Monday, December 22, 2014

Raise Both Of Your Arms, Sir.

It's probably time to update this blog. My cousin, Ryan, just got back from NY and stopped by last weekend. One of the first questions he asked was, "So do you have any new one-arm stories?"

Blogging fail.

Yes, yes we do. I have just been a slacker. 

So I will be combining my Festival of Trees recap with a classic one-arm tale.

If you just want the one-arm story, skip to the end. If you aren't a grinch, read about our experience helping out the kids at Primary Children's Hospital.

Festival of Trees happened this month. My mom made the journey from Sac-Town to help me out. I was ridiculously sick for the whole event, so I did not get to enjoy it like I would have liked to. 

My amazing Aunt Kim came and dominated the decorating. Seriously, I don't know what we would have done without her. My grandparents were also champions. My grandma spent hours painting nutcrackers with me and setting up the display. My mother-in-law, Mary, and my sister-in-law, Monique, wired all of the ornaments on. My brother Derek and Porter showed up for like the last five seconds. Porter gets credit for hooking us up with a signed football from the BYU football team, signed game programs, a signed basketball from the BYU basketball team, as well as game-worn cleats and gloves. Derek just gets credit for being in the pics:)

The process went down like so:

I'm all about that base...of the tree.

Getting our fluff on.

Wire machines.

Kim the ribbon master...two years running.

Comes all the way out to Utah just to serve those in need.

Grandpa just had back surgery, but he did help with the painting (as you can see it made it to his forehead).

Coming along....

Thanks to Porter and his sweet hook-ups with BYU football, we had cleats, gloves, and face masks.

Grandma was all about the details.

Tree topper.

The nutcrackers Grandma and I spent hours painting.

So. Much. Blue.

Aunt Kim still doing her thing.

My decorating crew.

Lots of BYU gear/memorabilia.

A Cougar fan's dream.

The floor display.

Our poster contraption.

Porter and I with the finished product...and the BYU shirts weren't even planned. #winning

My hero.

The whole gang.

Once again it was a success. There were a few people who fought over it when it came to the auction. It sold for a LOT of money (like seven times the amount we spent to make the tree). It would not have been possible without those who contributed (both physically and financially). 

The day after opening night, Porter had to travel out to Philly. He was doing one of his inspirational speaking gigs.

In order to get on the plane, Porter went through security. Instead of going through the traditional metal detector, Porter went through one of these bad boys:

I know my last blog was on airport staff as well, and I promise I'm not trying to pick on them, it just seems they struggle with people who are a little different. 

Porter walked into it and faced the sticker showing him how to stand. He spread his feet apart and lifted up his arm just like the example shown on the sticker image in front of him. 

The TSA worker standing on the other side started to get frustrated with him when she only saw one arm lifted above his head.

TSA Worker: "Sir, could you please stand exactly like the example on the sticker?"

Porter: "Ummm, I am."

TSA Worker: "No sir, you need to put both arms above your head."

Porter: "I only have one."

Now the TSA worker thinks Porter is messing with her.

TSA Worker: "What? Sir, remove your jacket and your hat."

Porter does what he's asked.

TSA Worker: "Oh. I guess you only do have one arm. Ok, go ahead..."

One day those airport staffers will get it right. Today is just not that day.

Until next time,


Thursday, November 20, 2014

Emergency Exit Rejects

The past couple of weeks have been special. Two Sunday’s ago, we were on our way to a baby blessing. Porter was driving and I was in the passenger’s seat. I was looking up the address of the church building we needed to go to when my phone slipped from my fingers and fell in between the seat and the center console. I unbuckled my seat belt so I could reach under my chair and grab it. When I looked up, Porter was slamming on the breaks and our car wasn’t stopping. We slid right into the middle of the intersection and crashed into a car that was turning left. To brace myself, I had put my hands out on the dash only to be met by the exploding airbag.

The next thing I remember was a lady opening my door and trying to get me out of the car. I heard her say something about smelling smoke and I needed to get out. My neck and chest felt like they were on fire. When I finally came to my senses, I got out of the car as people started telling me I needed to get to a hospital. I kept telling everyone I was fine, especially since I couldn’t really say what hurt on me at the time.

I eventually made my way to the doctor. The airbag broke my finger and sprained my wrist. I always imagined airbags being soft pillow-like contraptions, but they are the exact opposite. Since I was leaning forward in my seat, the airbag went straight into my chest and burned the skin on my neck and chest. It sucked, but I’m pretty grateful it wasn’t worse. Like I said, I wasn’t securely fastened to my seat, so I could have easily flown through the front window.

