Want some buddy passes?
UPDATE TO ORIGINAL POST:
The buddy passes do not reserve a seat. They are used as stand-by passes. Do not let that discourage you, however. Stand-by is the only way we fly and we fly all the time!
***********************************************************************************
We have 2 round-trip buddy passes on JetBlue that will expire at the end of April. The relatives who were going to use them will be unable to use them, so we are going to give them away.
We are having an essay contest. The best writing wins the passes. Judging is by Minna and myself. Here are the rules:
- Please write 500 words or less (if it is 501 words, that's ok).
- You must use the buddy passes before April 30th (if you can't, you can still enter, you just can't win). Please estimate when you would be able to use the passes in your entry.
- You have to pay buddy pass fees (from $15-$45, plus taxes each way) based on the length of the flight you end up taking.
- You don't have to come to NY to see us, but it would be nice to see you. JetBlue flies to these locations.
- The passes are only good on JetBlue.
- Please post your essay in the comments of this post. There is no limit to number of entries.
- Contest ends Sunday, April 6th, at midnight, PST. We will announce the winner Monday.
- An argument for or against any of these topics: Barbie, socks with sandals, reality TV, mayonnaise, white sheets.
- Why gourmet food is good.
- Getting up in the middle of the night.
- Getting your parents to use a computer.
- Embarrassment
Labels: contests
posted by Dan @ 4/02/2008
14 comments
14 Comments:
You guys are so nice and so creative. We love having you in our family.
Here's my first (there may be more) entry. Hope you get a good laugh. By the way, I'm not the woman in the story and we would try and use the passes on April 8th and return April 11th or 12th:
Fast and testimony meeting often times is filled with uplifting words that bring peace and joy to our hearts, that confirm our beliefs, and that encourage us to be better people. However, any member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints can probably think of several of the above mentioned meetings that have taken a deviation from the spiritual. It’s bound to happen when the microphone is left open to hundreds of people from all walks of life.
On one such occasion, a well intentioned woman arose from the congregation and began talking about what a challenging week she had just been through. She continued, making it known that it had been difficult because her husband had bruised his scrotum and therefore was unable to help lift children or groceries, and provide other assistance around the home. The congregation seemed a bit awed that she would share such intimate details about the nature of her husbands’ injury, but the meeting went on. As soon as she ended her testimony about gratitude and appreciating the small and simple things that our loved ones do for us, her husband arose. He walked to the pulpit and proceeded to say “I have on word to say . . . . STERNUM” and then returned to his seat.
Yes, fast and testimony meeting is meant to uplift and edify the saints, but sometimes it introduces some much needed humor into our lives.
be prepared to be wowed! we want to go to NYC! and seeing that jetblue is direct and my mom's united buddy passes are not... you get the picture. i am currently encouraging wyatt to get his creativity pumping. because if it were up to me - we'd never win!
so i just reread the post...and we can't use them before april 30th. lame. we're responsible adults now and have surrendered our time to our jobs. plus we're going to utah at the month so april is no good. but maybe we'll come up with something anyway...
April 8th-11th
The Story of my sax life.
In elementary school, the day came when I was asked if I wanted to join the band. As I sat there with the other volunteers in a large auditorium I awaited my turn to meet with Mrs. Schrader from the High-school. The interview was brief, she measured my hand, inspected my mouth and then pronounced the word “Sax-o-phone”. It sounded interesting, something I didn’t know.
The journey began. My older brother had been playing the trumpet from nearly two years and still could barely make a noise so my parents were perplexed and puzzled at the cacophony of squawks, squeaks, and honks that my super-shiny, brand new ‘sax-oh-phone’ could create. Their solution was simple, I played outside. At first I was confused, but soon I was proud and slightly humored by the duets I played with the neighbor’s basset hound. I spent hours in the backyard, under cover of the shed buffered by an acre of peach trees from the house.
Over time as the shine began to wear off my metallic middle-ear menace, I was allowed back into the house having calmed the unexplainable and unforgivable clamor that once arose out of my favorite thing. Although I missed it the neighbor was glad that the Basset-Bracan dog band had broken up.
My learning curve continued to climb along with my confidence and as I continued to played the shine wore thin, the scratches accumulated, and the dents appeared while my fingers flung fascinating rhythmical patterns upon the keys.
