The Original Edward

My husband's Valentine's gift to me, which viewing experience was enhanced by several pieces of dark chocolate. Excellent casting (Jane isn't too ugly, Rochester isn't too morose), excellent screenplay, excellent costumes. Probably one of the best adaptations I've ever seen, although, admittedly, I must be one of the last people to have seen it, considering it came out last year.

It was so good, I felt almost as caught up in the story as I did the first time I read it.  I even pulled down my old copy from the bookshelf and read my favorite parts again--a ritual which is long overdue. Such pain, such bliss . . . there's nothing like it.

Mind Games

I have an over active imagination, a la Anne Shirley. And so, I have fairly graphic dreams on a regular basis—ones that I can’t get out of my head, that seem so real that I wake up believing they actually happened for a minute. Sometimes these dreams are wonderfully pleasant, others are horrifically not-so-pleasant—you know, those heart-pounding, wake up sweating with a scream on your lips, sort of alternate realities. I know I’m not the only one who has them. But out of all of those dreams, that we aptly name nightmares, there are two types that truly and deeply disturb me. The first, I assume, is a result of my affinity for crime/police shows. What my grandma refers to as the “put ‘em up/shoot ‘em up” shows. From which my subconscious harasses me in my restful state with running away from terrible killers, who usually wield axes, for some reason.
This is the most common nightmare I have, although there have been, on occasion, the even more disturbing cases, in which I am the crazed murderer. I think this cannot be a result of my instinctively violent nature, but rather a product of my admitted imagination. I cannot help but to look at situations from all points of view. From these unnerving episodes, I wake with a jolt, out of breath and scared out of my wits. Eventually, I realize that it was another nightmare, and, knowing my safety is secured, I try to go back to sleep. And for a time, maybe fifteen minutes, every time I try to close my eyes and sleep, all I can see is a blood covered ax and all I can hear are curdling screams. As a kid, I would think of open fields and wildflowers with the summer sun shining high in the sky when I had a nightmare. I still use that trick, although it takes awhile for my mind to beat out the bad. I always assumed that these types of nightmares were the worst I would experience.

However, when I got married, I started having occasional nightmares that, believe it or not, leave me more disturbed than these murderous blood baths. And that is . . . (wait for it) . . . the cheating dream. In these, I am always left with the same perspective, my own. And my husband always plays the same part—the cheater. I hate to admit this because I feel in some way it’s painting my marriage in a terrible light. Like these dreams could be perceived as some tell-tale heart beating beneath the floorboards, announcing that I’m insecure or unhappy, neither of which is true. Last night, I had a particularly awful one, where my DH had a secret girlfriend near his office who he would visit every week. At a work function, a co-worker of his let it slip, and I pretended like I already knew, which of course, I didn’t. So, when I confronted him about it later, he very nonchalantly confessed, like it was no big thing, and flatly refused to stop seeing her. This nightmare was so vivid and real, that as I woke up, I lay in bed for awhile, struggling with the idea that I was going to have to leave him when I really didn’t want to. I’ve woken up from these dreams crying, they seem that real.

Although the circumstances have been different (once he wanted to marry a friend of mine, that one was really awful), he always acts the same, like why can’t I understand and just get with the program? Like he’s not the one with the problem—I am. I wonder if this somehow stems from one of my English classes in high school where I learned that Percy Shelley believed that monogamy was repressive and when his pregnant wife wouldn’t entertain the idea of having an “open marriage” as it’s now called, he left her—said she betrayed him. He was hurt that she wanted to limit the love of which he was capable to give, some nonsense like that. And she was so overcome with grief that she jumped off a bridge into a river and killed herself. I remember being sort of disturbed by that story, and I can’t help but wonder if all these years later that story is what haunts me, rather than some latent fear that my marriage is not on sound footing.

What’s weird is that these dreams didn’t start until after I got married. Like my mind knew when to flip a switch that would really get to me. I mean, I dated, I had boyfriends—why didn’t I have cheating dreams then? Was I really just so convinced of my boyfriends’ devotion that my mind would never have thought of a cheating scenario? Or is it really that I’d never cared for someone as much as my husband. I’d never been in a relationship before where I really felt like life would not be worth living without him. Perhaps that was the trigger. Like my subconscious knew how much actually experiencing (well . . . in my head) that situation would devastate me. It’s funny too, because I never worry about my DH cheating. I seriously never do. So, it’s like my nightmares remind me that it’s possible. And if you look at it that way, then maybe my subconscious is really doing me a favor. Because after I wake up from this horrible, unthinkable situation, I am so relieved and thankful to realize that it’s not true. That instead, my DH is the exact opposite: loyal, devoted, loving, and coming home to me every night. Maybe in the end, it makes me appreciate him more, literally makes me remember what a great person he is, what a wonderful husband and father and friend he is. How’s that for a silver lining? So there—bring it on, mind, bring it on.

