In the morning, I'm makin' waffles

by: Sam

I found out today that my uncle once went running with Muhammad Ali.

When he was 15 and lived in New Orleans with my grandma and grandpa, he heard that Muhammad Ali was staying a few streets over, awaiting an upcoming boxing match. Uncle Richard decided to investigate and get to the bottom of this rumor. (Celebrity-stalking runs in the family.)

So, based on the movie Rocky, my uncle assumed that Muhammad Ali would be jogging around the neighborhood at the crack of dawn. Uncle Richard set his alarm for 3:30 a.m. and prepared to find the boxer.

He walked down to the supposed street where Muhammad was staying, and he took a seat. After a long while and no Muhammad-sighting, a defeated Uncle Richard began walking home.

Then, his persistence was rewarded. Muhammad walked out the door of a house and asked Uncle Richard what the heck he was doing awake so early. Uncle Richard said, “Well, actually, I was looking for you.”

The two then ran four miles together, with a limo creeping along behind them. At the end of the run, Muhammad gave the 15-year-old Richard nine autographs, to share with friends.

Uncle Richard still has all nine autographs to this day. Also, later during Muhammad’s stay, Uncle Richard went back to the house and met John Travolta. He said for a few weeks, the house was a revolving door of celebrities. … This is what I imagine heaven will be like.

Can you believe all that? Neither can I. I found this out tonight. This is my uncle who now lives in Virginia. He came in town today, originally to pick up my cousins, who have been staying with us this week. My cousins are now going to stay with us another week, so Uncle Richard will fly back tomorrow kid-less. (Aunt Linda’s a flight attendant. They get free flights.)

Speaking of free, have you been to Albertson’s lately? Have you seen those Yahtzee cards they’re giving out? Well, you get these cards, with 15 dice on them. You scratch only five dice, to reveal the numbers behind them. If you get five of the same number, you get a prize – anything from $5000, $1000, a cruise or a box of waffles.

So, Kenzie and I got in the car to go to Wal-Mart and saw one of these cards on the floor of my clean vehicle. It was left unscratched, waiting for the infallible luck of Kenzie and me to come along and bring it to life.

As we drove to Wal-Mart, Kenzie and I carefully agreed upon which dice to select for scratching. Before realizing our chance of winning, I confidently suggested scratching off all the dice in the first row. Then, as each of these slowly turned out to be a 4, I decided we should stray from the first row for the last scratch. Low and behold, I’m a genius, and we scratched a complete Yahtzee of 4s.

Giddy from our hard-earned Yahtzee, we scratched off the final box: “See your prize!”

ONE FREE PACK OF WAFFLES!!!!!

After going to Wal-Mart, we stopped at Albertson’s to claim our prize. It was like Christmas morning.

Then, we played Catchphrase later, and one of our words was “waffles.” Overcome with excitement, I shouted, “WE GOT THESE FOR FREE TODAY!!!”

Sharing my excitement, Kenzie shouted, “WAFFLES!!!”

It’s the little things.

Night,

Sam

Breaking news

by: Sam


Read the story I wrote for USA Today!


http://www.usatoday.com/life/m​usic/news/2011-07-23-awolnatio​n-on-the-verge_n.htm

Put a sock in it

by: Sam

We are the champions.

Kenzie and I, that is. Today, we competed against my mom and Ms. Cheryl, Mitch’s mom, in a few fierce rounds of Catchphrase. Usually, Kenzie and I aren’t allowed to be on the same team, because we always win. But Mom and Ms. Cheryl imagined they might be able to beat us.

Ha.

I should point out, before I continue, that my family plays Catchphrase the wrong way. Purposefully. As soon as the game entered our lives years ago on that fateful Christmas Day, we read the directions and decided we had a better way to play.

The directions said to pass the game around the circle. Each person gives clues for one phrase, and when their team guesses the phrase correctly, the game is passed to the next person who gives clues to their team. The game continues being passed until the buzzer goes off. The team holding it when the buzzer goes off is the loser, and the other team receives a point.

Instead, here’s what we do. Each team usually consists of two people. When it’s your team’s turn, you and your teammate sit across from each other and ignore the rest of the world. One teammate delivers the clues, and the other guesses until the timer goes off, winning as many phrases as you can. While this yelling is going on, someone is tallying your points.