It was at this time that my college aged cousins introduced me to the music of John Coltrane. It was an epiphany, a wall of sound washed over my senses and whisked my musical soul to new levels until the final beat fell. JAZZ. I listened to the cassette of “My favorite things” until the tape broke and I bought the CD.
I took the recording to my music teacher and asked how to play like ‘Trane’. He told me if I wanted to reach after the Holy Grail, I would need to start by playing the Tenor Sax. I went to my parents and plead my case to which they consented. I picked out the Selmer Tenor Mark VI, the exact model that Coltrane played, a vintage 1964 saxophone whose production lasted only four short years because they ran out of the special metal to make it. It was the metal ore used that gave it the distinct, mellow, somber, rich tones that saxophone players and jazz listeners loved.
It took several years, well into college and after I had started my own Bracan Jazz Quartet that I first publicly attempted to play a John Coltrane tune. I am not Coltrane. My journey continued. The saxophone was my symbol for the remaining years of college. And yet for all my playing I could not match my skill to the level of lost lacquer found on the finger pads of my musical companion. Even today I will pick up my old friend, reach for the Holy Grail by dropping out the tune ‘I’m Old Fashioned’ and say to myself “not yet”.
Dear Dan and Minna, Rachel and I are excited about the opportunity to visit NYC. We would come next week, catch a flight Tuesday night and fly back to SLC Friday. If we win the prize we assumed we would stay with y’all since we don’t know anybody else in NYC. If your comment section becomes overloaded feel free to delete our previous comments. Nevertheless, on with the contest.
Road Kill:
On road trips with my dad I learned to always keep an eye on the road for road kill. The road kill we watched for wasn’t the animal kind flattened by 18-wheelers, but stray black rubber bungee cords fallen from off the semi-trucks traveling the highways, interstate and byways.
When a road kill was spotted it was our practice to shout “road kill, road kill” and my dad would pull the family 12 passenger van to the side of the road to allow the spotter to run back the quarter mile to inspect whether the road kill was treasure or trash. Regardless of the outcome we kept a keen eye out for true road kill.
Although our main find were the black rubber bungee’s occasionally other items such as hats, bags, even a bicycle once. These items required closer safety inspection by the telling eye of dad, the road kill King. Road kill to my dad is a general term that relates to any useful item that has fallen by the wayside. The wayside is also very general and can include not only any type of road, but any path for travel on foot, bike, horse, kayak, raft, or boat. To this day on cold days my dad will wear a felt lined, nylon shelled, rubber billed, helmet like looking hat that he found on the Colorado River in 1982. Most of his success has come from the Burke-Gillman trail; jackets, helmets, bike lights, glove(s), bike water-bottles. Once retrieving an item he keeps an eye open for the owner and gladly returns the lost article, either way he helps keep the trail clean.
Of myself I have a shorter less impressive road kill list, but it does include a skateboard, cowboy hat, and electric guitar cable among other items. Just the other day while I was riding along the causeway to Antelope Island, I spotted road kill. I waited to see if it was still there on my return along the causeway. When I finally stopped I found a high quality camping sleep pad. If I were my dad, I would have tucked it under my arm and finished the remaining eight miles to the car. Instead, I placed it along the road side for some other road scavenger to claim. I didn’t return afterwards because I would have had to pay another park entry fee for a car, so I let it go.
Road kill is interesting in its self. It has been lost and the chances of finding the original owner are slim to none, unless there is a lost and found the item can be taken to. Otherwise it is our duty to adopt this useful roadside litter, keep our roads clean, and return to use items that are still viable or in other words recycle. This is a worth while endeavor and something everyone should participate in.
I can't use the passes, but I have a hard time resisting writing!
I think I’m a pretty good mom: who doesn’t? But I have to admit to my fair share of less-than-glorious moments—you know, when you start to cast a nervous glance or two to check for onlookers who might report you to social services. I try to avoid these moments, and find myself chanting Seinfeld’s, “serenity now” more often than I’d like to admit. Still, I like to think that there is grace in these moments, something that says, look, it’s not all bad—something has gone right somewhere. I think the littlest bit of grace at such moments is worth two times an abundance in the best of times.
My favorite of these moments came a few years back, and out of earshot of all government workers.
I had two children at the time, but the third was heavy on my womb and threatening to bust the seatbelt stretched to its limit over my ripe belly. I was too close to my due date, coughing my lungs up regularly with pneumonia, and clenching my teeth against the pain this caused to the rib I cracked from so much hacking. We were in the process of selling our home, and the strain was pretty obvious. Not the best bit of my life, by any measure.