Imagine All the People

As many of you may already know, DH and I met in a summer class in college. When I met him, he very smoothly and slyly invited himself into my exclusive study group where we diligently picked apart each lesson and committed it to memory. And by exclusive, I mean me and another girl (Alicia), and by diligently studying, I mean slacking off, spending most of our time talking about music or men or what we were doing that weekend. Alicia and I agreed, after the class was over, that DH saved both of our grades that semester, since he apparently was the only one who went to a study group, in between his attempts to hit on women, to . . . well . . . study.

I digress. We met together at Alicia's place to study for the final. We decided, Alicia and I, to stop and get some fuel (junk food) for the long night ahead of weaving our way through complicated sentence diagrams. (Don't laugh! You'd be surprised . . .) It started out about the same as all the other times with conversation about non-class-related trivialities, when it took an interesting turn as I offered DH an oreo. He politely tried to say no thanks, but I persisted since I am of the opinion that oreos are not something a person can pass up, being one of the most perfect cookies known to man: gooey goodness with a little crunch. "I can't actually," he smiled, "I've got celiac disease—I don't eat wheat." As I looked at him in wonder, he just nodded, trying to explain, "I'm allergic, I'm a sprue. I don't eat any wheat. Ever."

I had never heard of this. Never! I never even knew such a thing existed. I'd heard of lots of food allergies. My own mother is allergic to apples. Plenty of people are allergic to peanuts. But, wheat? Never—I'd never heard of it. Ok, I know that sounds repetitive, but I just want to make it clear that at the age of 24, I had never in my entire life heard of one single, solitary person with celiac disease—not one.

Then I married a sprue. And suddenly, as if some sort of veil was lifted from my eyes, celiac started popping up everywhere. Now, everywhere I look, I see sprues. It was very Sixth Sense-ish and was only slightly less creepy. First, one of my friends also met and married a sprue right after me. Then, a guy from DH's work was a sprue and invited us to a cooking class at a local grocery store dedicated to celiac cooking. When we went there, we were greeted with an entire room full of celiacs, who live right here in our very neighborhood. Even when we went to Australia, come to find out, they are on the cutting edge of sprue-friendly foods because they have so many celiacs. It really did seem like, there for awhile, I was meeting someone new every single day who had this thing. It was incredible. And it really took me by surprise.

I have to say that I’ve experienced this phenomenon once again, although not in exactly the same way. As I’ve announced here before DH and I are hoping to adopt, and we’ve become pretty involved in learning about and understanding the adoption process. It’s not like I’ve never heard of it before—certainly I have. And I do remember knowing people who were adopted or who had adopted children or were in some other way connected to adoption, but it never really seemed that common. But, once again, I have been taken by surprise. Now, it seems like they are coming out of the woodwork! Just popping up all around us: birth parents, adoptees, parents who have adopted, and adoption advocates. And again, it seems like every day I meet someone new who has a story to tell me.


Sometimes it’s crazy to me to think that they were there all the time . . . people involved with celiac . . . people involved with adoption. I just didn’t see them before. Now I do, and I think it’s great. I guess you never know what you will find unless you take the time to look. And perhaps it’s hard to see if it’s not something that affects your life directly. It’s definitely something that’s taught me to be more aware, to realize that we all have large files of life experiences. Even if you’ve got something rare, like celiac, someone else is out there too, thinking their rarity is an anomaly. Guess what, they’re wrong. Imagine it, all those people. Kinda cool, don’t you think?

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

DH and I were having a conversation the other day about my sandals. Don't ask me how we got onto that topic; I'm pretty sure it was me going off on a tangent as always with him listening patiently as he usually does. As I was telling him their long and interesting history, he commented, “You know, that means you’ve had those shoes longer than you’ve not had them.”

What?

I know, he was actually listening, not pretending to listen! That boy ought to get a medal. Not only that, he uncovered a trivial bit of insight as well. Yes, those sandals have been a part of my life longer than they have not been a part of my life. Weird to think about it that way. So that got me thinking about all the things I’ve held onto for years on end that I can’t seem to part with. Not all have been with me as long as the sandals, but all have been used to their deepest potential and so on, surpassing the “throwout” stage by miles.

1. Fake, off-brand “Tevas”

Yes, these are them. The shoes that have been with me for the majority of my years. I bought these in seventh grade for a choir field trip to Dallas. It was going to be hot, and we would be doing a lot of walking, so I wanted something comfortable. I went to Wally world and picked these up. Who knew Walmart could sell shoes that would last so long? Honestly, I don’t think they look so worse for the wear. I’ve worn them everywhere. I took them to college and on my mission. I've walked in them all around Australia and Washington, D.C., and many other places. And I still wear them—proudly.

