the fire alarm began blaring it’s warning and we were awakened from a dead slumber.

My cousin and I were sharing a bed, which left my mother and sister in the other. At the sounding alarm, my eyes pop open and I saw my cousin hurling above me through the air. I looked to my right and saw my sister sitting straight up screaming at the top of her lungs as if she is harmonizing with the alarm itself. That or pea soup was going to start exploding from her mouth. My mother scrambled to her feet, quieted my sister down, grabbed my cousin’s long pajama shirt, which she had escaped from during her short flight across the bed and onto the floor, and motioned for us all to get up.

We all leapt to our feet, and like ducklings, followed my mother out of the hotel room to the next room down, which was housing my cousin’s parents. As we stood, in our pajamas in the hallway, knocking on my aunt and uncle’s door, we could still hear the alarm in the background. My aunt and uncle answered the door with obvious confusion of their faces and let us into their room to make a phone call to the front desk. The sense of urgency in that phone call was high and the woman on the other end said she’d send someone right up. This calmed us down a bit, then we waited.

It took what seemed an eternity, being as it was somewhere around 2am, for the maintenance guy to come up and handle the situation. As we waited for him patiently next door, my aunt and uncle tried to keep their eyes open, the rest of us pulsing with adrenaline from the abrupt and piercing sound of the alarm.

Finally, the maintenance guy arrives, opens the door and simply tears the alarm off the wall. He turns to my mother and says: “You should be good now.” Still a little disoriented from the shock of the situation, we took his word for it and tried to get back to bed. Only this time, the room was filled with laughter and each time we said: “OK, let’s really go to sleep now.” Thirty seconds would go by and someone would start cracking up, igniting the rest of us to follow suit.

Sara Palmer is a an improviser-writer-storyteller based in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Share your ideas for her next blog in the comments below.

The post Unexpected fire alarm ignites another kind of blaze first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Story inspired by the suggestion of “slide.”

The phone rang and it was my mother. This was one of many calls from her I had received that month confirming my travel plans. My grandmother had decided she wanted a family reunion over the Fourth of July and her four daughters were busying themselves with this effort.

My uncle, the middle child and only boy, had suddenly passed away two months earlier. I remember the day I found out. It was my day off from work and my cousin called me at 6 am. I answered the phone armed with playful sarcasm regarding the early hour, because to this day, she still can’t figure out my days off. She asked if I had talked to my mom, I let her know I hadn’t and asked why. She then said three words that took me forever to understand: “Uncle Gregg died.”

I think I made her repeat herself three more times before she finally told me that I needed to call my mom. By now, I was sitting up at the edge of my bed, my toes touching the ground. I stared forward with the phone hanging from my hand between my legs. I still didn’t believe it. I just thought he must be hurt and in the hospital. I snapped back to and brought the phone up to call my mother.

Two rings went through before she answered with an inaudible sadness. My anxiety rose and I asked, “Mom, what happened?”

His heart had failed him in a sense that it could no longer keep him alive, but I remember it for the amount of love and kindness that poured from it. He was a great father who tried to instill the importance of culture and finding your own path in his children. Even if that meant listening to Britney Spears and N’Sync with his daughters for the 10-hour drive from Colorado to South Dakota. He was a talented musician who inspired his son, Patrick Dethlefs to learn guitar and become a musician himself. He loved us all so much, that was never a question.

July 4th had come quickly and I was up early and out the door, headed for the airport. I was filled with anxiety about being with everyone again, like we were two months prior. The whole trip, I thought about that day at the funeral. How unbelievable it seemed. Being in a hotel with my cousins trying to slow down my spin and write a poem on behalf of all the nieces and nephews depicting his impact on our lives. I remembered not being able to get through it without crying and eventually just handing it over to my aunt, his wife. She took it, hugged me and said, “He loved you all so much, he always said so.”

The plane landed and my mother was there to receive me from the airport. We were excited to see each other; she hugged me tight and asked how my flight was. As we drove to the reunion, I felt my emotions welling inside of me, like at any moment I might just burst into tears. Those emotions sat tight in my throat the entire drive. How was I going to get through today?

We arrived at the house, my anxiety heightening as I walked through the front door. Everyone had gathered out on the back patio and I noticed my stepfather wielding kids down the slide of a wooden jungle gym — a perfect distraction. I quickly said hello to my grandmother, hugged her and told her I loved her before heading out into the yard and up the ladder of the jungle gym.

Once I reached the top, my five-year-old nephew, Evan greeted me saying, “Hey aunt Sara! Welcome to the Fourth of July!” It was perfect. I had never in my life been welcomed into a specific day. This broke the ice and sent my anxiety packing. To this day, I think this is the way alarm clocks should work.

Sara Palmer is a an improviser/writer/storyteller based in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Share your ideas for her next blog in the comments below.

The post A family slides through grief first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Story inspired by the suggestion of Loquacious

The Mug is a coffee shop on the edge of a small coastal town. The shop was once a house belonging to a family of four in the early 1950s.

It was a small house with wooden floors that creaked and had withered a bit, creating small waves that seemed to rise and fall as you walked throughout. There was one restroom located down a narrow hallway with the original tile.

Mrs. Shelter, the owner of the shop, had designed the interior herself, polishing up and restoring where she could. She had a knack for design, but never pursued it. She had always dreamed of owning her own business and busied herself with this quest. This Wednesday afternoon, she was particularly busy making drinks, due to some part-time help not making it in to work. The tables were filled and there was a chattering buzz that filled the shop.

Two girls sit in the far left corner at a round wooden table with one blue chair and one orange chair.

They had decided to meet after a couple of long phone calls earlier in the week. The conversation was nervous, flirtatious and giddy at times.

They sat and talked for a couple of hours before going their own way, and planning to meet again soon. The girls would end up dating for about eight months before calling it quits and moving on. While dating, they frequented the coffee shop ritually.

Mrs. Shelter came to know their names and drinks, and if unoccupied, they usually sat at the same wooden table with the colored chairs where they had first met. Since their split two years ago, neither one has visited the shop.

Near the front door, sit two sisters. The conversation is one of sadness and despair.

Four days ago, the older sister’s husband had been diagnosed with cancer. The diagnosis seemed grim and the younger sister’s heart sank for sibling. They hugged and cried, the younger sister comforting her sibling as much as she could.

It was strange and hard to see her sister this way, after all, she had always been the one with all the answers growing up-she had been the strong one. That night, the younger sister would go home to her new wife, hug her tight while silently praying for her health.

On the couch in the corner sits Shelby, a regular at the shop, with her 14-ounce Americano and her copy of “Telegraph Avenue” by Michael Chabon. Three years ago, she came home to an empty apartment and a note from her girlfriend, saying little more than good-bye. She moved away, and they never spoke again. They used to come to the shop together.

Shelby always wished the note had said more, there is a part of her that still waits for the girl to walk back through the door of the shop. Two weeks from now a girl will walk through the door, see Shelby sitting on the couch and ask her about her book. They will talk for three hours and eventually marry.

Sara Palmer is a an improviser/writer/storyteller based in the Phoenix, Arizona, area. Share your ideas for her next blog in the comments below.

The post Loquacious: Tender moments at The Mug first appeared on Lesbian.com.