Our car was totaled. I’m currently wearing a ridiculous contraption on my wrist and finger (which I only plan on wearing for another week…two tops). I promise there is a reason for this ridiculously long injury update. The weekend following our accident, Porter and I made our way to Granite Bay via Southwest for my baby brother's "Senior Night" and to go to Apple Hill (obvi).

We got on the first plane and looked for an available seat. We found one and started to put our bags in the overhead compartments. I was struggling because I tend to over pack, so my bag was super heavy, and I only had my one hand to lift with (since the other was in a brace).

Upon noticing I was having a difficult time, Porter started to help me. The flight attendant was standing right next to us, sighing in frustration as we were “holding up the line.” I tried to joke about the situation, making a comment about how there are only two hands between Porter and I (I guess I need to temporarily change the name of the blog to two arms, two people, one good story?). The flight attendant didn’t find it very funny. Since she was on my right side, I just figured maybe she didn’t see that I had a busted left arm, so she missed the joke.

The flight attendant continued to provide us with unwanted attention. I ultimately assumed the flight attendant was just grumpy; after all, it is a tough job.  But in reality, she was panicking inside. It turns out, we had sat down in the emergency exit row and she was trying to find a way to tell us we couldn’t sit there.

She stared at Porter’s right side (he was in the isle seat), and frantically tried to come up with a way to tell us we would have to move. By law, you have to be “physically able” to assist other passengers in the event of an emergency, which requires two able hands.

I could literally see her racking her brain for a nice way to tell us we needed to find another seat.

I started to giggle, and in an effort to conceal my laughter, I gave the flight attendant the perfect scapegoat.

“You two can’t sit here,” the flight attendant finally blurted out.

“Why not?” I asked (with a sassy tone most likely).

*Yes, I did push her buttons, mostly because I wanted to see her botch an explanation. Too cruel? Absolutely. But it’s a perk of the situation, and I fully intend on using all of them.

“Well you can’t sit here (insert silent pause here)…because you have a hurt hand,” she explained.

“Oh, but he can?” I refuted, pointing at Porter.

She paused for a second, fumbling though her words. I thought about stepping in and ending the awkwardness, but where is the fun in that?

“HAAAAA!” Porter exclaimed for an obnoxiously long period of time while simultaneously putting the flight attendant out of her misery, “Looks like you are the handicapped one now!”

Touché, flight attendant, touché.

We have since learned about the magic of pre-boarding to avoid these types of encounters. Turns out, all we have to do it walk up to the counter, say Porter doesn’t have an arm, and we get on the plane before the fancy business select folks do.

Until next time,


*Remember there are only 10 more days to donate to our tree! We just passed the 50% mark of our goal and we could use any and all help we can get! Thank you for all the love and support!

Monday, November 3, 2014

At It Again

Jack and Sally went out on the town this Halloween. Aside from scaring our niece, Mary, I would say it was a success.

And now that Halloween is over, we can get to the good stuff.

A couple of weeks ago, my grandma and I made a trip up to Primary Children's Hospital. There was a meeting for the Festival of Trees (read about our experience last December here), and she was kind enough to go with me. I was still a little on the fence about donating a tree to this wonderful cause. Not because I didn't want to, but because I was a little hesitant about asking for help (again).

Following the meeting, we started to make our way out of the hospital. We waited for the elevator to get up to our floor and when the doors opened up, we could see a little four-year-old girl sitting in a wheelchair. She was hooked up to several machines, needles pressed into her tiny arms, and tears stained her pale cheeks.

Grandma and I got in the elevator after our little encounter with that beautiful girl. After pressing the button to return to the bottom floor, I looked at my grandma who was starting to cry.

"And that's why you need to do this...," she whispered. "Because of the little children who need your help."

So we are donating a tree again, and I couldn't be more excited about it. Last year, we donated a tree in appreciation of all the things PCH did for Porter following his accident. This year we are doing a BYU sports-themed tree (because Porter works for the football team, so we can get some sweet stuff) and also to honor the biggest Cougar fan we know.

And since I know he is definitely reading this, I might as well let him know via the blog.

Dad, this year's tree is in honor of you. Despite receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis, you never quit on us. I will never forget that devastating phone call (which came just weeks after I got married) and thinking even though I had moved onto a new stage in my life, I still needed my Dad. You went through chemo with a smile on your face (at least in front of us kids) and always remained positive. Even when it appeared you would lose that fight, you battled back. If only the BYU football team had a little more "Howard" in 'em... :)

I have had a few people ask me how they can donate and so we have set up a site again. You can find it here. We truly appreciate any and all help we can get.