2. Fan that sounds like no other

I got this fan my freshman year in college. (I won’t say how long ago that was!) Growing up, my siblings and I always slept with a box fan blowing in the hallway. Not for air circulation, but for the sound. Something about that sound just lulls me right into dreamland. When I went away to school, my mom got me this fan to help me sleep at night. I’ve had other fans since then, but none of them quite sound the same as this one. This one doesn’t click or whir and it’s just the right volume.

When I got married, I brought my trusty fan with me. One night, it fell from the windowsill and broke into two pieces. I almost cried. (Well, almost.) I tried to replace it, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out, and other fans just didn’t sound quite right. So, I’ve jimmy-rigged it many times with packing tape. Somehow, it always ends up falling apart. And now, the cover won’t stay on. But, I am undaunted! I just go right on loving that well-loved fan. Although, I’m beginning to think I’ve got to part with it because it really is a huge eye-sore! Poor fan.

3. Ratty, old, purple sweater

I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I’ve had this sweater. I think it belonged to my older sister before it belonged to me. It also had matching sweat pants that I loved to death (literally). But, eventually they got so old that the waistband actually crumbled away. I would’ve kept wearing them too, but it got to be too difficult to try to keep them up all the time! The sweater has held up better, but not by much. It's just so comfy! Just looking at it makes me think of a cold winter night, bundled up with hot chocolate in my hand, or a nice relaxing Sunday afternoon, watching I Love Lucy or Bewitched reruns. I can’t give it up . . . I just can’t!

4. Homemade bedspread, with love

My mom made this quilt for me when I was in eighth grade, I think. My favorite color was yellow (which has now morphed into the closely-related orange), and I liked sunflowers, so I picked out this fabric. It stayed on my bed even after I went away to college, and it was nice to come home to a room that was exactly as I left it. After awhile, the quilt found its way to a box in the closet, where it stayed. Later on, after I got married, my mom asked me if I’d like to have it. I was so thrilled! She mailed it to me that week, and now we use it as a throw in the living room. It’s held up pretty well; I’ve had to do a few repairs, but nothing too major. It get’s thinner every year, but it still keeps me warm.

5. My high

My brother brought me back this necklace when he spent a semester in Jerusalem. The charm is the Hebrew letter ה (“He,” pronounced “High”). This letter is a symbol of good luck and holiness in the Hebrew tradition. I loved this necklace (well, I still do), and I used to wear it every day. Then the chain broke, so I kept it in my jewelry box for a long time. I always meant to get a new chain, but I never got around to it. It kind of scared me when the chain broke, and I think, subconsciously, I’ve never gotten another chain because I feel like it needs to be kept in a “safe place” now. It’s become more of a special occasion necklace, instead of an everyday one. I even wore it in my engagement picture.

6. Fillies forever

So, yeah, I’ve already divulged this, but I was on my high school’s dance team back in the day. Honestly, there is precious little I’ve kept from those days: some old leotards, a duffel bag, some T-shirts. I’ve been able to part with lots of stuff (Can you hear my mom sigh?!), but for some reason, I’ve hung on to this ridiculous T-shirt. We called it “the kickline shirt,” and we had to wear it to school on certain days. The whole team hated this shirt with a passion, but it was part of tradition. The design had been around for a long time (I’m guessing, early 80s? Ya think?), and the director couldn’t let it go, or maybe it was the parents who liked it, I don’t know anymore. We did get another T-shirt that looked better, so we could alternate the two, but there was no escaping the kickline shirt 50 percent of the time.

After the initial humiliation, I got used to it. And now, for some weird reason, I can’t let it go, even though the plastic stuff is starting to crack and peel. Maybe it’s my token of that rite of passage I had to endure, my souvenir for surviving. I sleep in it, I lounge in it, I cook in it, etc. But, I’m usually very careful not to leave the house with it on my body. Recently, I made this mistake. I went to get the mail on a Saturday afternoon in my kickline shirt, and somebody I knew saw me. Ugh. Now I’m thinking maybe I should throw it out once and for all.

Why do I hang onto this stuff? Why can't I clear out my closet like a normal person? I just love to assign every belonging I have, no matter how small, with all kinds of sentimentality. ("Don't throw that out! I got that on my fifth grade field trip to the recycling center!") But, I have to say, in my own defense, I have gotten a lot better. I have two people to thank for this: my loving husband, who gently encourages me to make room for other living essentials (like say, a bed, a couch, maybe a dining room table?), and Peter Walsh from TLC's Clean Sweep, who taught me that my mother is not a pillow. ("To remember my mother, I have to keep ALL this stuff.")

These wonderful guys have helped me see that I don't have to keep every last thing that I've touched since birth around me always. But at the same time, I have to hold on to some (a limited number) of those things just for the sheer comfort. It's probably part nostalgia and part constancy. There are so many things that change in this crazy world, it's like I want to hold on to just a few things that will always stay the same. I get to keep those favorite things, so that, when the dog bites and the bee stings, I won't feel so bad.

