Tim Russert

After years of asking the hard questions we were all afraid to ask and getting the uncomfortable answers we all wanted to hear, Tim Russert has died. He provided inspiration for journalists around the world. He forced us all to challenge stagnant politics. And in his 58 short years, he had a greater impact on America than most of us will in a lifetime. To Tim Russert, who will not be forgotten.

Save your quarters. Invest in a washing machine.

Friday October 13, 2000.

As I put on my new Express jean jacket and checked myself out in the mirror, I was feeling good. I turned off Freaky Friday (hailing from a time when Lindsay Lohan was more innocent...and straight) and grabbed my All Sports Pass.

I arrived at the football game with my friends and we made the rounds. We clearly did not go into the bleachers immediately, as we had to linger around the concessions for a bit in order to see who made an appearance.

Once we made it to the stands, I found my boyfriend of one month, Tom, and stood by him. I held his hand and smiled adoringly at him, pretending to care about the football game. We talked about how he'd be out there next year and how I'd be lonely during the games; but I'd wear his jersey and be in the attendance rain or shine, home or away.

At halftime, I departed the stands and called over my friend, Ryan. I said, "Ryan, go get Tom and tell him to meet me under the bleachers."

As Tom approached me, standing under the dark bleachers all alone, he was smiling. He knew what was about to happen.

This was the point where I realized the instructions I had given Ryan may have been a little misleading. You see, I was beckoning Tom so, in order to break up with him.

I told him about how I thought we should just be friends, really good friends, but I just didn't see the relationship going anywhere. (The insight of an eighth grader is astounding!)

Undoubtedly, this was my most memorable- and horrible- Friday the thirteenth. So, today, in honor of the pseudo-holiday, I thought I'd try to make it memorable as well.

This is why I made my maiden voyage to a Laundromat.

I was disappointed, to say the least. I guess I was anticipating a little more glamor. I imagined walking in to a room filled with the aroma of fresh Downy and a touch of bleach. I was certain I'd be surrounded by big Bosch washers and dryers and maybe even a Diet Coke fountain. I thought music would be playing and it would be full of beautiful people folding their fluffy laundry. I created a scenario in my head where I'd drop my favorite shirt on the (sparkling clean) black and white check floor and I'd lean down to pick it up, landing face to face with a cute boy who would smile and hand it back. He'd simultaneously hand me his number and tell me to call if I ever wanted to do laundry...or whatever. Essentially, I was expecting a Jessica Simpson music video.However. This was not the case. I think that the machines were circa 1972 and the floor, on which I dropped about five clean items, was far from sanitized. The only thing shining about the entire room was the light reflecting off of the head of a bald man, who had a lingering stare and shaved legs. For some reason, I highly doubt he will be an extra is Jessica's upcoming video.

As rough as it was for me to face the reality of what a Laundromat really is, it's a growing experience. And I have certainly learned a few lessons: Next time, I'm keeping my expectations low and bringing snacks.

Gag me with a wooden spoon!

I find it hard to believe that I've now had two people in my life confess that they hate sock feet.

My friend, Sara, as well as my roommate, Katie, despise socks if they're filled with feet. They also despise feet that are covered in socks.

Katie recently said that she really tries to be understanding when someone wants to wear socks around their own home, considering it is their home and not hers. However, she doesn't like it.

Upon such confession, my other roommate, Emily, admitted that the way Katie feels about socks is similar to the way she feels about the chocolatey shell of a Dairy Queen chocolate dip cone. It just rubs her the wrong way.

My sister, Ashley, hates wooden utensils. She has such a hatred for them that it is truly more a fear than a distaste (which is funny because you could not pay her to taste anything on a wooden utensil, not even on a popsicle stick). If you approach her with a wooden spoon, she will run.

What is it that causes such aversions? Is it something that happened to us when we were younger and we just don't realize it?

Although I admit that there are a number of things I prefer to steer clear of, the most common is unstirred cottage cheese (though a very close second is sweet potatoes). It almost makes me queasy just typing the words. Something about it just does me in.

I was thinking about this scenario the other day, and I decided it would be terrible. Imagine if the queen came over for dinner and Ashley and I had to serve her cottage cheese. However, upon entering the kitchen, which we could not leave until we served her, we discovered that the cottage cheese was unstirred and the kitchen was equipped with only wooden utensils.

We can't phone a friend because we have no cell phone service. We can't even create smoke signals because we're enclosed in the kitchen. And, on this one, unusual day, my telepathy seems to be failing me entirely.

