BY SARA PALMER

Based on the suggestion: Camp

We were thirteen years old and boarding a bus heading nine hours north to the U.S – Canada border – this was summer camp.

Church camp was a big thing in my family and this year was no different. I remember gathering around the sign-up sheet with my two best friends at the time, Tanya and Leslie. The top of the sheet read: Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness. We all signed our names quickly, then ran back to our parents to tell them what this years summer adventure would be. It was May and we wouldn’t be leaving until mid-July. As excited as we were, we knew we would have to pocket it for a while.

The summer moved quickly, and suddenly, it was the night before we were to leave. Leslie, Tanya and I were simultaneously packing while maintaining a three-way phone call. Leslie had a phone in her room, upstairs and away from the rest of her family. Tanya and I weren’t that lucky. I knew we were both fighting to keep the phone between our ear and shoulder as the cord stretched halfway through the house, losing touch for a second, and scrambling to retrieve the it each time a family member lifted the cord a bit in an attempt to limbo to another room. Leslie’s dad drew a comic strip for the town paper and worked in advertising, her mother stayed home and made everything look perfect, always. Tanya had a step-dad and two younger siblings. I had a single mom and two older sisters, which always kind of felt like three moms, but not in that cool, progressive way.

Excitement and nerves were building that night on the phone. I was stacking piles of clothes on the floor to be packed. Shirts in one pile, socks in another, pants in another and so on. Tanya had been packed since that afternoon and was simply double-checking her list. Leslie’s clothes were still in the wash and her concern for not being able to shower was mounting. My oldest sister had hit her third visit to my doorway, this time with billowing frustration, she spoke, “Seriously, get off the phone!” the last two times, she had just angrily mouthed it. She meant business and I still had some packing to do. So, I let the girls go, and told them I’d see them at the bus in the morning. All this, while walking past my sister into the kitchen to hang up the phone, maintaining zero eye contact. This said, it was my idea to get off the phone, not hers. Being the youngest, it was the little wins that mattered most sometimes.

I couldn’t sleep much that night and as we loaded the car and headed to the church. My thoughts went in every direction, trying to make sure I remembered everything; I almost didn’t realize we had parked. I looked up to see a crowd of familiar faces surrounding the bus and most important, Leslie and Tanya. I threw my duffle bag under the bus, hugged my mom goodbye and found a window seat next to the girls where I would remain for the next nine hours.

The wheels spit rocks as the bus turned onto the gravel roundabout leading to the mess hall of the campground. There would be about 100-150 campers from all over the Midwest and East Coast. We would have one night here at camp before dividing into co-ed groups of about ten to twelve and heading out on our weeklong journey.

The focus became, finding our cabin, taking a long, hot shower – it would be our last for the next five days – and stuffing our faces as if we would never eat again. The camp directors kept reminding us to eat up, this would be the last “home cooked” meal for a while. We also met our group leader that night, his name was Buck – at least that’s what he was calling himself. We would later come to find this suitable to say the least. He went over guidelines for the week, canoe safety, the fact that we would be carrying everything, no ditching food because that would attract bears – simply put, a meal was to be eaten in its entirety whether you liked it or not, or we would be eaten by bears – and finally, bathroom etiquette. Peeing, no biggie, as expected – pooping, dig a hole and bury that shit – yep, because otherwise, we would be eaten by bears. Later that night, Leslie confided in us that she had gotten her period. She was the first of our trio, we all knew it was coming sooner or later, but like pooping in the woods, we’d never speak of it, and cross that bridge when we got there. Upon the confession, we riddled Leslie with questions: what did it feel like? Does it hurt? How long does it last? She had gotten her period the night before we left for camp. All I could think was – the bears, we’re going to be eaten by bears.

To be continued.

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 Adventures at summer camp first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Based on the suggestion: Truth

There she was, tongue stuck to the frozen metal tetherball pole, and it was entirely my fault. Just moments prior I had pretended to lick the frozen pole a few feet away from my cousin Jill, then yelled, “Look! It didn’t work!”

