merci

In the which I expose my own ignorance, and another's.

Printers are stupid. And neccesary. You think you are getting a great deal when you see that big box on sale for $39.99. Really? A printer, anything in that big of a box, for that cheap? It's my lucky day.  Home it comes, along with that happy little feeling you get when you are somehow the exception to some drab rule everyone else must nonetheless obey. And then you run out of ink.

I'm not sure how I made it through my life up until this point having never actually gone to buy the stuff. I look at my printer, searching for the number (you need a number, right?). I see the printer model, so I write that down on an index card and fold it into my pocket.

We walk in the glass doors to Office Max, where artificial light  is trying to make stacks of paper, pens, and science fair boards look exciting. I don't need a cart,  but get one nonetheless, since Magdalena is proud of her sitting abilities these days. She is tiny though, and slides around the seat, looking like her entire body could slip out the leg hole. So I stuff my purse and a blanket in to help her stay put, and we are off on our quest.

I locate the ink aisle, no problem. An old woman pauses mid- shuffle to smile at my baby. An entire wall of bright boxes. Tiny boxes, all priced at over $39.99.  I locate the EPSON section, and begin the search for NX515. But the numbers only go up to 100 something.  I must have written down the wrong number.  Aware that I am likely the only one to make such a mistake, I don't want to ask the worker, for fear of getting the same tone of voice a woman gets when she goes to get her car worked on. V-e-r-y slow and clear, simplified and slightly condescending. Like "Oh, you are cute for trying, but you obviously don't know anything." Yes, pride.

So I push my empty cart over to the printer section, feeling quite smart again.  "Can I help you?"  "No thanks, " I say with a smile. I won't be beat. But then my printer is nowhere to be found.

We rattle slowly back across the aisle to the ink section, not sure what my new plan is, and the same friendly worker walks by. Ok. Fine. "Um, actually, could you help me?" Thanks.  We walk on over to the correct section, he asks what ink I need, and I say "I'm not sure. I only know our printer is a NX 515?"  "Well then, you'll need 68 or 69." Obviously.  A too sweet smile at Magdalena eating my purse in the cart, then back at me. "Looks like you can do the $69.99 or $49.99."  Looks like I'm an idiot and ink is overpriced. "Thank you so much!" I say.

Back outside in the real air and light, a car pulls up in the spot next to mine. It is covered in stickers; statements about the world the driver wishes to be true. One stood out to me above the rest. In big red letters, all caps, it shouted
"THIS IS AMERICA! SPEAK ENGLISH!"

Immediately I felt hot. It was an instant surge of anger I was honestly quite surprised by. Images of happy Deh Meh sitting on the floor of her humid apartment wearing donated clothes and a ski mask on her head, intently watching my mouth as I said "My name is_____" . Then her saying the same phrase in Kareni and me feeling the sounds so strange and slippery as I tried to produce them back.

Obviously, whoever stuck those words there didn't think the audience to whom they are supposedly addressed intelligent or disciplined enough to read them. No. It is a message meant for those who can read. English. Meant to say something about the placer of the sticker.

Whoever drives that car has no idea where all these people trying to learn English are from, what they have known, or the struggle it is daily to make a new life here. There was no tone of "Let me help you learn". Or let me help you with anything, for that matter.

I understand and believe that learning English is a necessary and immeasurably useful skill for those relocated to America. But let us not shout. Maybe that driver could, if they truly felt so strongly about the issue, peel those ugly words off the back of their car, find someone who needs it, and then do something to help them SPEAK ENGLISH! instead.

Just a thought.

a thing Significant

It is 3:21 am.  The black and quiet are still somehow not quite enough to put me back. Because I cannot stop thinking about the birthday of a friend. He would be 27 today.


