Thank You, India

The Love Letter

2012-01-25T15:29:00.000-08:00

I found it in a second hand accounting textbook. Stuck in the pages of the 17th chapter somewhere between "reading a balance sheet" and "interpreting an income statement".

He writes on simple notebook paper with scrawling, sloppy handwriting interspersed with misspellings and "lols". Two letters in one envelope, since he didn't mail the first before he wrote the second. He's been there about three weeks and only just got his dogtags and glasses. He's getting used to things now, and they've stopped fighting as much among themselves.

He thinks about that date he took her on just before he left. He wishes he could talk to her, see her face. He really, really likes her, and calls her Morgan-beautiful. Both letters end with the same post-script: "PS. Your amazing and beautiful."

He only just got her card, and he can't wait to get her next letter. He thinks she's someone special.

He hopes she feels the same way about him.

Does she? The envelope is torn from where she opened it, perhaps in a hurry, obscuring his full name and return address. The paper is still fairly crisp, the folds cleanly creased and not fraying from ill use or much handling. Did she read the letter once and forget about it, stuffing it absentmindedly into her book as she prepared for finals? Did she hide it there quickly, guiltily before some other boy found the evidence of this mystery admirer? Or was she saving it there, to keep her company as she studied for a test and dreamed of the boy who took her on a date once before he left to join the airforce?

Her address, at least, is still clearly written in his untidy hand on the envelope. Should I return it to her? Pack it up in a plain white envelope with a return address she's never heard of? I think I will, if only because I cannot keep it and hate to throw such earnest hopefulness away.

On Bunnies, and other Quandries

2012-01-20T14:34:00.000-08:00

I have this thing going on right now that I actually hate to talk about. I'm applying to graduate school, and it depresses me so much I have to block it out of my head when not actively engaged in the process. It's not that I don't like the idea of going back to school, or because I don't want to study anymore. It is depressing because I really, really want it and I'm 99% positive I can't have it.

In other news, I am not a graphic designer. I feel this is an important bit of trivia to share, because there are several people in my life (read: coworkers and bosses and such) who do not seem to believe me when I say this. They are so far convinced, in fact, that they expect me to pump out brochures that we then have professionally printed in mass quanity, design entire websites (we're talked 60 page websites here, folks, not some blog like...this one) which then get so many hits the server slows down and almost (but not quite) crashes, and create ad campaigns that we will pay thousands of dollars to run on EdWeek's website. So, just to reiterate: I am not a graphic designer. (I may have somehow accomplished all of the above including animated gifs for the ad campaign, but I stand by my original thesis).

Tidbit: the previous two paragraphs are actually related. Here's how: Last night as I sat with my favorite flavor of Awesomeness discussing the nature of the world and other weighty matters, I found myself saying the following:

"I'm really not sure how to convince you of this but the truth is there is a much better chance that I will not get into one of those two grad programs than that either program will accept me. Let alone both. But the thing is, when those rejections come, I want to have a plan."

And in that moment something remarkable happened. A practical boy gave an emotional girl a solution to her problem (rather than just listening and commiserating, which is generally the favored response) and she liked the solution! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a Christmas Miracle (Well, our tree is still up so, this season is still holly-jollying the crap out of my life at least). If I don't...no...when I don't get into graduate school, I will take classes and such and attempt to amend my non-graphic designer state. And then I will make websites about bunnies (because cats have so been done).

(Random, unnecessary parenthetical because that appears to be the dominant theme in this blog post).

Fin.

Nue Yir

2012-01-12T14:14:00.000-08:00

First of all, I resolve to stop spelling it that way. I'm annoyed at my own title. If it were someone else's title, we'd no longer be friends. Stop be so pretentious...me!

So, how this whole 2012 thing going for you so far? Pretty good? It is the last year of the world, you know. That Mayan calendar totally ends in December, and those guys were fantastic at predicting the future. Other than that thing with the Spaniards, I mean.

Anyway. Wouldn't you like to know what my resolutions are? No? Good point. Let's talk about something else.

A few weeks ago I saw a status on my facebook feed about someone having met a goal of "reading 80 books this year!" and I got to wondering how many books I had read this year. I can't tell for certain, because I can't remember them all, but judging by my Kindle and the few non-Kindle books I do remember reading this year, it's somewhere between 115 and 120 books, and that's not counting those that I read more than once. I so want to be proud of that number. That's roughly a book every three days, and given that I have a full time job, well...that has to make me some kind of reading-hero, right?

The problem is that of those 115-120 books, only about a third of them were worth reading. Maybe I'm being too harsh there, possibly half were worth it. Does it really matter? Either way I am wasting far too much time reading young adult fiction about trolls. Yes, trolls. I know, what was I thinking? I don't know! It must have been a freebee. Actually, the price is an issue. If you read as much as I do then paying more than $2 for a book sort of matters. Do the math people, how much would you guess I spend on reading materials in a year? Lots, that's how much. Please don't alert my husband to this fact. Actually, I just did. Cool it, Awesome face, remember who it was that bought me this kindle? That's right! This is entirely your fault! Make me a sandwich!

However, on the flip side, that also means I read at least 40 books worth reading this year. So, if you think about it...I still read like 80 losers. This has to stop. I'd like 2012 to be the year in which that ratio changes. This year I am only going to read 40 loser books! Hah, you just read about my resolution after all. Sneak attack!

Also, after we set that resolution about doing an hour of "something active" last year, Mr. Awesome and I promptly forgot it. We still did active things, but the resolution was entirely pointless (as all New Year resolutions are, but we've had this talk before). Also we learned that it's not so much the time and consistency of the activity that bother us. It's all the things we want to do together that we either forget about or just don't make time for that we regret. So this year we made a list of things we want to do together, whenever we want and in whatever order. I'm not calling it a resolution, so much as a good idea. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a free book about...I dunno, fairies?...waiting to be read. Those 40 loser books don't read themselves, folks. (Unless they do, in which case that's creepy...and the plot to a bad book I'm sure.)

Christmas at our House

2011-12-23T19:39:00.000-08:00

This is what Christmas looks like around our house this year:


We had one of these when I was a child, and it was watching the angels fly around ringing the bells was one of my favorite Christmas traditions. My mother brought us each our own as a souvenir of her trip to Austria. She could not have given us a better gift.

You've seen our tree before, but here it is from a distance with presents. We went the "brown paper packages tied up with string" route this year. Actually, we used paper bags from the grocery store and some baker's twine. I kind of love the old fashioned feel of it.

Tonight we went to the Carols by Candlelight service at the National Cathedral. At one point we as we sang Silent Night the lights dimmed until the small candles we each held seemed to be the only light in the cathedral. It was pretty magical, to be honest.

This year's Christmas Village is brought to you by Rice-a-Roni. I started saving cardboard in September for this, just to be sure I would have enough to make a good village. Then I wimped out after three houses. Mr. Awesome gets full credit for the clock tower there (which he made from a random Oreo cookie box).


These ornaments are the best thing I brought home with me from India. I can't look at them hanging like this without think about Whoville.

Welcome Christmas, while we stand heart to heart and hand in hand.
Christmastime will always be, just as long as we have we.

Merry Christmas, friends.

In Dulci Jubilio

2011-12-23T11:57:00.000-08:00

The solstice marks the shortest day and darkest night of the year. The sun has been deserting us for months now, slowly edging south to skip along South American beaches and drink mate with the Argentines. I miss the sun and the Argentinos at this time of year, no matter how cheerful the twinkle lights.

I only spent one Christmas south of the equator, and I spent it mostly wishing away the heat and humidity. The giant Christmas tree outside the only Mall in Rosario seemed ludicrous to me as I walked by in drenched in sweat, nut brown from the glaring sun. But even so, it was a good Christmas. My tree was a paper cutout, taped to the wall next to my bed and decorated with drawings sent by primary children from my home ward with notes like "Merry Christmas, and if your birthday is around Christmas, Happy Birthday too!" We ate juicy grilled meat and fresh crusty bread for dinner on Christmas eve, with members who were missing their own missionary that year. I cannot think of a less appropriate time to sing "Silent Night" than the Noche Buena. The revelry lasted all through the short night and into the dawn. At one point the booming fireworks drove my companion and I out onto the roof where we watched the small rockets shooting perilously close to us and lighting the sky with color in short, giddy spurts. We tried to spend the night sleeping, as behooves hard working missionaries, but the revelry outside our little shed seeped under the doors and through the thin walls and into our failed attempts at slumber.

That year, like this, Christmas fell on a Sunday. We saw no other people as we walked the streets that early sabbath morning amid the bright remains of a hundred Christmas parties. The streets were generally strewn with trash but today it was brighter, festive trash that spoke of streamers and fireworks and dancing all night long. It could not have been a more different scene than the snow laced Christmas mornings I was used to spending where medieval carols and twinkling candles stood in for the raucous cheering and midnight fireworks here. I had spent the last six months in that ward, and knew somehow that this would be my last among the members I had come to love so dearly. I will always remember that day as a bittersweet time of parting and goodbyes, amid the joy of Christmas.

Now, several years later, the night-long revelry and dizzying explosions of Noche Buena mean just as much to me as the quieter vigils here on the night when the darkness halts and turns back, banished by the light of the sun on it's return, for we are celebrating the same thing:

Hope.

Good Christian men rejoice
With heart and soul and voice!
Give ye heed to what we say
News! News!
Jesus Christ is born today!

Christ is born today!
Christ is born today!

My life without a television

2011-12-19T14:35:00.000-08:00

So, let's get this right out in the open: I do not own a television. This means, of course, that I am better than you. I look down upon you, judging your television watching-ness with lofty self righteousness. I have risen above this world, my friends, and thrown off the shackles of a soulless consumer driven culture. I'm basically Buddha.