So, here’s an example round for Kenzie and me:

Kenzie: Mary Kate and Ashley, their movie about the Big Apple…

Sam: NEW YORK MINUTE!!!!

Kenzie: On the last episode of the Bachelorette, she visited their…

Sam: HOMETOWNS!!!!

Kenzie: That country over there kind of like Afghanistan…

Sam: PAKISTAN!!!

Kenzie: Rosa Parks fought for…

Sam: CIVIL RIGHTS!!!!

Kenzie: Uncle Jerry used to work there…

Sam: RADIO SHACK!!!

And so on and so forth, until victory.

Here is an example of Mom and Ms. Cheryl:

Mom: If someone’s talking a lot and you just want them to shut up, you might tell them to… (Mom gestures to her foot and then to her mouth.)

Ms. Cheryl: SHOE!!!

Mom: Okay, what do you wear on your feet? Under your shoes? (Mom continues gesturing from her foot to her mouth.)

Ms. Cheryl: SOCK!!!

Mom: Yes! So … (Now Mom looks as though she’s frantically trying to put her fist into her mouth.)

Ms. Cheryl: SOCK IT!!!! SOCK!!!! PUT A SOCK IN YOUR MOUTH!!!!

*Timer buzzes*

Mom: Put a sock in it.

Ms. Cheryl: I don’t think I’ve ever heard that phrase.

And so on and so forth.

Except not really. They did okay sometimes. That was their worst moment, and I’ve rudely chosen it as their example. Shame on me.

After Catchphrase, Ms. Cheryl headed out, and Kenzie and I, high on our win, challenged Mom and Dad to a game. Mom said she’d had enough Catchphrase (Read: Sam and Kenzie are invincible. There’s no way.). So, she suggested Password.

Considering it was 8:45, we were lucky Mom and Dad were both even awake. So, we accepted and prepared to win again.

Except, this time we didn’t.

In Password, you can only give one-word clues. Play alternates between teams, going back and forth as each team gives a clue, one partner to the other. As clues are given, the point value for the word goes down.

So, like this:

Sam: Cut…

Kenzie: Knife?

Dad: Scalpel…

Mom: Incision!!!

Then, Dad, every time, lets out a loud, “Woohoooo!” He then leans over to Kenzie and watches her document his points.

“Kenzie, we got 9 points, not 7!”

“Dad, that is a 9.”

“Well, it looks like a 7.”

Kenzie obediently fixes her imperfect handwriting.

The game continues, and Mom and Dad become more and more confident. You see, when you only get to say one word, we Schotts end up putting a lot of inflection into that one word. Dad makes big bug eyes and raises his eyebrows at Mom, while Mom squints and concentrates to detect his telepathic message.

Other examples from tonight’s game:

Kenzie: Tumble…

Sam: Weed?

Mom: Dolphin…

Dad: Shark?

Kenzie: Name…

Sam: Flipper?

Mom: Panoramic

Dad: View?

“Wooohooooooo!”

Mom: Cast…

Dad: Break?

Kenzie: Shin…

Sam: Splint?

Anyway, Mom and Dad proceeded to destroy us. As Dad poetically put it, they gave us a can of Whoop Ass.

Then, a little while after our game, instead of saying goodnight, Dad poked his head to my room to tell Kenzie and me, “Panoramic?”

Yeah, yeah, put a sock in it.

Aside from playing games, my time has been consumed by my LSAT prep books. I’ve also spent a lot of time wondering what next week’s episode of the Bachelorette will be like. Kenzie has me hooked. I love J.P., as does the rest of the world, I imagine. I also liked Ames, but Ashley kicked him off last week, after calling him the perfect husband…. She’s such a buffoon.

But I can’t wait to see who proposes to her in two weeks!!!

Yay,

Sam

Under the weather

by: Sam

I woke up yesterday feeling sick. A gland on the right side of my neck was very swollen, and my throat was very sore. I decided I could not move, and I should spend the entire day in bed, recuperating from my swollen gland.

Except I had a wedding to go to in Mobile. My friend Liz had driven to my house Friday night, and she and I were to carpool to Mobile, picking up Andrew along the way.

So I fought through the pain and stumbled out of bed. I took some Advil, got ready for the wedding and hit the road. As the Advil set in, I felt more and more invincible. This swollen gland has nothing on me.

Meanwhile, as I fretted over my illness, Liz played Words with Friends on her iPhone to pass the time.

