The Thursday

2012-01-16T17:44:00.004-07:00

The cursor in this text box blinked for a good long while before I started typing this sentence. Of late, I've been dragging myself to my blog space-- wanting to write but having nothing to say, thinking that I might not have anything worth saying to add to this blog, this internet, this world. Gosh, I hope not.

I get in this funk sometimes-- you'd think I would abandon the blog. But alas, I cannot. And so here I am, saying something that's really nothing about nothing just because I don't want the blog to die. It's hilarious that even though it's writing that I'm studying day-by-day, I stare at that blinking cursor and with its pulse it swipes everything worth saying out of my brain.

And so, I leave you with tonight's dinner. Zuppa Toscana and Whole Wheat Oatmeal Bread.

2011-12-05T01:12:00.001-07:00

Hi, I'm Laura. I'm a wanna-be chef. I'm a writer. I'm a student.

I'm a Mormon.

2011-12-03T09:23:00.001-07:00

So grateful you were born. What would I do without you?

2011-11-15T14:44:00.001-07:00

Of late, I've found myself feeling discouraged in the face of assignments that I never complete, class readings that I never do, essays that I want to write but never begin. I've wondered what I am doing instead with my time. I had begun to think that I must be wasting hours of my life away doing nothing.

Yet, in the last week or so, I've realized that if I am, in fact, wasting time, then it's wasted time that matters. I want to waste my time talking with the loves of my life-- a husband, sisters, nieces & nephews, brothers, friends. I want to waste time dicing butternut squash. I want to waste time cuddling in a movie, painting a wall, walking instead of driving. I want to waste time writing unimportant emails and pinning a darling skirt to Pinterest. And perhaps, if I have leftover hours after wasting my time, I'll do a bit of homework, but only as it fits into my larger goals of learning to write and teach well.

I've realized that I want to foster a certain level of un-busy-ness that leaves me free to set aside rigidity and schedule and assignments for lingering, for soup, for gratitude, for a rich life, for the chance to list my blessings and realize, suddenly, that my life is full of the things that I want it to be full of-- family, food, reading, a bit of writing, a whole lot of loving, and a relationship with God that is all-too-often derailed by tired eyes.

I'm grateful for my life that is filled, overflowing, abundant, rich. For the countertop in my kitchen that is stacked with apples, onions, half a cookie, and a quarter of apple pie. For my email inbox brimming with good people, recipes, writing opportunities, and a bit of homework. For a hybrid sketchbook/calendar that is dotted not with sketches, but with lists that I am always reordering as I navigate days. For people who packed into our kitchen on Sunday night for pie and a game of Ticket to Ride; I wish they'd lingered longer. I always do.

2011-10-11T10:51:00.002-06:00

I'm pretty sure today is a beautiful day. It's still morning, so it's not quite deep enough into the day to tell, but I think it will be. And I don't mean beautiful as in sunny and warm and refreshing with a slight breeze. I'm not talking about the weather. I think today is going to be beautiful for all its mundane moments. Today's little things-- books to read, places to go, food to eat-- have started to gather and it's gonna be good. I can tell.

In class today, a student challenged how people create meaning out of commonplace things. He noted that as people draw substance and salvation from their simplest experiences, they are creating false depth, contriving substance from its opposite, forcing consequence and fate and beauty and God. These people, characters, authors, or otherwise are all too earnest in their disingenuous need for depth, he says.

And you know what, to heck with all of that, I want to create meaning and substance and depth from nothing. I want to do it everyday. I want to live my life looking for redemption in a sprinkler and transcendence in the steam rising from a pot of boiling water. I want to look for God in the rain that is just about to drop from the heavy clouds at this very moment.

So maybe I am talking about the weather.

2011-09-29T00:17:00.000-06:00

I was born at 12:49 am on a Thursday 23 years ago. In less than one hour, it'll be the exact moment, on a Thursday once again, 23 years later.

I want to title this post, "On Failure," because I set a few goals to reach by my birthday and I'm not in shape enough to run three miles today and I did not blog everyday until my 23rd birthday. I did not accomplish either goal. Epic failure. But how depressing would it be to have a blog post, on my birthday, that was forevermore titled-- "On Failure"? And so I've left this post untitled, which is how I like my posts lately.

I feel like this birthday of mine plus my inability to accomplish goals calls for some sort of philosophical rambling about learning to be okay with ourselves as we are and practicing that very okay-with-ourselves thing as we grow older. Or maybe I should ramble about how these looming goals have been quite the heavy backpack-- a burden that I am, oh, so glad to be rid of. What a birthday present! I could advise that it's better not to set goals because then we wouldn't ever have to write a post on our birthdays about being out-of-shape and inconsistent.

But you know what, I'm not going to ramble about any of that. I'm just going to wish myself happy birthday and be proud that since I made those embarrassingly-lofty-for-me goals I have written more posts on this space than the rest of the year combined, times four. And I have run at least once (or twice) a week, which is huge for me.

I'm just going to write, on my birthday, how lucky I am. What a beautiful life I get to live. I'm grateful today. Grateful for a sleeping husband, a midnight telephone call from a happy-birthday-crooning sister, fresh sunflowers on the table, a box of sunburnt peaches, and few regrets. Grateful for my mom who 23 years ago today was in the final stages of labor getting ready for my debut.

And as the cherry on top of all this gratitude, I'm going to write that a bit of failure never hurt anyone, especially when life, lived simply, packs so many beautiful successes. Call it rationalization or call it truth.

Here's to birthdays and all those goals I never plan to reach.

Abundant Blessings

2011-09-24T13:53:00.001-06:00

2011-09-23T17:47:00.001-06:00

We hosted a family in our neighborhood for a backyard picnic last night. Everything about the evening seemed magical to me. Well, except our backyard, which is grossly neglected.The food was inspired by our pear tree, so heavy with ripe fruit. I'm wishing the night had never ended. If it were up to me, we'd still be sipping lemonade on the grass outside.

Grilled Pizzas: Margherita (garden tomatoes + basil) + Pear Gorgonzola (a copy of the old CPK version)
Dough. Pear Gorgonzola inspiration.

Cantaloupe + Blueberries + Pears (a sprig of decorative fresh rosemary to make it look fancy)

Roasted Pears with Ice Cream (When we don't have homemade, which is often, we have Tillamook ice cream. We love it. Also, I left the pears whole, carving out the seeds and core from the bottom and baking them individually in ramekins. They were darling.)

P.S. I got the grilled pizza instructions from Cook's Illustrated, which is subscription only, but the link in the post up there is the same recipe, I think.

2011-09-20T16:25:00.001-06:00

Late last night, we sat on the couch. His head flopped straight back against the cushions, exhausted from work and a long evening of studying at the library. I was trying to finish 100 pages in a novel. I can't really complain because, goodness, how lucky am I that my homework is to read a novel? Nonetheless, I was overwhelmed, tired, trying to recover from a headache that knocked me around earlier.

We kind of complained for a bit-- discouraged, confused, burdened, stacked-up with complaints and gripes that were nothing and everything at the same time.

And then we remembered, or rather, he remembered and reminded me.

Look how wonderful our life is. Look at this home that we share and the food that we ate this weekend. Look at the letter we got in the mail that lightened our financial load-- thank goodness. Look at us. We have jobs. You get to go to school and read novels. We don't have overwhelming debt-- yet. Look at our kitchen; we have a dishwasher. Look at our bedroom with its white quilt that you love and the basil plant in the window. Look at the pear tree, the apple tree, the cherry tree. And hey, look at me! You love me! And I love you too.

I'm grateful.

2011-09-13T23:57:00.001-06:00

Baking cakes and making cookies. And I have the most awesome apron. I'm totally digging it.

2011-09-09T08:07:00.001-06:00

Going south for the weekend with many writers. We'll be hiking and writing.

My brain hurts already. In a good way.

Yummy on Wednesday

2011-09-08T00:49:00.002-06:00

I spent the entire evening after school in the kitchen. I honestly never left the kitchen except to go to the grill. I was itching to cook all day. Sure, I had plenty of homework that I could have/should have been doing. I had phone calls to make and errands to run. But they were just minor annoyances easily pushed aside because salmon was on sale, potatoes were going to go squishy in the next few days, as were the carrots and kale.

So I cooked.

Grilled Salmon with Mustard Glaze-- Dry mustard (2 tbsp) with sugar(2 tbsp) and water (2 tbsp) to make a glaze. Toss on the grill, grill both sides. Leave it longer on the filet side to get a caramely, crispy top. (Cook's Illustrated)

Baked Potatoes-- I wish I had baked them on the grill, but I used the oven. I'm regretting it now. Our house is still trying to cool off from the oven heat. I prefer crispy potato skins, so I don't wrap my potatoes in foil.

Glazed Carrots-- Boiled until nearly done in a shallow puddle of low-sodium broth. Finished with melted butter and sugar, reduced over fairly high heat. Totally wintery and totally his favorite food, so I made them despite the season.

Kale Salad-- Try and love. I'm in love with the texture of uncooked kale-- the curly edges, the near-chewiness of the leaves. This salad is so simple, yet packs a kick. Don't forget the homemade croutons. I think they make the salad (or any salad for that matter).

Fresh Peaches + Ice Cream

And is it just me, or does it seem like clean-up takes as long or longer than preparation?

2011-09-06T23:35:00.001-06:00

"To love what you do and feel that it matters-- how could anything be more fun?"

Katharine Graham

While doing school this afternoon, my memory jumped to this quote that was always on my family's fridge. Placed in the upper corner by my mom, the quote was a quiet testimony of my mom's love of mothering-- and of me, of all my siblings. I knew that she loved being a mother, felt that it mattered, and even thought it was fun. To this day, thinking of the quote on the fridge makes me feel so, so important. With K. Graham's words, she made a quiet, humble statement of love. I'm so grateful for that mom of mine.

And today, while doing reading and thinking, while writing my thoughts for a class, I thought, how could anything be more fun? Someday, quiet possibly, mothering will be the absolute most fun and I will put the quote by Katharine Graham in the upper corner of my fridge to communicate softly to my children just how much I love being theirs. But until that blessed moment, I'm going to feel so grateful that I love what I do right now and I, no doubt, feel that it matters.

Summer Sleepovers

2011-09-05T11:05:00.003-06:00

Last night, we slept outside in the backyard for the third time this month. We place old mattresses on crinkly tarps and crawl into sleeping bags on top. We extension-cord the computer, tap into a wireless network, and stream a movie out under the stars. Three times has made it tradition.

Challah French Toast for post-sleepover breakfast.

Here Comes the Bride

2011-09-02T22:09:00.001-06:00

Little niece Gracie just played wedding. I caught the bouquet. It's my turn to walk down the hallway with the flowers.

I love getting married.

Roasted Tomato Basil Soup

2011-09-01T10:57:00.003-06:00

I can sense myself running out of steam, ambition, drive, whatever it's called. Have you noticed it the last few days? Have you noticed how I did not write on this blog yesterday? Probably not. I'm not going to flatter myself by thinking that you're tracking every move I make on this space.

But I do want to acknowledge that I've now missed two days of blog posting. And this is in the middle of my drive to never stop blogging until the end of September. Never stop, never miss a day-- that was my goal. And though I'm imperfect, in so many ways far more serious that an inability to stick to writing on my little blog everyday, I'm going to keep trying.

I'm going to keep trying to blog everyday. And I'm going to try not to emotionalize or overanalyze, while definitely trying to exercise. I'm going to do lots of those kind of -ize, -yze, -ise things. I'd like to be better in so many ways. Like everyone, I want to say the right things at the right time and never the wrong things when there is so obviously a right thing to say. And sometimes I say the right thing at the wrong time, which can be the most serious of all the wrecks above.

And anyway, I know this philosophical rambling of faults, flaws, failings, and lofty goals is getting awfully boring. So I'll leave you with roasted tomato basil soup from garden tomatoes, because garden tomatoes cure all ailments, especially when they're roasted. (And also, that's what we had for dinner last night, and I took pictures.)