Sometimes people ask me "So, is this a decision you've made or...?" And I have to wonder what that "or..." is supposed to mean. Or...what, darling? Or...was the TV stolen? Or...have you not yet heard about TV? Or...did you forget to get yourself a TV and thank heavens I'm here to help straighten your crap out?

Or nothing, people. Of course it is a decision; we do not "accidentally" not have a TV. Although, I will always be a little tempted to say "oh no, it wasn't a decision exactly but there was this squirrel..." and let them try to figure out those ambiguous ellipses. Suckas.

What people are really asking, though, is "Are you taking a moral stance on this issue about the TVs and the watching thereof?" I so want to say yes to that one. I'm judging you, folks. Judgeity, judge, judge! But moral stances take so much effort, and to be honest I mostly just don't want to rearrange the furniture to fit in a television.

Obviously, not having a TV brings specific benefits to those of us who are brave enough to try it. For starters, rather than waste our time watching TV, we find other ways to...waste our time. Mr. Awesome, for example, is a world-class Bloons player (It's a flash game, there are monkeys, he is forbidden to play it with sound. Don't ask any further questions, please.) And I find myself enjoying the written word more often. That's right, I read! I read a lot! Yet another reason to look down upon you, judging your non-reading-ness. And I would too, but I've got one more chapter in this poorly written 99cent ebook to finish so....

Also, without a TV we never see movie trailers, so we never know what's coming to theaters, so we never go to movies. And after reading that my movie-buff family will probably disown me. Sorry mother. I tried to make you proud, honest! I just... (The ellipses are a theme here, folks. Get it?) This is highly beneficial in social situations when everyone else has seen or wants to see a certain movie and we are not able to contribute to the conversation at all. I'd rank it right up there with mentioning our lack of TV when it comes to handy conversational topics.

...

Istanbul dört: Would you like to buy a carpet?

2011-12-07T08:02:00.000-08:00

First of all, this:

Let me introduce you to the blue mosque. Now, I'll be honest, she's kind of a narcissist. I mean, she totally photobombed us nearly every time we tried to get a picture in the main square.

Some random guy offered to take this photo for us. He later tried to sell us a carpet. Such was to become a dominant theme on this trip: helpful friendly people always want to sell you a carpet.

It's like you just can't get rid of her, that gorgeous building. It's even worse at prayer times when the speakers on her six minarets begin a swirling call and response to each other that fills the air almost forces you to stop what you are doing and realize just how big the world is and just how small you are within it. It is a beautiful and daunting feeling.

And, as we all know, when the world becomes too big and you become too small there is only one cure: lunch. All around the main square are winding side streets filled with carpet shops and restaurants. Nearly every roof overlooking the square has been made over into a restaurant terrace. The choice in food is nothing short of dizzying. On this day, though, having survived Haggia Sophia, the Basillica Cistern, and a photo-shoot with the Blue Mosque all before lunch, we were a little too tired to give our restaurant selection much thought. We simply wandered a short way down a winding alley, avoiding the dozens of carpet salesmen offering us "A look, just have a look! No pressure to buy!" until yellow umbrellas and linen table cloths surrounded us on both sides, muffling the roar of Istanbul traffic and blocking out the bustle of busy tourists and the ubiquitous carpet vendors. Again, it felt like stepping through time somehow, only this time not nearly so far into the past, maybe to the 1920's. And we were alone with the sway of the luminaries and the sound of a record player inside somewhere, while a solidary gentleman with a hat sat sipping wine and puffing a cigar. Then they brought us our food.

Lightly roasted chicken in a creamy apricot sauce with fresh vegetables and warm, flaky bread. And Istanbul's signature cup of freshly squeezed orange juice on the side. They sell it everywhere, that orange juice. In street carts and restaurants, they squeeze it right there as you watch. It tastes like a palace in summer. Everything we ate in that city was fresh, though, and that's Istanbul's secret to success. Even the breakfast we had each day at small B&B we stayed in was delicious because it was fresh. Fresh cucumber slices, fresh tomato slices, and fresh bread with a drizzle of honey or some dark, exotic olives. Oatmeal will never quite satisfy me again, I'm afraid.

After we finished that decadent food we just sat there for a while, pretending to be Europeans lingering over lunch rather than confused American tourists who had overeaten, until the waiter stopped by again, and offered to sell us a carpet.

The Beginner's Guide to Holiday Films

2011-12-05T12:48:00.000-08:00

I make no pretenses about the fact that when it comes to Christmastime Merriment, I'm pretty much a blackbelt. I know a few of you lesser mortals are probably wondering how I do it. But, let's be honest, it isn't a teachable skill.

However, I can and will impart some of my merry-making wisdom to you in the form of a guide, of sorts, of Christmas Films* (which some of you will realize are a key part of the annual festivities as they can and should be watched while decorating trees, baking, cyber-shopping, etc.) So let me break it down for you into some simple do's and don'ts. Ready? Let's begin.

Do:
"Smoky Mountain Christmas" starring Dolly Parton and her hair. When it comes to kitschy, corny, twang infused holiday delight, nothing tops Dolly's 1986 classic. This tender, rollicking classic includes such holiday staples as a witch woman, a mountain man, a cottage full of orphans, and John Ritter. But why are you still reading? You should have been sold at "Dolly Parton".
Memorable Quote: "You shouldn't ought to not like people, but if you're going to, he's the one not to like!"-Lorna Davis (Dolly)

Don't:
"It's a Wonderful Life" starring Jimmy Stewart. I won't beat around the bush here, this movie is aweful. It's about attempted suicide, people. There's your first clue right there. It's about feeling really depressed and deciding to off yourself rather than go on talking with that weird accent that just drives me up a wall. I'll admit that when it comes to Jimmy Stewart and his vocal choices I am nowhere near the bandwagon. Every time he opens his mouth all I really want is for him to stop saying words! However, my antipathy toward the great Mr. Stewart aside (well, not quite aside. Have you seen Mr. Smith Goes to Washington? Yes? My condolences.), the movie itself is just annoying.
Memorable Quote: "What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary." (Or you could just stop talking, dude. Either way.)

Do:
"How the Grinch Stole Christmas" by Dr. Seuss, narrated by Boris Karloff. Here we have all that is good about holiday films. A green suessian creature plotting grand-theft Christmas. The songs are fantastic, the lyrics profound, and Boris Karloff's narration is creamy, dreamy and devilish good. Also, I defy you not to get a little choked up when the Grinch hears the whos singing after he's taken their toys.
Memorable Quote: (The whole movie is one long memorable quote, people, but for brevity's sake) "Then he got an idea. An awful idea. The Grinch got a wonderful, *awful* idea!"

Don't:
"How the Grinch Stole Christmas" starring Jim Carrey. Some movies are bad, some movies are aweful, and some movies should be burned over a ceremonial fire. This thing, this twisted, horrible, mangled reproduction of a Christmas classic is a sin against nature and must be stopped!
Memorable Quote: Nope. Not doing it. I refuse to memorialize a single line from this sick, sick travesty.

Do:
"The Muppet Christmas Carol" with Michael Caine. I realize that I lost most of you when I dared insult the oh-so-glorious "It's a Wonderful Life" and you know, that's fine. Those of you that did stick around are now scratching your heads about this one. It isn't classic Muppets, after all. And if you've got a problem with odd accents well....Michael Caine? And I'll tell you, when it comes to this choice even I'm a little confused. But I love this movie. I once watched it on repeat for three days straight while writing 10 final papers for various anthropology courses in college. And still I love it. Still I laugh at the chickens and the rats. Still I love to hate the scenes with Miss Piggy. And still I crack up everytime Michael Caine tries to sing along with the final chorus. Accents aside, Dude cannot sing.
Memorable Quote: "You will love business...it is the AMERICAN WAY! (whispering from Gonzo) Oh...it is the BRITTISH WAY!" -Sam Eagle

Don't:
Pretty much any other version of the Christmas Carol, particularly ones starring Jim Carrey (because, after Grinch-Gate, I'm boycotting any and all of his holiday films for now until the end of time. Amen)

Do:
"Polar Express" starring Tom Hanks. First of all, kudos to the people who were able to convince Tom Hanks to step into a dimentional realignment machine in order to trap him in a two-dimensional animated movie. The result is just how I like this sort of thing: two parts unnecessary and one part creepy. I like this movie, folks. I just do. I like how it makes me want to drink hot chocolate and ask for a single sleigh bell for Christmas. I like how Josh Groban makes me want to "Believe in what your hear is saying, hear the melody it's playing". I like how Tom Hanks manages to play at least three totally different characters exactly the same way.
Memorable Quote: "The thing about trains... it doesn't matter where they're going. What matters is deciding to get on." -The Conductor (aka Tom Hanks trapped in virtual form)

On the Fence:
"Elf" staring Will Ferrel. I'm conflicted on this one. At first blush it should be pretty cut and dry. Watching Will Ferrel caricature a developmentally disabled person shouldn't be on anyone's holiday to-do list. I still don't see how growing up with what appear to be decently mature elves has somehow stunted his cognitive progress. His elf-dad seems to be a fairly normal guy, after all. And yet, still I watch it with my husband. Still I laugh a bit when he launches himself at the tree to hang the star. I cringe at the many humor attempts that fall flat, true. And Ms. Deschanel looks far better as a brunette (Why the blond here, folks? Why? She can't be the most beautiful person Buddy has ever seen if her hair isn't the color of rancid mayonnaise?). So I don't know. I just don't.
Memorable Quote: "Wow, you're fast. I'm glad I caught up to you. I waited 5 hours for you. Why is your coat so big? So, good news - I saw a dog today. Have you seen a dog? You probably have." -Buddy

Do:
"Mr. Krueger's Christmas" -Starring Jimmy Stewart. Because the only way to truly appreciate the creepiness that is Jimmy Stewart is to watch him in this vaguely horrific short film wherein he plays an almost, but not quite, child molester. Done and done.
Memorable Quote:
Clarissa's Mother: Did Clarissa leave her mittens here ?
Mr. Krueger: Oh, yes, yes they're right here.
Clarissa: You hung them on the Christmas tree ?
Mr. Krueger: Well, you remind me of everything good about Christmas so I just couldn't think of a better place. Here... there you are.