If you have any problems following the link, please let me know. You can also copy and paste the below link into your browser:

All money raised will go towards our tree and if there is any left over, we will donate the remainder of it to the hospital like we did last year.

No child is ever turned away from PCH due to inability to pay. Funds raised at events like Festival of Trees are a huge blessing to families and children during their time of need. Remember to come out and see all of the decorated trees December 3rd-6th at the Sandy Expo Center.

We truly appreciate all of your help. This will be the last year we will have the opportunity to do this, so we want to go out with a bang!

Monday, October 13, 2014

Costume Crisis

Ok, so it's not really a crisis. I'm just a fan of alliteration. We can't decide on Halloween costumes this year...too many options. And by too many, I mean just 4. This is what we have come up with and we want our friends/family help to decide. Here are the contenders:

1. Jack and Sally from the Nightmare Before Christmas

Sorta creepy, but it is Halloween. Rag tag Sally is known for losing her limbs.

Pros: It's a classic.
Cons: Porter has to be a girl. Again.

2. Captain America and the Winter Soldier

 Who doesn't love the captain and his BFF in action?

Pros: I get to be Captain America. All the reason I need.
Cons: We have to use the freaky prosthetic arm as a prop.

3. Nemo and Dory

Who doesn't love this Disney Pixar classic? We are worried people won't understand the reference though.

Pros: It works because Nemo has a "hurt fin." And it's the right one. Totes perf.
Cons: I was a nautical-type character last year.

4. Captain Hook and the Crocodile

Pros: Another animal costume? Yes please.
Cons: Too cliche? Maybe.

So there you have it. Leave a comment on FB or the blog post directly and let us know which "one-arm" themed costume you would like to see us rock on Halloween. Happy Fall!

Just as a reminder, we were Soul Surfer and a shark last year. Topping that may be difficult.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Condom Controversy

Now that I am a controversial writer, I have decided it's perfectly acceptable to start telling privately humiliating stories on this blog.

I have been dying from the world's worst cold this last week. I can't seem to beat it...and I have tried everything...even apple vinegar (which literally burned my insides).

Despite dying from a terrible cold, I decided to suck it up for my intramural flag football game. I would have to be hospitalized before I would miss one of those.

Before going to the game, I asked Porter to take me to Wal Mart so I could stock up on drugs.

*Disclaimer* If you get weirded out by the word "tampon" like my little brothers, now may be a good time to quit reading. Full disclosure, I'm open about this stuff and things are about to get weird.

Also, if tampons freak you out, it's time to get over it. The reality is mother nature leaves a special little present every month for women to endure for a few days. It's good times.

Back to our tale. Porter and I are at Wal Mart in the pharmacy section. I'm literally picking up every bottle of NyQuil I can find. Then I remembered, I need to get tampons. 

This is actually out of the ordinary because I have a neat little stick stuck in my arm that serves as my birth control. As a result, I have only had a couple of periods over the last two and half years. TMI? I don't care.

So, I have one arm carrying all of my meds, and the other hand is holding a box of tampons. We start to walk out of the pharmacy section, when Porter decides to act like a 12 year old boy and giggle at the condoms on the shelves.

He picks up a box of them and exclaims (quite loudly), "Car, check this one's ribbed!"

Now I have started in on the teenage humor and teased, "Well nothing gets past a trojan!"

We start busting up laughing as we are standing in front of the condom section. Then Porter glances down the aisle.

Busted. We have been caught...with condom in hand.

There is a huge man standing there, staring at us checking out the condoms.

"Oh, hey...." Porter says to this large man.

Embarrassed by the fact that he is holding a condom in his hand and giggling with his wife, Porter tried to diffuse the situation.

"Carlie, this _____ _________, he's on the football team. _____ _______, this is my wife, Carlie."

(Porter works for BYU Football, so he knows all of the players and sees these guys every day in the locker room. Every. Day.)

The football player, trying to be polite, sticks out his hand to shake mine. I reach for his, only to realize I have giant box of tampons in my hand. Now I'm trying to juggle cold and cough medicine with my feminine products in order to shake this guy's hand who just caught me and my husband "shopping" for rubbers.


I started to stutter about how we were just in the pharmacy section to buy medicine...not birth control materials, but it just felt uncomfortable. After I shook his hand, I just turned and walked away leaving Porter to deal with the situation (while still holding those tender little specimen).

Moral of the story: Only stand in front of the condom section when you are ACTUALLY purchasing them. We have never bought one, which made attempting to convince this football player we weren't about to get frisky all the more complicated.

As we walked out, Porter turned to me and said, "You know I have never really been embarrassed before...until just now."