My five and three year olds seemed totally untroubled by my obvious physical handicap, except the often expressed concern my daughter felt at the possibility of growing to be as fat as I was. We were all three in the car. It was a typical July afternoon in Sacramento, which means it was hot, and the kids were in fine form (which means that they were hollering at each other at a speed and pitch which I feel is likely the number one cause of car accidents. I mean, drowsy? I don’t think so.)
Something snapped inside me, and it was unfortunately not my water sac. With a sudden burst of energy, I jerked the wheel and screeched to a halt beside the curb, screaming at the top of my lungs, “YOU LITTLE SHITS, SHUT UP!”
I’m not prone to swearing, and hate nothing worse than to hear filth coming from the mouths of babes, so in the ensuing silence I found myself wincing and sort of pleading with the powers of the universe. Can we just rewind? But in the gathering silence, I could feel Justice coming.
My son was the first to break the silence. In a hushed whisper that was definitely more accusatory than frightened he said, “Mom, you said a bad word.” My guilty heart landed with a thud on the baby hogging my middle, and then—grace.
“You said shut up.”
Oops, that was Courtney, not Raelynn:)
MAYONNAISE: AN EPIC HAIKU
in precisely 500 words
Mere five hundred words!
How can one describe the soul
Of Pure Mayonnaise?
Detractors smirk, sneer.
“It’s only eggs, eggs, eggs, eggs…
And a little oil.”
O shortsightedness!
You have lost the true essence
The one Sauce of Life.
But let us begin
At the very beginning
So that all may see.
Then follow, perhaps
Through this epic tale of Sauce
And find meaning here.
Consider bacon,
With bread, lettuce, tomatoes.
Would you eat it dry?
Foul curse of dryness!
The drought of arid bacon
Cracks upon the tongue.
Desiccation reigns!
The desert of worn out bread
Parches the spirit.
A dearth of fluid!
Lettuce wilts; tomatoes curl.
Languish, O Sandwich.
But hold, misery!
Could this be made edible?
Hark! True Sauce appears.
Mayonnaise has come!
Sandwiches revived, restored
To gastric glory.
Hunger – now sated.
Appetite – now satisfied.
Balance is restored.
BLTs alone –
While important, certainly –
Are not the limit.
Think of your options!
Lunchmeat, hamburgers, tuna!
Sandwiches galore.
OK, they may say.
We’re convinced on the sandwich.
But really, what more?
So much, so much more.
We have only just begun.
Mayonnaise spreads far…
Its creamy goodness
May be found in prime sauces
Throughout space and time.
Tartar sauce for fish
Ranch, Russian, Thousand Island
All based in mayo.
That’s right, even Ranch
That staple of salads here:
Mayo at the heart.
Remoulade – had it?
Oh man, it totally rocks.
Creamy, soft, yellow.
You just have not lived
Until you’ve had remoulade
On Danish hot dogs.
Yes, I said hot dogs.
It transforms a sketchy meat
Into a delight.
What’s that – you’re in Mex?
No prob: get mayonesa,
Mayonnaise with lime.
Just as you’d expect
It combines cream with a kick.
Fish tacos, ¡olé!
Swanky mayonnaise?
Sophisticated mayo?
It’s called aïoli.
What of aïoli?
Garlic makes this one so nice.
Savory mayo.
Served by the finest,
You might pay for that umlaut.
But it’s so worth it.
And the list goes on.
We must not forget pink sauce:
Ketchup and mayo.
Simple. No umlauts.
(I guess you could write ‘pïnk saüce.’
But it’s not thrash rock.)
Pink sauce, served with fries,
Provides that sweet, tangy flair
Only the West knows.
Incidentally,
Have you ever tried pink sauce
On a burrito?
It’s also tasty
On burgers, chicken, and more.
It defines ‘dang good.’
Delicious itself,
Critical part of much more,
Of course copies thrive.
Yes: Miracle Whip.
This insidious substance
Sits near mayo’s shelf.
Oh, come on, some say.
Are the two so different?
Sauce is just sauce, no?
No! Just consider.
The color: stark, aloof white
Lacks the creamy warmth.
It smacks of cold greed
Clinical, merciless, cruel.
(Just like its source – Kraft!)
The taste: tangy? Ha!
Try mangy. No grace or style.