It's Cool To Pee Your Pants

So, it’s been awhile since I’ve posted. I apologize. There hasn’t been a lot going on lately that I’ve been able to deem blog-worthy, hence the hesitation. I’m providing this disclaimer now to warn you. I’m not sure what is about to follow is actually blog-worthy either, but it’s all I can come up with right now, so I hope you will find it entertaining, even if it’s completely stupid.

The other night, DH and I were watching an episode of This American Life on Netflix Watch Instantly (which is freakin awesome, I’d like to add). I have a friend who listens to the radio show all the time, so when it popped up as a “suggested item,” we decided to give it a shot. It’s actually quite interesting, but I digress. You are now being falsely led to think that this blog entry is about the show.

At the start of one of the episodes, there was an opener narrated by an older woman, looking back to her elementary years. She told a story about how she was on a bus with a bunch of her classmates, and she had to go to the bathroom pretty badly. Panic began to consume her as the bus pulled into a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam. With a bathroom nowhere to be found in the near vicinity and the bus locked in place, this woman as her little girl self was faced with every child’s worst fear: the dreaded peeing of one’s pants.

So, in an act of self-preservation, she just slid forward in her seat and peed on the floor. The floor of the bus to her seemed like an abyss, so far away from her dangling feet. She could take care of her problem, and no one would ever know the difference. Truly, I was astounded a child this young could pull this off without being obvious or making a mess, since I myself have had two ill-fated experiences with the pop-a-squat in the bushes when you just can’t hold it anymore. (I know, too much, I apologize. But honestly, you must admit that it’s a pretty amazing talent.)

Unfortunately, she forgot to consider the fact that the bus would at some point . . . move. As the bus lurched forward, her little deposit began to spread toward the back of the bus. And then, the shouting began. Also unfortunate for her, she didn’t realize that by not jumping up and down and screeching at the discovery, she was in fact incriminating herself. From then on, this poor little girl was known as “peezilla,” which was most often, besides being shouted at her from down the hall, scrawled across her locker door. Branded for life as the girl who peed herself.

I had to laugh at this story only because it reminded me of my own fourth grade class. (And no, I was not the pee-er, thank goodness.) Near the beginning of the school year, a new kid moved in. I remember a few things about him: his family moved from Saudi Arabia—his dad worked for Exxon or something, he sat next to me during English, and he was a big jabbermouth. (He talked my ear off one time about a rollercoaster ride he’d been on and swore that someone had fallen out and been killed while he was there. Right after he got off the ride! Yeah, right.) He had new-kid-appeal for awhile until people finally realized he was just a normal kid just like the rest of us.

Then it happened. One day, someone yelled and the boy started to cry and ran out of the room. And there it was— a nice big puddle in the seat of his plastic mini-chair. Then the pandemonium let loose. Some started laughing hysterically, probably already plotting out what names they could call the boy who peed his pants, some wrinkled up their noses and looked like they might barf, most just screamed. Honestly, I only remember being shocked and wondering if it really was pee in that chair or if there had been some mistake.

My teacher was scrambling to get the class to settle down, get the janitor, and to find the boy who’d confusingly peed his pants in the middle of class with the bathrooms no more than a few feet away. I don’t even remember what happened next. I can’t remember the boy coming back to class or what they called him. I only remember one thing: the boy’s chair had been green.

The chairs in our fourth grade classrooms had two colors: puke green and burnt orange. Most of the chairs were green, a handful were orange—maybe five or so. There were many more children in my fourth grade class than five. Kids started coming to class early so that they could get orange chairs and feel secure that they weren’t sitting in “the” chair. It didn’t take long for the idea to catch on. Soon, everyone in my class was coming early, including me, and making a mad dash for the classroom to avoid the “pee chair,” which it became ceremoniously named. If you were unlucky and couldn’t fight your way to an orange chair, you had to sit on the edge of your green-maybe-it’s-the-“pee-chair” all day long. And if you did sit back all the way in your green chair, than you became just as tainted as the “pee chair,” because you could have been sitting in a place where pee once was. Bottom line, if you didn’t want to be made fun of, you did everything you could do to avoid the “pee chair.”

This went on for quite some time and was the center of gossip on the fourth grade playground: who got a green chair that day, who got an orange chair, who sat back in their green chairs on accident, and, of course, the great mystery—which one was the actual pee chair. Eventually, the epidemic even spread to the other fourth grade classrooms. (“The chair could have been moved to another classroom—all green chairs are at risk!”) The teachers realized it was an issue, and we got lectures about how the chairs had all been cleaned and how it was mean to the boy who had peed his pants to keep bringing it up, but this was not enough to stop what had snowballed into a huge ordeal. Ultimately the inevitable happened; two boys got into a scuffle over an orange chair. The one boy had run the gauntlet that morning and won the orange chair, and the other boy had stolen it during recess. They were fighting over who had rightful ownership. My teacher exploded.

