Mi Propio Spray King

Next week after the movers are done we're taking off to a family reunion way upstate in the Adirondacks, at a cute campy cottage "resort" place. It looks fun but a little rustic and you can imagine my disappointment when I learned there's no air conditioning. So I sent my mom on a (successful) mission to hunt down some battery operated misting spray bottle fans. Which reminded me of two funny stories.

Mi Propio Viento

Summer, 1996. I'm in an intensive Spanish program at BYU right before my mission, which included living in the Spanish house with a cursedly fast-talking Dominican, having classes all day, watching Spanish soap operas and ending with a 2-week trip to Mexico in enormous 14-seat vans. I thought it was hot in Utah that summer. Until we got to Mexico. It was hot in the vans. It was hot on the beach. It was hot in the hotels. It was hot in the restaurants. It was hot in the homes of Mexican church members with whom we stayed. My buddy roommate was Melanie Maddox (now Henrich) and she was hilarious, the stories we could tell! And our Spanish got pretty darn good that summer. Somehow one of us had a tiny battery-operated fan that came in a package labeled "Personal Fan", which we translated into "Propio Viento", having left our Spanish-English dictionary and Dominican roommate back home. We were so hot that whole trip we had that propio viento with us wherever we went, constantly desperate for a turn, and demanding of the other, "DA ME MI PROPIO VIENTO!" It became a standing joke, synonomous with "I'm hotter than hell!"

King Me

Summer, 1995. Cummings family reunion at Lake Winnipesaukee, NH. At the end of the week Dave and I take off in his at least 10-year-old no-guts Dodge Colt to drive to Utah for school. Power nothing, no air conditioning. It's hot. For four or maybe five days across the country in the summer heat, including creeping up hills and mountains in the far right lane with the hazards on as the Colt decelerates 40mph, 30, 25, 20, etc., barely making it over the ridge. Our only entertainment an unreliable tape deck and each other. And an enormous spray bottle Mom gave us that said SPRAY KING on the label. The passenger was in charge of spraying down the driver as needed, and then sometimes blowing on them for added cooling effect because the Colt was moving too slowly to create wind through the open windows.

As needed all the driver had to say was:
"KING ME."