More like white jello.
Greasy and smelly –
And just try to make pink sauce.
Not the same at all.
So next time you shop,
Try Hellmann’s (known as Best Foods
West of the Rockies).
And transport yourself
To those fabled lands of taste.
Mayonnaise: PERFECT.
ps: if deemed worthy, we'd use the tickets between the 14th and 28th.
Hello! This entry is from Elizabeth Vogelmann. We are not technologically savvy, so we don't have a google or blogger account. Posting this anonymously seemed the easiest route. I hope it works!
Thanks for the opportunity! It was fun to have an excuse to write something. We would use the tickets next weekend.
Growing up, the little boy next door was the quintessential American kid who kept us smiling with his innocent antics. One day, smelling a pungent cologne, my mom checked on the boys. Confidently, our neighbor Thomas looked up and proudly patted his neck and cheeks. “Oh. That’s just some of my Dad’s chlorine.” Another day, we were working together in our front yard when Thomas came out to his front porch. With utter exasperation he called to my brother, “Wendel! Why don’t you go inside? I’m trying to call you!”
Ahh, the blissful days of childhood. For me, it was exploring on bikes, catching lizards (or their tails as was more likely the case), leisure afternoons curled up with a book, swimming, leaving cookies on someone’s doorstep, visiting grandparents, playing with cousins, sledding, bed time stories from Dad. The list goes on. Such memories. Such joy.
Then came the natural thing – growing up. It was always an adventure. Life followed in typical order – high school, college, marriage. The next logical step was children. Oh, the changes. Tonight, bathing our three children, I looked down to discover not only toys, but mysterious brown floaties. Hmmm. Besides catching balls, I am also getting good at catching last night’s dinner. I cannot remember the last time I slept all night. Being awakened by screaming girls has become a nighttime ritual. And, what is it you are supposed to do when your child has a wailing, wet-noodle temper tantrum in the middle of a busy sidewalk? But, maybe that is better than making rhymes for duck and luck at Grandma's house . . . or wondering why my children are assuring me that they aren’t “doing anything bad like smokes or drugs.” My mother wisely remained mum about this unflattering side of parenthood.
But she also could not have conveyed the moments that make up for it, like the big, chocolate-smeared smiles. Or the time we tried to copy Olive Garden’s black tie pie and had to catch the top half of the cake as it slid off. Rain boots have never been more fun. Meltdowns are easily outweighed by the loving, upturned eyes of my child offering a simple, “I love you” or the priceless warmth of my little one snuggling down into me. And nothing is more heavenly than my peaceful, sleeping children.
As my children and I have excitedly watched spring unfold, promising new life and fresh hope, I find they have offered me new life and hope watching them unfold in the springs’ of their lives. The summer of my life is full and busy, as summer should be. I have heard the fall harvest of grandparenthood is beyond description and the peaceful setting of winter is a beauty all in its own. The circle of life brims with adventure, storms and sun both. Yet the most beautiful rainbows masterly weave the ups and downs of life into one amazing miracle, which I would not want to miss.
Wearing sandals with socks is an interesting phenomena fad that hit full stride in the late 1990's. To be sure of the combination under question we will begin at the origin which consisted of two types of sandals and one type of socks (all others are variations of this original odd couple) that include Birkenstock and Teva sandals and REI rag-wool socks.
As soon as the fad hit the NYC streets fashion guru’s had a field day objecting at the illogical combination. Socks in sandals... Who would ever wear such a thing?! These were more statements than questions. The protestation was plain enough with the use of warm weather sandals with cool weather socks. This was a direct opposition to proper use of form and function in their eyes, the conflict of interest screamingly obvious. Supposedly, let me explain.
The early 90’s fad of Birkenstock and Teva sandals grew like wild fire. California and even southern Oregon have many days a year of appropriate sandal weather; sunny and warm. Yet the citizens of the Pacific Northwest are not as fortunate and not wanting to be left out quickly bought at least one of the two types of sandal. The next day when they went to wear them they were faced with a dilemma which they face everyday…the weather. Northwest weather in the morning is usually overcast with a chance of rain, or showers, or sun-breaks. In fact the weatherman who omits one of the above mentioned is not thorough in his work.
The Pacific Northwest native in resourceful response simply pulled out one of their many wool socks, of which rag-wool was the most popular of the time, and donned their new sandals. We can call it functional fashion or adaptive apparel. Either way the anti-fad was born.