Until next time,


And in honor of this embarrassing story, here is an embarrassing photo (and I only share this for my parent's amusement):

Thursday, September 4, 2014

The Hater Has Returned

Guys, she came back. It's true, she actually returned. I about died laughing when I saw the message in my inbox. 

At first I thought it had to be a mistake. After all, I haven't posted a blasted thing on this blog for weeks.

She must just randomly stalk me every couple of months or so. 

Without further adieu, I present to you my favorite hater and her lovely words of affection:

Carlie, (she spelled my name right!)

I can't even began (I think you used the wrong tense here. Don't worry I will help you..."begin") to describe how upset I was to find that you are still blogging (best believe it). I thought I had made myself perfectly clear in my first email that I do not appreciate your stories (nah, you made yourself clear...I just don't really care). You think it is funny to post my email to your site? (Yes, yes I do) You're (*your) stories are more offensive then (*than) anything I have ever read before. (I take it you don't do much reading or writing, so I'm not too hurt by that) Not only are you're (*your...I know that one is tricky) words offensive, but I recently saw a video you made where you are singing a rap song. I know Porter and he would never listen to that music if you hadn't introduced it to him. (OMG I'M THE WORST) It's sad to watch all of this. (So sad) I'm sure you will end up posting my concerns to your page once again (Yes, yes I will). I sincerly (*Sincerely? Come on, how do you even mess that up? Do you not know what that red squiggly line under misspelled words means?) hope you will reconsider blogging in the future.

Thank you,

Mrs. ________

I could not wait to respond. My thoughts were flowing y'all.

My response:

Dear Mrs. ________

I greatly appreciate your email. I love to hear from people reading my blog. Your email has truly touched me. As per your request, I have decided to reconsider my blogging habits. It appears that I do not do enough of it. I promise to post more frequently. 

I really hope you can see the true purpose of my blog. I do not mean to offend, I simply want to put a smile on my readers' faces. Life is too short and we should spend our time focusing on what brings us happiness. Otherwise, we will end up bitter and spend our days shooting off grammatically incorrect emails to those who are trying to enjoy this life.

With love,

Your favorite blogger, Carlie

For those of you who believe this was a little harsh, let me inform you that she has sent me more than a couple of emails. In her previous attempts to shut down my blog, I have responded with grace.

Also, if you have not seen our "inappropriate" lip sync, I have included it below. You're welcome.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Fertile Myrtle

I have been terrible at this. It's not a lack of stories, but a lack of time to write them down. Porter is speaking literally everyday this week (which includes his birthday), so I have a moment to write down a few words.

Summer flag football started up and it's serious business. I won my very first intramural championship t-shirt in flag football over the winter, so the chase for t-shirt number two is on. (I know for sure I will get a second one with THE Maggie Ellett joining me here in Provo come August.)

Anyways, we held a football practice. We were running some plays and decided to add a defense to the mix. Porter volunteered his services. He decided to guard me and be a dip like Richard Sherman the whole time. Needless to say, when you are a punk, bad things happen to you.

Remember how I talked about my ring buying experience when Porter and I were getting married? It was a disaster. Well, Porter decided to put me through it AGAIN. While playing Richard Sherman style defense in a girls' flag-football practice, Porter lost his second wedding ring. Yes, that means I would be buying a THIRD ring in TWO years of marriage. I was a little upset, but not entirely surprised.

We got to the mall right after practice to make sure we were getting the right sized ring. I decided I was going to order a cheap one on Amazon because it was no longer worth purchasing a nice one. Besides, Porter's only requirement in a ring was it had to be "black" otherwise it was too "girly."

We got to some random jewelry store. They had two people working there, a guy and a girl. The girl offers to size Porter for a ring, so I tried to make casual conversation with the other guy. He started showing me all of these expensive rings, which I was not going to buy, and then the following happened:

Me: "I'm not really interested in spending a lot of money on a wedding band."

Jewelry guy: "Oh...ok."

He was a little hesitant and I could tell he thought I was a cheap wife for not wanting to spend a little bit of money on my husband's symbol of marriage. Naturally, I decided to elaborate.

Me: "Yeah, it's just this is our third one in two years."

Jewelry guy: "Well congratulations!"

Congratulations? For what? I don't know, maybe that's some kind of record.

Me: "Well that's not exactly something to be proud of..."

Immediately, the jewelry guy's face twists. He looks at me completely horrified. I wonder what the heck his problem is. He starts glaring at me in a judgmental way. I figured it was because I looked like white trash in my cut-off tank and running shorts while also dawning a sweaty stench from practice.

After a moment of awkward silence, he finally expresses his ill-feelings toward me.

Jewelry guy: "It's not my business, but I think children are something to be VERY proud of."