“Sam, how do you spell violin?”

While waiting for the wedding to start, Liz occasionally halted a conversation to request that I take her turn in Words with Friends. I started to warn Liz that she would have to put her phone away when the wedding started.

The Advil did indeed help me through the day, and I was able to enjoy the wedding. I even found the energy to make fun of my friend Liz, when she began to cry as soon as the priest invited the wedding party forward for the vows.

Get a grip, Liz.

I even brought up the gifts during the ceremony, along with other Catholic Student Association members Liz, Andrew, Tori and Hannah. When the time came to gather at the back of the church and wait for our moment in the spotlight, Tori tells Liz she has a little something on her nose. Tori demonstrates to Liz how she should rub her nose to rid it of this obstruction. I also join in and begin showing Liz what she should do.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the three photographers at the wedding trying to snap a nice photo of the gift bearers readying for their moment. I quickly tell everyone to remove their fingers from their noses and look reverent. What a Kodak moment.

The gift bearing went smoothly. I half-expected to look over and see Liz playing Words with Friends as we walked up the aisle. But I didn’t notice any horrified looks in her direction, so I assume she refrained. I also assume the mark on her nose went unnoticed.

After communion, when everyone was kneeling and reflecting – the most sacred time of the Mass – the woman in front of me looked at her friend and said, “Hey, when’s the last time you went to Mass? Last year?”

Looking offended, the friend responded, “No, I went last week!”

The skeptical woman examined her friend for a second, attempting to determine the truth in her statement, then she scoffed and said, “Yeah, right.”

After the wedding, we moved to the reception. It was raining outside, but our walkway to the reception hall was mostly covered. We only had to run about ten steps in the rain, unless you’re me, and you refuse to get your hair wet. Instead, I waited for one of the nice boys to walk over with an umbrella. (Yeah, I know. Diva alert.)

Once at the reception, the CSA folks all sat around together, talking about how old we are. We also danced a bit, while I marveled at my quick recovery from the morning’s illness.

Soon, the girls are called to the floor for the bouquet toss. Liz and I stand next to each other in the front right, and I prepare to make a phony attempt to catch the prize. (I’m a friend of the groom, and I’ve only met the bride once. I feared that if I caught it, I’d be given a quizzical look – “Who are you again?”)

Liz, however, had no fear. As the bouquet began sailing in the air, Liz leapt from my side. I feel certain that both of her feet left the ground as she soared in front of the group, stealing the bouquet in a manner I imagine James Bond might have done, had he been in such a situation.

She proceeded to take a picture with the bride, putting on a phony humble smile. Then, soon after, a Tweet was sent to my phone.

LizardP: I CAUGHT THE BOUQUET!!!

Correction: I stole the bouquet.

Congratulations, Liz. We’re all so proud of you. When’s the big day?

After the wedding, Andrew and I went to his sister’s house to stay the night. As soon as we arrived, my sore throat struck again, and I became really cold. The Advil had clearly worn off, and my body just wanted to go to sleep. So, I went to sleep at 10. Meanwhile, Liz was hitting the casino and making $16. (I’m sure the money will go toward her upcoming wedding.)

The drive back today was rather eventful. We hit lots of rain, and we rocked out to Katy Perry’s T.G.I.F. each of the twenty times it came on the radio.

Now, I’m home again, suffering from a sore throat and planning to visit a doctor tomorrow. Liz is still here, reading a Jane Green book that I recommended to her. (I’ve decided that Jane Green is my favorite author, and I’m trying to make all my friends like Jane Green, so we can talk about her books together.) (Also, I emailed Jane Green and asked her to read my blog.)

Thanks for reading,

Sam

Cookie rookie

by: Sam

Long ago, on the day I created my Twitter account, I thought it would be a good idea to have certain people’s tweets sent to my phone in the form of text messages. These people included Andrew, my friend Liz and Taylor Swift.

Taylor Swift and Andrew’s tweets still entertain me. Taylor tweets every few days, and Andrew tweets once a year. Liz, however, has recently decided to update her Twitter every ten minutes.

I awoke this morning when my alarm went off at 8:30, and I saw that I had five text messages. Essentially, they looked like this:

LizardP: HARRY POTTER IS HERE!!!! I AM EXCITED AND SAD BUT MOSTLY EXCITED!!!

LizardP: HARRY POTTER WAS SO GOOD!!!! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S OVER!!!!