2011-08-31T00:03:00.000-06:00

For lunch, I had sourdough bread with garden tomatoes, basil, and fresh mozzarella cheese. What a dream lunch.

And now our laptop battery is running out of battery on my lap and I don't really want to go and grab the computer cord.

He just said, "I want you to have strong bones." I don't really know what he means by that.

Such is our night.

A Day of Emails

2011-08-29T23:25:00.000-06:00

Excerpts from "Sent" email folder: August 29, 2011

This is a homemade ice cream that I don't think I could give away.

Can I get the permissions to edit the spreadsheet?

If you could, I'd like it printed in green.

I didn't want to spend much time going over policies in class today, because hello, that's boring.

That was definitely not more pictures than I would ever want. More!!!

8:30 am on Wednesday works for me, though I need to be on campus by 9:50 am for a class.

I'm totally going to use it. Love the Sigur Ros clip. Ha!

Yummy: Sweet Onion Marinara

I really like the look. I'm so glad it worked. I'll be in contact early next week.

I've told him that when I die, he must, must access my emails and preserve them. So much of me is preserved in what I say and share with other people.

I worry that our digital communications will be disregarded and lost and as a society we'll lose the documentation of correspondence, which I think is perhaps the most important, and most genuine, documentation of life.

It's late and I'm worried.

2011-08-28T23:59:00.001-06:00

Worried about life, the future, and walking into my classroom tomorrow and calling myself the professor.

Worried that it's so late at night and I'm awake worrying.

Night.

A Special Day

2011-08-27T23:59:00.001-06:00

We're lying in bed with the window open above our heads. The drips from the rain gutter patter on the cement just outside and I love how it sounds, and smells.

After sleeping in the backyard last night, we made a pancake breakfast this morning. He picked up my produce basket from the Bountiful Basket co-op. He mowed the lawn; I cleaned up breakfast, swept, and took a long shower. We-- actually he-- weeded the side yard. We cheered at my brother's soccer game and held a family diving competition in a swimming pool. I lost, but he won.We remembered to return our lingering redbox movie before 9pm (a rarity), got another one for free, watched it, enjoyed it (another rarity-- we always seem to get dud movies from redbox), ate frozen yogurt, and simply loved the simplicity of a casual Saturday.

Like we're enjoying the simplicity of the thunder's grumbling and the rain outside our window at this very moment.

Let's pretend I remembered to post yesterday, okay? For my sake? Remember how I made that goal to post everyday until my birthday? I still want to feel successful when I make it-- even if I missed yesterday. Okay?

Harvest

2011-08-25T18:08:00.001-06:00

The Strange Thing About Change is that Nothing Really Changes

2011-08-24T00:48:00.000-06:00

At the Museum of Art in Phoenix a few weeks ago, we saw photographs of old photographs positioned just in the right place in front of the same spot, years later. It was much like the photos from this charming website: DearPhotograph.com. Thank you, Carolyn.

via DearPhotograph.com

I've been thinking about these pictures of pictures and how everything changes, but nothing really changes.

I still think about what I'm going to wear in the morning. And I still daydream about dinner (and more often dessert). I am always attached to being a school girl and I fear I always will be. I still have a little side job; I've had a job for years. And tonight I went to mutual-- the weekly activity for teenagers in the Church-- because now I am the leader. That's silly because I've been going to mutual consistently since I was a wee 12-year-old. I live in the same one block radius and shop at the same grocery. I look up at the same mountains, green-cloaked in Spring and red-flecked in Fall.

Good People

2011-08-23T22:04:00.000-06:00

I rode our hand-me-down blue Schwinn bike to school today. The front-wheel break is broken. Stopping is precarious. My skirt billowed on either side as I pedaled. I kept imagining the fabric getting caught in the wheel. I forgot to bring a bike lock, but trusted people's goodness and left the bike leaning on the kickstand. People are good.

They are truly good. I'm thinking of the person who didn't take my bike, even though it may have looked lonely and lost, untethered. I'm thinking of my mothers. Of sisters who care deeply for people-- care and take care. A friend who said, I hoped you'd sit there when I slipped into the chair right by. I'm thinking of brothers who lift couches for sisters. And one particular husband who just walked in the door.

One Thing Interesting

2011-08-22T21:58:00.004-06:00

The classic get-to-know-you request, "tell one thing interesting about yourself," always stumps me.

This morning, in a training meeting, I found myself pacing my life trying to grasp at something to share that was just the right level of interesting. I didn't want to sound too dorky, too boring, too conceited, too mundane, too showy. I needed just the right thing to share-- this is people's first impression we're talking about.

As the people nearer and nearer to me began sharing their interesting facts, I was getting more and more stuck. I kept thinking about food. I could only think about food. (This could be because we were eating breakfast while introducing ourselves, and also because every other person was mentioning how many more "interesting things" they could, and would, be elaborating on at lunch.) But saying-- I love food-- would not do my love, nor the subject, due respect. And it also sounds boring and well, normal. Everyone loves food.

I daresay, however, that I love food a totally crazy, wanna-cook-all-the-time, sleep-with-my-pans-and-parchment, obscene amount. When it was my turn, I hesitated, searching once more through my brain files for something better before saying, Uh, I spend an embarrassing amount of time on Cook's Illustrated every day. Which is true. Interesting though? Only if you happen to share my kitchen.

Lucky guy.

Sunday

2011-08-21T21:15:00.001-06:00

It's Sunday -- and I don't think I want to blog on Sunday. Day of rest? Look at us, we're resting.

Happy Sunday.

Today Was a Drag

2011-08-20T22:48:00.001-06:00

In the title above, do I or do I not capitalize the was?

I'm starting an English masters program and you'd never know it. I think I tricked them into letting me in. They forgot to ask me if I knew the rules for capitalizing titles, which I don't. Most of the time I base the upper-case vs. lower-case decision on aesthetics.

A deathly migraine whalloped me like a swatter to a fly today. And then, the migraine plucked me apart, piece by piece, and flushed me down the toilet. It was that bad.

Did that metaphor work? Don't tell the graduate committee, I'm still working on implementing metaphors.
The part about having a nauseous (I had to look up the spelling) headache all day is true and miserable.

Goodnight. May tomorrow be better.

Our Truck

2011-08-19T16:45:00.001-06:00

So, I drive a truck.

It's grey and big and it's really actually his truck. But I drive it because well, it's a long story about how he has a job that lets him use another car and we already have this grey truck and I don't have my own car, so if I want to drive at all, I get to take a gas-guzzling, diesel-fuel-running, neighborhood-noise-ordinance-violating truck.

This is something I never expected. Not that I ever really expected anything that's happened to me up to this point in my life. Okay, maybe I expected to graduate college (which I did! last April! wahoo!). And maybe I expected to be married someday-- but even that's iffy.

But I definitely never expected the truck. When he picked me up for my first date and I walked out my front door to see a big truck in the driveway, I thought-- Dang, a truck guy?! Why didn't I see this one coming? Of course it would be a truck. Shoot. This will never work. I was smitten with him before we even went on the first date. I've never been smitten with trucks. The association of him and the truck, the truck and him, was entirely disappointing.

I don't know why I'm telling you this, perhaps it's a prelude to this picture, which for some reason brings out all sorts of lovey feelings in me, not because the picture looks like an epic, manly truck advertisement, which it kind of does, right?

We got engaged in this truck. We would've gotten out of the truck, but it was a frozen ice-land outside. And silly me, I wasn't expecting the big proposal, so I didn't wear shoes when he suggested we go on a "drive." (See paragraph three where I allude to the fact that I didn't expect marriage.)

We've dated in this truck, kissed in this truck, driven countless country roads in this truck. I sit in the middle, right next to him in this truck. See this song. We took this truck to Bryce National Park for our anniversary, and we took this picture-- my man and his truck.

And I would never admit this to anyone's face, because I've spent so much energy building-up the "I hate trucks" image (especially with him); but some days, today being one of them, I love our truck and all things unexpected.

My Big Commitments

2011-08-18T23:09:00.001-06:00

I'm typing this out on a new phone and I feel like I'm in the future. Woah.

And I'm going to be here, on this blog, everyday until I'm 23.

I don't know what I'm gonna say everyday, but by golly, I'm gonna say something.

Oh, and I'm also going to learn to run before my birthday. Three miles by September 29. I've hardly run more than a mile at one time ever in my life.

I told him that I was going to run 3 miles in 23 minutes for my birthday. You know, because I'm turning 23 and all. But he looked at me with big eyes that said to me, maybe you should start with a goal to put on your running shoes...

And so I've dropped any time limit and I'm just going to run straight, no stopping.

And that'll be a good start, with writing here and running.

No stopping. Ready, set, go.

2011-04-06T23:16:00.001-06:00

I feel like I've bumped into an old friend, and I don't really want to play catch-up. I'd much rather just start where we left off. Okay? Okay.

Just in bed tonight, trying to work on homework, struggling to feel motivated or even smart enough to get through it. Been there? Yeah, so, anyway. Okay, so, yeah.

These days, I feel more and more like I know who I am and who I want to be. I just want to be me. Me who smiles big as I get a running-start to jump into bed. Me who made awesome Indian food, that one time. Me who can't get motivated to do homework tonight, or most nights. Me who is motivated by deadlines and by people coming over. I love it when my kitchen is bubbling with people. I just want to be me. Me who wants to write, but worries about that. I don't know why. Me who loves and laughs, and mostly just whines when he chews in my ear.

Me who's got a boy that just called me because he'd love a late-night ride home from school. Me who drops everything to be the one to pick him up and bring him home to me, to our bed, and to my funny running-start that I do every night after I brush my teeth.

Radiolab

2011-03-02T13:17:00.000-07:00

I don't know if you guys know about Radiolab, but it's beautiful. Listen to "Words" and "Time" and any of the episodes really. Each takes an hour, which seems like a big investment of time, I know. But it's very very worth it.

We're studying Radiolab podcast/radio show episodes in my essay class, because these radio shows are actually a lot like spoken creative nonfiction, classical essays. And all of it is thrilling to me because I love these podcasts. I could listen to them over and over. My eyes glazed over this morning listening to "Words," and it wasn't out of boredom. It was tears. I could listen to essays all day. Which is good, because I might just be going to graduate school to study essays.

I was accepted into the BYU MFA in Creative Writing with a nonfiction emphasis, which means I will be studying and writing essays, and all of it begins next Fall.

Hi There.

2011-02-15T13:09:00.000-07:00

I think about posting all the time. And then I don't post and I don't know why. I think it may have something to do with originality and online clutter and wanting to clear a space for something new and such and wondering if I have anything valuable to say especially after scrolling through other people's blogs and thinking, yep, they said it exactly how I would say it. Amen sister.

Or maybe my disappearance from this little online space is connected with the utter joy I'm discovering in my classes. I'm taking fewer credits than I've ever taken, all of them are English classes (a complete departure from my business major), and I've never been happier or more engaged in my schooling. With fewer credits, you'd think I'd have more free time. And I do. More free time to do things like read the assigned novel, which is awesome. I'm a happy school girl. It makes the fact that this is my last semester of my undergrad altogether tragic. Shouldn't I be anxious to get out of here?

For your loving-love day entertainment, here we are. Happy Valentine's, one day late. Sure love all the lovin' across the web today and yesterday.

Man on Wire, A Movie Review

2011-01-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

We’re cuddled staring at the television, and the Frenchwoman’s eyes pierce through at us as she remembers the man on the tightrope, her lover on the wire. And she stood below on the ground below the twin towers looking up to see his small black silhouette against the vast sky, floating, dancing on air because the wire was too thin to see from 104 floors below, or maybe it was more floors. I don’t remember that part of the documentary. I remember the Frenchwoman’s eyes as she gazed through the camera to tell us, It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing, and she gasped. It was all in French, with white subtitles flashing a translation of her words, but not her gasps.