What the? Children? When did we start talking about kids?

Me: "Wait, what? I was talking about wedding rings..."

Jewelry guy: "Ohhh, that makes more sense."

Not quite sure how the convo turned from wedding rings to my ability to produce offspring in a ridiculously short period of time, but it happened.

Porter is forbidden to lose this new wedding ring. I can't handle jewelry stores, or their employees, any longer.

Until next time,


Monday, May 19, 2014


So Boston happened. Pure magic. Over 1 million spectators and 36,000 runners. It was nuts. My mom, my sister Rylee, and Porter all made the trek out with me. I finished in 3:33.52....not my best time, but considering the fact that I ended up running 28 miles instead of 26.2, I'll take it.

The day before, we were out touring Boston. The NHL playoffs are going down, and those Boston folks take their hockey seriously. As for me, I am no longer a hockey fan (for obvious reasons like towing/police mishaps). A Bruins game had just finished, so there were thousands of fans out cruising the streets in their black and yellow. My sister, while an avid football fan, does not appreciate hockey...or baseball. Sad stuff. She is in the middle of a story when she notices all of the hockey fans sporting their replica jerseys.

Rylee: "What city do the Bruins play for?"

Seriously Ry, we are in Boston. 

Porter: "Ummm, Boston..."

We all bust up laughing at her.

Rylee: "Well how am I supposed to know, I don't watch baseball!"

Shame. SO. MUCH. SHAME. 

I turned to my mom and said, "How does it feel to have raised that?" 

I shouldn't have teased my mom over Ry's momentary sports lapse. Turns out, I'm not very good at teaching kids myself. We have learned that kids, when they turn about 3, finally figure out Porter is missing his arm. 

Just yesterday, my cousin Gibbs noticed it for the first time. Instead of telling him what happened, my Aunt Trish told him that her other son took Porter's arm. Little Gibbs marched out of the room with his hands on his hips determined to bring back that missing limb. Pretty soon, he got distracted and found jumping on the trampoline to be way more fun than figuring out where Porter's arm actually was.

I wish I would have figured out the art of distraction earlier. Just a week before Gibbs' inquiry, my niece Lillian asked me how Uncle Porter lost his arm. I tried breaking down a brachial plexus injury as best as I could to her. She nodded her head when I finished up, so I thought she understood. I was pretty proud of myself for explaining such a complex subject to a small child.

Not so fast, Car. You aren't as good as you thought.

Lillian had a little cousin come up to her right after we finished talking. 

Cousin: "Wait, Lilly...what happened to his arm?"

Lillian raises her little hands up and curls her fingers to make claws. 

Lillian: "Monsters. They ate his arm off."

Close enough.

For all of you parentals out there...any advice on how to handle this in real life? One day, in the far off future, we will have our own youngsters asking us where Dad's arm is and I don't know if it's a good idea to let them tell the kids at school that a monster ate it. (Sorry Nancy, I may have already messed things up for Lilly...)

Until next time,


Monday, April 7, 2014


I am exactly two weeks away from one of the most exciting days of my LIFE. It seems strange to be so excited to put my body through something as strenuous as a marathon, but I honestly could not be more pumped about our trip to Boston.

I have been training strictly for the Boston Marathon for a year now. I tried to qualify (like legit tried to qualify) six times and failed. Once I finally did run a good enough time, I didn’t get in. When I finally did get in, I also started a big kid job, which meant I had to wake up at 4 a.m. everyday to train. This may explain why I do not respond to text messages after 9.m. because I am already in bed asleep by that point. DO NOT TRY TO CONTACT ME AFTER 9 P.M. OR WE WILL NOT BE FRIENDS.

(I freakin' run through mud to train....)

Anyways, it has been quite the adventure. I have dragged Porter to a million races now, but all of that time and effort is about to pay off.  Porter has been the best cheerleader ever. He stands in the rain/snow/heat and follows me around the course to make sure I have everything I need. However, what most people don’t know is that Porter has completed a marathon too.

I get asked quite often if I run with Porter. Once upon a time I did, but I will NEVER EVER do it again. When we were first dating, he agreed to run the Utah Valley Marathon with me. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but it turned out to be one of the most miserable experiences of my running career.

Porter and I did one 20-mile training run together before the race. I prefer to train by myself, and I assumed Porter was doing the same thing. We woke up on race day, got to the buses, and we were hauled up to the start line.

Just before the race is about to begin, Porter informs me he has to go to the bathroom. It would be the first of many bathroom breaks he would take. People are lining up at the start line, so I know it is about to begin.

I hear the gun go off to signal the race has started. Porter was still in the porta potty. I wait for him, a little annoyed, but it was still ok since your chip time doesn’t start until you cross the start line anyways.