LizardP: NOW I GET TO DRIVE BACK TO NOLA AT 8 BUT IT’S OKAY BC I’M IN A HARRY POTTER HIGH!!!

LizardP: EXHAUSTED AND ONLY TWENTY MINUTES INTO MY DAY!! BUT HP WITH FRIENDS WAS SO WORTH IT!!! LOVING MY LIFE RIGHT NOW!!!

I’ll admit, I used my poetic license to write the last two in all caps, even though Liz, by that point, had figured out how to turn Caps Lock off on her phone.

Now, some of you mathematicians out there may have realized I said I had five text messages and then I only showed you four. The other text was an email, sent to my phone. Subject: “Fruit salad and sliced turkey in the fridge.” From Dad, sent to my three other siblings and myself. I seriously doubt my 16-year-old brothers checked their email this morning before rummaging around our pantry and fridge and finding such snacks themselves. But I appreciated the heads up, Dad. Please continue to email me when new food appears in our house.

Last night, before the appearance of fruit salad and turkey, I browsed around our food supply for a snack. Hoping for something sweet (surprise, surprise), I found nothing but chips, pistachios, crackers and other salty things. So, I decided, for the first time ever, to make cookies.

Yes, you heard me correctly. I’ve never made cookies before. Well, never successfully. I tried once, and I did something wrong. … I put them on the wrong shelf in the oven, and I also clicked “broil” by mistake. So, basically, I’ve never made edible cookies.

Also, I’m more of an ice cream person. Ice cream only requires a trip to the store, forgoing the preheated ovens and raw eggs.

I took the bag of cookie dough powder out of the pantry and forced 16-year-old Trevor to come help me. Of course, he rolled his eyes and expressed disbelief at my needing his help to make cookies.

I’m sure I could have figured it out on my own. (I’m really good at reading directions, as you may recall from my microwavable pizza incident.) But I still wanted Trevor’s supervision and moral support.

So Trevor preheated the oven for me and then watched me carefully. My only mistakes, according to Trevor, were making the cookies too big and not putting them in perfectly straight lines. Compared to my last attempt, I’d say I earned an A++.

We picked Kenzie up from the airport early yesterday morning. She brought us Parmesan cheese straight from Italy. So, we had that for dinner, with a little bit of spaghetti and red gravy on the side.

I’ll probably have the same thing for lunch, right about now.

Ciao,

Sam

We've all got our junk

by: Sam

I just helped my mom pick out a new profile picture. Now I know where I get it from – my obsessive need to perfectly straighten every strand of hair before going out to eat, my refusal to pose for pictures if I don’t look nice, my commitment to wearing makeup everyday, even if just to run to the grocery store. (If the paparazzi strikes, I am ready.)

My mom, like myself, wants people to think she’s pretty. … Actually, we want people to think we’re stunningly gorgeous. Why yes, I’ve thought about going into modeling.

(Not really. I eat too much ice cream for that.)

Anyway, this turned into a pretty important decision. Which photo should she allow all ten of her Facebook friends to see?

(Keep in mind, I do exaggerate. I get that from my mom, too. … I have to give her some credit. She has more than ten Facebook friends.)

She dismissed one for the color of her outfit and another for the big funky sunglasses. Some she dismissed quickly and without explanation.

When we finally found one that was good enough, she announced that sometime soon we’ll take a nice picture of her.

Anyway, now let me tell you a story about my dad.

My dad needed something from my room yesterday – I’m still not sure what – but to find it, he went straight to my Junk Drawer, the drawer that houses a stapler, tape, paper clips, batteries, Christmas ornaments, my friend Kristen’s camera case, fake spiders, greeting cards I’ve bought far in advance for friends’ birthdays, etc.

(Before we continue, may I ask, do other people have Junk Drawers? Growing up, my mom always allowed me one Junk Drawer. When I’d clean my room during our annual cleaning, I never had to touch the Junk Drawer. That was allowed to be as messy as I’d like. So, to clean my room, I’d try to shove everything in there. Eventually, my Junk Drawer couldn’t shut, and it remained perpetually open, things spilled over the top. But I’ve come a long way since then. My current Junk Drawer now shuts easily, and there’s extra room, should I acquire more fake spiders.)

Anyway, Dad opens my Junk Drawer and is horrified. He yells to me – I’m in the kitchen – and tells me that I need to clean my room.