I turned to him and asked if he thought, like I did, that the story was perfect in French. I’m glad this is in French, I said. All of it was in French, the story of how Philippe Petit saw an article about the twin towers to-be. At sixteen, he read the article in a dentist’s office and tore it out of the magazine after drawing a thin line with his pen between the two towers. And in French, the documentary narrated through the making of his plans, his practicing, and of his girlfriend who stood always on his back lawn watching him practice across the high wire strung between two platforms in his back yard, practice across the bridge in Austrailia, and across the towers of Notre Dame. She stood below in his backyard and then years later, she watched him walk eight times between the towers, and it was beautiful, like French.

Impressed

2011-01-06T10:37:00.000-07:00

He leaves early in the morning for school. It’s dark and icy outside, and inside for that matter. This morning I remembered how impressive it is that he can just get out of bed, right when his alarm rings. Impressive because I cannot do that and isn’t that what makes something impressive to each of us? It is impressive when someone does something that we struggle ourselves to do, like getting out of bed. Even at 8:00 this morning, I couldn’t pull myself up out of the gray sheets. I snoozed my alarm, every ten minutes, for an entire hour. I surfaced just before 9, with class at 9:30am. Walking out of our back door, I collided with the frozen air, like a truck going full speed into a brick wall. I don’t like that image. Just know that it was cold. I walked to school quickly. I could feel a slow spreading of frozen flesh that seemed to start at the top of my ears and spread downward until even my earlobe was past feeling, just cold and stiff like stone. And why don’t people shovel their sidewalks? The walk down to school was treacherous as I had to cross sheets of solid ice on sidewalks, bumpy solid ice that slid me off balance and into the road where I decided to stay, because I could walk there, uninhibited by snow and ice, just cars. I’m always cold and wary of winter. The ice on the sidewalks is treacherous, the cold air is akin to a brick wall, and when he gets out of bed early in the morning, I’m cold and alone in the dark. I get to school and want to complain—complain and whine about the cold and the ice on the sidewalks, but then I see that everyone else walked to school too. In that moment, I’m impressed with their ability to do something that I cannot do myself. I cannot walk in the cold, in the ice, in the bone crunching and crippling air without complaint.

Simply Christmas

2010-12-27T01:15:00.000-07:00

It was a simple Christmas. I think it always feels that way when the flying wrapping paper settles down. In that instant, you realize that Christmas is simply about family and that that's all it was ever about. Christmas is and always has been simply about family.

For me, this year, Christmas has been about my new in-law family. We've been in Las Vegas with his parents and siblings, celebrating up on the mountain bench, far above the glittering city, close to the LDS Temple. It's a beautiful place for Christmas, a warm place for Christmas.

Because it's my first Christmas away, I missed my family a bit. I missed the slow breakfast that we eat before opening presents. I missed my mom most of all. But at the same time, I just kept falling in love with this new family of mine and the stocking they filled for me, the ring-around-the-rosies with the darling nephew, their generosity, their quickness to laughter, the homemade eggnog that magically appears into my hands with every blink of my eyes.

To you from me, I hope your holiday was a merry one-- filled with warm wassail and little white lights, filled with duets on the piano, and filled, quite simply, with family.

All the joy in the world to you and yours.

Writing

2010-12-11T17:34:00.000-07:00

I'm in bed today: writing and writing, thinking and thinking. A portfolio of writing is due on Tuesday; it's the final for my creative nonfiction class.

In general, I've struggled to grasp any ounce of motivation for school this semester. I blame it on senioritis, mostly because senioritis is an easy target. But I haven't struggled to stay motivated in this class.

I'm anxious to be a better writer. I care about wandering, thought, wandering thoughts, and writing all of it down. I feel like it's an important thing to care about.

Picture from my annual birthday drive to see the changing leaves.

Today, His Birthday

2010-11-30T21:32:00.002-07:00

Yesterday, after much studying and long school-day-ing, we ended up on our bed with our legs tucked under the covers, talking and laughing about nothing and everything. It was late and I had plans to wake up early and make him cinnamon rolls for his birthday (which is today), but I couldn't fall asleep because I was giddy happy-- the kind of happy that is antsy and restless while all the while being just contentedness and some kind of sure confidence in life as it is and as it's going to keep on being. He makes me that kind of happy.

It's his birthday today. And oh boy, I've just got to tell you how glad I am that he was born. I am so glad.

Braced for Winter

2010-11-08T10:52:00.000-07:00

The leaves are falling now-- blowing down from trees and landing on the sidewalks. The morning rain soaked the grounded leaves and it's dangerous. Those slippery leaves on the ground have slid me off-balance twice today.

Oh! I've loved this fall.We've been lucky that it's been warm for so long. Seventy on Saturday! I'm grateful for this year's gradual descent into winter. Winter is hard. And our windows are drafty. Thank you heavens for giving me time to really warm up to this whole winter-time idea, giving me time to mentally prepare for perpetual coldness-- blue toes, cramped feet, numb fingers, stiff joints, dead ears, goosebumps on the crown of my head.

I've been emotionally prepping for winter since September. Every ounce of lingering summer has been celebrated.

But I think I'm prepared now. You can hit me. I'm strong. I'm ready. I can do this. Arghh... bring it on.

And hit me you will.

Trick-or-Treat

2010-10-28T21:55:00.001-06:00

It's been so long. I know.

But hey, I'm going to do better. Because I love this little Thursday spot.

And by the way, we'd like to celebrate Halloween with you.

All Hallow's Eve Party

Saturday, 30 October

7:30 until late night

Come to our little house on Cedar in Provo.

Costumes are encouraged-- obviously.

Do come! I want to meet you and celebrate this spooky holiday with you. Even if you can't stay, at the very least, knock on our door and yell trick-or-treat.

That would make me pretty happy.

The End of Summer

2010-10-03T18:08:00.001-06:00

A cool breeze blows through our open window, bouncing the blinds and ruffling the sheets on the bed where I sit. I shiver and pull the sheets higher on my waist.

He says, "That right there was the end of summer."

To Bed, To Bed Says Dimelot

2010-10-03T02:00:00.000-06:00

This week will be hard with homework-- lots and lots and lots of hard homework. Maybe I'm being pessimistic, or maybe I'm being realistic. It would be worst if I'm being optimistic.

Just a few minutes ago, I finished homework for the night, and by homework I mean sleeping instead of doing homework. I took an accidental nap and woke up with my head hanging from my shoulders, a space-heater laptop on my thighs with the screensaver rolling. Beneath the screensaver, my assignment was waiting. It was started and never completed. I woke up and wanted to swear, and I don't particularly believe in swearing, but I wanted to because a nap dried up all the homework time that I had this weekend.

And then, then I smelled the rotten eggs in the kitchen sink disposal. It was 1:15 am. The sticky counters crept up behind the rotten-egg stench, and then the pile of clothes on my bed appeared out of nowhere. I spent the next 20 minutes in an ornery frenzy of cleaning. All of the fuss was fueled by my panic about to-be-finished homework, and even more worrisome, the to-be-started homework. I made him wash the counters with disinfectant. I gagged through washing soggy food off dishes, making the dishes clang and clammor extra loudly to demonstrate my frustration.

"To bed, to bed says Dimelot." That's what my mom would say at a time like this. Dimelot is the Dutch sandman, the bringer of dreams. She'd send us to bed at Dimelot's bidding when we were in an ornery frenzy.

So goodnight ornery frenzy of mine, I'm taking my mother's advice. And Dimelot, please bring happy dreams and better days.

Pumpkins Lined the Walk to the Front Door

2010-09-29T08:59:00.003-06:00

I crashed on the bed last night with a stomach full of good food (sparkling blood orange juice! grilled salmon! rosemary carrots! gorgonzola! cobbler!) and my mind still at NieNie’s charming white house and her just-right Welcome Autumn Party.

In fact, even now—the morning after—I’m still basking in the glow of the candles on the table and the laughing—oh, the laughing!

Thank you Stephanie.

At the table, Collin said, “Now, you know this party never happened if you don’t blog about it.” With all the bloggers at the table—both little and big—I’m pretty sure he was mocking. But still, I blog this morning because I would hate to think it never happened.

One year ago today.
Two years ago this month.

Misplaced Freckle

2010-09-11T12:07:00.004-06:00

He thinks he's flat, static, and transparent. But I am confused by his flecked, blue eyes, his fickleness in his twitching precisely as he slips into dreaming, the emotion in his confident dazes where he sees no one, lost in his thoughts; he ignores even my hand waving in front of those same flecked eyes. He's surprised when I ask him what he means by that phrase, his half laugh, or his corner smile. It means what it means, he says. Nothing else. Where's the deception? In the cowlick on the crown of his head and the misplaced freckle on the bridge of his nose. I could swear it was there yesterday.

Time Travel

2010-09-09T00:02:00.001-06:00

I just ate midnight cereal. It's my ritual during late homework nights. I started the ritual in high school. Tonight, as I sat at our water-stained kitchen table eating frosted minis, I felt sixteen again. I had later homework nights then than I do now. Explain that.

I'm sitting cross-legged on the orange couch now. I'm not tired, but I'm going to go to bed soon.

My arms are tired though from swimming laps during swim class today. We had to blow bubbles in the water then turn our head to the side to take breath. No looking up, only to the side. It time-warped me straight back to the McClintock High School pool and swim lessons with snotty-nosed kids and kick boards. My mom sitting on the side of the pool crocheting the edge around a baby blanket. I dreaded putting my face in the water but did so without complaint because I didn't want to be the wimpy kid. Today, it was a pleasure. I didn't even have to pretend that I liked it. I daresay blowing bubbles was therapeutic. After awhile, the formality of "teaching breathing" was done and we had free time to swim as we wished.

Free time. I liked that. I liked when my teacher said that today. Those two words took me back to my elementary computer lab. After typing drills, we had free time. I wonder what I did during computer free time in third grade. I don't remember. I was never really into Oregon Trail.

Tonight, during computer free time on the orange couch, I wrote a letter.

Dear Thursday,

I can't wait to wake up to you. If you bring freshly-picked pears for breakfast, I won't complain. The tree is in the backyard. Goodnight now-- even though I'm not tired. See you in the morning.

Love,
Laura

Labor Day

2010-09-06T12:31:00.001-06:00

Today is Labor Day. I made plans to play. I was imagining a summer finale event. Maybe a picnic up the canyon? And maybe even a little four-wheeling adventure? I'd bring popsicles and watermelon to make sure we've had enough of both before fall blows in. It was the most perfect idea...

But he says Labor Day is for labor and is therefore busy working. He's a part-time handyman. Have I ever told you that? During school to get us through school, he does odd jobs for anyone who needs odd jobs done. Today he's building a sprinkling system and fixing someone's couch. Labor day is for labor? Sad day. I was all up for a party.

Because he's busy working, I've been busy painting. For me, it's a painting day this Labor Day. I love color. Always have, always will. I know the design trend says Scandanavian white is the look to aim for. But today I painted with a few walls in our house with Fire Dance Red. If my house were all white, I'd miss color.

Tangent: We had friends over last night. They have a daughter who is approximately seven. When her mom purchased new paint to redecorate their office and paint over the gray that was there, the daughter said, "Mom, I think I'm really going to miss the gray." I want to raise kids that miss color when it's gone.

Our little house has been my favorite project this summer. I've been making myself a home and I had no idea how thrilling it would be. I can't wait to invite you all to my housewarming party; I'll even hold a virtual one so that all can come.Just a few more little projects-- and we'll have a ball. A housewarming ball.

And to keep with the painting day today, I think I'm going to go paint my toes now. I'll probably paint them Cardinal Red.

I work hard on Labor Day too.

Because I Just Love All the People

2010-09-04T16:17:00.004-06:00

I have a nephew. Well actually, I have five nephews. No nieces, yet. Soon though, I'll have a niece. These are things that surely captivate you.