“THERE IS NO PEE CHAIR!” she screamed, “Everyone sit back in your chairs, NOW! NO ONE gets an orange chair!”

Looking back, it’s kind of funny to me how kids exaggerate the whole “peeing in your pants” thing. I mean, think about it. Can’t you think of someone you teased as a kid for peeing their pants? DH has even told me a story of someone who earned a horrid nickname for the act. What’s the big deal? I mean, when Bear Grylls drinks his pee on Man vs. Wild, everyone thinks it’s great. What’s the difference? Why is it so gross when you are a kid in elementary school? And how come it sticks with the poor perpetrator for so long?

Honestly, I don’t have any theories on this, except that kids love to make fun of other kids (apparently, this doesn’t change much in adulthood) and that, let’s face it, pee is gross. What makes the difference, perhaps, is that Bear does whatever he does with his stuff voluntarily, and most of the time, peeing your pants is very involuntary. Bear is proud of his habits, and kids are quite ashamed. You can’t make fun of someone who is proud for peeing their pants, as Adam Sandler demonstrated. So, I guess if you find yourself in some situation where you have no other choice but to let it go, make sure you pee with pride.

Sleuthing Plaid!

I think that will be my newest catch phrase when I happen to stub my toe. <grin>

I’ve tried to rent the Nancy Drew movie since it came out on video, but I had a nay-saying DH, and he wouldn’t allow it. Or, I guess I should say that he wouldn’t watch it with me! (I know, big surprise.) But, I just thought it looked cute and would be a fun little movie.

Well, my big chance finally came, and I got to watch it by myself while the DH was otherwise occupied. And, I have to say, I thought it was delightful. But, something that I didn’t expect, I really enjoyed Nancy’s little preppy wardrobe. That girl knows how to wear plaid! However, I do realize that we are not all as plaid compatible, myself included. But, I thought it would be fun to try to put together some Nancy Drew inspired outfits anyway, even if I didn’t use one stitch of plaid through the whole thing. It’s more about being more daring with colors and patterns anyway, right? Well, that’s what I think. Enjoy!




It’s not every day that you can say you’ve been inspired by 60s-style plaid, so I’ll let it last as long as it can. I hope you enjoyed Miss Drew’s sleuthing-worthy style as much as I did! Perhaps her old-fashioned wardrobe might even inspire answers to some of your fashion quandaries. You just never can tell.

Closet Living

Published monthly and focused on the homes of the “cramped and confined,” this magazine is one of the oldest print resources for closet decorating professionals and serious closet-owners. Closet Living features classic and eclectic décor ideas for any closet apartment, complete with kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom corners. The magazine offers tips and suggestions for remodeling and renovating your own closet, to make look large that area that is actually an itty-bitty living space. Choose Closet Living to learn how to make something, virtually, out of nothing, in reality!

Just a few days ago, I was sitting in my one bedroom apartment, ridiculing it’s tight cupboards and narrow hallway, sneering at the kitchen, the living room, the hall closet. I was so glad to be rid of it. Freedom from the one bedroom! Little did I know that that very closet would soon become my home. I was released from the grip of the restricted one bedroom only to be thrust into the bosom of its despised half-sister—the studio. (dun, dun dun!)

Ok, now I’m just being dramatic. In actuality, I fully chose the studio/closet in which we do now reside. I have now officially become the creator, editor, and publisher, not to mention CEO, of Closet Living. And my first edition features the traditionally classic and cozy D.C. closet, perfect for that metropolitan, cosmopolitan, neapolitan (Why not? I love a good mixture of ice cream flavors.), and . . . extrapolation (huh?) . . . woman.

I will simply refer to each section of the closet, as to avoid confusion, but suffice it to say, each part of the whole could be called “the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, the living room, the dining room” all together.

Here’s a little glimpse of the bathroom nook, so cozy.

The living corner.


The bed . . . yeah, just the bed. And, yes, both of us have to fit in there. We’ll either leave this place closer than ever or we will hate each other’s guts, and this little devil will be culprit if the latter occurs.



The dining area.


And the kitchen corner.


And there you have it. Our D.C. adventure’s home base. Ok, ok. You’re right. If this apartment could truly be a closet, it would be one fit for the Carrie Bradshaw’s of the world. So, yeah, it definitely fits the definition of a large closet.

And as we’ve experienced, closet living is not without it’s charms. We’ve both felt flashbacks to an earlier time, when we were required to make do on little with a hodge-podge of furniture. I already love the miss-matched old furniture and the drawer that always sticks (what personality)—the strangely cut windowsill that’s been altered to fit the kitchen sink next to the miniature stove.