10 years ago. I hear the stickered white jeep turn into our driveway and walk out front. There he is, already smiling with too-short pants and a home-made T-shirt. "Are you ready for the best date of your life?!" He opens his long arms for a ribby hug. Smells like summer. I climb in the passenger side, kicking aside a small rubber-banded bunch of sage brush and a few warm nalgene bottles. He hands me a clip-board with what looks like a hand-written multiple choice quiz. "I'm gonna start driving. When you've answered the questions, you can turn them in to me."  He grins. I wish I remembered every question and answer choice, but here are the first few:


GNARLY AWESOME DATE ITINERARY:


For dinner, I would be stoked to go to :
a) Maddox
b) Picnic up the canyon
c) Southern Exposure
c) catch a rattle snake and roast him


After dinner I want to spend time with my fancy lad doing:
a) a movie at the Broadway
b) evening climb
c) drive somewhere
d) back rub




"Hmm." I smiled. "Well, I've never been to Southern Exposure. Let's go there!" He looked at me, eyebrows raised, and started laughing. "You serious?" "Yeah. Is it good?"  "Brinn, I put that on there as a total joke. I wanted to see your cute mad face. You don't  know what Southern Exposure is do you. Oh I love you." I didn't. And if by any chance there are some of you who also don't, it's strip club.


*   *  *


It is difficult for me to think about death honestly, to admit and take in I will end here. Whenever someone dies you hear phrases thrown around like Live life to the fullest! Never take anything for granted! But how do I do this, every every day?

Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships
In crayon or in wool,
With "This was last her fingers did,"
Industrious until

The thimble weighed too heavy,
The stitches stopped themselves,
And then 't was put among the dust
Upon the closet shelves.

A book I have, a friend gave,
Whose pencil, here and there,
Had notched the place that pleased him,--
At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not,
For interrupting tears
Obliterate the etchings
Too costly for repairs.

By: Emily Dickinson

I find myself wishing I hadn't burned the letters. Searching inboxes for any undeleted message from the past. Sitting quietly on the couch believing he can see my life now, he can understand why I did what was done.

*    *     *

After watching him be lowered into his body's new earthy home, I felt in one warm moment complete hope. I don't know where it came from exactly or why then. But I felt clear and light. Grateful and motivated. Quiet.

My biggest fear is that I have not done enough-- that Death, time, or any constraint will find me less than I could have been or given. Eric and I sat up late one night talking about each other's death. It will happen. Having been so one, heavy grief is in our future. We accept. But we are alive now. Together. And we are happy. We are spending each day working on things we believe matter. I cannot say if I am living life to the fullest, since I don't feel like I really understand what that means. But I am living life. I am aware I am temporary. I believe we are eternal. 

Two babies are better than one. (When one's your sister's)

Sister and her child (7 weeks older than my own) flew in for the weekend. I'm glad they did.

it's hard sometimes. 

Nothing quite like riding in the back seat next to two babies in matching vests.

Hike up Millcreek. Babies and Sisters.

I miss this face already.

Soldier Hollow X-country.

A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.  Marion C. Garretty

Go!

A few places I wouldn't mind going today...







But I think I'll stay right here instead.

p.s. Thanks be to Dan for making these.

Thank you

When I was younger, I am told, and also perhaps much more recently than I realize,  my most oft repeated phrase was I can do it myself!,  accompanied by a forcefull twisting of the body away from whoever was offering assistance. I'd like to think this attitude was less an over confidence in my personal abilities, and rather a seeking to be in control, to have a go, and to not make anyone do for me what I could, in fact, do for myself. Or it could just be stubbornness.

I remember a morning hike to a climb in Big Cottonwood canyon. I, as always, quickly grabbed the heaviest pack out of the jeep, stubbornly refused to have him carry it instead, and started up the dirt trail. His legs were so long. But I would not ask him to slow down or stop. I started getting very warm, and very thirsty. On we went as the sun beat down.  He is so fast. I could feel I was much too hot, but didn't want to stop to take off my sweatshirt. I had to keep up. And then I was face down in the dust. I had fainted due to overheating, dehydration, and I can do it myself.

Branching, I believe, from this same mentality is my No, I'm okay, thank you. No matter what is offered, I seem to feel the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can scoop them back in. Can I get you anything to drink? Well I am rather thirsty, but No, I'm ok, thank you. Or Can I  help you with anything? Hmm. I have no idea where _______ is, or I really do need another size, but No, I'm ok, thank you! It is my first reaction, my go to response.

I think it's because I don't want to inconvenience anyone. I'll just go about my own little business and not be a bother, thanks. The thing is, this is not the right way to go about things. I know. If someone is offering, me rejecting is not necessarily the nicest, least bothersome path. In fact, I may by the very act be denying them something they really wanted to give or do. It could be mean. ( gasp!)