Back to the nephew. I'd like to tell you his name, but I don't know if it's appropriate/legal/ethical to say a child's name on a public blog. But I trust you and for some reason, you knowing his name is important to me. His name is Owen, age three. (Isn't that the perfect name for a three year old?) I'm not going to tell you where he lives though. This cuteness needs to be kept private with a life of his own-- untainted by blogging and the internet.

But, I have to tell you this story. My sister (his mom) told us the story last month while we together as a family on the coast of Oregon. Someone commented that Owen was just the nicest little boy. He shares with people and other children alike. He gives, laughs at everyone's jokes, and genuinely wants to make people happy. I know people in their twenties who have yet to master these traits. Wait a minute, me-- I'm talking about me.

The story proceeds:

A few weeks prior to the Oregon adventure, Owen's mom (my sister) said to Owen, "Owen, why are you such a nice guy?"

And he responded-- simply, sweetly, "Because I just love all the people."

I've thought about this just about everyday since my sister shared it on the beach.

On Hiccups. Part 2.

2010-09-03T17:02:00.001-06:00

Just kiss. A good kiss sends hiccups to Bermuda. Works like a duct tape-- consistently, every time.

Call it genuine bliss, call it whatever you want, but I just know that I love getting the hiccups.

Thanks for the twenty comments. I'm back. It's proof that comments get rid of blog hiccups. Talk about weird, I know.

In thanks, I want to comment on your blog. Invite me over to visit. Where do you write?

On Hiccups

2010-09-01T23:15:00.001-06:00

It happened. I didn't post for a whole month (almost?).

Think of it as a hiccup. Maybe think of this whole last summer of The Thursday as one ginormous hiccup fit. I posted a couple and then hiccup. Post. Post. Hiccup. It's the kind of hiccups that I just haven't been able to get rid of. The kind where drinking a cup of water upside-down doesn't help. And even holding your breath (He swears by it) doesn't work.

Speaking of hiccups. Last week, I was a hiccupping crazy girl. Hiccupping and hiccupping every day, a couple of times a day. These were real hiccups, not blog hiccups. When I was relaxed, a hiccup would whiplash up from my waist. And it hurt my neck. That's when I would ship the hiccups off to Bermuda. Although Bermuda might be far too nice of a place for hiccups. That's what I found out when I Googled for images of Bermuda a second ago. Anyway, I'm a nice person-- I'll send my hiccups to lovely Bermuda.

Moral of the Story. (Does there need to be a moral?) I know how to get rid of real hiccups (and send them to Bermuda if I want to). No really, I really do. And this isn't some kooky little trick like: Swallow 1 tsp. white table sugar, dry. Repeat up to 3 more times at 2-minute intervals if necessary. (Thank you ehow.com.)

My brother, a doctor and therefore entirely trustworthy, brilliant, and knowledgeable about hiccups, told me how to do away with hiccups. And me, I'm the testimonial girl. I worked this little cure all last week. It's a fool-proof method. It works every time. Wanna know how? If twenty people want to know, I'll tell you.

I like secrets and I like twenty comments on a blog post. And I think that twenty comments will get me over this ginormous blog hiccup fit.

I dare you to jump over here from your rss reader and ask me about hiccups.

Double-dog dare.

Grocery Stores & Marriage

2010-08-07T21:55:00.000-06:00

The grocery store. I like the grocery store. I'm hesitant to say it. I don't know why I'm hesitant to say it. Is it embarrassing to like the grocery store? Something in my subconscious says that I shouldn't admit to liking the grocery store.

I think it's because I'm married now and if I say I like grocery shopping, people might think I'm acting married-- which I am because I am. Huh. And being married isn't even a bad thing. In fact, it's awesome. It means I go to the grocery store more often. So there Subconscious.

And I've always loved to cook. Liking cooking has nothing to do with marriage. So you know.

Right, well tonight at the grocery store, um, well nothing interesting happened. But I liked it. And I bought plums and eggplant and goat cheese. And that, that made me really anxious to cook something great. I always want to cook something great.

I liked grocery stores before I was married though. Just so you know.

Mine

2010-07-29T14:09:00.000-06:00

I'm sitting at our shared laptop. It's really his, but now it's mine too. Yours, mine, and ours. Same with the car. And the house. Oh wait, it was all his. His and now ours. I brought very few material possessions into this marriage.

Okay, so I did bring a couch. A white one. I bought it and stored it in his garage.

Actually, I brought two couches into the marriage. I purchased another one of the couches just yesterday from a nice man. I guess that means I didn't bring it into the marriage? I bought it yesterday. Maybe I just wanted to talk about the couch right here right now. A burnt orange velvet. I put a bright yellow pillow on one side. Am I crazy that I love it? I love it so completely that I fell asleep on it last night. And I dreamed happy things.

He's not crazy about the couch, but he's color-blind. And not really into 70's furniture. Or velvet. He does like me. And he likes that I love the couch. So, he helped me load the couch into the truck and bring it home.

We stuffed all the cushions into the cab of the truck. As we drove down the street to bring it home, the velvet kept changing colors as the light reflected through the windows.

The couch. The couch is mine.

Patchwork

2010-07-13T00:17:00.000-06:00

He and I went out to a hill in Payson, Utah. We stood right up against the mountain bench. It's land my dad's family owns. Laura, let's buy it, he says. He's kidding; we're broke.

He wants to live on a ranch someday. He's from Las Vegas, but he's a farmer at heart. I knew that he wanted to be a rural town boy in the end. I want to be a city girl. I like the city. He knew I wanted to be a city girl.

Maybe we decided to work through that discrepancy later? But secretly, I think that I'd live with him in the country and we'd be happy. That's just how life is; we put it all together-- hopes, dreams, and love-of-our-lives into patchwork. And that's just how beautiful it was looking over orchards and a reflected sunset.

This land looked over a patchwork of green and yellows and blues.

Enjoy.

2010-07-05T20:49:00.001-06:00

I hesitate to do this. But I guess I'm not hesitant enough.

I'm not sure whether I'm doing this to compliment our photographer (who I loved), to re-live our happy day (which I loved), or to show you, in some way, how much I love this guy that I really love. Duh about the really loving this guy part.

Folks, he's great.

Enjoy the pictures of the day.
by Jessica Peterson

The Vegetable Gene

2010-07-01T17:19:00.001-06:00

I planted a garden. I took those little plant-starts tenderly out of their plastic and tucked them into new dirt homes in our backyard. I was a good gardener. I tilled the ground, de-rocked the dirt, and put a little water into the bottom of the holes before setting the plants inside. He helped me fertilize a bit-- all in an effort to give the dirt a little more life.

After the planting, I sat in our flower-power porch chair and looked at the plants. I knew, right then, that these plants would be the joy of my summer days.

My mom was an avid gardener. It's a gene that she carried from her father. My grandpa. I wrote an essay once, My Grandpa, the Vegetable Man. Yes, he's a vegetable man with a garden like you've never seen-- massive, green, abundant. He's known to say-- It's been twenty years since I've bought a vegetable. He says it proud.

Well-earned pride, I'd say.

I didn't know that the gene had come through to me until I was sitting in the chair on the porch. I felt the adrenalin of excitement pulse as I imagined the tomatoes and the zucchini that I would be harvesting in just a few weeks time. It said six weeks on the carrot seed packet.

The next morning, the plants were dead. One night, I was sitting on the flower-power chair dreaming of peppers and carrots. The next morning, I sat on the strip of sidewalk by the now-dead plants. One night. Twelve hours. That's how long my dreams lasted. I don't want to say I cried. I didn't. But I'm not exaggerating when I say that there were tears involved. They just didn't overflow very fast. But there were tears.

Because you see, I wanted a garden real bad. It's just that that life-giving fertilizer was death to the dirt. Fertilizer can be bad for dirt. Too much fertilizer and no time to let the dirt cool off. I didn't know the dangers.

I'm not a vegetable man.

Easy-Cheesy

2010-05-25T18:03:00.003-06:00

The door was locked when I got home from work. The keys were inside. I was confronted, for the first time, with being locked out of my house. My own house. (Crazy, I know-- the "own house" part, not the keys inside part. The keys inside part is rather normal.)

Luckily the side window was unlocked. I dragged garbage can below the window, pushed my hands against the glass and slid the window open. Standing on top of the garbage can-- in high heels-- I looked around to see if any of my new neighbors were watching me break in. The coast was clear. I climbed in, jumped from the window to the inside kitchen floor. And I laughed.

It was easy. Easy-cheesy. Too easy.

Simple

2010-05-20T17:13:00.004-06:00

It's Thursday today. I've been complacent about Thursdays lately. I've been lazy in recognizing them as different than the other six days. Once upon a time, I wanted to get married on a Thursday. That didn't happen and it's too late. Oh well, happy Thursday.

I'm sitting in a new bed with new sheets in an old house that's actually my new house. In the next room, cupboards are filled with new white dishes and he's whistling. It almost sounds fake. Like a 1950's sitcom. Except that in this house, unlike a 1950's sitcom, it seems that he does the dishes. I like our sitcom.

It's spring now. Everything is new. I feel like I'm spring cleaning my life. That's such a good thing. I'm moving slower. I'm being careful to relish empty days, filling them with things like homemade macaroni and cheese and reading thoughtful wedding notes given to us on the big day. We're going to keep life simple this summer. That's my plan.

He's asleep next to me now. Breathing deeply with his arms folded across his chest. Is this real?

I'm going to plant a garden in my backyard.

30 April 2010

2010-04-29T10:07:00.004-06:00

Tomorrow. I get married tomorrow. That's a good thing. I'm ready.

For me, being engaged has been about processing all the excitement, all of my fears, all of this deep-rooted love.

But I'm done processing and I'm ready to live. Hallelujah. Let's live now.

Not that living won't require processing, but we'll worry about that later.

I'm happy. And until mid-May... merci, au revoir.

Restless

2010-04-11T14:43:00.002-06:00

I'm sitting on the floor of his family's home in Las Vegas. Outside it is warm and windy. I love it. I love warm and windy. His dad says-- this is when I want to move to Utah. No one likes Spring in Vegas.

I do.

Until we came here, life has been crowded. Lately, everything seems to be stuffed into my days and like a drawer that can't close, I don't like it. I'm now fully convinced, I want to have a simple life. Like we have here. We've slept in, talked late, walked hand-in-hand without direction, swung in a hammock, and eaten food.

In the windy warmness today, I'm restless though. Restless because as much as I want this simple life, I'm not completely used to it yet. I could only lie on the couch listening to the palm trees brush against the windows for so long before feeling guilty and sweaty-- before feeling like I was wasting time.

It's because school isn't over yet. We're going home tomorrow and marching straight into finals week. Into crowded days and stuffed drawers.

Three weeks. In three weeks, I'm going to empty the drawer and only put the necessities back in.

I've always been a little OCD about drawers that don't close all the way. Just so you know.

Little Green Envelope

2010-04-01T10:37:00.002-06:00

I got a parking ticket this week. If I were to guess off the top of my head, I'd say it is the 1oth ticket I've gotten for parking in a faculty space.

I always push my luck...

It's just that I don't get a ticket way more often than I do. And sometimes, that just makes it worth it. If I spread the cost of the tickets over the amount of illegal parking I do, the cost would be about $0.25 an illegal park. Totally and completely worth being on-time to class.

St. Patrick Would Probably Like a Bluetooth and an African Shirt

2010-03-17T14:48:00.003-06:00

Confession: I'm in class right now. We're talking about Harold Bluetooth, one of the first Vikings to accept Christianity. It makes me think that we should have a St. Bluetooth day, just like have a St. Patrick's day. However, instead of wearing green, we'll all plug into our bluetooth.

Confession: I forgot to wear green today, but luckily my shirt has splotches of ugly green in a strange African motif. This little description of my shirt (instances of ugly green in an African motif?) makes me wonder why I ever wear this shirt. Especially on St. Patrick's day.

A Little Peek

2010-03-09T10:17:00.003-07:00

Thanks Jessica. We're so excited.