I’m surprised. I yell back, earnestly, that I thought my room was actually pretty clean.

He tells me I have all kinds of crap in this drawer.

“Well, Dad, that’s my Junk Drawer … . I don’t have to clean my Junk Drawer, do I? The other drawers are all clean, just not that one.”

(Keep in mind that I’m living with my parents, so Dad’s request is perfectly acceptable. It’s not as though he’s telling me to clean the apartment that I pay for. That doesn’t exist. He’s telling me to clean his drawer, really.)

My dad rolls his eyes, seemingly allowing me to leave the Junk Drawer as is.

Yay.

(P.S. Please don’t judge me for living with my parents. I have a plan. I also have a pretty good resume, if you’d like to see it.)

So, today, I spent the day studying, at my brand new LSAT Study Desk – a TV tray and folding chair, set up in the center of my room. This will be my office until October 1. (Kyle, come be my intern! Your primary job will be to keep the ghosts away.)

I also spent some time looking around the house for random things to shove into my Junk Drawer.

I also finished a great book today. I feel pretty accomplished. But I am still living at home with Mom and Dad, so whatever. Take it as you will.

Night,

Sam-tern

P.S. Andrew tied for second in the sand castle contest. (Everyone wins. There was a two-way tie for third, a two-way tie for second and one first place winner. But this doesn’t make me any less proud.)

I'm gonna soak up the fun

by: Sam

We’re leaving early in the morning tomorrow. Before we do, I want to reminisce a little. Humor me.

I love this place. I’ve come here every summer since I was born. It’s not that I love the beach; I like it, but as I’ve told you, I sit, tan and read all day. (I enjoy the water, but I can’t help looking over my shoulder every few seconds to see if there’s a shark nearby.) But I love the people and the memories I associate with this place. I’ve played so many games of Kick the Can and Hide and Go Seek around these condos; in recent years, I’ve played Team Charades and Catchphrase. (It’s possible that I love this place so much because I associate it with games.)

In high school, Kenzie, my cousin Victoria and I each brought a friend. I brought Emily, Kenzie brought Gabrielle, and Victoria brought Anna. This group of six established many Destin traditions. Among them, the infamous Destin Journals.

The first time I brought Emily on the trip we were 13. We went to Wal-Mart with my mom on the first night here, to check out the airbrush T-shirts and begin our thoughtful consideration of which design is the coolest. While we were shopping around, Emily suggested buying notebooks and documenting the trip. We all stared at notebooks for a while, and I tried in vain to make everyone buy the same exact kind of notebook.

Every night of the trip, for the next few years, the six of us would sit on the balcony of my family’s condo or Victoria’s, eating grapes or pistachios or that year’s snack of choice. We’d talk more than we actually journaled, and by the end of the week, no one except Sam felt like journaling. For years, I forced everyone to continue, rounding the group up every night and forcing them to sit in a circle and write. For some reason they began to call me the Journal Nazi.

Even two years ago, I brought Rachel and John, and at 20 years old, we all kept a journal of the trip. Rachel titled mine “The Diary of Sam Frank,” which she later changed to “The Diary of Sam Stank.”

Another Destin tradition established by the six was sleeping on the porch. We decided we wanted to sleep outside, so we dragged all of the patio furniture inside and put a mattress out there instead. We also would set our alarms for 5 a.m., as we did every night, to sleepily peer out at the ocean and look for sharks. (This was another tradition I enforced.)

Some of the traditions have died. (The first to go was the 5 a.m. Shark Watch.) But as you can see, I’m still journaling.

Winning

by: Sam

Allow me to explain Team Charades. This may be confusing, but if you pay attention and learn this game, it could change your life.

You have two teams. Each team has a separate room – or area of the condo, in our case. For us, one team hovers in the hallway near the door, and the other team is in one of the bedrooms, all ten people piling onto one king sized bed.

You also have a judge, who doesn’t judge anything but for lack of a better title, we’ve named this person the judge. The judge sits in a central room holding a list of movies that he has worked hard to make, hoping he will stump us with impossible movies and we will, at the end of the game, praise him for his brilliant movie choices.

One player from each team starts the game in the center room. The two opponents stand posed like runners ready to race, waiting for the judge to whisper the first movie in their ears.