Eric and I used to take a Burmese family shopping every week at the oriental market in Sugarhouse. It was a family of refugees, ever so recently relocated to America, and without much in the way of money. They would buy their bags of rice, fresh vegetables, and then usually disappear from our view for a few minutes as we also shopped. When we'd return to their apartment and carry up all the bags, we'd all sit in a circle on the floor, trying yet again to learn some Kareni words and hear their latest English ones, when out would come the drinks and snacks they secretly bought for us.

I remember the first time they offered me these, I, of course, thought No, I'm okay, thank you. Or rather No. You need this all way more than I do, but I am truly touched by your kindness. What I learned there on that tan carpet though, is that the joy and satisfaction them offering these shrimp flavored chips and asian energy drinks gave them, was what they needed more. I had to put aside me feeling bad consuming some of their limited supply, and instead wonder at their generosity and enjoy the moment.

I believe a healthy sense of independence is, well, healthy. So is an appreciation for how dependent and interdependent I am and should be. I cannot do it, or anything really, myself. The food I eat I may purchase with my own money. But I did not plant, nor harvest. The clothes I wear, the small knowledge I claim, the love that moves, the body I inhabit, my daughter; None of it could I have myself.

and.
This is a wonderful thought.

"This is the true joy in life: the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no 'brief candle' to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations." -- George Bernard Shaw

What's a weekend?

It used to snow in Utah. I promise. I was there. I remember running outside to recess in full gear, and only having about three minutes to play due to how long the process was getting all those layers and boots on properly. But oh how it was worth it. This weekend on the other hand, it was still Utah, still winter. But in the 50's, and in lieu of snow pants and mittens, we wore sweatshirts and went climbing.

It was Magdalena's first time ever, and my first time in over a year. We climbed next to a group we deduced was made of two couples in the early stages of being couples. And we were reminded just how valuable it is to you and everyone around you to not stress out, get angry, and make a big deal of things that aren't. It was just hard to watch.

We were also reminded what a beautiful valley we are blessed to inhabit.

Friday night we had dinner with some friends. The wife is about four and a half feet tall, round face and exudes cute. She is from an ethnic minority group in China, called the Miao people. Her mother, equally cute, but witness to more life, is living with them here in Salt Lake for 6 months. This woman dresses in bright woven threads from her warm booties to her knotted buttons. She is mother to seven, has lived most her life in a rural village far removed from most anything modern, and is eager to talk to you regardless of the fact that you don't understand anything she is saying.

The minute she saw Magdalena, she opened her arms, exclaimed something quickly and excitedly in a foreign tongue but that all immediately understood as "give me the baby!". We did. And both baby and grandma began one of the more genuine and beautiful human interactions I've seen in quite some time. Both so content. This woman is a mother. I did not get to meet or hear about any of her other children really. But in the way she lit up, the way she sang and sat with Magdalena on her lap, it was clear.

We were served a spicy vegetable stir fry, sausages, and rice. But our cute grandma was used to a far simpler palette; rice and boiled vegetables. So she sat in her wooden chair with Magdalena on her lap and ate a plain bowl of white rice.

Saturday after climbing we had band practice/scheming session on how we are going to make our month long visit to Chengdu work and worth it, at our house. Should all things go according to plan, Magdalena will be getting a passport and I will finally be getting lessons on how to really play the Erhu.

                                                    *         *          *

So Dorius and I don't own a t.v. and don't tend to be very up to date on popular shows, or pop culture at all for that matter. And not to help with the later, but a little with the first, we have begun watching Downton Abbey on the laptop. Thus far, I am very impressed. It is another window into how life has been for some. "What is a weekend?"-- asked by a woman who has known nothing more than day after day of being served, dressed to eat, and resting.

I'm sure to some, my own life is one equally unimaginable and devoid of any "real" struggle. But as Dorius and I sat on our blue couch discussing late last night, every level of success has with it both joy and a yearning for something else, something more. "I wish I had known when you get to the top, there's nothing there." was the honest response of a hugely successful writer upon being asked what he wish he'd known starting out.