Before the exclamation point could drop on the end of my sentence, she had believed with every fiber in her, what I had said. I know this because of the amount of tongue that was now stuck to the dirty, frozen tetherball pole located in the middle of the park, three blocks from her house.

It was a cold day in Watertown, South Dakota, the grown-ups were sitting around the table talking and my cousin and I, the two youngest, were bored. “Let’s go to the park.” Suggested Jill. The slides were fun in the winter, especially if they were icy. We would pack a little snow on them, then cheer at the level of speed the rider achieved as they grappled for footing at the slides end. Breaking old speed records seemed like the perfect cure for the current state of boredom, so I was all in.

We bundled up in snow pants, snow boots, puffy winter jackets, hats, gloves, scarves, earmuffs, and anything else we could find in the metal buckets installed in the hallway closet. The buckets from top to bottom contained hats, gloves, scarves, wool sox, ski masks and any other miscellaneous winter wear one might need during a bitter South Dakota winter. We bundled up good knowing we wanted to be outside for a while. So good in fact, we could hardly communicate with just our eyes peeking out between the hat and scarf. We looked like a couple of tiny, multicolored State Puffed Marshmallow Men. This may have just been the reminder of the Christmas Story movie I needed to prompt my pole licking genius scheme. We told the grown-ups we were heading to the park, they seemed less than concerned and we were off. There we were a couple of puffed out ninja stars romping through the snow filled sidewalks, excited for the adventures that awaited us.

It wasn’t long before I was headed back on this trail of snow filled sidewalk. Only this time, I was alone. I couldn’t believe she bought it. I thought for sure she would call my bluff. I’m the worst cousin in the world. These thoughts swirled through my head as I ran back to the house as fast as I could. I opened the door and ran up the stairs with an emphatic sense of urgency. I yelled to the grown-ups, still sitting around the table, “Jrrrllls sterck tehdeh phooool!” Not one of them turned around. I pulled the scarf down from my face and tried again, “Jill’s stuck to the pole!” The grown-ups all casually turned toward me. “I pretended to lick the pole and then she really did lick the pole and now she’s stuck!” I shouted, avoiding the more incriminating part of the story.

My uncle turned his chair toward me slowly and unaffected by the urgency of the situation told me to grab a cup of water and pour it where her tongue was stuck. “That should do the trick.” He said. Brilliant! I thought as I grabbed a cup of warm water from the sink and headed out the door.

Running with a cup of water proved to be a greater challenge than I had ever expected. I tried several techniques before deciding to just take giant steps with my gloved hand over the top of the cup. It seemed like an hour before I arrived back at the park. I turned past the chain-linked fence with one soaked glove and about a third of a cup of water. Just then, a sense of joy filled my little ten-year old body. Jill was off the pole! As I grew nearer, the joy began to slip away from me as I noticed her crouched forward and holding her gloved hand over her mouth. Realizing I didn’t need the water anymore I ran toward her and yelled, “how’d you get away from the pole?” She didn’t answer. I turned and looked at the pole and to my horror a small layer of taste buds stared back at me. I freaked, “why didn’t you wait for me? I brought water.” Raising my now empty cup at her. “You should have waited for me!” I looked back at the taste buds on the pole as they sat there taunting me. Look what you did, liar, they seemed to say. Oooohhh, you’re gonna be in soooo much trouble, they continued. Fear swept over me, what had I done? I just wanted her to yell at me, but talking proved to be too painful. I felt even worse.

It was a long, quiet walk back to the house with my cousin that day. Once inside, I stood in front of the table of grown-ups and told them what I had done. My cousin’s tongue was raw and ice cream seemed the only medicinal solution. I sat down feeling deflated and defeated by the trick I had pulled.

Incredibly and thankfully, it only took a few days and several bowls of ice cream for my cousin’s tongue to heal, but the memory has stayed with me ever since.