Often, the first two people have similar talent levels. If 9-year-old cousin Richie starts for one team, the 7-year-old Philip will probably start for the other. If Kenzie’s boyfriend, The Incredible Mitch, starts for one team, I leave my team no choice and definitively tell them I am starting for our team.

When the judge whispers the first movie, chaos ensues: “Mary Poppins.”

The two players each race back to their teams and begin frantically acting out the movie. For this one, my cousin Heidi simply floated in the room on an umbrella. To her, this was obviously Mary Poppins. To us, she looked like a belly dancer.

Heidi looks at us like we’re stupid, while we look at Heidi like she is also stupid. Heidi stubbornly continues her Mary Poppins dance until we tell her to do something else.

As usual, we resort to a very organized form of charades.

For example, Heidi holds up two fingers. The whole teams shouts at the tops of their lungs, “TWO WORDS!”

Using sign language, Heidi brings us to the first syllable of the first word. Using the popular “Sounds like” gesture and then pulling at her hair, she tells us the syllable sounds like “hair.”

So we all start spitting out the alphabet as quickly as we can, until Heidi stops us at “M.”

We all shout, “MARE,” and start thinking to ourselves of all the movies we may know that contain the syllable “mare.”

“MARY POPPINS,” someone victoriously shouts as they run out of the room, sometimes kindly yelling to his own teammates to “GET OUT OF THE WAY!” (My 16-year-old brother Trevor is the only one guilty of this, actually. We Schotts have a problem.)

This person runs to the judge, who gives them the next movie on the list.

The judge’s role in this game is very easy and very hard. He must sit patiently in the central room, alone, waiting for the teams to guess the right movies. Then, when they come running to him in a frenzy, he must know where on the movie list they are and quickly give them their next movie.

The teams continue acting and running out to the judge, until one team has made it through the whole list of movies. This team then shouts obnoxiously and gladly tells the other team they lost, and we won.

The game is tricky, because no matter how good I may be at it, I am sometimes challenged by my teammates, who are sometimes terrible. A teammate may run in and simply stand there, paralyzed by his or her inability to act out any of the words in the movie’s title.

This fills me with pity and also outrage. As I sit there and watch in horror as time dwindles and my teammate just stands there, my blood begins to boil and I worry that I’m too competitive. I also worry – this worry is often more pressing – that I will lose.

Another popular strategy in the game is to consider who the judge is and/or what type of movies he will have written on his list. Sometimes, the judge puts a kids’ movie first, so Richie and Philip can go first for both teams.

For this reason, last night, my 16-year-old brother Tyler began shouting kids movies as soon as Richie got to the room. Richie held up two fingers – two words – and Tyler shouted “CARS 2!” Richie nodded in amazement, and Tyler raced from the room.

We have a most competitive bunch here this year.

Speaking of fierce competition, today is the sand castle contest that our resort (Silver Dunes) holds every week. My organized, detail-oriented boyfriend is meeting with his construction team – Richie, Philip and the 5-year-old Zac – planning a city surrounded by mountains surrounded by a drip castle. Andrew is even making a sketch, while the three boys look on in awe. The 5-year-old Zac just broke it to Andrew that this may be pretty hard to make.

Oh, and yesterday was The Beer Dig.

This famous competition happens every year. The guy in charge of Silver Dunes’ beach (George) organizes this, and we all eagerly await the day we get to dig in the sand for ten minutes, surrounded by many other sweaty people.

What happens is this: George buries a tennis ball early in the morning, before we’re awake to see. He then sections off a square of sand encompassing the buried ball. At 1 p.m., after paying a dollar to participate, we all gather around the orange tape, while George explains the rules. (Essentially, dig for the tennis ball. If you find it, you get an ice chest of beer. If a kid finds it, his parents get the beer.)

Eighty-four people dug yesterday, and my brother Tyler won. Tyler won a few years ago, too. Kenzie and my dad have also won, along with others in our extended beach family. (We come here so much and always bring so many people, our chances of winning are pretty decent.)

Trevor and I have yet to win, but I think our time will come. Until a few years ago, Tyler’s claim to Beer Dig fame was that he was RIGHT NEXT to the winner one time.

Anyway, I’ll let you know if Andrew wins the sand castle contest. 

Just another day in paradise

by: Sam

I escaped death yesterday.