It is no revelation that often the very rich or very famous are anything but happy and fufilled. But sometimes its good for the not so rich and not so famous (read:me) to also remember. The things that satisfy or make our lives meaningful aren't always ahead. There is no waiting required. Making  a loaf of bread, planning a youth activity with a group of wonderful individuals, eating with my parents: Success! Achievement! All things that happened yesterday and made my life for that day fulfilling.

twice

I have loved two times. Those who know me, know this. And also know how formative, tumultuous, and in the end beautiful this has made what I call my life. Neither can be summed up tidily or recorded in any way that will give an accurate portrayal of what happened. And since these two stories quite dramatically overlap, what with missions and being 19 etc etc, it is hard to say where one begins and the other ends.


I want to try to tell some of both.  I think I will go about it in phases.  We will call it love story pt 1. and sweetly since.

love story pt 1.   *   * 

Due to the dramatic end, all evidence (journals, letters, gifts, notebooks, pictures--all of which there were quite a large number) have literally been burned. And with the passing of Garrett this spring, I am left alone to record what has been. It will be one sided and greatly lacking in detail. I am not sure why I feel it needs to be written down, but it does. It was a lengthy, wonderful, confusing, impactful chapter of my life that I no longer wish to erase as I did.

I was 8. We had just returned home from a year in England. My dad was going to home teach the Smith family. “They have a boy about your age Brinn. Maybe you could come with me this time?” And so the two of us walked through our backyard, down the Mensel’s driveway, and up to their front door. My dad had his falcon on fist, and as we sat in the warm front room, I watched as that little boy’s big brown eyes got bigger, listening intently to every word from my Dad’s mouth. He could hardly conceal the smile spreading across his young face, and kept looking back and forth from the bird, to me. Two loves were born that day. I still remember what it felt like to be looked at like that. 8 years old, and I could feel something in his gaze. Something new and powerful and a little unnerving.

The next day he was on the bus. I hadn’t ever noticed before or him me, but now our eyes met again and that light and smile I would come to love flashed across his face. I looked away.

The following week, at recess, a kid from the grade above me ran down the grassy hill in an urgent manner, shoved a folded piece of yellow paper into my hand, and sprinted away. Eyes looking at me. I opened it up to read a message from my new admirer, and felt and hated the red in my cheeks. “Please write back.”

The next day, this time at morning recess, another note. And another and another. I didn’t know what to do with this unwanted attention.

Every Tuesday afternoon was my violin lesson at Jane Mensel’s house. I had only to walk through my backyard, through the gate, and I was there. But today something else was there too. A small wooden box had been attached with wire to the fence, orange lettering describing its purpose as a “Mailbox for Garrett and Brinn ONLY”. I looked inside. A letter,some chocolates and a rubber banded bunch of dandelions and flowers from neighbors' gardens. ‘I think you are nice. I want to marry you. Love, Garrett”

sweetly since *    *

I’m not sure when I started loving Dorius. It is not beyond reason that we were aquainted before we came. Because it was not in my plans, it was not in my nature, to act and feel about someone, a stranger, as I did immediately about him.  

It was like a music video. Walking down the sidewalk in the dappled light of ancient trees, students passing silently by in the autumn air. I was looking down. Then I looked up. His eyes met mine and it was there. A connection, an intrigue, a love begun. I looked away, pretended to be fascinated with the backpack in front of me, and we passed. I didn’t know him.  But as I kept staring at that stupid backpack, all I could see were those eyes. Bright blue. Startling and comforting.

Days and other students passed with no repeat sighting. It bothered me that I thought about him, that I was so curious about him. I wanted to know him. And then I saw him, and I’m not sure what I thought I would do, but what I did was walk on by and pretend I hadn’t seen him. We crossed paths quite a few times, each time the same “look straight ahead” routine.

Then I noticed he seemed to be following me. Me. Pretended or real, I enjoyed the game. One time with him behind me, I walked a variation of my route, the route he typically “followed” me, and sure enough, he remained on my tail. I told Natalie about this boy I kept seeing everywhere and seemed to be following me.  Since I didn’t know his name, he affectionately became known as “stalker boy”. And then he was gone. Because  everyone was gone. The semester ended, we returned to Salt Lake. I didn’t think of him as much. But wondered if I would ever have the chance to know him. Worried that I wouldn’t. Confused that I would care.