*This is by no means a comprehensive list. So when I fail to mention your favorite holiday film, don't go thinking it's a personal insult. (It probably is, but there's no need to dwell on it)

Istanbul Thrice: Sultana

2011-11-30T14:16:00.000-08:00

It's the afternoon of our first full day in Istanbul. Outside the air is hot and dusty, filled with the sounds and smells of merchants and tourists plying their respective trades. The sun can be dazzling, and the traffic is terrifying. We've just left Haggia Sophia and I realize that I basically have no idea what to do next. I'm such a good planner, usually, but somehow on this trip I didn't get much further than booking a hotel and glancing at a map. When we decided to visit something called the Basilica Cistern, I was mostly hoping for a place to sit down. But when we followed the lines down below the ground, we found this:

It felt suspiciously like stepping back in time as we descended the stairs to this place. The electric lights seemed to flicker like candles, or torches set just above the water line. Something about it seemed at once menacing and alluring. I had spent all that energy waiting for a time-warp thing in Scotland, and now boom, here it was. Only, I didn't order a trip back to Byzantium darlings.

At least I got to take this guy with me. Doesn't he look good cerca 500 AD?

Also, this is totally the wrong outfit for a spot of time-travelling. Had I known the itinerary involved stepping back several hundred years, I would have worn less sensible shoes.

Then Medusa showed up and was all "Girl, those shoes are ridiculous. Get yourself some strappy sandals, stat."

And then they made us their king.

Yes, I know. This blog is weak-sauce compared to the Scotland stuff. The thing is, while Istanbul was amazing, it just wasn't very....funny I guess. Also I haven't yet talked about the food, and as we all know, that's where my best writing material generally comes from. Not to worry, we had some seriously good eats later on.

A Black Friday Conversation

2011-11-28T07:42:00.000-08:00

Him: "That kid looks like Harry Potter."

Me: "That's a middle-aged woman."

Him: "That woman looks like Harry Potter."

Well, another mad shopping day has come and gone. Mr. Awesome and I were such dedicated Christmas shoppers that we dared brave the lines at...Wendy's drive through. Those lines, I'm telling you! And the attitude of the other shoppers as they just, serenely drove away sucking frosty through a straw. It was intense.

In other news, it is quite possible that, for the first time ever, team J&J may send out Christmas cards this year. I cannot make any promises, but if you want to get in on what could possibly be the most fantabulous postal festivity since flat-rate shipping, please do send me your mailing address.

The Trees of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come.

2011-11-25T09:40:00.000-08:00

The Awesome One and I have been married just over a year, but we already have a solid Christmastime tradition. Partially because we like to be crafty but mostly because I do not like storing "things", we make our own tree ornaments each year--disposable ones that do not require being boxed up and saved come February..erm, I mean...January. ehem.

So, here's a peek at our first three Christmas trees, in chronological order.

Tree #1: Affectionately Titled "The Ugly Tree"


The tree is a gloriously preserved fiber-optic number passed down from a sibling who was hard pressed to part with it. The fibers no longer opt, as it were, but isn't it just... I don't know.

A close-ups of the stained-glass cookies we made, to go with the lindor truffles and candy-canes. We felt they were suitably tacky for such a tree.

Tree #2: Which, for today's purposes, we're calling "The Newlywed Tree"

We splurged and purchased our very own, brand new piece of plastic pine. I'll admit, while it has a bit less character than the last, it is at least symmetrical.


We used left-over wedding invitations and the customized "Jennifer & Jeremy, September 25, 2010" ribbon for some of the decorations.

We made better stained glass cookies this year. We used a blue ring-pop for the "glass" to match the more restrained color theme, and blue-raspberry candy-canes.

Tree #3: As yet unnamed, but maybe "Au Natural" or "The Smelly Tree"


Mr. Awesome was such a champ about stringing those cranberries. And after he finished his strand and picked it up to hang on the tree, he was such a champ about chasing them all over the floor as they fell right off the string.


We dried these orange slices in the oven, and only burned a handful so well done us. To the left there you can see some cinnamon sticks and star anise which we bought at the spice market in Istanbul for this precise purpose. They smell lovely.

The stockings you can see in the background are a pair we purchased in Edinburgh, at a lovely little Christmas shop that seemed made entirely for me.

We do store the tree, which is annoying for me. I realize that buying a real tree each year would eliminate that problem, but I think I'm just being cheap. And I hadn't seen the selection of real trees Whole Foods sells when we purchased this one. I love making the ornaments each year, though. It means we never have the same decorations twice, and we get to be all creative about it each year. I have plenty of other ideas up my sleeve for future trees: Origami, for example, or lolli-pops. And just imagine how many things you can do with pine-cones.

Ambrosia, and other matters.

2011-11-17T14:22:00.000-08:00

Him: So do you think we're like...the cool aunt and uncle now?

Me: Darling, you just taught your nieces how to suck hot-chocolate and ice cream through a cookie. You're set until your brother buys them a pony.

...

Him: I was sitting out there on the couch listening to you talk on the phone, and I realized I like to hear Jenni talk on the phone. So I brought my computer in here where I can hear you better.

Me: That's...an odd thing to enjoy.

Him: Well, you sound so excited about stuff.

Me: I'm excited when I talk to you, though.

Him: Yeah, but you talk to me all the time.

Me: So, it's more special for you when I'm saying it over the phone to someone else?

Him: Yep.

...

Me: Isn't it weird how the inflection in your voice can make anything sound like an innuendo?

Him: I'll inyourendo.

Me: Nope, not what I meant.

Really Bad Eggs

2011-11-08T17:44:00.000-08:00

You know how on Halloween there are those trunk-or-treats and some of the people go all out and it's kind of weird but also pretty awesome? So anyway, this happened:

Those swords? Totally real, me 'earties.

The gold is not real, but that Jolly Roger? Legit.

We did not spend a cent on our costumes this year. Which, if you think about it, makes us kind of weird. I mean, what else do we have randomly hanging in our closet? (Saris and turbans, couple of leather masks, a kilt. You know, the basics.)

Notice the rum here. I spent a good fifteen minutes getting the right proportion of red, blue and yellow food coloring to achieve that amber color. And, having never actually seen rum in real life, I'm thinking I nailed it.

The nuance here, sea-dogs! It's obvious these are legitimate world-traveling marauders. I mean, the box is from India as are the Sari and the golden Ganesha, that jade ball in the center is from China, the burgundy fabric with gold details is from Turkey, and those plates, if you can believe it, come all the way from the magical land of Target.

I drew that treasure map with an actual quil and ink.
And then I LIT IT ON FIRE!

This not real. Well, I mean I am a real person and all, but the blood is fake. I think. Unless the Riteaid is selling real blood. That'd be weird. And disgusting. And illegal.

We're beggars and blighters and ne'er do-well cads,
Drink up me 'earties, yo ho.

Aye, but we're loved by our mommies and dads,
Drink up me 'earties, yo ho.

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me.

Happy Halloween, ye scalawags!

Birthday Week

2011-10-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

Twenty nine years ago on a dark, stormy October night a tiny Baby Awesome was born into this world. Exactly three-hundred and sixty two days later another child, this time a girl with a flare for melodrama, joined the mortal realms herself. It would be several years, decades even, before the twain would meet. But when they did, the world was never the same again.

And so it is, my spectral friends, that once a year when the leaves change color and the stores fill with fun-sized candy bars, a special festival is held to commemorate these two souls. I give you, Birthday Week!

This year's week-long festival began on a Saturday, when Mr. Awesome agreed to dress in a kilt and spend all day with me at the Renaissance Festival for a second time this season. Actually, this is notable since a) we've never before gone more than once in the same season, and b) we've never spent more than a couple of hours there. Surprisingly, it was easily the most fun we've ever had at the renfaire.

Rico and Bald Guy, throwing knives. Also they juggle. Also it freaked me out and I never want to see someone throw a knife into a balloon when someone else's head is INSIDE IT ever again. (Shudder)

Volgemut, the medieval German band. This I would watch again...and again and again and again. Mom, you would have absolutely loved them and I insist that you visit me next October and see for yourself! (This is not a request, it's a demand.)

Awwww, so tender. Actually, I'm pretty sure a couple got married in the chapel behind us a few minutes before this picture was taken. And you thought we were a weird couple.

Apparently I'm attracted to a bad boy after all...although, for a sloth, this is a very animated face, no? I mean, he looks more....angry? Constipated? I dunno.

I'm obviously innocent here. Look at that face.

Sucka!

And then Mr. Awesome taught me how to shoot an arrow.

He's much better at it himself though. Please notice the action shot here, I snapped this just as the arrow left his hand. Be amazed, be truly amazed.


I took like twenty photos like this. And honestly, can you blame me?