To this day, not a winter goes by where I don’t think of this situation and wonder, why didn’t I just grab a cup with a lid?

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 The truth can get out out of a sticky situation first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Based on the suggestion: Roommates.

“Hey, my friends said they tried calling last night and couldn’t get through. Do you guys know if something is wrong with the phone?” I asked my two roommates. I had known them for less than two months, but, with not much in common, it always felt like days.

“Well, I unplug the phone at nine every night, so if it was after that, then that’s why they couldn’t get through.” Replied Courtney.

“Why are you unplugging the phone at night?” I asked of this ridiculous gesture.

“My studies are difficult this semester and I need my rest,” whined Courtney with tears welling up in her eyes.

I was dumbfounded.

First of all, who nominated you queen of the dorm room. Secondly, and more importantly, what if there was an emergency, like my friends calling?

“You can’t just unplug the phone. What if one of our family members needs to get a hold of us? What if there’s an emergency?” I threw this at her, feeling pretty good about my “family emergency” argument, considering seconds before I was only thinking about missing calls from my friends. I knew that, we both knew that, but the point was that nobody could deny a family emergency — that shit is real.

It was my freshmen year in college. I was attending school in Lincoln, Nebraska, which was four hours south of my hometown, but the parental freedom started about 10 minutes into the drive. I didn’t know anyone from my high school who was going to UNL, so I was paired up at random, with two girls, about halfway through the summer. I remember contacting them via telephone about a month and a half before school was to start. They were both from Nebraska. Courtney was from a small town, whose name escapes me, and Francis, was from Omaha. She had to be fun, right? She was from a big city. I remember being excited to hang with them.

Post initial meeting, this feeling never returned.

Francis was having a tough time and cried a lot. Her freedom was a mere 50-minute drive. She once told me that she was so sad because she missed her brother. The idea of this circled around my head like a boomerang before reentering my brain, and then, like hitting a wall of rain, fell flat. I also had a sibling two years older than me and I don’t ever remember being sad when she left. I felt excited, relieved, jealous, free, happy, joyous, but sad? Nope. Never.

Don’t get me wrong, my sister and I are great friends now, but at that age, I really wanted nothing to do with her and I’m certain the feelings were mutual. There was a saying in our family, it usually came out during fights between my sister and I and always from my mother. Something like, “you’ll love each other one day.” Funny, I don’t think either one of us expected that one to ring true, but sure enough. Come to find, she is one of the only people that truly understands and shares my sense of humor and, as I’ve most recently found, will gladly chime in when I want to sing the well wishes of Christmas text messages in the tone of the sender.

Anyway, back to my roommates.

Every morning at 6:30am, the alarm clock would blast its horn and Courtney would be up without a single smack of the snooze bar. Then, out the door in her pink robe, carrying her aqua colored plastic basket filled with toiletries going from tall to short. She may as well have been whistling a shiny tune on her way out the door. I always imagined her skipping down the hallway awkwardly in her showering flip-flops, then proclaiming to the other shower-takers, “Yay, another day of class!” just before clicking her heals in the air. Suddenly, eyeballs simultaneously would hit the ground, bouncing forward and landing at Courtney’s feet. They had rolled out of the heads of those showering behind the curtains. She was like a cheerleader for test taking and perfect attendance.

Then there was Francis.

She would set her alarm for 6:40am — yep, a whole 10 minutes later &#151 hit the snooze, get out of bed, grab her robe and basket of toiletries, but not before forgetting that she had hit the snooze bar. As the alarm blared, she scrambled over to shut it off, spilling toiletries out of her basket. Knocking things down as she stumbled to pick other things up — a vicious cycle. Then, finally heading out the door towards the showers. Moments later, there would be a fumbling at the door; this would be Francis, forgetting something. This would also happen about two more times on any given morning.

Finally, the room would become dark and quiet again, but like the snooze bar, I knew I only had minutes. Courtney was like clockwork and she’d be back only too soon. They were like a theatrical performance, once one act would end, the other would begin, when all I was ever wishing for was a brief intermission.

