You say potato . . .

It's occasionally fun to be reminded that I now live in an agricultural town--especially when that reminder does not come in the form of fresh manure scents wafting in my nostrils or gap-toothed cowboys wearing Carhartt coveralls (which, so help me, I left Alaska to get AWAY from!)

The most recent reminder was a linguistic one. At a Sunday dinner potluck hosted today by Before, a group of us got into conversation about the term "borrow pit," which all the agricultural kids know about and use, and which I and the rest of the decadent bourgeoisie had never before heard of.

Apparently it refers to the deep indentations on the side of the road.

Me: Isn't that a ditch?

Aggies: No, because there's no water in it.

Me: So it's only a ditch if it has water?

Aggies: Or if it sometimes has water.

Me: Riiiiiight.

So when they think of ditches they think of irrigation. I think of ditches as "where the dead bodies of stupid girls who jog alone in the dead of night end up." Also as place for the disposing of handguns. (We had different upbringings, apparently). I asked how you spell it, but none of the aggie kids could remember ever seeing it in print so they don't know how it's spelled (which means it's probably spelled d-i-t-c-h). It's pronounced "borrow pit," though.

I decided to research this a bit when I got home.

First tried burrow pit, which, according to the United States Department of Agriculture, is a fancy word for hole someone dug up.

A borrow pit is "a pit from which construction material, as sand or gravel, is taken for use as fill at another location." Again . . . hole someone dug up.

Hit gold with barrow pit, which is a Western United States noun meaning roadside borrow pit dug for drainage purposes.

So, drainage . . . how is that different from a ditch, then?

Can anyone settle this for me? And are there any other names that you might use to label the place where your car goes when you swerve off the road to avoid a moose, cow, or ax-murderer?

In which I begin to heal

I went through my scrapbooks yesterday and came across some old pictures. They were too good not to share with the Internet, now that I've gotten my self-esteem back.

So.


Recognize this cutie? This would be me, looking hot with the white tights. Please note that thick white tights look cute on babies and little girls--not so much on the woman I saw at church last week who paired them with pink open-toed strappy heels. I stared transfixed at her feet for a full 30 seconds before I caught myself. "Wait, is that--? Nooo, it can't be. Only. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh yes it is. Oh. Crap. Crap I'm staring." Anyway, yes. I just want to bite those legs. The baby picture legs, not the church girl legs.


And then we have me at 7 years old. I feel slightly comforted now to realize that I have always had those baggy things under my eyes when I smile and am not slowly turning into a bridge-dwelling troll as I've begun to fear. This is what my mom had in mind those times when I was about 13 and she would sigh, "You were such a pretty little girl . . ."

Here we have 6th grade. This was the last picture of me with decent hair until college. I'm not even lying. How I mourn for what was about to happen to this poor unsuspecting girl . . .


. . . namely, this. It turned dark and curly. Only look how precious it is that I'm trying to style it the exact same way I had it last year. This continued for years--me not understanding what to do with the thatched afro suddenly residing on my head. I never did figure it out. It just grew until the sheer weight of it dragged the curl out.

Which brings us to the all-important Senior Picture. In which I'm wearing a sweater from the Anchorage Costco. This was back before Gap and Old Navy migrated to Alaska, and when Costo's clothing selection consisted of Carhartt overalls (boys wore them to my high school), armpit-high Calvin Klein jeans, and lumberjack sweaters like mine. It's probably the weight of my hair that's dragging my head back. I ended up with 3 different pictures, and I'm so sad that I can't find the one where I'm cuddling a fake tree stump.

My freshman year at BYU a rappelling incident resulted in an emergency chin-length haircut (figure eight + ponytail = not good). Will have to tell that story later. Then during my London study abroad I chopped it boy-short. And since no one ever believes me when I tell them how short it was, I've included a picture. I thought it was sassy. My darling b-in-law says I must never do that again if I want to embark on anything other than same-sex relationships. I make no promises, though.

Which brings us to today. It's kind of disorienting for me to get compliments on my hair now because I was teased about it and hated it for so long. I wonder how many people turn up at their high-school reunions for shallow reasons like that. "Hello everyone. I'm still single, live with roommates, and plan to adopt 7 cats any day now. Only HAVE YOU SEEN MY HAIR?"