The day started out like any Destin day for the Schott family. Every day, we hit the beach, and … that’s it. We stay there all day. You can find me, sitting in a lawn chair in the sun, reading a book and growing tanner by the minute. I sit near the beach, so there’s usually a nice breeze, which means the sweating is kept to a minimum.

Yesterday, my 16-year-old brother Trevor, my boyfriend Andrew and my sister’s boyfriend Mitch decided they wanted to play volleyball. They needed a fourth person, so they could play two on two. Because I’m incredibly athletic and my stamina is out of this world, I was the chosen recruit.

I hesitantly agree and wander away from the breeze and over to the hot court. (Court = Volleyball net and sand around it.) We start hitting the ball around and debating how to divide the teams.

Then, before we even start, our fun game turns into a real game. Four strangers walk up, and my team accepts their offer to play a game.

Hold on a second; I didn’t sign up for this. Now this is no longer about having fun; it’s about winning. I do love to win, but when it comes to sports, let me be the first to tell you, I fall into the losers’ category.

We begin playing, and I quickly become proud of myself for at least partaking in such exercise. This is great; I’ll be down to a Size 4 in no time.

After hitting the ball a few times, however, I realize I am sweating profusely. I realize, too, that the heat makes it hard to breathe. I become slightly distracted from the game, feeling out of shape and scolding myself for all those times I almost went to the gym but didn’t.

Way to go, loser.

My team actually wins the game, which is exciting, yes, but not as exciting as the fact that the game is over and I can go sit down and breathe again.

Then, someone says simply, “Again?”

No, no, no, I think. We’re not playing again. We’re too exhausted. Right, guys?

“Yeah, we’ll play again.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

WHY DO YOU GUYS HATE ME?

So, I can’t leave them hanging; I’m quickly stuck playing again

I do tell them, however, that I have to get water first. I walk to our umbrellas, grab a water and then leisurely walk back over, drinking half of my water along the way. I discreetly pour the other half of my water all over myself. It blended right in with the sweat.

During this game, I only hit the ball when it comes directly to me, falling straight into my ready arms. If it falls one foot over, I let Mitch break his neck to get the ball.

We begin losing the second game, and eventually I’m hoping we do lose, because a comeback would take longer. I just want to go back to my chair on the shore and read my book. I want to sit down and not worry whether my next move will cause me to collapse and die.

The game ends, and someone – a voice of evil – says, “Best two out of three?”

I immediately tell my team that I will go find a replacement. I begin telling them that my cousin Heidi could play; she’s probably a secret volleyball star. It’ll take me one second to run and get her.

Of course, because they hate me, they reject this option. It’s only one more game, they tell me. Yeah, okay, only 15 more minutes of putting my life on the line for the sake of your entertainment. That sounds great.

God knows why, I agree to continue.

My participation in this last game consisted mainly of my dramatic announcements of being on the verge of death. I really didn’t touch the ball. I flailed my arms in its general direction, when it came near me, but overall I did a pretty good job of not moving. We did lose the game, and I guess it may have been my fault. Although, it may have still been my fault had we played in a nice cool air-conditioned gym, so, there’s no telling.

After recovering from this tragic afternoon, I read more of my book, while appreciating the breeze more than ever. I feel accomplished from my brief moment of physical activity earlier, but I feel at home again, in my stationary chair on the beach.

For dinner, we ate at the Laizers’ condo. The Laizers are family friends, and the Laizer mother is a movie star.

Actually, not quite, but she’s on her way. She has been landing larger and larger roles as an extra. In her latest film, “Revenge of the Bridesmaids,” she played the mother of the groom. Her face flickered on the screen many times. She was front and center in one group scene, throwing rice at the bride and groom and looking very proud and giddy for her newlywed son.

Mrs. Rhonda even played her new movie for us during dinner. I found it pretty cool; all the dads and uncles in the room did not. Halfway through the movie, Uncle Kevin jokes, “Wait a minute; is this a chick flick?” And Uncle Steve: “Oh, now I want to read this book.”

In one scene, the bridesmaids kidnap the bride, and as they do, the bride’s shoe falls off. The camera then shows us her lone shoe, left behind, with nothing but the floor around it. For a dramatic moment, the shoe is center stage, with nothing else in view to distract us from this important moment.

Uncle Steve, with exaggerated interest in the movie says, “Oh, that’s a clue. Remember that guys – I think that’s a clue.”