This Week Last Year

2010-03-04T00:46:00.003-07:00

I just read through my last post and I am confused. Not about what I was feeling-- that's all very clear to me. It's just that in all of that feelingness, I rambled and it probably made no sense. That last post of mine is all just confused rambling. Sorry folks. I'll have you know though, while it was definitely rambled confusion, it was also honest. If nothing else, I try to be honest.

But actually, why am I apologizing? I think that maybe that's just what I do when I blog. I ramble honestly and you can choose to read more or ignore.

Anyway, without further ado, feel free to enjoy or disregard more rambled honest that I may or may not have to apologize for later:

This week last year, we went on our first date. I know, for some that's kind of fast to be getting married this Spring. But, you would be fast too if you knew this guy.

He's a perfect blend of the truck-driving, manly man who loves a little country twang, the spit-wad expert from your second grade class, your professor who somehow knows every Greek god and also the scientific name for every cloud formation, and your humble grandpa who is perfectly content sitting on the porch with a glass of lemonade.

You would move fast too. Just sayin'.

Anyway, this week last year, we went to a Jazz game. I had never been to a Jazz game before. I'm going to my second Jazz game ever this coming weekend. We're going in celebration. I didn't really watch the last Jazz game I went to-- the one that happened this week last year. I watched him. I wonder if I'll watch this one.

He was in a black zip-up jacket. I wore my black knee-length coat with buttons on the shoulders-- it's still my favorite. He lost his keys. He didn't know my shoes were purple. He sang "Robin Hood and Little John" in the car. I made fun of his truck. I said, "You've got to be kidding me! This thing could drive up a wall!" We talked about moms and brothers, families and friends, hobbies and interests. All first date things, but it didn't feel like a first date. Sappy I know, but it's truth.

Tonight we reminisced.

Processing the Ease of a Home Run, the Joy in a Roller Coaster, and the Decision I Don't Remember Making

2010-02-24T21:22:00.009-07:00

How in the world did this happen? This is so strange. It's hitting me right now. That happens sometimes. It hits me and I want to throw this ring across the room. Not because I don't want the ring. I DO ACTUALLY WANT IT (badly enough to put it in caps). But I want to throw the ring because I want to look at it with distance between, just like I've looked at it all my life.

Disclaimer: I am in love. And I'm in love with the right person and I'm going to marry him in the right place.

But that's just it. THAT'S THE CRAZY PART! I'm going to MARRY him. I'm not an adult. I'm not smart enough to have made that decision, but I made it. I said yes and he put a ring on my left hand. I'm definitely not smart enough for that. In fact, maybe I'm just naive enough to have made the decision without understanding its weight.

I decided never be single again. To be completely and 100% taken to the highest degree of takenness. I decided to be with the same person forever and ever and ever. That's HUGE. But I don't fully grasp the weight in making that decision, the weight in having made that decision.

I didn't see the pitcher's hand signals to the catcher. I didn't notice the wind-up or even the pitch. I just stood unprepared at home plate and happened to swing because it was a perfect pitch-- how could I not swing? It was just so easy. And I hit a home run without even getting ready to play the game.

I'm not prepared to make the "most important decision of my life." But the decision is made. Decision made. But, I don't even notice I made it. THAT'S HOW NATURAL IT WAS. I made THE MOST IMPORTANT DECISION. That's all. I just made it and I didn't even realize it. And it was easy. Easy-cheezy.

I made it so naturally because he's THAT GREAT.

I spent my whole life looking toward this decision. I watched Disney princess movies. I watched chick flicks and imagined my perfect guy (who actually wouldn't be perfect because perfect is so entirely imperfect). I imagined what he'd be like, what we'd be and do together, where we'd live. I listened to couples talk about how they met, their story, and the proposal that was the pinnacle moment of their life.

It's as if there is a roller coaster. A roller coaster that everyone talks about and can't wait to go on. It's wild, exciting, thrilling, transcendent, and completely overwhelming-- and you get to ride it one time. That's it.

It's as if I waited in line for the ride, buckled in for the ride, went on the ride (loops and all), and finished the ride while being completely distracted and wrapped up in a natural, pleasant conversation. SO pleasant, and SO natural that I didn't even notice that we got in line for the ride and rode the ride. And then long after I'd gotten off the roller coaster, it's as if I noticed the ride and said, "Hey, let's go on that ride, that looks incredible." But someone had to tell me-- you actually ALREADY WENT ON THE RIDE. Tough luck, sorry you missed it, but it was great.

I found him, fell in love with him, decided to marry him. And that's that. The most important rite of passage just happened without me even processing it. It just happened. I decided to marry him. The ring says so. And I'm sad that the decision is all over. The build-up, the thrill of the unknown is over. It's known now. And I didn't feel the full depth of the discovery until it was long gone.

I think it's a good thing the decision is made. It's the right thing and I wouldn't choose differently if I had been fully aware. Because, truth is, I'm in love with the person I'm going to marry.

Actually, I know this is a good thing.

Truth

2010-02-19T22:15:00.002-07:00

I'm trying to decide whether or not to apologize for the loving-love-ness of this post or for posting twice in one day.

I'm not going to. Because, for me and him, he and I, for us-- this picture speaks truth. That justifies loving-love-ness and two posts.

It's been declared.

2010-02-19T17:16:00.008-07:00

I'm declaring this February-- the one that I'm currently living in-- great. As in, this is a great February-- meaning better than most Februaries. Presumptuous of me, I know, seeing as it's not even over yet. I just like it. That's all.

{Don't miss your cue. This is your cue to roll your eyes and think-- ugh, those engaged people are so... they're so... just so happy all the time. Gag.}

There are lots of reasons I shouldn't be happy: It's winter and cold. I have a blister on my foot. Oh, and a corn on my foot. See this description of my ugly feet. I don't get enough sleep or enough breakfasts each week. We had a misunderstanding and I overreacted. I often overreact. I am trying not to overreact and I fail which means I feel like a failure. My room is infested with ants, but I still want to keep my open chocolate bar in my room for late-night snacking. Did I mention that it's still winter? I'm trying to plan a wedding but I lack focus and lack desire for a big, official wedding reception. I keep switching what I want. And I have little time to execute what I want because I'm doing school and work.

But it's a still great February. The greatest of Februaries-- and it's not what you think. It's not that I'm engaged, although being in love might have something to do with it-- actually, a lot to do with it. And the Olympics are so awesome. Delicious food is too. Places I've eaten this month: here, here, here, here. Food is my weakness; my poor bank account. Pun intended. New shoes for Valentine's Day are happy (despite the blister). I have a wedding dress-- hint: J.Crew silk tricotine Cecelia. I love to try it on and listen to it swish. I'm planning an overdue Scrabble club meeting. I haven't gotten a parking ticket this month. I started playing the piano again. I have plans to paint more often. And, um, I have a permanent best friend. And actually, it's been a rather mild winter this February.

Moving On

2010-02-04T17:26:00.003-07:00

This is going to be one of those posts where something simple is related to something deep. Be aware.

I'm moving on from the blank red notebook catastrophe. Tonight, I'm starting a new one. It's also red and blank. I'll write the date on the second empty page. I'll leave the first page blank. I always do.

In life, I have to move on. I'm not very good at it, but I'm learning. In order to live, I have to move on after tragedy or disrupted plans.

I'm moving on from that blasted notebook.

But actually, isn't that just life? I'm making this concept sound monumental purely by writing it, but really isn't moving on just what we do everyday? The simple act of living is moving. It's almost a life requirement, if you're living, you must be moving on. What's the alternative?

We go forward despite yesterday's setbacks. We get up out of bed, even if we completely missed our alarm's blaring and we woke up much later than planned. We get out of bed, even if we missed the most important meeting of the decade. (Are there such things?)

We open a new notebook. Because really, there's no other choice. It's just life.

Paralyzed

2010-02-02T14:00:00.003-07:00

I am so sad. So, so sad.

It all started with a blank red notebook. I know-- this story has endless possibilities. A blank red notebook-- ahhh, what a beautiful way to start a story, eh?

It is beautiful no more. The endless possibilities are about to end. Because that notebook-- the blank red notebook that I fill with every aspect of my life detailed in a calendar, lists, daily schedules, names and numbers, drawings, lists, dreams, due dates, journal entries, and more lists-- is lost.

I don't know where it is. My life. Is over. I can't think. I can't focus. My mind is distracted. I'm sitting in class and I'm torturing my brain for a clearer memories of where I last saw my lifeline, my once-blank red notebook.

My friend told me that after she cut her bangs, she realized it was a mistake. It was a mistake that she couldn't get out of her mind. And still can't. She says she sits in class with her teeth clenched in frustration that her bangs are short. It dominates her thoughts and is nearly paralyzing. She tries to forget about it, but can't. And that fact, that she can't forget it, is the most stressful part of her life.

I too am paralyzed.

Text Conversation of Two Minutes Ago:
He: Dinner at 6:15?
Me: I don't know if I can. The red book is lost.
He: Oh no.

He knows. This is serious. Very serious.

I've called every "lost and found." I've called my work office. I've searched the car. I've looked everywhere in my house. I've visited everywhere that I've traveled in the last 24 hours looking for my notebook. BUT I HAVE DONE NOTHING ELSE. I haven't done homework, because I don't know what homework is due. I almost missed class, because my blessed red notebook didn't remind me that I had class-- heck, I didn't even know where class was without this book of mine.

Any information on the blank red book's whereabouts should be directed to me. ASAP.

Until I find it, I'm useless.

Praise. It gets me every time.

2010-01-28T18:38:00.004-07:00

The assistant had her hand in my mouth to repair my bottom retainer. She wasn't gentle about it. In fact, she seemed bugged that she had to fix my retainer. I felt like a naughty kid that broke their retainer chewing the always-illegal sticky food. And I'll have you know that that is NOT what happened. It just broke. Really. It broke on its own. But as she angrily fumbled in my mouth, it seems I forgot that the retainer just broke all by itself. I felt guilty that she had to fix my retainer. My tears were toeing the cliff.

As the assistant finished, the orthodontist stopped by my chair to officially certify that my retainer still fits; it's been six years since I got my braces off. The assistant stepped back from the chair to let the doctor through to evaluate my mouth. The officialness of the orthodontist doctor man gets me every time. It's his authority. The same thing happens with the dentist. And policemen. In their presence I feel the need to sit still and do as I'm told. And I always do.

As soon as the doctor came to the chair, I stammered, "Doctor, I wear my retainer every night. It should still fit." I nervously waited for his response. He lightly tapped under my chin and I opened my mouth. He studied my bite.

"Whatever you're doing, it's working. Your teeth look good." That's all he said and he walked away.

That's all I needed. No more verge of tears. I walked out with my head held high and my shoulders back. Whatever I'm doing is working. I wear my retainer like I'm supposed to. I'm a good girl. And my teeth look good.

Advice from a Scout: Use a Compass to Determine Your Direction

2010-01-16T21:41:00.005-07:00

It's hard for me to know what to write now. And by "now" I mean since he asked me the question that changed my forever. But I want to write.

Much of my life is the same as it has always been. My daily activities are the same. I spend the same amount of time with him-- a lot. And those hours are my happiest. I'm still in school. I'm still working at my new job that I love. I still eat breakfast every once in a while, and boy do I love the days that I do.

But my head, the inner of my brain, is different now. It's spinning in a whole new direction these days. I'll have you know that it's an exciting direction though-- a bit northeast of the life I know and love, completely west of the life I thought I would be living, and a straight shot to the unknown. A good direction I think.

I like new directions. Especially if he's coming with me. I just don't know how to write about them yet.

First Pick

2010-01-03T20:32:00.005-07:00

In elementary school, I was always the last one picked for kickball teams; it was a blow to my self esteem every time. It used to hurt, but now I know that I'm just not designed for kickball and I'm okay with that.

I always admired the first pick though. The first name was called and with that the first pick was automatically declared the most wanted asset. He-- I hate to be sexist but in my memory the first pick was always a boy-- was the proven most valuable player. Why was he always good looking too? The first pick always seemed to have it all-- the looks, the skills, the smarts, and sometimes he was even humble. As a young girl, I always had a crush on the unattainable first pick. He was tall.