It’s old, but it’s clean, and the walls have already started whispering about years past. DH hugged my shoulder as we stood on the rooftop patio looking out over the city. We watched the people hurrying along the sidewalk and heard honking horns and sirens in the distance, and I thought we were meant to be here, in a closet, together. And although we may not be able to move much in the shower or in the kitchen or . . . well, anywhere . . . we are just a happy couple of squished human beings. We will not be confined or defined by our space. Besides, who wants to be indoors anyway?

So, you see, even a closet can be an adequate, even pleasing, place to live. And I have no doubts about this place. I’m almost positive that I’ll miss it when we leave (almost). So subscribe today! And make your closet a little piece of heaven on earth.

Cityscape

In just a couple months now, DH and I will be settled in our new place in Washington, D.C., for the summer. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately; feeling the trepidation of impending change. A few nights ago, I watched a show, with the DH, about Russia on the travel channel. They started out in a rural setting and slowly made their way to urban life. They showed the development that has taken place in Moscow: expensive malls and car dealerships, upscale restaurants, and techno-pop dance clubs. Watching them walk around in that cement jungle made me think about how much I love living in/visiting the city and being a part of its electricity and motion. And, I felt better.

My first real contact with a big city was when my parents moved us to Boston, and it has become one of my favorite places to visit. It’s not overwhelming, but not underwhelming either. There’s always something fun to do. But, I have to admit, the thing I really like best about Boston is that you can have your cake and eat it, too. Travel a good 30 or 45 minutes out of the city, and you are surrounded by big, blooming trees and charming little towns. DH and I went back recently, and the memories flooded in—I was in nostalgia heaven. It was a lot of fun to remember what it had been like to get used to a new, somewhat “foreign,” place. To remember some of the wonderful people I met, the great times we had, and how I accomplished adjusting to the culture and eventually took it on as part of my own identity. We visited all the places that I’d been to before: historical sites, parks, the old neighborhood. We walked the freedom trial and stopped to watch a contortionist at Faneuil Hall and then grabbed some tandoori chicken. We rode the T around the city. The beeping doors, the smell of stale cigarette smoke, the people reading books or listening to their iPods. These things took me back to another place.

Cologne, Germany—my first stop on a year and a half journey. The smell, the language, the food . . . everything was so uncomfortable and strange. At first, it made me so homesick that I longed to go back to something familiar. But then, slowly, daily life took over, and things started to get routine. You discover little things in a new place that just don’t exist anywhere else: like Bratwurst and Broetchen and miles of Weihnachtsmarkt booths and Rolladen that keep out the street lights or people who use “wicked” as an adjective and thick, richly colored fall foliage. Then, suddenly, you’ve acclimated. And that joyful nostalgic feeling of living and working in the city with people who have become your friends attaches itself to the smell of dirty streets and curry ketchup. The slamming Bahn doors, the “Tschuss” of the stranger coming out of the elevator, the cold cobblestone and bright lights of the Fussgaengerzone. All these things remind me of the joys of city living.

Cities aren’t all happy times, though. And, as I said, I am a lover of having and eating cake. There’s something to be said about wide open space and a community that lives and works together in a personal way. I wish I could have both all the time. One day, I hope we’ll be able to find a happy median. Maybe we’ll live right outside the city, like my parents did, but still visit as often as time and circumstance permit. These things have a way of working themselves out.

But for my part, I think I’ll go on loving the city, for now. I’ve lived many places since Germany, and I hope to live in (or visit) many more. The idea of embarking on a new city makes my stomach tingle with excitement. I’ll soon have another chance to get used to an unfamiliar place and find out its secrets. New subway maps to figure out and commit to memory, new restaurants to make my favorites, new people to befriend . . . new smells, sights, and sounds. Each of these things will then, slowly, become a part of who I am. And someday, a few years down the road or maybe longer, I’ll be walking around or sitting somewhere and one of those things will trigger a wonderful memory. And I’ll miss Washington, D.C.—I’ll miss it so bad, I’ll want to jump on a plane just so I can see, hear, or smell that thing that just came and went in my mind. And that fear and anxiety I felt in the beginning will be stored away, perfectly preserved, until the next time change lurks on the horizon, ready to pounce.

Three Down: Infinity To Go

Three years. It’s almost an entire college education, it’s two of my missions, it’s a fortnight worth of cartons of ice cream, it’s at least 20 slurpies, it’s a few dozen tries at making me learn to like running, it’s over 100 back pops, it’s 144 sacrament meetings, it’s approximately 288 episodes of Law and Order, and endless, endless trips to the grocery store and restaurants. 1096 (including leap year) days of a happy marriage—that’s what we got going on.

It seems incredible that three years have already gone by. I know it will only become more and more incredible to me as the years continue pass. Sometimes I feel like my life is on fast forward. I guess that’s what happens when you feel secure and happy in life. Soon, DH and I will just be another old married couple, reminding each other to take vitamins and finishing each other’s sentences. It seems funny, but I’m excited for that time, although I won’t wish it to come too quickly.