Four-three-two-one … .

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 Hitting snooze on my annoying college roommates first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Based on the suggestion: Shopping.

“Shame, shame, double shame, nobody knows your name. I’m Louis (pause for two beats) Fillmore.” Sang the man behind us as we walked down the sidewalk between the tall, metallic looking buildings that seemed to stretch through the sky. We were on a shopping trip to Minneapolis. School was starting soon and these shopping trips were favorites for my mom and her sister.

I was in sixth grade and traveling with my cousin, Jill — nine months younger than me, and one of my best friends — and her family. Our mothers are identical twins, which means lots of hanging out and frequently combined family vacations. As my cousin would say, “technically we are half sisters, because our mom’s are basically the same person.” Now, if you are a twin or know twins, you know that this is most certainly not true. There are many differences between the two and while, a lot of times my mother and aunt are so, so unequivocally the same, when it comes to personalities, the spectrum of laid back and cautious are definitely represented — but I digress — back to the story.

Curious, Jill and I immediately turn around to see where the singing is coming from. We see a tall man wearing a child’s size hunter green hoodie with the words “Greenbay Packers,” written on the front in bright yellow letters. Also, dark denim blue jeans tucked into a very worn out pair of brown leather cowboy boots.

“Shame, shame, double shame, nobody knows your name. I’m Louis (pause for two beats) Fillmore.” The man sang again, interrupting our inquiring gaze. My cousin and I love this because we too love making up songs. In fact, just weeks before, we had made up a song about the intense barking of her family’s toy poodle; lyrics representing the fact that he would bark at a leaf falling off the tree. Which made for quite a problem, living in the Midwest in the fall. The song actually made the dog bark more, which was a bonus for us, and an added annoyance for our family members. We simply told them he was singing with us.

The man’s song continued when suddenly, Jill’s sister, seven years older, tugged us around by our shoulders and with an aggressively breathy, “quit staring!” she snapped us instantly out of our musical trance. We immediately felt differently about the situation. Sure, it probably wasn’t good for us to stare, but in our defense, we weren’t as much staring as intrigued by a uniquely rhyming song. Drugs or mental illness had not even considered entering our minds at that age.

I cannot speak for my cousin, but for me, this sort of inquiring, continued for the next four to five years. Each vacation we went on or big city we traveled to, I would at some point have someone in my ear startling me with that aggressively breathy “quit staring!”

I daydream a lot. When I was a kid, I used to tell myself stories, silently in my head, to fall asleep. The stories would never come to an end and often times I would start the story over and over, several nights in a row without successful completion before moving on to a new one. To this day, I cannot listen to audiobooks without falling asleep.

So, to me, the staring that my family perceived was more or less, me daydreaming. At some point, I’m not even seeing the people, objects or situations anymore, but falling into a story, much like the ones I would tell myself when I was young. I assumed this stemmed from growing up in a small midwestern town, or at least that’s what I liked to tell myself. Whatever it was, I always caught myself wondering what the story was. I would see people on various forms of public transportation and would get caught up fascinated by what their story might be. Did they have a family? Was it like mine? What kind of job did they have? Yet, all to often I was being yanked away from my daydreaming with that aggressively breathy “quit staring!” breaking me back into reality.

Most recently, and one of my mother’s all-time favorite moments — I know this because of how often she finds ways of telling this tale to others — occurred during one of her yearly visits.

My niece was getting married and Shannon, my oldest sister was looking for a dress. We were at a small outdoor shopping plaza, which among other things housed a sort of Southwestern-y boutique that for whatever reason, my mother decided would be a good idea to wander into — and by whatever reason, I mean, she saw a sale sign. I knew before even entering that this store was way off the mark. Yet, my mother, bless her heart, cannot resist a sale. She took Shannon to the sales racks leaving Heather, my middle sister, and I to our own devices as Shannon began selecting and trying on the strangest of mother-of-the-bride dresses. “Let’s just see what it looks like on”, my mother would suggest optimistically.