If Ashley were to stir it with her hands, it would be unsanitary, and the queen deserves a properly sanitized meal.

Even as a seasoned FPS participant, I feel completely at a loss. We'd probably have to ask the queen to stir the cottage cheese herself. And if we're asking the queen to do all the work anyway, she probably won't ever want to come back over for her daily lunch of cottage cheese (that queen is one light eater).

I realize that I will someday have to overcome my fear of unstirred cottage cheese. But it's not the worst fear in the world to have, and it's certainly easy to avoid.

Just imagine if you were afraid of the toilet. Or showering. Or bathrooms in general. That would be a crippling fear.

I think that Fear Factor should do an Average Joes episode, where they bring on people who are afraid of super common things.

And, Howie Mandel, from Deal or No Deal can be a celebrity guest, since he is afraid of being touched.

It would be a really big hit, because no one would understand why, exactly, Sara and Katie are afraid of sock feet. They'd have to have a duel, wearing socks and no shoes, and they'd have to cover their hands with socks too. Just to make it even more intense.

By the end of the show, Ashley would be serving me sweet potatoes and unstirred cottage cheese.

The queen can come too.

George Herman Ruth and John Chapman don't sound nearly as cool as Babe Ruth and Johnny Appleseed.

John Mellencamp made it cool to grow up in a small town. But, what Mellencamp failed to cover was the difference between a town that is small and a real, live, small town.

In a small town, everything shuts down on Friday nights in the fall for home football games. You can't go to the grocery without seeing someone you know, and you're surprised when you see a new face. In a small town, people have tabs at local convenience stores or coffee shops.

Most importantly, a true, blue, small town, has a haunted spot. The actual story behind such spot varies from town to town, but they all run along a similar line.

Zionsville, Indiana, was very much a small town during the time I grew up.

Our haunted spot is the infamous Holiday Road. It used to be called O'Neal Road, but the name was changed in order to make it more appealing. In a way, though, the connotation surrounding holiday is similar to the scariness of clowns. There is just something a little creepy about it.

The actual story of why Holiday Road is haunted definitely varies. However, the story I have chosen to believe goes like this: One evening long ago, on prom night, a couple was driving into town for their senior prom. He was the captain of the football team and she was the head cheerleader. The couple would surely be crowned prom king and queen. They were driving over the bridge on Holiday Road, and the car slid into the water, killing them both. The couple still haunts the bridge, hoping to finally make it to their prom. (It's so Susie Q that it's scary.)

Now, the challenge is to drive onto the bridge, turn off your car, take the key out of the ignition, and restart it. The activity is considered especially successful if you are with your high school sweetheart.

Loving to be scared as I do, I of course, had to partake in the challenge.

So, one cold January's eve, my friend Jenna and I, along with about six boys, drove out to the bridge. Just as we were going down the last hill before the old bridge, I drove over a patch of ice, slid into a ditch and hit a tree. We spent the next hour or so pushing the huge SUV out of the ditch, absolutely freezing.

The next day, I was talking to my sisters, Courtney and Ashley, about the whole debacle, and Courtney said, "Well how big is the dent?" I said, "Oh, not that big." And she said, "How big was the tree?" And I said, "Not that big, more like a twig than a tree..."

Ever since then, Courtney has proceeded to call me Twigs (this nickname very well may be the only positive outcome of Holiday Road.)

My sisters, like myself, understand the importance of a good nickname. I really judge whether a relationship will last on the quality of nicknames.

I once dated a guy and I had the best nickname for him. Unfortunately, all he came up with for me was "Whit". I knew we probably we're not soul mates. He lacked the initiative and creativity necessary to propel the relationship forward with a good nickname.

My entire extended family embraces nicknames; even if we don't all go by incredibly original nicknames, we shorten everything. We're too efficient for crazy two syllable things like Whitney, it's always Whit.

During the height of my Jackie obsession, I told my mom I wanted to one day name my daughter Kennedy (judge me). Instead of confessing that this idea was a little weird, she took a different angle. She said, "Well, what would we call her? Ken? Or Ned?"

Right then and there, I knew the name needed to be forgotten.

Although the dented-SUV has long since been retired and Jenna and I have parted ways, the nickname certainly stuck.

I guess it's only appropriate that Holiday Road has also been shut down for safety reasons. It seems symbolic that Zionsville is growing so quickly that it can no longer be called a small town and we no longer fulfill the mandated criteria of a haunted spot.

Luckily, my mom still has a tab at the coffee shop on Main Street. Once they take that away, I'll be concerned that Zionsville is trying to morph into New York City or something.