Not pictured here are the authentic foods we consumed (including that most quintessential of medieval snacks: the turkey club sandwich), and two versions of Hamlet we watched, one of which was performed by two mimes. It was one of the best productions I've seen, honestly. Especially the scene when Ophelia walked out in goggles and flippers to drown herself, glaring passive-aggressively at Hamlet the whole time. The layers! I'm telling you. We also tried knife throwing, star throwing, and ax throwing. Mr. Awesome may have me beat at archery, but when it comes to ax throwing? I killed it, folks. My third ax not only hit the target, it hit dead center. Watch yourselves, that's all I'm saying.

Unfortunately, Scotland lost the joust to England (again). This time one of our knights was from Spain, too. It's the old guy who always rides for England; that dude is amazing. Last time we went one of our knights was a girl, so that pretty much rocked. Dame Brunhilde of Germany was one tough cookie. We still lost to the old guy. Jerk.

My actual birthday was the following day, and when Mr. Awesome expressed disappointment that he hadn't been able to think of anything to get me for my birthday, I reminded him that he got me the best present I could ask for:

A man in a kilt shooting arrows at stuff. And Georgetown Cupcakes, of course.

A few days later I got up at ridiculous o'clock in the morning to sneek outside and decorate the car with mini kitkats and reeses. I'll be honest, there was a moment when I was convinced I would be murdered while hanging candy bars from the ceiling of my car. That parking lot was dark, deserted, and creepy. It all turned out okay and Mr. Awesome was nicely surprised when he went left for work on his birthday. That night, as per his request, I made him cake balls. For those of you not in the know, cake balls are basically a way to take regular cake and make it ten times more sugary and disgusting. He loved it.

Did I really fit 29 candles into a single cupcake? Dudes, of course I did.

I am rocking these actions shots lately, check out that smoke.

He would later throw up after consuming too much sugar. I still don't think he regrets it.

That weekend we celebrated with a ghost-tour of Old Town Alexandria, which was just as awesome as it sounds. More so, because we went with Mr. Awesome's fabulous brother and sis-in-law. And then we went to Cox Farms where Mr. Awesome enjoyed several slides, a funnel cake, and a hot chocolate. He was then banned from eating sweets for two solid days.

Istanbul II: Sacred Wisdom

2011-10-24T09:21:00.000-07:00

I've wanted to see that building since the day I found out she existed. Somehow, though, I felt certain I never would. What with all the Sistene Chapels and Notre Dames and Westminster Abbeys yet to be seen, surely this one church, so far off the usual track, would be beyond my reach. Besides, even though she was once the greatest Christian church in the world, she's hardly as famous now. She isn't a church anymore, and even her time as a mosque ended years ago.

But when we saw those discounted tickets to Istanbul online, Hagia Sophia was the reason I bought them. And when we woke up for the first time in that ancient, fascinating city, she was the only thing I cared about seeing.

We went early to the gates, determined to miss the crowds. I was anxious somehow, as though if we were not fast enough somehow something would prevent me from seeing her. I'd come all this way and I just knew it couldn't be that easy. The gates must be barred to us. There would be a password we did not know, a gesture or look that would mark us as outsiders, not ready to see her now. And if not now, when? Hurry, we have to hurry.

But the gates were not barred. No password required, and outsiders or no, the ticket price guaranteed us admission. And so, we walked through the old walls to stand next to her. Solid, stable, and plain in comparison to the delicate white mosques that surround her. From the outside, in fact, she is just a red-brown giant, dowdy even, next to the frilly, glittery Blue Mosque opposite. But that's outside.

This is inside.

This is the passageway to the upper levels. There was something truly creepy and wonderful about this bare stone passage. Or maybe I've read too much Udolpho.

This doesn't even give you an adequate sense of how massive it is, but it's the best I can do. Look at those puny little homo sapiens down there. So insignificant

Hagia Sophia has been many things to many people in her sixteen-hundred year lifetime, but she started out as a christian church. Her walls and domes were covered in gold-leafed mosaics. Pictures of the Virgin, Christ enthroned with various empirical personages, John the Baptist, angels, seraphim, and crosses glittered on nearly every surface. But all of that changed when Mehmet the conqueror had her turned into a mosque. The massive building with its incredible dome would remain, but the human figures, the crosses, the intricate and masterful mosaics, would have to go. And so they did. Rail at him if you must, but give him this one credit: rather than scrape them entirely from the walls, Mehmet chose to cover the mosaics with plaster. Saving them, partially at least, from total destruction.

And now, centuries later, they are peaking through again. A face here, a wing there. Some glittery pattern above a pillar. The work of restoring her walls to their original grandeur will take time, and she will never be what she once was. Even so, with just these few glimpses into her byzantine self, one can understand Justinian, the emperor who commissioned her, when he said at first entering

"Oh Solomon! I have outdone you!"

I wish I could have taken a better photo of His face here and they way the artist used hints of pink in the tiles to give Christ's face a human warmth.

Plaster next to mosaic. Doesn't the paint look silly next to the original?

I don't have any photos of me here, but that's probably better anyway. I'm sure I looked kind of nuts with my mouth hanging open and tears in my eyes. Mr. Awesome, of course, can be counted on for sanity and calm in any situation.

Looking out toward the blue mosque from an upper window, you can see its minarets in the distance. That's a sultan's tomb seen through an upper window.

Looking back at that same window. Warning: Objects in photo are much more amazing than they appear.

So listen, I won't bore you with anymore drooling over mosaics and such like. Suffice it to say that Hagia Sophia blew my mind, and since I can't adequately describe it for you, you'll just have to go see her for yourself.

Welcome to Istanbul, please pick your jaw up off the floor.

2011-10-10T08:37:00.000-07:00

First of all, let's talk about this city shall we? This glorious incredible enormous city. My first impressions of Istanbul have now been overlayed with a week's worth of site seeing, but I do vividly remember two of my initial reactions upon arrival:

1) Minarets are gorgeous. Seriously, way to go with the religious architecture, Islam. As the plane came down over the city these graceful towers seemed to dot the skyline in every direction, and it made the whole city seem more elegant somehow, as though she had put on her special occasion jewelry just for us.

2) Holy crap, I'm back in India.

The latter was actually more of a visceral reaction brought on by some of the side streets we saw on the train from the airport to our hotel. I'm still not exactly sure what did it, but all of the sudden my stomach dropped and I got a little light headed. For those of you who did not follow the India saga, let me just say that being in India is like hanging out with the most beautiful, fascinating person you've ever met...who occasionally likes to punch you in the face. It was probably the strange, non-romantic, language I was hearing everywhere. There is nothing like being surrounded by a language you don't speak to make you feel like a total idiot. The similarities between Turkey and India were not deep or vast, however, so the deja vu didn't last long.

We opted to use mass transit rather than pay for a taxi, which meant our first visit to the hippodrome involved dragging our suitcases behind us and much map-induced anxiety. In fact, we did not even know we were in the hippodrome as we rolled our luggage over the stones that once flew beneath the wheels of chariot races and imperial carriages. All we knew was that if we cut through this...park? type place we could get to our hotel faster. Or not, seeing as we got lost anyway. Also, drivers in Istanbul have a much greater respect for the intelligence of pedestrians than DC drivers do. Which is a nice way of saying that in Istanbul they expect you to be smart enough to move yourself out of the way before they hit you, and they do not bother to slow down or go around you if you do not. Word.

Thanks to a very helpful fish-restaurant majordomo, we did eventually find the little bed and breakfast we had reserved online. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the view from our balcony:

In the foreground you can see the ruins of the Byzantine city walls, and that skyline in the distance? Oh that's just Asia honey.


Sunset over the sea of Marmara, baby. Welcome to Istanbul.


And looking out over the European coastline. We had no idea we would have this kind of view when we booked this hotel. I take credit for it anyway.


Self-photography #451 "Jet-lagged and hungry"

We got to our hotel some time around 6pm and after gaping at that gorgeous view we set out in search of sustenance. And I'm sure we would have found it, too, had we not found the Arasta Bazzaar first.

You may now pause to wipe the drool off your face.

But anyway, food. Right? Yes, we wanted food. Wait...

Blue Mosque, looking mysterious and awesome. Seriously, who cares about food?

And then we turned around and boom! Haggia Sophia was staring me straight in the face and she was like "Hello tiny mortal. I'm about to blow your mind." (In fact, I didn't even get a good picture. I just stared at her and tried not to cry.)

Somehow, eventually, we did get ourselves into a restaurant. A terrace restaurant with a perfect view of the backside of Blue Mosque. Mr. Awesome indulged in some very nice lamb kabob and rice, while I sipped fresh squeezed orange juice and stared at the minarets. Until about 8:30pm, when those minarets began to issue the call to prayer.

And then I really did cry. I have seen few things in life as beautiful as Sultanahmet at night when a dozen different minarets fill the air with the name of God.

And that was just the first night. Next up? Haggia Sophia makes good on her promise.

Paper

2011-09-26T11:36:00.000-07:00

A year ago today I woke up a married woman. While the actual marrying took place on the 25th, I still kind of feel like the 26th is the first day of my married life. There was a whole lot happening around us on the 25th, and there were whole lot of people involved in said happenings. On the 26th, though, it was just the two of us. Team J&J versus the world. And oh boy, it was gonna be good.

And so it has been. People say the first year of marriage is the hardest. Either they are full of crap, or marriage is a piece of pie. Or possibly I just happened to marry the best man ever invented in the history of time. Actually, it's probably a combination of all three with emphasis on the third.

Of course, I can only speak for myself. I know Mr. Awesome's perception of marriage is not the same as mine at all. He made the mistake of marrying a crazy person who gets excited and furious over the strangest things, sometimes simultaneously, and listens to Christmas music in July. His first year of marriage was probably like drinking Mountain Dew after a lifetime of nothing but water. Exhilarating but confusing and can leave you with a headache. Also it goes well with chocolate. Mmmmm, chocolate.