Until this weekend, I hadn't played kickball in years. And in my leave of absence from the game, my kickball abilities haven't changed. On Saturday, I stood at shortstop uselessly while my teammates fielded the balls. I could never decide whether I should just give up and put my hands in my pockets or whether I should squat down and look ready for the ball. I didn't want to look ready though, because the ball was the last thing I wanted.

The only thing I wanted was Mr. First Pick. He was on the other team. He has it all-- the looks, the smarts, the skills, and even the humility. He's tall. I loved watching him walk up to the plate. The outfielders would holler and back up. He'd kick and the ball would fly way over everyone's heads. It was a guaranteed home run. Every time. I stood at shortstop watching the balls he kicked fly over my head. The other team would score, but I would smile in complete excitement and disbelief.

Because this first pick is mine. He's completely mine. Seven days earlier, he picked me. I am his first pick. He called my name first and automatically declared me his most wanted asset. His proven most valuable player.

We're getting married in the Spring.

Christmas Morning

2009-12-24T23:22:00.002-07:00

It's 12:02 am on Christmas. I'm sitting where I write best, or rather, where I write most-- in bed. My feet are tucked under layers of blankets, but they're still cold. My feet are always cold.

Happy Christmas. It comes only once a year, savor it.

Announcement

2009-12-14T22:11:00.002-07:00

I’m in the wrong major. I love my new marketing job—my desire for a job like this one is the reason I began a major in business—but I’m not enjoying my business classes enough.

Supply chain is yucky. Economics is dull. It could be the professors, because previous classes in each of these areas were wonderful and I really enjoyed them. I don't know what it is, but for some reason I can’t really get myself to enjoy my upper level business classes. It’s unfortunate. Very.

It's finals week. And I need to study hard for all of these tests in all of these classes that are dull.

That's the truly unfortunate part.

Distracted

2009-12-07T22:05:00.004-07:00

Do you want the whole truth? Here it is.

I'm distracted.

My recently resurfaced painting fetish is stealing my attention away from school. My new exciting internship/job is distracting me from school. This blog is a distraction. Your blog is a distraction. He is a distraction.

Christmas is the biggest distraction of them all. I've discovered that I love celebrating Christmas. I've always liked celebrating Christmas, but it feels like a new discovery this year.

Him: What are you doing?
Me: Celebrating Christmas.
Him: Don't you have homework?
Me: Yes, but I'm not doing it because it's Christmas break.
Him: Nope, it's not Christmas break yet. Not 'til next week.
Me: No, it's right now... I've discovered that Christmas is more fun than homework.
Him: That doesn't mean it's Christmas break.
Me: Actually it does.

Ahh, this darn distraction is making me so happy.

I like it here.

2009-12-01T23:19:00.004-07:00

I love the rhythmic clank of buttons hitting the side of the dryer as my jeans dry and the machine spins. I can hear it from my bed.

Leaning against the back of my book shelf, right by my favorite yellow book, are the only paintings we've painted together. He's color blind and hence artistic. You could say he's uninhibited by color.

My clothes are draped nicely over cupboard doors that are built into my bedroom wall. I don't like clothes on the floor in my room, but I don't have time to hang all of my clothes every time I get undressed. Right? I don't have time? No, I don't have the patience.

A stained glass star drops from a nail in the wall directly across from where I sit in my bed. I like the blue shadow cast by the star best of all.

I leave the light bulbs on my ceiling light fixture naked. I like them better that way. They're brighter that way.

A striped pillow case. A half-eaten, melted, and re-hardened 70% cocoa bar. A silk scarf draped around the neck of my bed lamp. Three hat boxes filled with pencils, belts, and hats respectively.

The old fashioned clock that I never start because it ticks too loudly.

My grandma's big dresser mirror is dusty, but I'm glad it is. My sister's fingertip wrote and drew messages in the dust. From the angle here in my bed, I notice that she drew a heart with initials-- it should be carved in an aspen tree.

Just Living Days of Grapefruit Sorbet

2009-11-11T22:46:00.005-07:00

I feel like "balance" is the advice I give most. It's also the advice I receive the most.

Do you know what your problem is? You're just trying to find the right balance. Be sure to balance all your roles. Look at your schedule, are you balanced? Watch out for extremes. Is your relationship balanced? What about your ratio of tooth brushing to flossing... balanced? It's so hard to find that perfect harmony, but once you do...

... it will be like freshly painted toes in creamy sand. An organized pencil drawer when you can't find the scissors. Like washed black granite counters without water streaks. Like a bubble bath. Like reading a good book and eating the perfect meal with a grapefruit sorbet palate cleanser to start.

Balance. It sounds so relaxing. So transcendent. Ahh... the joy of balance. It's so noble to strive for that type of peace in your life, for that kind of joy.

Right?

But then I remember taking gymnastics when I was eight. The balance beam was the most stressful of all. Why? Because perfect balance is unattainable. I don't care how easy the 5' 2'' Olympian makes it look. Don't try and tell me she's not stressed out of her mind trying to find the perfect balance-- a balance she knows will never be perfect. Get this, she'd fall if every neuron wasn't focused on balancing.

This post may sound like I'm stressed and bitter about trying to find the perfect balance and never quite achieving it. Don't be fooled. I'm not-- not stressed and not at all bitter. I'm not even trying to be balanced. I'm just living.

Just living. It's like red toes and sand. Like finding the scissors. Like black granite, bathtubs, and good books. And yes, it's like grapefruit sorbet.

I realized that I was never meant to be an Olympic gymnast and so I stopped practicing the balance beam. It's a decision that has naturally made me more balanced than I ever have been before.

You get one shot. So, go to book club.

2009-11-04T22:32:00.007-07:00

Tonight I went to my book club.

I've been a member for 2 months and I have missed every meeting until tonight. The club is on their second book. I'm only halfway through the first book. But I went to the club anyway. I listened to the discussion as it bounced around a plate of oatmeal cookies. Two people were in argyle socks and they sat next to each other. I want those two to get married.

I loved book club tonight. Loved it. Uninvited tears marched to the corners of my eyes as I sat there. THAT'S HOW MUCH I LOVED TALKING ABOUT A BOOK I HAVEN'T READ YET.

Why did I miss the earlier book club meetings? Where was I during them? How did I spend those hours? Did I waste them? Can I have them back? Can I try to use them right this time?

Tough luck Laura, hours are unforgiving.

My little head announced that as I left the book club. You think it's annoying that my mind said that? Try walking around with that head on your shoulders. It's a thinking head, and most times, I can't really follow what it's thinking. I just let it think and then sometimes I'm like, alright, hold up... say that again?

Hours are unforgiving. It's like the samples at Costco. You get one of each. And no matter how sweetly you compliment the server's permed hair, she still slaps your wrist when you try for a second sample.

You get one shot, so just go to book club. Okay?

And I'm like, right. Book club.

This is a post about planes that is not really about planes.

2009-11-02T14:40:00.007-07:00

On a night flight.
This picture may or may not look good on your computer. It looks good on mine.

I've always wanted to be Peter Pan because he never grows up.

Well folks, I'm growing up. I'm trying hard to stop the process, but birthdays just keep coming. I'm 21 now and my tendons are becoming more fragile as I age. I sprained my ankle recently. According to my doctor, the injury is attributable to aging tendons.

Peter has everything going for him. Not only is he young, he flies too. And while I can't stop the aging process, I can fly. I mean, he can fly. In the sky. Pray we don't die. Because I love to fly. He loves to fly. What a sky.

The point is, he flies and I'm a really good rhymer.

And I love it, every single time. The whole experience takes my breathe away. Literally. The g-forces when you drop a thousand feet in a plane make it impossible to take in air, not to mention the panorama from up there. And then there's the pilot...

Folks, he's a pilot.

2009-10-23T14:09:00.001-06:00

“Uh, so does this mean you’re done with blogs?” And I was all, “No way man.” And he was all, “Really? You sounded passionately anti-blog just there.” And I was all, “It was a fight, not a break-up.”

Blog: thick, sticky syrup of potent flavor

2009-10-20T20:19:00.004-06:00

I have one. A blog. Did you know? You knew and I knew. Believe it or not, I didn't forget about this blog. It's just that I forgot how to write for it.

Here's the deal. Life happens and gives so much material for writing. I have so much I want to say. So much I could say. I want to tell you about this one plane flight that I took. In fact, I have a drafted post about it that I never posted. A post I'll probably never post, because I know you won't want to read it. I take that back. I don't know how to write the post in a way that makes you want to read it.

Blogs are overwhelming me right now. I read so many blogs. So many, many blogs. Too many blogs. Because I love them; I really do love blogs and blogging. And get this, I now have Google Reader on my phone. Bad news folks, because now, I read blogs all the time. Everyone's blogs. Everyone's lives. Everyone is living and writing and reading and living and writing and reading.

A favorite recipe of mine requires making a balsamic reduction. To make balsamic reduction, balsamic vinegar must be simmered for hours until all the non-essentials evaporate and leave a thick, sticky syrup of potent flavor.

Blogs are life reduced. And sometimes I get sick of reading that. Sometimes vinegar is better left as vinegar. Stop the reduction. Admit it, you get sick of reading it too. In fact, I can almost guarantee that nearly all of the readers of this blog have already stopped reading, I mean skimming, because they are also sick of blogs and blog writing and blog posts about blogs and blogging.

There are so many ways to drown out the point in words. Or in this case, drown a lack-of-point in words. I have no point for you tonight, just sticky syrup.

Goodbye Gourmet.

2009-10-05T16:53:00.003-06:00

It's dead.

All dead and gone. It's been around for 70 years and now it's gone forever. Cause of death? The autopsy says blogs.

Editor of Gourmet magazine. It was once my dream job. I have no future now.

This is my response.

2009-09-29T09:57:00.001-06:00

My 15-year-old self mailed a letter to my 21-year-old self on the occasion of my 21st birthday. I opened the letter one week and one day early. You would do it too. How often does 15-year-old Laura send letters to the future-- NOT VERY OFTEN. So, don't judge me for opening it early.

This is my response.

Dear Laura,

You think it's some great feat that I made it to my 21st birthday. You think I'm a superhuman for making it. Breaking news: it wasn't some great feat. And actually, it would've taken some great event for me NOT make it. I would've had to stop eating. Or stop sleeping. Or jump off cliffs with rocks at the bottom. Or walk into the center of an intersection when the light is green. And like you, I'm happy. Very happy. So, I didn't do any of those things.I'm happy because you're happy. Your fault; you started it.

I think about you a lot. You think about me a lot too. I think you have high hopes for me. I feel the pressure to fill your expectations. You feel pressure too. You feel the pressure to become me. Don't. Avoid feeling pressure of any sort. Don't create artificial stresses for yourself. I am who I am. You are who you are. And get this-- we're more the same than you ever dreamed possible. You think I'm an improved version of yourself. I'm not. You're disappointed, I know, but it's a good thing that I am a little bit of who you are, that I haven't changed much in the last five years. You are something awesome, especially for your age. You're more on-the-ball than you know, you're more intelligent than you think, you're more mature than I am, you're more self-aware than any 15-year-old. You're a lot of who I want to be and yet, sometimes I'm afraid I'm degenerating from where you are. I like you. Let's be friends. You make me want to be better.

That being said, I do need to tell you to take a deep breathe. Just stop and live. No rush. No pressure. No stress. Enjoy. Do something stupid-- I can say that because I know you won't. And for goodness sakes, just enjoy those roses that he sent to you. Don't worry, you won't ever see him again. So feel free to enjoy the flowers-- no guilt. You're in high school for goodness sakes. The world does NOT rest on your shoulders. You don't need to be perfect. Relax the whole perfectionist kick. You have a good few years ahead of you. A couple of words from someone who has been there:

When you're cooking for the judge, pick up the chef knife instead of the serrated knife. It will be the difference between silver and gold.