I wandered the store for a few minutes before running into a conversation that was happening between what I assumed was a seamstress, and a possible manager or owner of the shop. They were discussing the fact that a dress had been hemmed too short and what were they to do about it? Understandably I presume, I was immediately intrigued. I mean this was going to be a tough fix, right? So, of course, I locked in and the questions began to formulate. What will they tell the customer? Was this dress for a special occasion? Is there any way to add length, once its been taken off?

The conversation between the two was getting intense, when suddenly from behind me I heard, an aggressively breathy, and newly condescending, “what are you doing?” It was Heather.

I turned around; I knew I was caught, just like when I was younger. As I completed my turn, ready to tell her of this thrilling predicament, I saw her laughing. Then, we both began laughing, and not just laughing, but comically dying. Uncontrollable tears rolled down our cheeks, walking normally became task. Needless to say, we had to leave the store.

Meanwhile, my mom and Shannon finished shopping and were walking toward us. Heather’s face lit up with glee as she saw them heading our way. There was no way this was staying between the two of us, and I haven’t been able to live it down since.

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 ‘Quit staring,’ the tale of an introvert on the town first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

“How’d ya sleep last night?” my oldest sister, Shannon asked in a sarcastic tone.

“Fine.” I replied, a little confused.

My middle sister, Heather was chuckling a little as she washed a dish in the sink, “birds,” she muttered under her breath.

It was at that moment that two things simultaneously happened. One, I immediately remembered the dream I had had the night before, and two, my mother was entering the kitchen.

“Good morning honey, did you get those birds out of your room?” she joked with a little smirk on her face.

“Real funny, mom, and you had to tell these two about it didn’t you?” I said, shooting my thumb in the direction of my sisters.

“So, how’d it go again?” questioned Shannon, “A bird was attacking you?”

“No!” I exclaimed, “It ran into my chest. I was trying to get out of my room and it hit me right in the chest.” My voice trailed off as I tried explaining; mostly because I was realizing I should have just kept my mouth shut.

As expected, everyone began to laugh as my ego stepped forward, and I nobly tried to further explain, “I think when I got out of bed, I ran into my door. It hit me right here,” I exclaimed tapping my fingers on my sternum.

“I can’t believe you still sleepwalk.” Said Heather finishing the dishes she had been rinsing off.

She was right though; I had been sleepwalking for years. I’m not sure exactly when it all started, but from the time I was out of a crib and had my own bed, I remember — or technically don’t remember — sleepwalking.

It became sort of a thing in one house we lived in, that my mother would wake up in the morning check my room, see that I wasn’t there, and go immediately down to the basement and find me sleeping on the couch down there. This was a little nerve-racking for her because, at such a young age and as unconscious as one is when sleepwalking. This meant that I was walking down two flights of stairs and passing the front door each night. It was a rarity that I would be found in my bed on any given morning.

As the years passed, the dreams would, of course, change to what was relevant in my life at the time. One experience that’s been mentioned from time to time, was of a morning when I got up at 3am, walked to the bathroom and began brushing my teeth. My mother heard me, got up to check on me and upon questioning what I was doing, found that I was convinced it was much later and we were all late for school. I was also apparently very upset about this due to the fact that no one else in the house seemed to care that we were going to be late for school. My mother then let me know that it was three in the morning, and that I had nothing to worry about and to go back to bed. I headed toward my room, but not before taking a sharp right, one door too soon, right into my sister Heather’s room, where I proceeded to curled up in her closet, door opened, feet hanging out and spend the rest of the evening there.

I do remember one dream pretty vividly; it was a reoccurring dream. It would always start out with me waking up and as my eyes began to open and fix on the ceiling, I would realize the ceiling was covered by a giant spider hanging upside down with its head right above mine. My first thought was always to run, to get out of my room, but I new I had to creep out slowly trying not to disturb the giant hanging above me. I would begin slithering out of my bed and just before my feet would hit the ground I would notice that the floor was covered in tiny little black spiders. So many that they were crawling all over each other and not one spot of the floor was showing through. I was stuck, trapped in my own bed, with the giant ceiling spider beginning to descend, because of course, it had sensed my movements. The dream never went any further than this before I would wake up scared, and immediately check the floor for spiders. Needless to say, I have a touch of arachnophobia to this day.