He finally gets out and we start our 26.2-mile journey. About two miles, he has to stop.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him, a little worried that we are not going to finish this race.

“My iPod is stuck on repeat, I have listened to the same Ke$ha song like five times now.”

I don’t see why this is a problem. Nothing pumps me up more than a little Tik Tok action.

We carry on. At mile 8, I turn to him to see how he is doing.

“This isn’t that bad,” he tells me.

Oh my friend, we are not even half way…and that was the least of his problems. Remember how I told you we started the race off in the bathroom? Porter was about to spend a lot more time in there than we expected.

Having the squirts on the day of a race is probably my worst nightmare. Running 26.2 miles is already physically and mentally draining. Adding stomach problems to the list sounds unbearable.

I felt bad for the guy, but I was a little frustrated. I had desperately been trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon, and I had failed the two times I had tried that year. My body felt good, I knew I was in shape, but we were having to stop at literally every single porta potty.

That may not sound that bad, except for the fact that there was a porta potty every two miles.

When you are trying to run while fighting diarrhea, you have to squeeze and waddle. When you have to squeeze and waddle, your running form gets all bent out of shape. When your running form gets bent out of shape (and you are already a little lop-sided due to not having an arm), your entire body starts to ache in places you didn’t even know existed. When your body starts to ache in places you didn’t even know existed, you make it impossible for your running partner to qualify for Boston.

At every single aid station with a bathroom, we had to stop so Porter could relieve himself. I decided to stop feeling bad for myself and help him get through what had become a total disaster.

The Utah Valley Marathon finishes on University Ave. It is a long, straight road so you could see the finish line for dayssss before you even got close. It seemed like every step we took, the finish line got further away.

I was trying to be optimistic and encouraging. I started to tell Porter funny stories (because let’s be honest, I tell really funny stories), but he wasn’t having it.

“How about we just don’t talk!” he finally exclaimed.

Jerk face. I just sacrificed my marathon time because YOU decided to eat crappy food and then had to poop your guts out this whole time. I should have just left you.

I was a little mad, but I got over it pretty quickly. I didn’t have the energy to be mad and finish this last mile.

When I thought we were getting close to the finish line, I tried to be encouraging again. However, I was still unfamiliar with the Utah grid system and I had no idea what all the numbers on the road signs meant. I decided to guess-timate how much was left in the race.

“Porter, we are so close! Only 4 more blocks to go!” I said excitedly.

We were on 800 N. The race finishes on Center Street. I guess I could have done the math, but I was a Communications major in college…math isn’t my strong suit.

Porter looked up at the nearest road sign, and turned back to me slowly.  Through his gritted teeth he said, “8 Carlie…we still have 8 blocks to go.”

Whoops. There is a huge difference between 4 blocks and 8 blocks when you have run 26 miles.

We crossed the finish line together. I didn’t run a Boston qualifying time, but I didn’t kill my soon-to-be-husband either, so I will count that as a win.

And to be fair, Porter is rarely this ornery. He was in so much pain and had the runs, so I have forgiven him.

Porter and I will never run a race together again, but I’m pretty sure if you can handle finishing a marathon together, you can get through just about anything together.

I will update everyone on our Boston/NYC/Washington D.C. trip when we get back. There is bound to be a story or two from that experience. Oh, and you can also expect an Insta and FB overload. Don’t get annoyed by it, just like my pictures and move on ya grouches.

Until next time,


Monday, February 17, 2014

My husband, the (almost) felon.

I had to refrain from writing this post, even though it is obviously the craziest story you are ever going to read. It involves the police, and jail, and all that good stuff so you are going to want to read the whole thing. Because trust me, when you think it can’t get worse, it does.

So one time, exactly a month ago, Porter and I went to a Utah Grizzlies hockey game up in West Valley City. I was pumped for it because I am and will always be a GRIZZLY.

Before the game started, we were looking for a parking spot. We saw all of these hardcore fans, decked out in Grizzly gear, parking in the Costa Vida parking lot, which literally connects to the Maverick Center parking lot. There weren’t any signs saying we couldn’t park there, and we figured all of these die-hards knew what was up, so we followed their lead. Wrong decision numero uno.

As we leave the game, we make our way to where our jeep was parked. No jeep. No cars at all in the parking lot. Just a tow truck at the back of the restaurant hooking up to another car.

We make our way to the two tow truck drivers.

Me: “Hey did you guys happen to tow a black jeep liberty?”

Tow truck driver #1: “Yeah, you are going to have to pick it up at our lot.”

Me: “Were we parked illegally, there isn’t a sign out here?”