The point is, I am awesome at marriage and will now feel free to dispense advice about it at will to any and everyone I meet. Such are the benefits of having been married a WHOLE YEAR. Also, chocolate.

Anyway, over the next few weeks I'll be chronicling the most recent J&J adventure from which we returned only last night. There will be plenty of pictures and strained metaphors for your blogging enjoyment. Until then, though, I leave you with this thought:

Istanbul was Constantinople now it's Istanbul not Constantinople. Been a long time gone, old Constantinople. Why did Constantinople get the works? That's nobody's business but the Turks.

(Oh you so have that song stuck in your head now, don't you?)

You'll probably need Google Translate for this one. Och, aye.

2011-09-12T09:21:00.000-07:00

Ho ye! Guid mornin!

Mayhap ye dinnae ken it but we've had a stretch of dreich days an' plenty 'o time fer sewin' in these parts. Wuid you like a wee keek at what's come oot of it? Ye wuid? Guid, then.

My Laird Awesome is a verra braw man, is he no?

I sewed evra thried in that gown, lassies. Evra wee thried, an Ah did it wi' many a curse as weel.

Pure dead brilliant, is wha' it is, lassies.

An' phoootoshopped 'til ma heid's mince too.

I ken what yer thinkin': "Yer bum's oot the widae." Dinnae fash yerself, laddies. I dinnea ken what the half of it mean meself.

Mayhap ye'd fancy a wee keek at the look we've planned fer All Hallows Eve, then? Nae problem!

Avast ye! Thar be squarles ahead!

September, Irene, and an unnecesarily long post about both.

2011-09-01T08:22:00.000-07:00

Welcome, dear ones, to the best part of the year. That's right: we have officially survived another summer. I say survived because, let's be honest, summer sucks. I mean, all of the reasons to enjoy summer are counterbalanced, and even overcome, by reasons to despise it. So it's finally warm outside? Great, this means I will spend most of the day with my hands wrapped around a steaming cup of hot water trying not to catch cold in this HORRIBLE AIR CONDITIONING! So it stays light outside longer? Lovely, except that the humidity is so stiflingly aweful that you'll be stuck inside anyway waiting for the sun to go down so it's bearable to be outside. Concerts in the park, you say? Divine, until the mosquitoes have made your legs into a writhing mass of itchy painful bumps--and thrown west-nile virus into the mix while they are at it. But what about the fireflies, you ask? Well, there you have me. I adore fireflies. However, they've been gone for at least a month so can you blame me for wishing summer away already?

Anywho, all that's behind us now. It's September the first and now, my lovelies, comes fall. Oh, fall, how do I love thee! Now, finally, we can do some of the things we've been wanting to do since summer came and chased the glorious spring into hiding. Bike rides? Yes! Indeed, and we may not die of heat exhaustion while we're at it! Kayaking? Why of course! And perhaps the mosquitoes will not kill us and sacrifice us to their pagan gods! Farmers' Markets? Outdoor movies? Renaissance Festivals? Yes and yes and ooooooh yes!

Speaking of Ren-Faire times, wait till you see the smashing costume I've been working on for this year's shindig. In fact, if you are wondering how on earth I survived the chaos of Hurricane Irene, there is your answer: I sat at the sewing machine humming songs from the Phantom of the Opera and tailoring a corset. (Oh yes, my dears, a corset! Shocked? Don't be, it's pretty tame and fits over a billowy white shirt. Not even any cleavage to be seen. A let-down, I know.)

While we're on the subject, let's get this Hurricane Irene business out of the way. Many of you will only now be realizing that Irene was in my way at all, given that DC isn't exactly on the coast. However, don't be fooled! We were warned and forewarned that this puppy was gonna be the big one. Massive power outages! Flooding! Damaging winds and falling trees! Fairies stealing your first born child at midnight! (Okay, maybe not that last one.) The day before the storm was scheduled to hit us everything shut down early and people went home to stock up on water and toilet paper (read: alcohol and weed) to wait out the devastation that would surely leave half of us maimed and longing for death. Mr. Awesome and I, being the prepared type of people we are, were also batting down the hatches and stocking up on emergency supplies on Friday night. That's right, we were so serious about survival that at about 9:30pm we walked across the street to the RiteAid and purchased not one but TWO boxes of granola bars and a bottle of water. We had also intended to buy batteries and a flashlight, but by the time we figured out what food we should be hoarding during this disaster we kind of forgot about the other things on our list.

Me: "I dunno, honey. What sort of things do you buy during a hurricane?"

Him: "Ummmm....granola bars, I think? Yeah, so you don't have to cook them when the power goes out."

Me: "Oh, right! Ok, sooo....chocolate chip or raisin? Is there a right kind of bar to get in this situation?"

Him: "Well, we should probably get both, just in case."

In fact, it was lucky we saw the store manager re-stocking the empty shelves where the bottled water goes or we would have forgotten that as well. Luck was on our side, however, and we soon found ourselves trudging home loaded down with a whole bag full of bottled water and granola to wait out the coming apocalypse.

Saturday came and went with nothing very exciting to tell. I went to my scheduled optometry appointment and Mr. Awesome carried around a golfing umbrella just in case. Then, at long last, Saturday night came. This was it! The night the big storm was mean to come into our lives and change them forever! Here we go.

Yep, any second now, guys. For sure. It's gonna be intense, people. Wait for it....wait for it.... What time is it now? 10:30 huh? I thought for sure we'd be dead by now. Still, I'll bet when it hits we'll be freaked. Sooo...wanna watch a movie then while we wait? But not one we haven't seen because I'm pretty sure the power will go out and then we won't get to see the ending. Oh wow, it's 12:30 am. You know, I had better clean that kitchen just in case the power does go out and then we have no way to wash the counter. I can't wait for this storm to freak us all out, it's gonna be epic. Wait! Did the power just flicker off for a whole second?!? Is this it? Huh. Guess I'll reset the kitchen clock. Soooo... bed then?

And then, finally, just after 1am, the transformer outside our window exploded and we were plunged into darkness. I remember it perfectly. I was standing in the kitchen when the adrenaline immediately flooded my veins and I was unsure what to do first: find the emergency candles or eat a granola bar?

Me: "Honey, quick, this is it. Where are the granola bars?"

Him: "Pantry, I think. Shouldn't we light some candles or something?"

Me: "No time for that! This is an emergency. Where are you? I can't see a thing. Do you have the granola bars?"

Him: "Maybe I should move the car before a tree branch falls on it."

Me: "Good idea. Here, take a candle and a granola bar."

Him: "Uhh...I don't really think those will help me in this situation..."

Me: "Oh, right. Well be careful. I'll wait for you."

And I did. I waited by the window, anxiously gripping my granola bar, and watched the solitary umbrella bobbing along the walkway to the parking lot. I waited with baited breath for the flare of parking lights as he hit the automatic-door-unlocker-button-thingy and stepped into the relative safety of our Hyundai. Thank heavens we went with the bigger car after all, that Honda Fit we looked at would surely be blown away by now, what with all the...moderate winds and...drizzling rain? Finally, though, I spotted that familiar umbrella bobbing back toward the building from the parking lot. When I knew he had made it back inside I rushed to the door with a towel at the ready.

Me: "You're back! Are you okay?"

Him: "Oh you know, the usual, massive head trauma and severed limbs. Other than that I'm fine."

Me: "Ok, well, should you eat a granola bar or something?"

At this point it was 2:30 am, and we figured we could no longer avoid going to bed. In fact, if we had gone to bed at a normal time, it is unlikely we would even have known the power went out given that it was back on the next morning when we woke up. So you can see how lucky we were that we didn't go to sleep at a normal time or we would have missed all the action. It just goes to show you that those caution signs along the roads were right after all: Take a break, stay awake, for goodness sake!

To be fair, not everyone in our area was so lucky. Three of my coworkers who live on the Maryland side were out of power for several days afterward, and one even had to empty his refrigerator. Betcha he wishes he had thought to get some granola bars before hand, doesn't he?

Shake it like a Polaroid

2011-08-24T07:02:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend Mr. Awesome's branch moved offices, from the other side of downtown to a building less than three blocks from my office. Monday was his first day working about a two minute walk from his wife.

The next day DC was hit with the biggest earthquake it had ever experienced.

So you can imagine, dear readers, how it would feel to run out of an evacuating building and into the arms of the person you love most. Or perhaps you cannot imagine, so let me explain it to you. It feels amazing and somewhat freaky.

To be perfectly honest, despite the fact that this was 100 times stronger than the strongest earthquake I had yet felt, it wasn't all that big of a deal. No buildings fell, no one was hurt. My computer nearly tumbled into my lap and the plant next to my desk began to wobble drunkenly (no mean feat since said plant is bottom-heavy and in a thick, squat metal pot.) Oh yes, and the floor kind of felt like it was about to collapse. The point is that it didn't, so no big deal. But leaving the building seemed like a good idea anyway, so we all did.

It took a while for Mr. Awesome and I to locate each other since there are several large office buildings in the area and all of them had emptied their hundreds of occupants into the street. Oh yes, it was quite the street party round these parts. People were simultaneously laughing and repenting. I distinctly remember walking past one distraught woman declaring "O Lord, forgive me my sins! My omissions, my commissions, everything!!!" at which point she pulled out a smart phone and began furiously pushing buttons. I can only suppose she was friending Jesus on facebook.