DH has always been a bit of a romantic, but in a subtle way—not in an overflowing with flowers-and-candy type of way (although, that’s sweet, too). To me, he’s a literary romantic, which I love for obvious reasons. He remembers things, and those things are special to him, and to me.

Isn’t love a great thing? I’ve always thought so. It can heal broken lives, give people something in common, improve understanding, spawn compassion, and unite communities. It has lasted through the ages, and no one ever gets tired of it. You can never get or give too much of it. There’s a day dedicated to the celebration of it. Love is the subject of almost every piece of writing, if you look hard enough, you will always see it, even if only dealing with the lack of it. It can knit two people together so closely that you can’t tell where one starts and the other ends, forming something new. Love—the catalyst of a family. And if love is the catalyst, time is the agent.

As time goes by, I fully expect all of our numbers to increase. Soon, there will be too many to count—too many back pops, slurpies, grocery store trips, and good times. Even though we’ll change, as all people do, we won’t forget the rules of the experiment. And our productivity will always be off the charts.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! It is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

~ William Shakespeare

Cool Feelings

Once I was having dinner with a family. They had two little boys who were just a couple years apart. They chatted on all through the meal about their soccer teams and how they really loved to play. Afterwards, I got to talking with their mother about it. She told me that her younger son was pretty good. He could follow the game and could keep up pretty well. However, her older son, the one with the sunnier disposition, loved soccer for one reason: it made him look cool. He just loves to win, she said, whether it has to do with his own athletic contribution or not. She said she caught him practicing in the backyard one day. He would wind up and kick the ball and then throw his hands in the air, as if it was the winning goal. Then, and this was my favorite part, he would start his victory dance. He would position himself, for instance, in a “muscle man” pose, and then look back at his shadow to see what he looked like. Then, he would nod his head and say “Yeah, that’s cool.”

It reminded me of that Cosby episode where Cliff tries to teach Theo how to play football. When they get home, Cliff explains, and playfully mimics how Theo has mastered the art of the victory dance, but not much else. But Theo is excited anyway, because he’s already, in himself, retained the level of cool that he thinks he will exude as the star player on the high school football team. Besides, feeling cool is the only way to really become “cool,” right? And as long as we don’t really care what anyone else really thinks anyway, then “cool” is really just a state of being that we create for ourselves. We’ve all got these little things we do to make us feel “cool,” whether it be sports or something else. Mine certainly don’t include sports! But, I will list them for you, just the same.

I feel cool when . . .

• I stay up late and watch David Letterman or Jay Leno.

There is just something about these late night talk shows that makes me feel cool, and I’m not really sure why. I remember asking DH once why the shows would come on so late if they are prerecorded anyway. He said that it was to give people something to watch after they’ve spent the night out. Out at a party, out to dinner, out on the town. That’s what cool people do. And even though most times when I’ve watched the show, it’s been because we’re having a pajama night, I still feel absolutely cool. Maybe it’s because I get all the jokes now (whereas I didn’t always when I was younger) or because it’s filmed in New York (or Los Angeles). But for that hour, I feel like I’m tuning in to something that makes me “cool.”

• I wear high heels.

I don’t know why this would be, because wearing high heels, in addition to making me feel cool, also makes me feel pain, in some cases great pain. There’s nothing worse than a new pair of shoes that, after a few hours of trying to walk gingerly whilst experiencing throbbing jabs of pain from heal to toe, just makes you want to cut your feet off. But at the same time, they just look so good! I guess one of the reasons that wearing elevated shoes makes me feel cool is that they just simply make me look taller. I know it’s not true, but it feel likes my legs actually become longer and leaner. In my minds-eye, I get ballerina legs when I wear high heels, and that is definitely cool.

• I work out in the morning.

This flies in the face of the first “coolness” point I just listed, because I can’t even get up in the morning if I stay up past 10:30 p.m., but exercising in the morning just makes me feel cool inside. I imagine myself as an athletic person when I workout in the morning, which really isn’t true. I hate it actually. I hate moving. I’d much rather sleep in. But afterwards, I get this really big euphoria of coolness. My body just feels different. My legs feel a little cramped and tired, and my clothes seem to fit better all day. (As long as I don’t indulge at lunch, which just makes my pants feel tight all afternoon.) After a workout in the morning, I feel like I’m the lady that “goes to the gym.” You know, the one who’s always so busy, but seems so put together at the same time. I feel cool, like her. There’s something about getting up in the morning and actually having enough energy to workout that makes me feel like I can conquer the world.

• I eat artichokes or asparagus.