Human migratory patterns spread the anti-fad across the country. Yet, outside of the unique Puget Sound weather this mismatch in function was unexplainable. Unknowingly and inappropriately people misused the anti-fad to extend their sandal season beyond its natural extent. The ill used evolution brought scorn from those professing Doctorate’s in Dress.
Unfortunately, Seattle has been the victim of many copycat crimes and each infraction takes a living functioning thing from its natural habitat where when the hype and dust have settled after the fad it is put in a nickel peep show of improper garb. Other 90’s fads victimized is the flannel shirt, khaki cut-offs, Dr. Martin combination that was the inspiration for an entire genre of music.
In the birthplace of their natural habitat, socks and sandals have a mutually symbiotic relationship. It is this Seattle summer that has been the springboard for many of the rule breaking fashion fads, believe it or not.
Once upon a time I was a shy, clingy, little girl . . . . then my parents strapped skis on my feet. I was four years old and suddenly found freedom like never before. Although I was instructed by the ski school to not stray too far from the group, I couldn’t help but bomb down the first steep slope I came upon.
This was the beginning of many memories made on the slopes. Like the time my dad led our entire family into deep powder and the tassel on my little sisters hat was only visible trace of her. Or the time my siblings and I talked my dad into skiing down an expert only run and I fearfully watched him topple down the slopes. Or the time my eyes got sunburn shut after a bright day on the slopes. The list could go on and on.
As our family grew older, those family fun ski outings somehow got combined with teachers quorum activities. My dad, after being released as the bishop, was called as the teachers quorum advisor. He took it upon himself to personally teach every boy that filed through his quorum how to ski. This required massive fundraising during the summer months in order to make sure each boy was not only equipped to ski, but also had money for lift tickets. So not only did I spend my high school years skiing with “the boys,” but I also did quite a bit of chopping, loading, and delivering firewood.
“Skiing with the boys” didn’t end in high school. In college, I decided that the only way I could really afford to keep up my skiing habit was to join the ski patrol, which happened to be male dominant. That didn’t stop me. I learned valuable first aid and tobogganing skills and enjoyed my time spent helping others on the slopes. As my college career came to a close, so did my patrolling days. However, my skiing days didn’t end when I turned in my red jacket.
I was fortunate enough to marry a man that shares my love for slip sliding down the mountain. Several weeks ago we were able to put our one year old girl on skis. It was such a joy to see her face light up as she got moving down the hill. Grandpa would have been so proud. Who knows if she will grow to love skiing like I do, but I’m glad she is at least getting the chance.
To a nail, lost a war.(wow gold) In a particular press to see(wow power leveling) such a foreign Minyan: In order to (wow gold)receive a nail, we have lost a Mati Tie In order to(wow power leveling) get a piece of Mati Tie, we have lost a Pi Junma In order to get(wow gold) a Pijun Ma, we (wow power leveling)have lost a(wow gold) jockey; To be a jockey, we lost a war victory. This is the first (Rolex)under general Minyan At(World of Warcraft gold) first glance, but careful consideration, you(wow power leveling) will find that it contains a layer of the important essence of life: learn to give up, have a maturity. To a Mati Tie and eventually lead to (wow gold)lose a war, this is not know how early to give up the consequences.
Wise said: two disadvantages of the value comes light, the right to( World of Warcraft gold)
choose the two-phase benefit. A folder to be the tail of the gecko already know how to give up the tail, the preservation of(wow power leveling) life, let alone we are full of (power leveling)the wisdom of mankind? » ! In everyone's life, always (powerleveling)have in the face of choice, a choice, there is bound to give up, we have to learn is to( power leveling)pay a painful price, to give up local interests and preserve the overall interests. In chess, there are not "abandoning single-car" this trick? » As the saying goes: not old, not new. Sometimes, even (power leveling)the most precious things to know in good time to give up. When you( powerleveling)graduated from junior high school, in the face of a sincere friendship, you(powerleveling )will Yiyibushe. But think back, and only bid farewell to middle school, high school usher in a(rs gold )new life, can meet new friends. The recent shift is not on this? » Finally, a celebrity's life motto In( gold wow)conclusion:
Life is like theater, everyone is their own lives in the only director. Only Institute of choice, people will know how to give up the Chewu life, Xiaokan life, the life Habitat has Seasky.
Post a Comment
<< Home