I don’t remember, the day, year, or how old I was when the sleepwalking suddenly stopped. But I will say that although some of the dreams were scary, even paralyzing at times, they were always extremely vivid and threw me into wildly imaginative worlds — and I do miss that.

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 dream goes to the birds first appeared on Lesbian.com.

BY SARA PALMER

Inspired by the suggestion of “fancy food.”

It was Saturday morning, and my sister, the middle one — two years older than me — the most annoying age difference at this time in my life, was making Jiffy blueberry muffins. If you’re not familiar with Jiffy muffins, just imagine an incredibly generic box with the word, Jiffy in blue letters — faded letters — at the top of the box, and a picture of a real blueberry muffin right in the middle — nothing else, just those two things. Upon opening this prestige packaging, you’d find a bag that almost seems to be made from parchment paper, filled with a thick white powder and in this case, little purple circles that from a distance resembled a possible infestation.

My sister poured the powder into the bowl, then turned and left for the fridge, I made my way over to grab one of the purple things or “blueberries”. They were small round, purple beads that would explode into purple dust if smash between the index finger and thumb. I did this every time they were being made and then would lick the dust from my hand. My sister would yell at me to get my grubby hands out of the bowl and I would ignore her, thinking: well, they taste like blueberries after they’re melted in the muffins.

A matter of minutes later and I think the addition of some milk, the bowl of white, now paste with purple specks that had been poured into the muffin tin had magically become these amazing looking muffins. This was one of those times in my life that I could say the actual product looked better than the picture on the box. So, kudos to the people at Jiffy for underselling, this was a great marketing strategy. Also, kind of a nice surprise for us lower to middle income families.

Anyway, my sister and I would sit around the table, eating the muffins that were steaming from the oven. Cut them in half and watch the butter melt off the knife, before even touching the muffins. I’m telling you these muffins were somethin’ else — and what I mean by that is that they were not real food.

Without fail, my mother would walk through the kitchen saying, “Ooh, you made muffins, as if taken aback. This literally happened every Saturday. My sister would smile proud at the fact that she poured a bag into a bowl and added some milk and I would contemplate having thirds, which always ended up in me having a third.

“Hey, you have to clean up, since I made the muffins,” my sister would say in a low voice from across the table. I would argue that first of all I didn’t suggest the muffins. This is where having thirds always bit me in the ass. “You seemed to like them, you had three,” she’d say condescendingly. Smart enough to know that the fact that she made the muffins, if brought to the attention of my mother, would ultimately result in my doing the dishes, I resorted to ridicule. I would remind her of how miniscule a task it was to pour a bag in a bowl and stir it around. This always landed on deaf ears, as she’d strut over with her plate and knife, handing it to me with a smirk while kind of singing, “Here you go.”

A few months later, I remember thinking it would be great if my mother would let me make dinner. We’d all seen those muffins before and making dinner would really show my sister. So, after a surprisingly small amount of convincing, my mother let me make dinner. I was somewhere around twelve years old or some reasonable age at which you’ve learned the art of boiling noodles, so that became the basis of my dish. It was going to be great! I had gotten my idea from a family gathering we had been at weeks before. Someone always brought a noodle dish and after eating a little and “figuring out” the ingredients, I thought, this is going to be a synch.

The day came and I was making dinner. I boiled the noodles, elbow noodles to perfection — soft all the way through, no chewy parts. Then, I added mayonnaise, lots of mayonnaise those salads were creamy and the jar in the fridge even suggested its use in pasta salads — bingo! This would be perfect. I then fancied things up with some frozen peas that I microwaved and added tiny squares of Velveeta cheese. I covered it up and put it in the fridge until dinnertime, because that is how I saw it done at every family gathering I could remember. For those of you that know me well, this is strangly not the reason I no longer eat mayonnaise — it should be, but that is a whole other story.