Hold his hand. It's not a bad thing to do.

Don't make hard-fast plans. You'll be disappointed. Go with the flow and things will turn out better than you could have planned.

Don't cry when you fail that math test. Laugh. It's a better reaction to almost all things in life.

Mostly though, just do what you're doing. You're living right and loving life.

Oh yes, and always drive plenty far behind the car in front of you on the freeway. Do not sing at the top of your lungs while you're cruising, especially when you're going to the airport in August of 2007. Pay attention while you drive that day.

Thanks for your letter. You know, it really made my day, my week, my month.You'll have hard days, but I wouldn't take those from you. Give mom a hug for me. Give her one every day.

I love you.

Love,
Laura

Eat Cookies and Sleep Well

2009-09-24T10:04:00.004-06:00

Thursdays call for some sort of celebration. Obviously. Uh, welcome to my blog. A blog that I may or may not write on regularly. I like to keep you (and me) on edge. Will I or will I not write today? It’s a mystery. Let’s dissolve the mystery today, for Thursday’s sake. I’m writing today. No mystery this morning. You may or may not appreciate this method of celebration.

I have a theory. You always need to have something to celebrate. You always need to be doing something to celebrate. My sister says that that is how she falls asleep. She thinks about the next day and what she’s looking forward to—what she’s looking forward to celebrating. And she sleeps in peace.

Celebrating is natural. Do it.

Last week was a hard week, for a whole lot of unexplainable reasons that seem silly now. Isn’t that how it always is? It was a hard week until I remembered my theory. I remembered that celebration is necessary. So I decided this week to celebrate. All the time.

I’m celebrating the completion of a long day with 30 pages in a book club novel. I’m celebrating three hours of studying for a test with a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies. I’m going to the museum of art during my break between classes to celebrate the end of class. I’m cooking and reading and writing and doing art—all in celebration. It breaks up the routine, the monotony, the stress, the frustration. Can I tell you how much better this week has been? Please? I want to tell you because it’s been that much better.

Come to my house today and I’ll make you cookies with the leftover dough. And we’ll listen to good music while sitting on my counter. It’ll be our Thursday celebration because I’m aware that we need more than one more blog post in the universe of blog posts to sufficiently celebrate today. Blog posts don’t cut it. Cookies do.

And with that, we’ll sleep in peace, which actually has its drawbacks. Peaceful sleeping equals easy snoozing and no watermelons or chocolate. Needless to say, but I’m still going to say it, in all my celebrating I find myself still snoozing.

But don't you worry, when I stop snoozing, I'll celebrate that too.

Note: I appreciate all those who emailed and commented with advice on my snoozing problem. Wow. We need to start a snoozer’s anonymous group. I will join. And then, all of you who have gotten through the snooze problem can sit and share your success stories while we sit in a circle holding hands. It’ll help me, I know it. In fact, symbolically holding hands with all you snoozers out there has already helped.

Change

2009-09-14T21:57:00.002-06:00

The decision to change. For some, it’s a moment in time, an epiphany of sorts. For others, it’s a process. In my case, it was a moment, a sudden realization. It was the moment he, shocked and bewildered, said, “You press snooze for an hour?! Every morning?!” That was the moment when I knew something had to change. Until he said that, I didn’t know that it was a serious problem, so I hadn’t seriously considered changing.

The latest possible time that I can climb out of bed and still arrive punctually to class is permanently embedded within me. This “latest possible time” doesn't allow for eating, showering, or packing a lunch; it only allows for flying out of bed, dressing, picking up my backpack, finding my keys, and arriving in time for the quiz. I cannot will myself to get up earlier than that embedded time. Every night I optimistically set my alarm clock for an earlier time because I honestly believe that the next morning will be the morning that I eat a solid breakfast, take a relaxing shower, and maybe even put on deodorant. But it never happens. I snooze, for an hour, every morning. I throw away the shower, the breakfast, and yes, sometimes even the deodorant for an extra six minutes times ten snoozes of sleep.

It’s a problem. I know that now. I aim to make change. In order to successfully change, I'm going to have to convince my morning-self that more awake time is more valuable than more sleep time, especially since the extra sleep time is broken sleep—interrupted by a blaring alarm every six minutes. I must make the breakfast, shower, and deodorant more rewarding than the last hour of semi-sleep. To make it more rewarding (since apparently a full stomach and a clean body are not rewarding enough), I will establish a material reward for myself. Seven days of earlier wake-ups will earn me a bag of sour watermelons and a 70% cocoa chocolate bar. Earlier in this case will be defined as at least two fewer snoozes than the regular ten. After seven days of earlier wake-ups, I will increase the goal to earlier wake-ups for two straight weeks, then three straight weeks, and ultimately a lifetime of decreased snoozing. In order to succeed, I will need to garner the support of close friends and family for accountability.

They say envisioning the ideal future helps one make change. I can envision it. I can imagine days of peaceful wake-ups, void of snoozing. The phone will ding-a-ling and I’ll sit up, gracefully slide out of bed, nonchalantly pull out my day’s clothes, jump joyfully into the shower, come out to a full breakfast and a prepared sack lunch, before skipping slowly from my house to my classroom— because you know, there will be plenty of time to get to class without a car.

This is my proposal for change. I can do it and I will do it. I will begin tomorrow. I will envision my snooze-free life, sour watermelons, and 70 % cocoa and I will climb out of bed two snoozes early. I can change. I will change.

09.09.09

2009-09-09T09:24:00.002-06:00

I think nine is a better number than eight. Wouldn't you say?

Happy day. I hope your day is as lucky as it seems like it should be.

*Photo from nyc-daily-photo.com

Road Trip(s)

2009-09-07T15:13:00.006-06:00

Last night we drove through the middle of Utah. A full moon-- a harvest moon-- made the sky bright. We drove fast on the highway and the black mountain silhouettes blurred past reminding me of sound waves that my physical science professor drew on the chalkboard.

My feet were on the dashboard. My leg bones would have crunched if the airbag blew out. I tapped my chipped red toes in time with a little Mozart. He, the driver not Mozart, whistled the melody with the flutes. I love it when he whistles.

I learned to whistle once this summer. At the beginning of a different road trip, I announced that we were not allowed to come home until I could whistle. He drove while I blew a lot of noiseless air from puckered lips until finally, I produced a clear note. I did it again and again and again. Then, we pulled into my driveway and came home. I was so proud of myself. Little did I know that it was the first and the last time that I would successfully whistle.

Allan Jackson says I've gone country. He might be right. I've become a southbound I-15 regular-- all the while listening to a bit of country twang. (The only exception may be last night's bit of Mozart.) I suggest listening to country music on road trips, especially if you're driving through desert and red rock cowboy land. It's just one of those things-- like eating watermelon on the Fourth of July or wearing new clothes to the first day of school.

Six. Six road trips in five months. That's what I was thinking when my toes were tapping on the dashboard and I saw the green exit sign for Provo, Utah. I put chapstick on my air conditioner dried lips for the 30th time in four hours (divide by two for accuracy) and said, "We're almost home."

That was the most depressing thing I said all day.

It was the first day of school.

2009-09-01T16:26:00.002-06:00

I wore black corduroy overalls. Only one of my two overall straps was buckled. Do you remember when that was cool? Maybe it was never cool; I wasn't ever that cool. I feel okay about that now. I didn't then. I wanted to be cool because it was the first day of school. I'm a rhymer. My dad took my first-day-of-school-in-new-spiffy-clothes picture in front of the saguaro cactus of my Arizona house. I don't remember that my bangs were curled perfectly and I don't remember squinting to look at the sun, but I've seen the picture.

On the first day of school we traditionally ate alphabet cereal for breakfast. One year, after it'd been a couple years since we'd had alphabet cereal on the first day of school, I realized that it wasn't actually a tradition. I think we ate alphabet cereal on the first day of school once and after that year I wished so hard that it was a tradition that eventually my head believed it. Traditionally, we ate alphabet cereal before going to our first day of school.

First-day-of-school eve was better than Christmas Eve. I never slept the night before school. I repeat, I never slept. Not a wink. [Beware of the exaggeration in that statement. Sometimes I exaggerate to make a story better. Divide what I say by two if you'd like a more accurate version.] I was too occupied with the outfit lying on my floor like paper-doll clothes ready to be put on in the morning, not to mention thinking about my new teacher and where I would be assigned to sit. I didn't sleep at all.

Too much excitement. Too nervous. Too magical.

I didn't wear new school clothes yesterday and no one took my picture, even though someone offered. I did not eat alphabet cereal and I slept in complete comatose before getting off to my 8 o'clock class.It was the first day of school.

Where'd the magic go?

Pictures of Summer

2009-08-24T16:49:00.007-06:00

I'm a lucky girl. It's been a perfect summer.

These pictures are not chronologically arranged and each picture's positioning is definitely not based on level of enjoyment. All of the below events were equally wonderful.

Just Passing

2009-08-19T17:53:00.004-06:00

I love glimpses of conversations that happen in passing.

I love the hellos and the keep-goings and the you're-almost-theres that happen when you pass people going up a trail while you're coming down.

I keep thinking about a man in a bookstore in Portland. He was sitting on the floor in front of a shelf of Billy Collins' poetry with an open book in his lap. I was walking down the row. I said, "You love Billy Collins too?" He said, "I've never read him 'til now." And I said, "He'll be your favorite. He's mine. Enjoy." And I kept walking down the row as he said, "I will."

Moments like that make life great. The moments where you and a stranger happen to be in the same place at the same time and you say hello because you're sharing the same experience. Whether the experience is a hike or a bookstore or a long grocery shopping line.

My blog is approximately 13 months old. And millions of other blogs are created daily. I love blogs. I love that blogs are merely glimpses of conversation that happen in passing. It's strangers that happen to be in the same place at the same time and you say hello because you're sharing the same experience.

So today, to you, I say hello. I'm just passing by. Isn't it hot outside? Can you believe summer is almost over? Don't you love baseball games in the summer time?

You're almost there. And you'll love Billy Collins.

Favorites

2009-08-12T13:55:00.003-06:00

On last week's Wednesday, I was sitting in a restaurant in Trinidad eating roti. I was loving the curry flavors on my tongue and I declared that it-- the roti and the Caribbean-- was my favorite.

Today, on this week's Wednesday, I'm sitting on a bed in a beach house overlooking the Oregon coast. I can hear the waves and the pelicans. I just ate some blackberries that we picked yesterday. They're my favorite. And the fresh blueberries are my favorite too. Flying kites on the blustery beach this morning was my favorite thing we've done today. Now, I'm listening to this song by Ingrid Michaelson; it's my new favorite song.

Being with family is my favorite. And that's the agenda for this week. Be with family. The charming Oregon coast with my most favorite breakfast cafe is just an added bonus.

Trinidad & Tobago

2009-07-24T13:18:00.002-06:00

Been in Trinidad this past week. Port of Spain to be exact. It's the NYC of the Caribbean. Hustling and bustling. Busier than St. Lucia, to be sure. I'm still painting, still studying Derek Walcott.

Seeing things every day that change my life-- scarlet ibises flying into trees at dusk and abandoned beaches. I want to paint them all.

But, seeing beautiful things far away makes me keenly aware of the beautiful things close to home. Can't wait to paint them as well.

On to Tobago on Tuesday.

St. Lucia

2009-07-11T09:07:00.002-06:00

I've put on sunscreen every day-- SPF 70 even-- and yet my skin is burnt. Red. Lobster red. I've been damp since the moment I stepped off the plane in St. Lucia. Perpetual wetness. It makes for interesting bus rides across the island. With twenty or so people in a twelve-seater van, our arms stick together and our legs to the seats. My feet are swollen and hot and the sand gets between the sandal straps; it's the recipe for blisters.