After dinner, we played what we call Team Charades. This insane game is a blog post in itself, so I’ll save that for later. Be prepared; it’s going to be good.

T.G.I.F

by: Sam

I successfully travelled all across the country today.

I went to sleep last night around midnight, after talking on the phone with Meryl.

Me: I have to wake up so early tomorrow to get to the airport. I’m so nervous I’ll oversleep.

Meryl: I’m waking up early, too, to go on a hot air balloon ride. I can call you.

Me: Yeah, that’d be good. I set four alarms, but call just in case.

Meryl: Four alarms? These are the things you need to include in the blog – the little neurotic things you do.

Well, there you go. Also, Meryl, I ended up not calling the front desk for a wake up call. I decided to trust my alarms. … Sort of.

I awoke a while after I fell asleep, feeling very well-rested and ready for my day. Surely, it must be time for me to get up, I thought.

I started to get out of bed … and then saw that it was only 1 a.m.

I went back to sleep.

Soon after, my alarm goes off. I sleepily grab my phone, like any morning, and start frantically pressing buttons to stop the noise. The alarm keeps going off, and I look at my phone.

“Call from John,” the screen says.

Annoyed, I answer the phone and tell John I have a plane to catch in a few hours. John and I then proceeded to argue about whether or not we would have a conversation.

I hang up and therefore win.

I awake again at 5 a.m., 50 minutes before my first alarm. I give up and get out of bed.

My airport shuttle arrives on time, and I make it to the airport two hours before my flight. Relieved to have made it thus far, I buy a coffee and take a seat. I then listen to the girl next to me loudly carry on a conversation with her uncle and then her aunt. She is just so excited to go see them – SO EXCITED THAT SHE MUST YELL.

So, I put on my headphones and listen to Gaga.

Then, a woman sits down on the other side of me … and on her lap sits her hyper dog (Leila), who must sniff my computer every few minutes.

Leila and her owner were pretty nice and calm though, unlike LOUD GIRL WHO WILL BE HOME SOON TO SEE UNCLE JIM AND AUNT SHANA!!!

Anyway, Loud Girl, Leila and Leila’s Owner soon leave me. (I was so early that I watched the flight before me board from my gate.)

I'm soon on my flight home, though, and suddenly, I feel like Loud Girl. I WANT TO DANCE AND SING AND TELL EVERYONE I’M GOING TO THE BEACH!

But, I don’t. Instead, I listen to the guy behind me talk to some poor person sitting next to him.

Chatty Guy: Are you nervous about flying? I fly all the time. I fly 300 days out of the year for my job. I just sleep on flights though. I used to not be able to. You see, I always sleep on my left side. My fiancée – excuse me, ex-fiancée – used to hate it, but she got used to it. Anyway, I have no trouble sleeping on planes now.

For a second, I wonder if Chatty Guy is on the phone and that's why I don't hear anyone answering him. Then I remember I’m on a plane, so no, he’s not. Some poor person is sitting there pretending to listen to him.

As I’m getting off the plane, Chatty Guy begins to talk to me. He even invites me to a Fourth of July party.

Gee, thank you, Chatty Guy, but I’m busy. In fact, I have to hurry off the plane now, bye!

As we’re landing, I text Andrew, who promised me over and over again he would not be late.

Andrew texts me back: “I’m not there yet.”

WHERE ARE YOU.

Andrew tells me he’s close, so I tell him to get me at baggage claim. I exit the plane and begin briskly walking toward baggage claim, weaving around slow walkers.

Then, someone comes running up behind me and hugs me. Andrew begins scolding me for walking so fast. He explains that I ran past him, and he had to jog to catch up.

We head home, get Kenzie’s boyfriend Mitch, who’s coming on our family vacation (Kenzie’s still in Italy. WE LOVE YOU, KENZIE.) We also get my brothers’ friend Steven. Then, the four of us set out on our drive to the beach to meet the rest of my family, including my little cousins from Virginia – the ones I played darts with, watched Lion King with, Gnomeo and Juliet, etc.

We hit lots of traffic, and our trip soon becomes a complaining fest – too much traffic, so hungry, WHY ISN’T THE RADIO PLAYING KATY PERRY’S NEW SONG MORE?!

We got here eventually, ate lots of dinner and lots of dessert. Now, the kids are going to sleep, and I’m sitting on the patio blogging and listening to Katy Perry's song on repeat. (T.G.I.F.).