Meanwhile, up ahead I spotted a familiar blond head atop the black button-up shirt I had squeezed goodbye that morning. I immediately rushed forward and squeezed it again. It squeezed me back and we both laughed at the melodrama of it all. There we were, in the panic and adrenaline of an earthquake, rushing into each others arms like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan (if Meg were a few inches taller and Hank a strapping blond with magnificent blue eyes). It was all very cinematic.

So anyway, we found each other. And of course, since no real damage had been done, they eventually let us back into our respective buildings. We met up again about an hour later to walk home together (going underground to the extremely crowded metro station to wait for trains that had been slowed to a 15mph maximum speed seemed a bad itinerary at the time), and again I skipped up to his Awesomeness and squeezed him for good measure. Traffic being at a standstill around us, a taxi driver leaned out of his window grinning and shouted "Hey, she's alive! He's alive! Break it up, love-birds!"

His Awesomness in Vignettes

2011-08-22T07:36:00.000-07:00

While visiting my sister's ward, Gwyneth is sitting on Mr. Awesome's lap:

Little girl in the pew in front of us to Gwynne: "Did you get a new daddy?"

Gwynne: "No, this is just my aunt and her Jeremy."

During class when his Awesomeness was still in high school:

Teacher to rowdy students: "Calm down!"

Mr. Awesome: "Me?"

Teacher: "No, not you Jeremy. If you were any calmer you'd stop breathing."

One evening during an argument about something silly and unimportant:

Me: "I'm not talking to you!"

Him: "Yes you are."

Me: "No I'm not, I'm giving you the silent treatment. Don't talk to me!"

Him: "Okay, I'm not to talk to you because you're giving me the silent treatment. Now, how do I know that?"

Me: "Osmosis!"

Photo BOMB...not really, though.

2011-08-01T19:48:00.000-07:00

I just finished making this Shutterfly book as a gift for my mom, so I figured I might as well post it here (given that I know I'll never get around to posting pics of the wedding otherwise...I mean, it's been 8 months, dudes). Sooooo....

Ta Da!

Click here to view this photo book larger

PS. I realize this book makes it look like we had no guests at our wedding. Rest assured, we did. And no, it's not that they were all too ugly for the camera. Out actual wedding album includes plenty of photographic evidence that we have good looking friends who attended the blessed event. It's just that I didn't figure my mom would really want them memorialized as much as other things...like my dress. Have I mentioned how lovely my dress was? Man, I love that dress.

Mr. Awesome does "the supportive husband"

2011-07-20T08:35:00.000-07:00

"Oh cool, so you're going to be a mommy-blogger then?"

"Huh?"

"You know, like...make stuff and then post pictures of it on your blog?"

"Umm..."

"I think that looks fun...it's kind of....whimsical. Yeah, it's whimsical."

And the best part? He wasn't even being sarcastic.

He was talking about the place-mats I made out of paper doilies and packing tape to match the look of the teapot because the flowers he bought me to celebrate my awesome raise at work looked better in the white porcelain teapot than the clear glass vase. (Wow, that sentence is magnificent.)


I prefer my crafts to be cheap and disposable, so it's a win all around. Also, I occasionally play that sheet music in the background. And when I do, Mr. Awesome looks up from his computer screen and says "I like to hear you play the piano", at which point I give up on the "Pride and Prejudice" score and launch into a one handed rendition of In A Gadda Da Vida. He also finds that "whimsical".

All my fault

2011-07-19T13:58:00.000-07:00

I killed something I dearly loved. And I did it on Christmas.

I used to love the smell of coffee and books, the way wall-to-wall bookshelves made me feel instantly at home. I love the feel of a good book in my hands, too. The way the first pages fan out as you open the cover, the feel of the paper under my thumbs, flipping through to the end for spoilers before I even read the beginning. I loved it. I loved it all.

I even imaged a future library in my home, filled with those lovely smelly books from floor to ceiling. I had over 200 of my own books already, just waiting for me to settle down and buy the right shelving. But no more. That dream is gone, and I have nothing but my own weakness to blame.

Because I am also an addict. I can't help myself when it comes to a reading list, and I am a sucker for that quick fix. It started with Google Books and quickly snowballed into an uncontrollable need to have that new book now, right now, this second. And then I did the unthinkable.

I asked Santa Claus for a Kindle.

And now, seven months later, Borders Books is closing down. My once beloved refuge is shutting its doors on the world forever.

I killed Borders, and Santa was my hit-man.

Scotland Finis: Edinburgh Messes with Our Emotions.

2011-07-14T13:47:00.000-07:00

So, where were we? Ah yes. Here:

Also here:

Here as well:

And of course, here:

Edinburgh never breaks character. She's into it, all the way, without reservations. Gloomy, gorgeous and brooding. You walk around her streets expecting to bump into Byron or Shelly around any corner. Which is a bit odd, since neither of those authors had much to do with Edinburgh. Just go with it, okay?

Confrontation

2011-06-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

Scene: Bedroom, Sunday morning pre-church, cufflinks, mascara, the usual. Music for appropriate atmosphere in the background via Pandora.

Enter smirking husband.

Him: Am I correct that you are already listening to Christmas music and it is not even July 4th yet?

She pauses, anxiously wracking her brains for a good explanation that will not make her look like a complete loon, and opts to pout this one out.

Her (pouting): So? I love Christmas. What's wrong with love? Are you saying you don't love me?

Him: Nice try, crazy-face.

The Nanny, Aliens, and Literalism: A beginner's guide

2011-06-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

Not quite a month between posts here, and I'm not even going to pretend to apologize. You want regular posts? Leave a comment, my dear. Otherwise, you're just as silent as I am on this wasteland of a blog. In other words, this is totally your fault.

We went to San Francisco last week. It was cool. And I mean that literally, as in "I wish I had packed a jacket, for behold this weather doth blow." I also mean that literally; the wind never did shut its pie hole. I don't mean that literally, though. To the best of my knowledge, wind has no pie hole. Unless it does. In which case, wind is suddenly much more exciting to me.

So anyway, San Fran. And can I just say, I hate when people call it San Fran? His name was Francisco, people, not Fran. Unless they've canonized Ms. Drescher, which would be weird because she's not dead. Also, I'm thinking she's jewish. Don't you have to be catholic to be a saint? I think yes, but the wikipedia article is soooo looong and I'm just not sure I care enough to skim through it. Anyway, the point is, I went to San Francisco and it was apparently not interesting enough to keep me on topic about it for the duration of an entire paragraph. Done.

Also in this month's headlines: New nephews! Yay! I gotta say, for newborns they're pretty cute. All newborns sort of look like aliens, but these are two particularly cute aliens. So, welcome to planet earth, little extraterrestrials! And I mean that literally.

You're Welcome

2011-05-16T06:51:00.000-07:00

If I wanted to, I could make this whole blog into one big, annoying string of posts about how much I love my husband. But I don't.

You're welcome.

Ten years ago I went to Jr. Prom. It was...fine. I honestly have no strong feelings about it either way, and I consider that sort of a blessing. Prom didn't really have the chance to ruin my life forever, because I never expected it to be life-changing, or even vaguely life-affecting. I just expected it to be, and then I would wake up the next day and wash my hair. Which is pretty much how it went, so bravo to Prom.

It seems a bit strange, then, that I still own my prom dress. I never really loved it to begin with, actually. I remember being a little annoyed to be prom-dress-shopping when we bought it because that was the day I took first place at regionals for impromptu speaking and I really just wanted to focus on that for the rest of the day. Who gave a flying fig about some dance when I had just wiped the floor with some kids from Juab? I mean, honestly, I was on fire that day. I felt very good about myself right about then and spending the next few hours trying on dresses seemed like a step in the wrong direction, you know?

I also remember that the dress we bought wasn't my first choice. My first choice was light green, with a cream lace overlay and empire waist. It was very Jane Austen, and I loved it. That dress was at least a size too big for me, though, and they didn't have it in any other sizes. After that I pretty much stopped caring which dress we bought. My mother and sister picked out the dress I came home with. And in retrospect, I think they did a pretty good job. At the time, I could not have cared less. I was probably still reliving the recent debate win or planning my next one. Or reading some dumb novel. My nerd quotient was running at an all-time high in those days.

Anywho, when Mr. Awesome and I made our pilgrimage back to my hometown (Actually, is it really my hometown now? My home is out here now. Is that how you use that expression?) I happened to find my prom dress hanging in my mother's closet, looking very pleased with itself for having survived so long without getting tossed out. So obviously I tried it on, because that is simply what one does in that situation. And wouldn't you know, that thing still fit like a dream. And then there was Mr. Awesome, grinning at me, and saying "You know, you should wear that out dancing sometime." And I was like

DONE!

So that's how I came to be wearing my prom dress last Saturday, ten years after my Jr. Prom, at the Glen Echo Gala Dance. We jitter-bugged, we waltzed, we ate Georgetown Cupcakes, and we held hands on the carousel as our matching ostriches rose and fell while the old-fashioned organ played on. Would you forgive me if I said this was much more romantic than the last time I wore this dress?

This time around I even managed to do my own hair. Oh, and I added those little cap-sleeves that morning (they look a little wonky here, but I fixed them before we went out, promise). Can you believe I actually went to prom in a sleeveless dress? Apparently I was not only a nerd but a skanky one at that.

A bicicle built for two...or just one, actually. One who does not have an actual bum and must use a special seat.

2011-05-09T10:53:00.000-07:00

10 mile bike ride, people! Ok, so it's not actually all that impressive. Except, you know what? It is. We hauled the bikes out of our somewhat sketchy bike storage room in the basement of our apartment building (Mr. Awesome's comment on the improved state of that room since they cleaned it out last month: "Well...at least it smells less like urine in here.") and bought a new tire pump and a helmet for the Awesome One and we rode out, into the wild blue! Well, not so wild or blue really. More like a bike lane in a very urban area that led, eventually, to the Mt. Vernon trail along the Potomac River. But it was still lovely. My favorite part is where it goes over a marsh, and the trail is this wooden bridge thing without sides, and all around you are marshy plants looking all...marshy. It felt legit, you know?