I know this is silly, but I have definite “cool” associations with these foods. First of all, strange foods are inherently cool. And I’m not a food snob, actually far from. I adore hamburgers, corndogs, cheese fries, pizza, and anything else that’s mass produced and dripping in grease (unfortunately). However, I still assert that there is something cool about unfamiliar foods, especially fruits and vegetables. My first experience with asparagus happened about 4 years ago. I was having a birthday, and my little sister and I were home by ourselves. She loves cooking and wanted to make a birthday feast. She cooked a lovely chicken dinner. The side dish was asparagus, drizzled with olive oil and sea salt, broiled, and topped with mozzarella. Wow, it was a party in my mouth, and I’m not talking about pop rocks. I first encountered artichokes after I was married. DH’s parents used to steam a whole artichoke, and then peel off the leaves and dip the ends into a delicious and tangy mustard sauce. I peeled, I dipped, and I savored. And now I can’t stop thinking about artichoke hearts. The thing is . . . if these dishes had been something I’d grown up with, I think their levels of “cool” would have deteriorated. As I try new things, inevitably this will continue to happen, and soon those cool exotic foods will just seem commonplace. So, I’ll just have to keep trying weird sounding foods to sustain that cool feeling. There are still lots—I’ve never eaten a pomegranate or a kumquat . . .

• I finish a book in just a few days.

Now, this is something that just makes me feel so cool. Usually the books I’ve been able to finish this quickly are by no means difficult reads. I am not a fast reader, and it takes me a while to plow through hard books. But, somehow that doesn’t diminish the coolness of the fact that I can read a just-for-fun book quickly. I think one of the reasons for the feeling is that it makes me feel like my internal library is expanding. Like my brain is getting new wrinkles with each book I check off the list. I remember when I was taking an American Lit class my sophomore year of college, and we had to pick a research project from a list. Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar was one of the choices, which was a book I’d always wanted to read. But, before I picked the project, I wanted to see what the book was like, so I checked it out and started on Friday, finishing it on Saturday evening. When I went to tell my professor that I was locked in for the Plath project, she asked me what I knew about the book. I told her that I’d checked it out and read it over the weekend, and she seemed surprised and impressed.

So, I “made my muscle man pose,” peeked out the corner of my eye and thought, Yeah, that’s cool.

Australia Zoo

Here are a couple moments from the Australia Zoo.
This is when they brought out the elephants.





Listen to the Kookaburra song here.
If you click on the "Laugh, Kookaburra" you will hear the distinctive laugh the bird has.

By Divine Design

Last night, DH and I had a little discussion that I've been thinking about all afternoon. He told me about some of his thoughts concerning a talk from General Conference. This talk was about the true meaning of manhood, or in other words, what makes up a manly man. He told me a few things about why he agreed with what was said, and I commented on the shame of our society’s projection of what it means to be manly. We discussed the topic a little further and then we went to bed, and I haven’t thought of it again until now.

I remembered the story he told me from the talk.The speaker’s mother had been injured in some way that she lost strength in her arms and shoulders. The father then bought the mother a fancy and expensive ironing machine that she could use to lessen her pain. The mother was surprised and could not imagine how they could afford the machine. The father had sacrificed a year’s worth of lunches to save money and had spent that money on the machine. He had noticed his wife crying from pain when she would try to iron The mother was surprised that he noticed this. DH's comment was, “Sometimes men forget that there is more to their responsibility than being a breadwinner and a temporal provider. He must provide emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually. And he must be observant of his family. And so should women.” [Cheesey Sentence Warning: Please skip if you have a low threshold for cheese.] He always amazes me—I suppose that’s why I married him!

I decided to look up the talk, since it was in the Priesthood session, and read it. I thought it was a great talk, and what I like most of all is what he pointed out. A lot of it applies to both of us. This is one of my favorite parts:

“Good men sometimes make mistakes. A man of integrity will honestly face and correct his mistakes, and that is an example we can respect. Sometimes men try but fail. Not all worthy objectives are realized despite one's honest and best efforts. True manhood is not always measured by the fruits of one's labors but by the labors themselves—by one's striving.

Though he will make some sacrifices and deny himself some pleasures in the course of honoring his commitments, the true man leads a rewarding life. He gives much, but he receives more, and he lives content in the approval of his Heavenly Father. The life of true manhood is the good life." (D. Todd Christofferson, Let Us Be Men)

It made me think of another talk I heard while on my mission about what a woman should be. I like how some of the same sentiments echo here, in a talk written for women, in a different way:

“A woman of faith loves the Lord. She wants Him to know it by the life she lives, by the words she speaks, by the service she renders to His children, by her every action. She knows that He loves her even though she is imperfect and still trying to be better.” (Margaret D. Nadauld, A Woman of Faith)

I think both quotes apply to both women and men—the sort of people we ought to become. I think it’s wonderful that real manhood and true womanhood should be so closely aligned and yet have their own differences that are so uniquely and divinely imbedded. How clever Heavenly Father must be.