Within a couple of hours, dinner was served, and bless my mother, she made it through about two or three spoonfuls before calling it quits.

I’m proud to say that since this day, my culinary achievements have skyrocketed me towards a successful career in the food industry — this actually is nowhere near true, but how cool of a story would that have been? I will say that I can make a hell of a sandwich though — no seriously, people have complimented me on my sandwiches. This is a real thing. Also, we had blueberry Jiffy muffins most every Saturday, for the next six years until my sister moved away to college.

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 Family bonding in a Jiffy (muffin box) first appeared on Lesbian.com.

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 “goosebumps.”

It was my sophomore year in college and, due to winter weather, South Dakota and Nebraska had been declared a national disaster. It had somehow rained or sleeted overnight with a sudden drop in temperature that caused the moisture on the trees to freeze, become very heavy and fall into the power lines, leaving no electricity for miles. School had been cancelled for the first time in history — as far as I could tell — and as I looked out my window, I saw fallen power lines and National Guard vehicles lining the streets.

At this time, it was well below freezing outside. I was living in a historic district of Lincoln, Nebraska. My apartment, while aesthetically unique, was very old. The windows were framed in wrought iron with iron handles used to crank them open. That meant, no screens and no insulation. The pipes, appliances, tiles, fixtures, outlets, stairs and landlords were all very old, and likewise, often times hard to navigate. That said, it was an amazing apartment — most of the time.

My roommate and I saw this as a fun kind of adventure, the kind inspired when you’re barely 20 years old and living on your own. I mean school was cancelled after all, right? All we could do was hunker down and make the most of it until things got fixed. So, after joking about how cold the apartment was, we geared up and found ourselves sitting on the couch covered head to toe in winter clothes, like a couple of kids waiting to go sledding. Soon, that too became extremely cold and we found ourselves sitting together in an over-sized chair, covered head to toe in winter garb, underneath three blankets, like a couple of ice fisherman whose heat had gone out.

Ultimately, the amusement wore off and we decided that we needed to go to the “guys’ house.” This was a house that four guys we had become friends with the year before, had decided to move into with each other, but, more importantly, they had a fireplace. The only problem was that driving was not advised. At that time, I drove a 1989 Isuzu Trooper with 4-wheel drive. This was our exit plan.

Already dressed and ready to go, we hopped into the car and drove precariously past the National Guard, over the tree limbs covering the once clear, paved road, slipping and sliding all the way to the “guys’ house.” It was an eerie feeling that afternoon, being the only ones outside of the National Guard, on the street. The snow in the yards covered with a thin layer of ice, was shining like glass, cracked by the tree limbs that had come crashing down the night before. Roofs of neighborhood houses were caved in from trees that could no longer take the weight of the gathering ice. The sky was so grey and motionless that the clouds seemed to be frozen in place as if we were driving through a painting, still and profound. The 15-minute drive took us 45 minutes after being re-routed several times due to debris and almost getting stuck once. We almost turned around before realizing we were over half way there and decided to push forward.

Once we arrived at the house, it became obvious that some others had the same idea. Upon entering, this now, retreat from the cold, seemed to appear more like a house party, but the fireplace was roaring and that was all the invite we needed. There were several of us that stayed at the house for the next couple of days. We stayed up talking, drinking and playing games. I met a future roommate and a few people that I ended up taking my following spring break with. It was the biggest slumber party I had ever been to and was bittersweet to see it end once the power in the city was restored. I made some new friends in that couple of days and became closer with old friends; it was a time I will not soon forget.

Since then, we’ve all moved on, some to California, some to Texas, Oregon, Iowa and, myself, here in Arizona. Maybe that’s why I miss winter so much sometimes.

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 Ice storm creates unexpected warmth 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.

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