Anywho, we rode down to Old Town Alexandria for lunch. Here's a query for you: what is it about Irish pubs? They keep drawing me to them, like a moth to a flame. Even though the moth knows she does not like hamburgers and cannot force herself to eat seafood. Even though the moth does not drink any type of beer, Irish or otherwise. Even though every time she does end up going into one of these oh-so-alluring pubs, she finds herself eating a sub-par salad with questionable lettuce. Still, she is drawn in, helpless to resist. Oh well, at least the Awesome One enjoyed his chicken pot pie.

Torpedo factory? Meh. I mean, you know, modern art and all, but... Look, I work within walking distance of the Smithsonian. You can't expect me to get all verbose about a few water colors when I've got the Peacock Room calling my name, mmmmkay?

And then we sat on a bench next to the river and watched boats float by. Actually, I watched boats. His Awesomeness was totally enthralled with a garbage diving squirrel eating an ice-cream cone. Apparently it was quite the spectacle. I should know, he gave me a play-by-play.

The ride home was not quite so easy or comfortable as the ride there had been. It had it's similarities, though. On both trips I found myself muttering "holy crap, holy crap" every time we came upon a turn in the trail. I can bike 10 miles, no problem, it's just the whole "turning" thing that FREAKS me out.

Our kite, Ferguson, showing the airplanes how it's done. Aw yeah. Fergalicious, baby.

Escapades.

2011-05-06T09:10:00.000-07:00

I love the fact that when I got up last night to get some water, my husband's first thought was "Uh oh, she's sleepwalking. Wonder what she's up to? I better go make sure she doesn't hurt herself." Of course, I didn't know that was his thought process at the time. At the time, all I registered was that my very groggy husband was standing in the hall, watching me drink a glass of water, and I though "Huh, he must be sleep-walking."

Now, if we're being realistic, he had every reason to be suspicious. He knows that I have a slight, moderate, every-once-in-a-while tendency to sleep walk. And, okay fine, one time I did rip a doll to shreds in my sleep. Just once. Oh, and that other time I locked myself out of my dorm at the MTC. Oh, and the night I woke up trying to unlock my balcony door with every intention of jumping (No, not suicidal. I was about to take flight. Obviously). And then I guess there was the time I tried to climb my sister's office chair so I could leap from the desk to the bookshelf (too many video games, I guess). Anyway, the point is he wasn't totally crazy to be mildly concerned by my behavior. He was, on the other hand, totally adorable. Standing there with his scruffy face, eyes all squinty in the hallway, blond hair sticking up in that "I'm a sex machine" sort of way (sorry Mom, uhh, pretend I didn't say that. We just play a lot of scrabble together. Nothing else.) If I hadn't been so tired, and pretty sure he was sleep walking, I would have smooched his face right off. And then challenged him to a rousing game of backgammon, or something.

Aaaaaaand that's the end of my small but faithful group of followers. I knew I'd find a way to chase the last of you off eventually.

Scotland Part the Fifth: Les Châteaux

2011-04-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

Less French, more pictures!

This, my lovely ones, is Cawdor Castle.

I repeat: Cawdor Castle.

Cawdor, people.

Yes, yes! THAT Cawdor.

As in:

"All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!"

Dudes, we have called forth some Shakespearean awesomeness right about now.

And, okay so technically, MacBeth killed king Duncan at Inverness rather than at Cawdor.

"Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not
Those in commission yet return'd?"

And if we're being totally honest, this castle was built well after said assassination occurred.

"Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter!"

Actually, if we're being totally honest, it wasn't an assassination at all. Macbeth spanked King Duncan on the field of battle and Shakespeare sort of...played with the plot, if you will.

"'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more.'"

Nevertheless and notwithstanding, I choose to believe I toured the gardens, poked around the maze, got lost in the "wilderness park", wandered the halls, and had a lovely ham sandwich in the kitchen of Macbeth's castle.

"Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all"

Why yes, Banquo dearest, I do have it all.

And this,

This is...

Umm....

Honestly I don't remember what this castle was called. But it boasted some very self-important and entitled swans, a lovely long walk around a lake/pond, and a pinkish tone to the facade. Sadly, it was closed by the time we stopped by for a tour, so we didn't get to see inside. Maybe that's why the name totally escapes me. Or it could have been the antipathy for the seriously annoying swan mentioned above. That guy was a total jerk.

But this one I do remember.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Scone Palace.

Complete with a replica Stone of Scone, upon which I did not sit. (The "real" stone is in Edinburgh...or London...or Mars. The theories vary.)

Also featuring

One very confused tree. Why is it growing horizontally? It does not know, and neither do I.

We did go inside both Cawdor Castle and Scone Palace, but as there was no photography allowed you can't see it. Actually, you can see it. Just google them, I'm sure there are pics.

Thing about castles is, they're awesome. And we got to see the whole bit. There were dungeons and fireplaces and family portrait galleries and four-poster beds with thick canopies and gardens with mazes and well planned "wildernesses" and suits of armor and gift shops and much making out in any or all of said places.

Oh yes, the smoochage was everywhere!

And then we went here:

But Edinburgh deserves it's own post, obviously.

Update: This photo should really have been in the original post, for reasons that do not need stating.

Bandaid

2011-04-07T07:39:00.000-07:00

Eventually I will write that "Castles" post, I promise. (I'm sure you're all waiting with bated breath for it, obviously). Meanwhile, a few conversations I've overheard/taken part in that I want you to have for your records. I hope they are as useful to you as they have been to me.

Scene 1: Marshall's Department Store, near the pottery/crockery/stuff-you-don't-really-need-but-like-to-look-at isle (specifically that pitcher shaped like a chicken)

Woman behind me (loud and clear): "You do that and you belong to Satan."

Me (hastily snatching my hand away from the seemingly harmless ceramic poultry): Wha..?

Turns out she was on the phone. Still.

Scene 2: The elevator in my apartment building, on the way up from the laundry level, paused to let in two people with dogs.

Man (to small, agitated chihuahua): "If you can't play nice, you'll go to bed early!"

Woman (to larger, equally agitated canine of unknown breed): "Now be nice! I know I'm just your mama and you don't believe me, but you can share!"

Me (internally): If I stay in this elevator with them for too long, will I come out crazy too?

Scene 3: Years ago, some big EFY meeting that probably consisted of boring speakers and/or emotional manipulation. I have just noticed a paper-cut on my finger is bleeding a little (No, EFY did no make me cut myself...quite).

Me (turning to my roommate behind me): "Hey, do you have a bandaid?"

Roommate (leaning forward, whispering loudly): "I have diarrhea."

Me: "Do you also have a bandaid?"

Her: "I think it was something I ate."

Me: "Did you eat the bandaid?"

So, in conclusion: Too much time with animals may or may not lead to mental illness, chicken shaped crockery will lead you straight to hell, and in some cultures the word "bandaid" is code for "gastrointestinal problem."

You're welcome.

Grandpa

2011-03-22T13:06:00.000-07:00

On the first day of spring, my grandfather passed away.

And yes, he was old. And yes, he was very, very tired. And maybe we can say that it was "his time to go." It's just, he was so much more than old and tired.

He was one of those safe, stable, good things in life. You could count on Grandpa. Okay, so maybe he'd show up covered in oil, missing part of a finger, with dynamite in his back pocket, but he'd be there. And yes, occasionally he would blow stuff up, and allow small children to operate heavy machinery, and accidentally light himself on fire. He was still Grandpa, and you could still count on him.

Besides the dynamite and the tendency to get his jollies in highly dangerous situations (usually orchestrated by himself), he also used his powers for good. He drew up blue-prints and built houses. He ran printing presses and smelted rocks in his basement (and if you don't know what smelting is, that's probably because your grandpa just wasn't as cool as mine). He presided in courtrooms and supervised mines. He could fix anything with an engine. At 86 years old he could and did drive an eighteen-wheeler around perilous canyon roads better, faster, and further than you ever will, my friend. And if nuclear war is ever declared on Beaver Utah, his steel-reinforced concrete basement will be ready for it.

All of which begins to make my grandfather sound very rugged and tough and just slightly crazy, which is all true. But again, he was more than rugged and tough and crazy. He was also good. He spent his whole life giving, and giving, and giving some more. My mother used to tell me that whenever she pictures dinners during her childhood, she always remembers at least one extra person at the table. Because never mind that he already had a large family, and never mind that they lived in the middle of nowhere in some mining camp, and never mind that they didn't have much to begin with, Grandma and Grandpa always had something to share. No, he did not suffer fools gladly. And yes, he was more often to be found lingering over a cup of coffee than in church on a Sunday morning. But Grandpa always managed to be one of the most christian men I ever knew. You can suit up once a week and wear a silk tie on Sundays, but Christ expects us first and foremost to love. And suit or no suit, Grandpa understood how to love.

He also understood kids. And boy, did kids understand Grandpa. No child, no matter how shy or small, could resist the magic that Grandpa exuded. One look at his twinkling blue eyes and they were instantly crawling up his legs into his lap. Sure, he then proceeded to dance them around singing drinking songs (for a Mormon guy, he had a vast array of drinking songs, all of which he taught to his grandchildren at the earliest possible convenience). And yes, there is the aforementioned "children using heavy machinery" thing. Look, a little fun with mining equipment and a few verses of "Little Brown Jug" never hurt any of us, okay? The point is, Grandpa loved kids and kids adored Grandpa. And whenever he made that little pinching motion with his thumb and forefinger, no matter how many times we'd been caught before, no matter how obvious it was that we would just end up with out fingers trapped while Grandpa poked us in the ribs again, we fell for it. Every time.