Tow truck driver #2: “You aren’t allowed to park here during the game.”

Not my question, but whatever.

Porter: “Can you give us a ride to your lot? We don’t have any way to get there.”

Tow truck driver #1: “No, I don’t have insurance for that. You are going to have to call a cab.”

It’s 12 degrees outside. All I was wearing was a sweater because I wasn’t planning on spending the next 6.5 hours outside. We walked like a mile to a hotel. Porter had them call us a cab. We tried looking up where the lot was for this tow truck company. It didn’t even exist on the Internet (and we all know if it is not on the Internet, then it’s not real).

Porter called Costa Vida and got an address. He then called the police to report our vehicle “stolen” because there was NO sign telling us we couldn’t park there. The police said they would meet us at the lot to keep the peace, but there was nothing they could really do.
We take a cab to the middle-of-no-where sketchville. There are already two people there waiting for their cars. Here is the kicker…. our cars weren’t even at the lot. The tow truck drivers said they had taken our cars to another lot and would be bringing them to us INDIVIDUALLY (aka they could charge us for more miles of towing).

They bring the first gentleman’s car. The tow truck drivers tell us that the fee for the night was going to be $289.50…in CASH. No credit/debit cards accepted. What the whaaat? We are in the middle of nowhere, with no cash, and no way to get home. The kind gentleman who got his car first offered to drive me to an ATM so I could withdraw money.

Meanwhile, the police show up. A crowd starts to gather since the tow truck drivers ended up towing nearly two-dozen cars. Did I mention it took them 45 minutes to bring the first guy’s car?

I get back to the tow truck lot with the cash. We are waiting alongside several unhappy campers. It is now past midnight. I’m freezing.

One frustrated family decides they aren’t waiting any longer and follows the tow truck as they go to pick up the next person’s car. Porter makes polite small talk with the police and then asks out of curiosity:

Porter: “Are they allowed to take our cars to a different lot?”

Cop: “Yes, if it is a secure lot that they own.”

Porter: “What if it isn’t a secure lot?”

Cop: “If it is a public lot and is not protected or locked up, then you can go take your car.”

Bingo. Just then, the family that had followed the tow truck calls a girl still waiting in the lot with us.

Girl: “They found our cars! They are just sitting in a parking lot a couple of blocks from the stadium!”

The tow truck drivers had literally been taking our cars and dumping them in a pawnshop parking lot so they could tow as many as they possibly could (rather than take the time to tow our cars to their lot ten miles away). Everyone jumps in cars and takes off to the pawnshop. Porter gets in a car with some random guys. I had learned that we needed $289.50 in exact change, so the kind gentleman offered to take me to a gas station to break my last $20. I was not about to give these guys a penny more than what they demanded.

After I got the change, the kind man drove me over to where we thought our cars were. That is when all chaos broke out.

The tow truck drivers were trying to box everyone in the pawnshop parking lot with their massive truck while everyone jumped in their cars and tried to take off. I stay across the street with my new friend and watch Porter get in our jeep.

I see Porter start to make his way out of the parking lot when one of the tow truck drivers jumps in front of him. Porter stops the car. The driver is screaming at him and then slams his hands on the hood of our car. All of the sudden, this crazy lady comes out of nowhere and rams the guy out of the way. She then motions to Porter and tells him to drive while multiple cars follow behind.

I am still in the car with my “friend,” and he floors it so he can follow our jeep. Porter pulls into a gas station so I can get in the car with him. We are freaking out a little, but we got our car back, so we were happy.

It’s now 1 in the morning. I’m exhausted and so ready to go home. As we pull out of the gas station, a police officer starts to follow us. No lights, just following us. We try to get back on the freeway when we realize we are in a right-turn only lane and so we have to pull into the parking lot of a random hotel.

That’s when the cop’s lights go on. Porter stops and waits for the officer to come to the window. He asks Porter a couple of questions and then tells him to get out of the car. I stay sitting there, petrified. My phone is dead, so I have no one to call. I haven’t taken my asthma medicine and I can feel my chest start to tighten up. I try to keep myself calm.

I glance in the rear-view window to see them questioning Porter.

Cop: “What are you hiding in there?”

Porter: “What are you talking about?”

Cop: “What are you hiding in your sweatshirt? Take your arm out of there!”

Porter: “I don’t have one.”

That’s right jerk-face cop, not everyone has two arms. I mean for crying out loud, his sweatshirt is SEWN SHUT, there isn’t even a sleeve…

I start to feel pains in my stomach…I realize I have been waiting to pee for like three hours. An officer finally comes up to me.

Me: “Excuse me, have we done something wrong?”