Te amo

"Because love is as much a verb as it is a noun, the phrase “I love you” is much more a promise of behavior and commitment than it is an expression of feeling" Lynn Robins


My little brother sent me this this morning, embedded in a talk about successful marriage. He is taking a marriage preparation class. Which is at once a good idea and humorous. Not that he is taking it.  Indeed a little funny to believe little brother is preparing himself for marriage. But more that there is a class, many classes I suppose, that you can take that will supposedly prepare you for marriage.


Seeing as it is likely the most important, all encompassing, all consuming, thing you will ever be involved in-- this marriage-- it is interesting that we don't spend any more of our time or efforts seriously learning how to be good at it, or even trying understand what it is and means before we jump on into it. Plenty- no, I will boldly say way too much of our time is spent learning about (obsessing over) how to attract that special someone, how to have the right hair, clothes, make up, personality to be, well, attractive. But then? Then once we have successfully attracted the attention of our intended audience? The magazines are oddly silent. Not much is said about that. Or about why it is so much more valuable a skill to build and nourish a relationship after the initial attraction rather than simply drawing attention to yourself. It's just nowhere near as interesting I suppose to dream about doing each other's laundry or deciding what to cook for dinner. Again.


We naturally yearn for the first euphoric moments of fresh love, or even being noticed. It is just so new. So many chemicals. And we love pictures of old couples, wrinkled and holding hands, "So cute!".  The in between? 


Well I'm here to say it is just as wonderful. Just as wonderful as you make it.


I am no expert on marriage, having been involved in the institution just shy of three years. But I have been an eye witness to many long term and short term marriages all around me, and have come to the conclusion that so much of what makes marriage a success or failure is summarized in that quote. "I love you is a promise of commitment and behavior".


Our ability to control ourselves-- our habits, appetites, impulses-- determines our success or failure in most every aspect of life.  That, coupled with our attitude. But marriage is the fusing of two lives, and this ability, or lack of it, blended with our daily attitude, becomes more than twice as important. I was never good at math, so I don't know why, but it does. Maybe the whole fusion thing.


When we say we love someone, especially the one we intend to marry or are already married to, we need to understand just how much more that means than "I think you are attractive." or "I really love this feeling and hope it lasts." It means we choose. And it means we are responsible enough and committed enough to the existence of this new fused life to act accordingly.


I love my husband. To the point that word has been entirely redefined for me. Not because it is new love. Not because he is always wearing dashing outfits or has his hair cut just right.  ( In fact, he cut his own hair the other day standing in front of the bathroom mirror-- don't tell his mom) I love him because I know him. I know him so well. There is no part he hides or pretends to be. And he knows me equally. It is a knowledge I believe can only come with the kind of commitment and depth marriage allows. It comes with nights and days and weekends and long drives and honest discussion. There are tears and there are moments of ridiculous. I want to somehow share even a gumdrop sized piece of it with any one who is wondering if marriage is really worth it. "It is!!" I shout. It really really is.  Every day. Worth it. There is no other relationship like it. And no other way to become more yourself than to share yourself completely with someone else. Choose. Love.

Right now

" It's gone. My luggage. My time in Gangshan. My six weeks with Sister Zhong. 'I very love you.', she told me tonight. I very love her too. And am happy, because when things end, you can't go back and change anything or have more. You just smile at your pile of terrific normal everydays, and look up.

I will miss:
        Grandmas with training wheels on their bikes
        "good morning!" pelted at us as we run by at 6:30 am
         Guanli's excitedly giving us our mail
         Old man shuffling around the track, waving his arms
         Fresh and cheap guava from the woman squatting on the side of the road
         the bridge
        dirty chapel on the 8th floor of a business building
        teaching English in a tiny smelly padded room"
fall 2008

My life is closing and opening again. The years of putting most everything into teaching and loving my six year old Chinese students are gone. Of having every minute of my day from 8:35- 3:20 alert, engaged, managing, laughing, encouraging. And then almost every minute after thinking about and planning for the next day. So many faces. So very very much effort. (yes. Two verys)

And now I stare at the future, which, if you've ever tried, is hard to do. I am a mom. I am free to spend my time being that. And what else?

