Dear Thursday,

I'm so glad you're here again. I just wish you'd brought more sunshine with you. Seriously, this snow thing is out of control. My feet are cold. I know, I know... I could have worn socks. But really, who wears socks in March? Not me. It's my small rebellion.

I love when you show up right on schedule. I swear, nothing makes me happier. Well, except for Celtic music played by a best friend wearing a turquoise sweater. But dear Thursday, you're up there on the happiness scale. You make me pretty darn happy. On Wednesday nights, when the time on my cell phone switches to 12:01 am, I get this silly grin on my face thinking about how lucky I am that you're my friend.

I'm trying to figure out what makes you so great. I've yet to figure it out. You didn't even bring Spring.

Please bring sunshine next time.

Love,
Laura

Pink Tastes Like Salmon

My friend is color-blind. Frankly, I've been thinking it's a tragedy, because I am in love with color. I want to eat it, dress in it, and dance in it. I want to marry color.

The poor color-blind soul. Does he not know that those birds are blue? And what about the grass? Can he tell when it is dead? What about the green light traffic light? Does he just have to remember that the bottom light means go? And what if he forgets? What if the red light lights up for people to stop, and he goes through the intersection because he thought it was green? Would he die?

We looked through a bag of Sour Patch Kids. I wanted a red kid and was digging through to find one. As I sifted through the bag, I asked him, "Can you tell which one is which flavor?" He picked out a green one.

"I don't know what color this is. I have to taste it to find out." And with that he popped it into his mouth and determined that it was green.

It was right then that I decided his life might actually be better than mine. What if, because he can't see color, his other senses are better? You know, like when someone is blind, they tend to have better hearing. And when someone is deaf, they have stronger eyes. I think color blind people must have better taste buds. Tasting color would be the ultimate super-power for color-lovers.

I told him my theory, "I think you have better taste buds than the rest of us." And with that, I solved his problem.

From here on out, whenever he isn't sure of a color, all he has to do is taste it. If he's not sure the color of the wall, all he's got to do is lick it. Cherry-flavored? It's red. Lime flavored? It's green. I can just see him getting ready for school. Bending down, he starts licking his shoes to find the blue ones. He skips over the chocolate flavored shoes, the lemon ones, and the OJ flavored basketball shoes. Finally, the last pair in his closet tastes like Windex.

Scandalous Shoes

Someone once told me that in an unidentified foreign country, women who wear red shoes are perceived as scandalous and immoral.

Just so you know, I wore red shoes almost every day during my senior year of high school. I had three pair.

1 pair of red flats
1 pair of red rain boots
1 pair of red wedges from D.I.

The red flats wore out. Completely. And I threw them away. I had a funeral and everything. They were my trademark shoes. It was depressing when they fell apart. Two weeks ago, I bought a replacement pair. I'd gone over a year without red flats; it was a hard year. But I haven't worn the new red flats yet. They're stiff.

Just so you know, I like red shoes. And I'm wearing the red wedges from D.I. today and I'm thinking about senior year when I wore red shoes every single day. And I'm thinking that today, I'm a walking scandal.

And I kind of love it.

Flow

I need fifteen pages of creative non-fiction for my memoir writing class tomorrow. And a few minutes ago, I couldn't get it to flow. That was a problem.

I was sitting at a table in the library, and my creativity equaled zero. Because I was sitting at a study table in the library, and how could any sort of normal, natural thought happen at a wooden desk in the library where I do accounting and information systems and yucky things like numbers? I also had my planner laid out next to me on the square table with every hour etched with deadlines(including tomorrow's deadline for the fifteen page memoir)? Like I said, how could anything creative happen?

That's when I learned that I can't write at a table in the library. I can't write about my life while sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair. That's not where life happens.

But, I only have one night to crunch this baby out. So, the problem needed to be solved.

And I solved it. I went with my gut instinct and crawled under the table. I crumpled my coat in a ball and stuck it behind my back as a cushion against the leg of the table. I pulled the chair in towards the table until it trapped me against the center post of the table.

Here I sit with my knees propped up and my laptop against my thighs. And it's flowing now. I'm on page nine of fifteen.

Let the Week End

It was a long, hard week. And so I thank heaven that every week has an end. And this week's end was good.

Friday:

My younger sister went to a high school dance, Morp. Disco style. Her friends and their dates let me be their photographer. We used a disco ball as a prop and we blasted Abba and The Bee Gees in the background. Too fun. Check back for pictures from the shoot... tomorrow or the next day.

And then, I watched one of my favorite movies. It might be my only favorite. Stranger Than Ficition. I'm not really sure why I love this movie so much. It might be the intelligent wit. Or maybe it is the beautiful bakery that Maggie Gyllenhaal owns. Or maybe it is the literary humor. Or maybe it's the wristwatch.

And I ate chocolate peanut butter ice cream from Baskin Robbins. Bliss.

Saturday:

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints Draper Temple Open House. Learn more. And more. And more.


And at night, I went to a Brazilian dinner party hosted by a good friend. The food was too awesome. They served a rice and beans dish with collard greens and a type of sausage. There is an official name for the dish, but I don't know it (and wouldn't be able to pronounce it if I did).