Cop: “You haven’t, but your husband has.”

Me: “What has he done?”

Cop: “I can’t tell you.”

Me: “Well, I really need to use the restroom, is there any way I can go inside of the hotel?”

Cop: “One minute.”

Fifteen minutes later, he comes back and escorts me to the restroom like I’m some sort of convicted felon. When I come out of the bathroom, there are three officers waiting for me in the lobby.

Me (trying to stay calm): “Is everything ok? Where is Porter?”

Cop: “He is getting booked.”

Booked? What does that even mean? Like jail? For what? I’m so confused, but also so relieved because I seriously had held my bladder like a champ for so long.

Me: “Booked? What did he do?”

Cop: “He is being charged with aggravated assault.”

Assault? Does he realize Porter is literally the kindest human being on the face of the planet?

They ask me for my statement. I give it to them. I explain to them that the other police officers told us it was ok to go get our car.

Cop: “If that police officer told you it was ok to kill someone, would you do it?”

*No you idiot. I’m not stupid. But in case you haven’t noticed, I have not had too many run-ins with the law, so I don’t know the system.*

I sit in the hotel lobby, alone, trying to keep my asthma under control all while three police officers watch me like a hawk. They won’t answer any of my questions, but they kept telling me I wasn’t in trouble.

Me: “Then why can’t I leave? My jeep is outside.”

Cop: “Well where would you go?”

*Gee, I don’t know. You’re right; I should probably just keep sitting here for no reason. *

After over an hour, I see another police officer drive up. He walks into the hotel.

New cop: “Are you Carlie McKeon?”

Me: “Yes, where is Porter?”

New cop: “He is in the car, just filling out a statement. You are his wife right?”

Me: “Yes.”

New cop: “Well how come you don’t have the same last name?”

*Oh trust me I have tried. But I found that working with government agencies, like the one you work for, aren’t exactly efficient so it has taken me a little while. *

Me: “Why did you book him? What is going on?”

New cop: “Oh, we didn’t book him.”

What the what? At this point, I now understand why the West Valley City Police is the laughing stock of the state.

New cop: “The tow truck drivers were claiming Porter hit them with the jeep.”

Me: “Well he didn’t. I saw the whole thing. Is the tow truck driver hurt in any way?”

New cop: “No. There isn’t even a mark on his body. As of right now, I don’t have enough evidence to charge Porter. I’m going to turn it over to the attorneys and let them handle it. If there is a case, you will hear from them in 3 weeks.”

Me: “And if there isn’t a case?”

New cop: “If 3 weeks comes and goes and you do not get a letter, then no case is filed and this will all go away.”

I see Porter get out of the cop car. I run to him. This whole time I had just pictured him sitting alongside big, tough criminals in a jail cell.

Porter: “Did they not tell you where I was? I told them to let you know.”

Me: “No! Where did you go?”

Porter: “They took me to the tow truck drivers to work it out. The cops tried getting me to lie by telling me that you had said one thing, even though it wasn’t true. They tried saying that you had told them you were in the car with me and stuff.”

Those dirty dogs.

At about 2:30 a.m. we finally got to leave. By the time we got home, we were so freaked out we couldn’t sleep. I literally just sat in bed.

Four weeks have gone by and we didn’t receive a letter. We even looked it up to see if a case had been submitted, and nothing came of it. We literally had to endure the longest night ever for nothing.

At least we have a good story to share with our future children. If nothing else, we learned a valuable lesson in being honest. Porter and I told the truth, and stuck to it when the cops tried to get us to say otherwise, which helped us in the end.

It turns out the tow truck drivers changed their story 3 different times. First it was Porter hit him with his car. Second time he said the side mirror on our car hit him. Third time he said Porter charged him in our jeep and he had to jump out of the way to keep from getting run over.

The tow truck driver then made a critical mistake. He told the police that as Porter drove away, he rolled down the window and flipped him off. Time out: Porter doesn’t roll like that. Also, he has one arm. How was he supposed to drive, roll down a window, and flip you off with one hand? That would take serious talent.

Almost every single person got away that night with their cars. Instead of making like $6,000, the tow truck drivers walked away with $289.50 that they made off the first gentleman. The best part is, the tow truck drivers were in such a hurry to tow as many cars as they could, they failed to take any vehicle information so they can’t go after anybody.

The next morning, both Porter and I called our mothers to tell them what had happened.

My mom’s response: “Wow, that’s crazy. Don’t worry about it, nothing will come of it.”

Porter’s mom’s response: *busts up laughing* (I seriously love that woman so much)

Porter didn’t end up having to go to jail. I didn’t hyperventilate and die. All is well in the world again.

The end.