And I couldn't be happier. I'm staying a five minute walk from the beach. I paint every day with bright blues. One of my paint pigments is called Caribbean Blue. I hate to tell you, but the ocean is never that color blue. It's bluer. I wear a linen skirt and sit outside listening to the neighborhood calypso band practice for a festival that takes place on the 17th. They get better with every rehearsal. I eat fresh mangoes. Fresh guava. Fresh coconut. I eat fresh fish; dolphin fish is my favorite. I watch people come home from work and school and I wonder what they think of the girl painting on their local street and beach every day. I want them to like me.

Today

2009-07-03T10:42:00.007-06:00

There are days for spending hours sitting around a kitchen table with pancakes. And there are days for watching hot air balloons. There are days for blueberries. And for striped sweaters.

There are days when you somehow end up in the Caribbean without fully understanding how you got there.

Today will be all of the above.

*Painting of the Caribbean by Derek Walcott-- the poet/painter I'll be studying on the beach.

My Uncle Used to Love Me But She Died-- Roger Miller

2009-06-29T22:54:00.007-06:00

He got excited, "If I had a camouflage tie, I'd be the coolest guy. Everyone would want to be me."

My sister and I stared at him emotionless. His comment deserved no recognition.

*

I pulled the paint brush out of the water and wiped it on a paper towel. The brush left red streaks on the white. I did it again. And again. Always red streaks. That's when I realized the water was red.

*

"I stubbed my toe," my youngest brother said. He had a cloth wristband wrapped around the injury to protect the appendage from further damage.

Trying to one-up the youngest, the other brother said, "I have a splinter in my hand."

"I glued my fingers together with super glue." That's what I said.

*

You know you're a perfectionist when you clean the inside walls of your sink disposal. For your information, I have never done such a thing.

*

When the dentist cleans my teeth tomorrow, I'm going to be really nice and open my mouth really wide. I won't bite his fingers. Dentists need love and I love the dentist.

*

The chipped paint on my big toenail resembles Idaho.

*

I kind of miss her. She left and took her babies with her. The raccoon momma who lived in my fireplace for two months is gone. No more strange mating noises in the middle of the night. The silence is ominous.

*

Confession: Once, I was involved in two car wrecks in one night. The night was two and a half years ago. I can laugh about it now.

*

My drawings of still-life teapots look like ferocious hyenas with egg yolk dripping down their snouts. Do you know what kind of talent that takes?

*

When I go flying in airplanes, which I do sometimes, I want to jump out. With a parachute.

*

My favorite pajama pants are plaid and good-quality flannel. I might have gotten them for Christmas three years ago. Each wash has made them softer.

*

"Eat these," I commanded as I threw a bag of sour patch watermelons onto the table. "Now."

They started eating them immediately and suddenly I was sad that I surround myself with obedient people. I kind of wanted those sour watermelons.

*

I stared at the sketchbooks. A black big one, a black little one, a brown big one, a brown little one. An organic one with pure recycled paper and a circle of arrows commanding its prospective owner to be a good citizen.

*

I have it timed perfectly. His hand touches my knee and-- one-mississippi, two-mississippi, WA-BAM-- good feelings from the arches of my feet, through my twittery stomach and my racing fist-sized organ, to the goosebumps on the top of my head. Every. Single. Time.

*

Them: I'll bet you're excited.

Me: I can hardly wait.

Them: It sounds like a dream.

Me: It will be a dream. An impractical dream where I pay all my money to lie on the beach reading Omeros and painting the blue ocean. But a good dream nonetheless.

Them: When do you leave?

Me: Friday

*

If you only pay one penny for a book, I'll bet the book smells really wonderful. Buy one-cent books here. Your nose will be happy for the rest of its life.

Thunder

2009-06-16T15:56:00.002-06:00

The windows of the library just rattled. I can see the sky if I look outside. I only see gray. When the windows rattled, I smiled. I love thunder.

I want to be outside in the thunder. Outside where the sky is gray and the wind is slowly picking up.

I think it is going to rain soon. I'm praying for a big storm. The kind that sends a flash flood down the gutter in my front yard. The kind that requires boat races and red rain boots and dance parties. Rain dance parties.

And when the storm comes, I'm going to leave the library.

This post is about clothes.

2009-06-09T18:10:00.004-06:00

This post does not have much text. This post requires one link.

This post says everything about what I would like to wear to work this summer.

J. Crew Lookbook
I love the colors. I love the belts. I love the wide-brimmed yellow hat.
Oh, and the dress with the rosettes.

And I can't afford any of it. And I feel just fine about that.

In Celebration of Patience

2009-06-07T21:30:00.010-06:00

My wireless internet has been broken. BUT IT'S NOT BROKEN ANYMORE! This is a very big deal. (I feel like I need to say that, just in case you didn't catch the all-caps.) I'm currently typing while lying on my stomach in my living room. Do you know what a good feeling that is?

In celebration, I've decided to post pictures from my laptop. Do not look for a theme or reasoning behind these photos. There is none. It's just that pictures were difficult to post without wireless access. It would've required a USB drive; in other words, it would have required patience. And you all know how good I am at being patient. And if you didn't know anything about my ability to be patient. Now you do. I'm not patient. But, I'm working on it. And waiting for these pictures to upload was a step in that process.

Enjoy.

Picture 1: On the coast of Newport, Rhode Island. From this trip.

Picture 2: In the Old North Church in Boston. From the same trip.

Picture 3: Poppies in my front yard. Poppies are my favorite flower.

Picture 4: Sidewalk chalk and my shoes.

Picture 5: Pizza. Inspired by The Cheeseboard in Berkeley. And my sister.

Look at That Bird. And Analyze It.

2009-06-03T18:25:00.003-06:00

The bird at the top of this page. Look at it. And for those of you reading this in Google Reader or something similar, you may have to go to my real-live blog to see it.

Okay, see the bird? Now, look at all the arrows labeling the bird. That is someone's attempt to dissect the bird.

So, I was talking to my sister the other day and we decided that we like to figure things out. Dissect things. We like to hash and analyze things until we come to a conclusion.

It's true. I do. I like to dissect. I like to dissect situations, personalities, and birds. I like to figure things out. Today, while I was doing the periodic check of my blog for comments, I figured out that the dissected bird is a symbol. It is the symbol of my blog and my life.

I'm an analyzer. A dissector. And this is my figuring-things-out blog. I think I'm going to call my sister and tell her.

Talking to my Sister

2009-06-02T10:37:00.009-06:00

There is no obligatory greeting at the beginning of our phone conversations. As soon as my sisters pick up the phone, I just go-- no stalling, no waiting, no patience-- as if I just walked into the kitchen where they are stirring a pot of soup.

She picks up the phone. ME: "I can't find the chickpeas. Do they keep them with the rest of the canned beans?"

Or she picks up the phone. ME:"So, for our camping trip, we'll go on Friday night and stay in Sedona, AZ. Oak Canyon is supposed to be beautiful right now. Oh yeah, do you want to go camping?"

She picks up the phone. ME: "I bought a shirt. And the sale, it was incredible. Do you think the shirt looks good on me? Uh... just a second, I'll send you a picture."

Minutes and days later, our conversations are still relevant. Somehow, something we discussed ends up being a key absolute in another conversation with another person at another time. I could start every conversation with, "So, I was talking to my sister and..." and I often do.

So, I was talking to my sister and...

- I told her I was dancing to "Poker Face." She didn't know "Poker Face" was a song and said instead, "It's true, you do make a strange face when you dance." I make a poker face when I dance.

- We decided that she should serve four dips at the baby shower and not just three. It was a big debate. We concluded: four dips at a baby shower is NOT overboard. I repeat, it is NOT overboard.

- We discussed what makes a good politician. A good one has to be willing to stand their ground without being overbearing. Good politicians are silently strong.

- She told me that being a sappy girl isn't always a bad thing and sometimes it's unavoidable. She told me to embrace it. Or at least be okay with it. All girls are sappy sometimes.

- After a thorough analysis of Funyuns, we decided that they are indeed disgusting. Do not buy Funyuns, unless it's just for fun.

So, I was talking to my sister and... I decided that I have sisters who always seems to be stirring soup in the kitchen-- waiting for my interruptions, my rantings, my analysis, and my excitements-- when in reality, they are not. I'm not naive, I know they are really running to the grocery store, barely avoiding catastrophes, planning their own parties, helping their neighbors, and taking care of their adorable ones. But, they seem to just be stirring soup and waiting for my call.

I want to be that kind of sister too.

Black Bottom Cupcakes

2009-05-28T21:21:00.003-06:00

For Anna. And for anyone else who wants to live a happy life--

These are the cupcakes that I made for the dinner party the other night. And my sister just made them yesterday for a party in Arizona. As you know, cupcakes are all the rage these days. The cupcakes were made famous by my lovely Aunt Linda-- the expert in all things delicious.

Black Bottom Cupcakes

Beat together:
8 oz. cream cheese
1/3 c. sugar
1 egg
dash of salt

Stir in:
6 oz. chocolate chips

Set cream cheese mixture aside. (My aunt says she often uses fewer chocolate chips. This recipe has a lot of chocolate, even for choco-fanatics.)

Mix the following until well blended:
1 c. sugar
1/4 c. cocoa
1 c. water
1 T. vinegar
1 1/2 c. flour
1 tsp. soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 c. oil
1 tsp. vanilla
1 egg

Fill 24 (I don't get that many) cupcake liners about 1/2 full. Top with heaping teaspoon of cream cheese mixture. Bake 25-30 minutes at 350 degrees.

Frosting (which I consider optional):

1/4 c. melted margarine
1/4 c. cocoa
1 1/2 c. powdered sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
enough milk to make spreadable

Cupcakes should cool completely before they are frosted.

Trim Your Nails Today. It's Thursday.

2009-05-28T13:47:00.007-06:00

I don't like saying that a day is a bad day, because when you say it, you cement it. Once you announce that a day is bad--there is no turning back--the day is bad. And that's that. But, right now, it's Thursday and I'm about to speak in the past-tense. Tuesday was bad. I'm not condemning my current day to misery by proclaiming Tuesday's badness. Tuesday is already condemned.

At the end of Tuesday, after a day of badness, consisting of nothing all that bad, I'd had enough of it and I made a decision. As I stared at my white ceiling while lying in my bed, I decided that I was going to wake up and say goodbye to Tuesday the bad day. Forever.

I woke up to sunshine from my tiny window on Wednesday. And you wouldn't know it, but it was the same sunshine that woke me up on Tuesday, it's just that Wednesday's sun was glorious. I balance-walked on the curb as I made my way down to school. And shock of all shocks, my finance class was fascinating.

Later that afternoon, I trimmed my fingernails.That single event is the sign of all signs that my yesterday was a good one.

I would NEVER trim my fingernails on a bad day. How awful would that be? Just imagine, there I am thinking my day can't get any worse and I start trimming my fingernails. What?! That would be depressing. When a bad day is already bad, sitting and trimming fingernails would be rock bottom. My head would say, Hello Laura? Do you have nothing better to do with your tragic day than sit and cut off the dead cells growing out of your finger tips?

And that's why I trimmed my fingernails on good Wednesday. Because on Wednesday, as I clipped off each sliver of excess nail, I was in the right mindset. Instead of cursing my pathetic life that left me with a strange metal tool and dead cells, I basked in the glory of pampering myself so fully.

Tweet.

2009-05-23T12:17:00.002-06:00

I tweet now. Yep, I'm a crowd-follower.

I follow the crowd. You should follow me.

"A party is a party, but a party on a summer's eve..."

2009-05-22T13:16:00.004-06:00

Dinner Party : my favorite pastime; an excuse to clean, cook extravagantly, and dress up; a gathering of people for pleasure and food; almost synonymous with "hanging out", but not quite.

Last night, a good friend and her lovely family came to my house for a summer dinner party. We ate grilled chicken sandwiches with mustard, as recommended by stephmodo. We ended the night with my aunt's famous black-bottom cupcakes; they have a surprise cheesecake middle. I couldn't have been happier with the menu, with the company, or with the sunshine.

Bonus points for identifying the movie quoted in this post's title.