And even later (as in the middle of the night), I made a polka-dot blueberry pie. For Pi Day. 3.14. March 14th. 3/14. I've made pie on every Pi Day for the last four years. I didn't get home from the dinner party until late, so I didn't start baking until even later. The pie didn't get in the oven until after Pi Day was over. But I'm still counting it as my Pi Day pie.


Now, the pie is in the oven. And I'm just lovin' that it's the weekend.

Questions

When we're lonely, why do we take it all the way to self-pity? Why don't we do something about it before it's too late? Why do we study all the time to make ourselves feel better when we know the real problem is that we're studying too much? Why is it still cold outside? If it were spring, would we spend more time outside? Would we go running if it were spring? Would we build up our endorphins if it were spring? Why couldn't I get out of bed this morning? Was it because the basement heater is broken and the air outside my bed was icy? Or was it because I stayed up until three studying accounting? Was it worth it to stay up until three studying? Do grades matter? Would I be able to get the job of my dreams without good grades? Do I want the job of my dreams? Do I want a job? Do I work really hard at school for me or for other people? Am I a perfectionist? Do I have my priorities right? Do I like colorful shoes more than I should? Or is it a perfectly healthy guilty pleasure? Will colorful shoes get me where I want to go in life? What will get me where I want to go? Where do I want to go? To Africa? To Seattle? To a normal life with a backyard garden? In my dreams while I sleep, why do I always live in Seattle? Is that a sign? Should I go to Seattle? When he touched my elbow, was that a sign? Or did I bump my elbow against his hand and he really didn't touch it at all? Can we be friends? How do you make friends with someone you want to be friends with? Am I cool enough to be their friend? Can you talk yourself into falling in love? What is falling in love? Do I try and convince myself to fall in love? Does real love mean you don't have to convince yourself? Or is convincing yourself part of the process? Am I always convincing myself? Do I try to convince myself to like cucumbers? Why don't I like them? Does it matter that I don't like cucumbers? Should I keep trying to like them? Is there such thing as analyzing too much? Where do you draw the line? Have I crossed that line?

They Stayed on My Nose and Eyelashes

Let me get this out now, just in case you doubt it at the end of this post: I'm still not a fan of snow or winter.

I walked out of the library tonight and it was charming. Giant snowflakes fell everywhere. They landed on my red coat and they polka-dotted it. I looked straight up into the air and saw the flakes, evenly spread across the whole sky. I knew they were falling, but it looked like they were completely still-- as if suspended with fishing wire. I blinked my eyes with big white fluff stuck on my lashes. And after singing The Sound of Music for all my life, I suddenly understood why the "snowflakes that stay on [her] nose and eyelashes" were one of Maria's favorite things. I'm sure I've had snowflakes stuck on my noes and eyelashes before, but today was different. Today, it became one of my favorite things.

And even though my shoes were soaked by the time I got home. And even though I had to scrape my windshield before I drove. And even though it was freezing outside. And even though my car was slippy-sliding. (All valid reasons to hate winter and the snow.) I am glad it snowed. I tell you, there was something magical in the air today. Snow has never been more delightful.

"Toe cleavage is considered to be fashionable by stylists such as Susan Conterno, columnist for FAMOUS magazine."

Let me tell you about my ugly feet.

My second toe is taller than my fat toe. A guy once told me that my one taller-than-normal toe would disqualify me from ever dating him. Nice guy, eh? I told him that I wouldn't date him either-- for a lot more reasons than his toes. Reason one being that he's married.

The middle toe on my left foot has a corn just above the joint. Be grossed out if you want. And then stop reading, because my feet get worse than a minor corn on my toe.

I have unidentified bones growing out of both of my ankles. Occasionally, the bone growths are painful. I have a few pairs of shoes in my closet that rub them wrong. I once learned that if I don't wear those shoes, the bone things don't hurt as often. The podiatrist said that if my bone growths get worse, I will have to get them removed. And then I'd have to spend 12 weeks in a wheelchair recovering. He said that post-surgery, he can't guarantee that I'd ever walk the same again. Twelve weeks in a wheelchair is much worse than having bones growing out of your ankles. And walking funny for the rest of my life? Well, that'd just be funny. Actually, no, it wouldn't. It would not be funny at all.

My toes are always painted red. Always. And they're always chipped. Always. I'm thinking it's really stupid to paint my toe nails red. They paint stop signs red for a reason: so people notice.

Right now I have blisters on both of my heels from new shoes. And the soles of my feet are black from dancing on the dusty floor of my modern dance class. I have a callus on the outside corner of my right foot, just below my baby toe.

My arches are insanely high. My barefoot footprints are just a heel mark and a ball with five toes coming out of the top; there is no connector section. My footprints look like animal tracks-- not sure what kind of animal, but that just makes it odder.

But, don't feel bad for me. In fact, you should actually be jealous of my feet. There is a secret to beautiful feet. And I have the secret. It's toe cleavage. And get this, I have amazing toe cleavage. Toe cleavage like you've never seen before. A guy I dated once told me that people pay plastic surgeons thousands of dollars for toe cleavage. This was right before he asked me how much I paid for mine.

Nothing. I paid nothing. Get this Mr. Guy-I-Once-Dated, my toe cleavage is natural.

My feet are just beautiful like that.