It's almost easier when you have some big something, somewhere you have to be or do, to feel your progress and usefulness every day. You can not worry so much about what to do but rather how you are doing it and how you can do it better. But when there are no such demands?

It's exciting to me to think now I create each day myself.  Besides teaching my few violin students, the time is just waiting there for me to make it something. I want to improve my chinese? I am in charge of doing that. No one is going to make me improve, be a good mother, learn the things I wish I could. I choose.

My problem however, has never been in the dreaming and planning great things to do. I can think of all sorts of wonderful acts of service, skills I will seek to own, and people in need of visiting. It's the follow through I need to learn.

Boxes. Boxes of thank you cards I tell you. Thank you cards and letters that I have written and never sent. To the point of it being slightly ridiculous. And so that is my next and biggest goal. As some brilliant person in charge of marketing at Nike once said, Just do it.

hort-i-culture

The best thing about music, in my opinion, is where it takes you. Emotionally, and literally.

Something in us wants to be taken by it. 

As a creator of music, you are often let in to miniature universes you would have otherwise had no access to. People invite you. You come, and you share these breif moments of similar experience as you bring into existence, music.

      *

Late summer afternoon in Mallorca, an island just off the coast of Spain. I am a nanny for four year old triplets. A  sticky, exhausting, messy day, but now the family is gathered for almuerzo . Plates and bowls, mostly empty, clutter the huge wooden table, and all adults lay back in their chairs, hands on full stomachs. I tighten my A string as Abuelo motions me closer. I begin. His eyes close. He is taken back to a time before the Spanish civil war. He is in the sun, the dirt. The years melt as he listens, he tells me. Thank you thank you, he tells me.

      *

I am 8. We step off the tube and ride the escalator up to Covent Garden. I stare up at a man with hot pink hair on the step in front of me. I follow my sister through the crowds, searching for the perfect spot, then begin. Songs practiced in my basement thousands of miles away now fill the British air around us. My fingers seem a bit awkward in the chilly air, but we smile at each other with each clink of a coin tossed into our small cases, I look at the faces of the people now stopped, watching, and I feel warm.

      *

"Here it is!" 陳姐妹 points down the road towards a tiny violin shop and we pedal on through hot air. Inside, a small Taiwanese man appears amid hundreds of violins hung closely on every wall. I smell varnish and stacks of books. "Thank you so much for letting us borrow this." I say.  He smiles, handing me the case like he's handing me his newborn grandchild.  " It is my honor. Music is meant to be shared." And we are off. No straps on the case, I place it in my front basket, holding on with one hand, and we make our way downtown to the radio station. The headphones slip off one of my ears as the D.J. announces with a smile "And now, a special treat all the way from America..." 

       *

Last night we were privileged to play at the Horticulture Banquet, an evening event part of a series of workshops and lectures. We took our seats at a round table next to Mr. Alan Riley and among generations of fruit farmers. One valley over and what a different existance. 

First, there were awards for contributions to the field. One for a paper written about alternative methods of cherry growing, one to honor the life of an outstanding farmer and man. Here was a man who had spent his days with the earth. He was remembered for his integrity, resourcefulness, and hard work. 

Many long winded and incredibly funny jokes alongside updates on various families and farmers in the community. I felt a total outsider, and, I was. Then it was time for our Chinese American Folk fusion band. None of us were quite sure how such a crowd would feel about people spending so much time plucking strings and singing songs instead of working hard to grow something. But we began to play. And we were suddenly the same. Tapping toes, holding hands, nodding heads. 

Last, the Raffle. Way too many hats. We won a three-foot-tall stuffed animal dog. With a heart on it's foot.

As we climbed back in the car to head home, Dorius smiled. "Something about those Rileys. It just feels good to be around em." Honest, entirely present. You feel like they get something about the universe, about living, that you don't yet.

We were thirsty. So we pulled into a gas station, deliberating a good 5 minutes on who should go in, who should stay with sleeping baby and the instruments, and what beverages should be purchased (carbonation makes you thirstier, juices are too sweet, diet drinks are gross) . Then there we sat, chocolate dunford donuts and power aid at a Conoco station in Springville Utah, singing along to "don't speak" by No Doubt on the radio.