But he wasn't just a tough, rugged, slightly crazy, good man; he was also a brilliant man. I'm not exaggerating here; he was tested and confirmed a real life, honest-to-goodness genius. And he used to do very complex math in his head, which was kind of fun to watch. And yet he wasn't showy about being so much smarter than you. He didn't need others to see his brilliance, he just used it. He just lived, and did hard things, and learned new skills, and understood the bigger picture. He had so many random certifications (and was still earning others even in his eighties) that I'm not sure anyone could really keep track of them. And he didn't earn them to show off. He earned them because, well, somebody needed to design and build an entire wetland system or treat the water for a whole town or...

So he was brilliant and capable and selfless and giving and rough and reliable and just slightly crazy. And if you think about it, after eighty-seven years, that's a lot of things for one man to be. So it isn't surprising that after a while he got kind of old and a little bit tired. But old and tired or no, he was my Grandpa and I miss him. I can't just turn away and say it was "his time to go." I don't care whose time it was, I loved my Grandpa and having him gone is like having a Grandpa shaped hole in my life.

And yet, for his sake, I can be glad for that hole. Grandpa is still brilliant and capable and selfless and giving and rough and reliable and just slightly crazy. He just isn't old and tired anymore.

Scotland Quatro: Mr Awesome buys a skirt.

2011-03-17T12:14:00.000-07:00

This day, people! This day! It was sunny, we started it out on the beach and had excellent hot chocolate and truffles for breakfast in the coolest little artist village, and then we got in our rental car to continue our journey. Little did we know it would turn into the drive of death. That's right. We went from "Oh isn't this just too perfect?" to "We're gonna die, we're gonna die, we're gonna die!" in less than half an hour.

Let me tell you something about rural Scottish roads, here. They are all very picturesque, you see. They wind down between hills and valleys, with fabulous green vistas and glinting lakes here and there, and of course the ever-present sheep. Perfect for a road trip. Unless you want to live through it.

Be sure to enjoy the view, it may be the last you ever see.

It's sunny! In Scotland! And we're not dead yet!

Because they are also quite narrow roads, one lane really. And if you happen to be coming up on an oncoming car? That's when the fun starts. In theory you just pull over into the closest "passing place", a little crescent of pavement just wide enough for your car to fit while the other car passes. These "passing places" are scattered along both sides of the road, not quite regularly. And it's a good thing they are there too, since the road is often running along a cliff face and there really would be nowhere else to go. What's that you say? What if there's a car coming at you but no passing place to pull into? Hehe, ever heard of Russian Roulette? Because that's what it feels like. Oh, and did I mention the road winds and swoops over and around the mountains and hills? And that it rains a lot there? And that Mr. Awesome was shifting with his left hand while passing people on the left side of the road? And remember those sheep I mentioned? Oh yes, and the other drivers are NOT very good about slowing down instead of careening straight at you like frigging road-runner on crack. So basically...

We survived, but I have no clear recollection of how. I do know it involved a lot of screaming and laughing and "If this is the end, honey, know that I love you!" But somehow, eventually, we pulled into Inverness.

Inverness, my lovelies, can you dig it? We certainly could. This was one of two occasions on which we opted for an official tour of anything. Our tour guide wore a kilt, spoke with a very deep Scottish burr, and said some very misogynistic things to me. I called it a win then and I'll call it a win now. Don't look so shocked. Misogynists crack me up. They're better than Glenn Beck. Also he talked about executions and torture and stuff. It was all very gothic.

Inverness castle. Big thanks to our tour guide Cameron, who has forever tainted this view with thoughts of heads on spikes and entrails being drug out and...ick.

That evening, finding ourselves in a "city" once again (Inverness is not actually very big, but it gets city status for being so historically important and all that jazz.), we went out to get ourselves some night life. But it turns out, we suck at bar hopping. So, we went into a kilt shop...mmmmmm, the kilt shop.

For the next hour I got to "help" pick out all the trappings. The kilt, the belt, the laced-up shirt, the socks, the dagger, the whole bit. And when we walked out of our second kilt shop I had something I'd been longing after for most of my life: My very own man in a kilt. Mr. Awesome tried to convince me to buy myself something too, instead of just letting him "get all this stuff for myself." How cute! He thought it was for him! Silly boy.

And then my new kilt owning man took me for a long walk along the River Nis at night. It was gorgeous, and romantic, and pretty much perfect. Again.

Tomorrow, though, tomorrow we start in on the castles*! (Screw romance novels, this stuff is legit.)

*Actually, we stopped by two castles on our way to Inverness, but I figure I'll just lump them into one giant "Castles" post and we can all ooh and ahh together then. Here's a teaser though: MacBeth!

Scotland 3: Durness, My Love

2011-03-07T12:52:00.000-08:00

It's this little tiny town at the edge of the island, right there where the land meets the sea and beautiful things happen. It was rainy and dreary and wonderful when we finally parked the car and took the trail down to what we had anticipated would be a highlight of our trip. Smoo Cave is supposed to be one of the top 10 things to see in Scotland if you're a nature lover, and the boat trip around the waterfall inside the cave was one of our top priorities when we planned the road trip. I'm going to be honest with you, and tell you that Smoo Cave is so much less awesome than it should be. And, okay, fine, it was flooded while we were there which made the boat trip impossible (in fact the waterfall had expanded so much that trying to look at it was pretty much the equivalent of being violently smacked in the face with some seriously grumpy Scottish water). But still, it's not like rain is an unusual occurrence around those parts, you know? Also the cave was small and it did not contain any Smoos. In fact, I still don't know what exactly a Smoo is. Talk about a let down.

Smoo Cave, from inside. Note the lack of Smoos.

Smoo Cave from above. Still no Smoos.

Durness from the cliffs.

Looking out to see from just above the cave.

And then there was the sea. Am I the only one who does not equate Scottish beaches with white sand and glittery turquoise water? Well color me misinformed because that's exactly what we found at Durness. And the cliffs topped with green grass and heather were like the unnecessary icing on that cake made of gorgeous. We climbed up, we climbed down, we went through gates that we probably shouldn't have toward vistas that were less safe than breathtaking, and we loved every minute of it.

Again, caption not really necessary for this level of awesome.

And when we woke up in our cozy B&B the next morning, we practically bounced back to the beach for a second look. As with all our stops, we left before noon, but not before stopping by the nearby artist's colony where we sampled some serious artisanal chocolate. And, as with all the food we had tried so far, it was pretty dang grood, yo.

So cheesy, and yet...so happening anyway.

The Sea!

What? It's a honeymoon, people. Lovey-duvey stuff happens.

Oh wait, that last bit about the food all being awesome? Total lie. I forgot (or perhaps attempted to purge from memory) the dinner we had at the local pub the night before. I don't really remember what I ordered or what it tasted like. I do, however, vividly remember the side of haggis that Mr. Awesome ordered. And oh, for the love of all things edible, was it every disgusting. Greasy and meaty and like no other taste I've ever had the misfortune of experiencing in my mouth, that stuff is NOT for the weak. In fact, when the bartender noticed the little dish of haggis looking almost untouched after we had both sampled (and repented of) it, she walked over chuckling and said "Couldn't take the haggis, eh?"

No, madam, that we could not.

Scotland Part Deux: (Insert Sleazy Highland Romance Novel Title Here)

2011-02-24T07:57:00.000-08:00

When we last saw our heroes they had just fled Glasgow, high on the after effects of the worlds best cookies ever eaten, headed towards the mystical, mythical, and every so romantic Scottish highlands. One of them was enjoying the challenge of driving on the wrong side of the road while shifting with his left hand. The other spent her time wondering just how and when they would be sucked back in time to meet some steamy kilt-clad highlanders and forced into unplanned marriages for dubious reasons. Nevermind that she was head-over-heels for the 21st century American sitting next to her, that's just what happens in the Scottish highlands, people. She reads, you know. Only the best literature, of course.

The first part of their journey took them along the banks of Loch Lomond, and oh, my lovelies, were those banks ever bonny. So bonny, in fact, that the aforementioned reader-of-high-literature began to helpfully squeal every time the loch came into view "That's Loch Lomond! Like the song, honey! LOCH. FRIGGING. LOMOND!" Her ever patient husband took it all in good spirits, patiently refraining from strangling his giddy-but-insane new wife. He even pulled over to photograph the moment, and managed to stop said wife from jumping into the magical waters of the Loch in the process. Luckily the weather obliged, and it was suitably dreary and glum for such a momentous Scottish moment.

Oh you take the high road and I'll take the low road, but I went to Scotland before you, suckah!

Luckily for our patient hero, their path soon led away from those magical waters and into other freakishly beautiful scenes. His young, giddy wife, having finally exhausted her repertoire of Scottish/Irish/Pirate folk songs (they all blur together after awhile, don't they?), eventually ceased her giddy humming and began her giddy photographing. She did not require him to pull the car over....much, but took on the challenge of taking 4 gigabytes of digital images with the gleeful determination of one possessed. Possessed with the spirit of a 200 year old Scottish highlander about to steal them back in time for swashbuckling romance and kilts? My dears, one can only hope!

Look closely, I'm sure there's a time traveling Scot in there somewhere.

Come on, highland romance novel guy, it's like you're not even trying to abduct us.

It must be admitted, at this point, that our protagonists had only the vaguest idea of where they were going that day. Beyond the general direction of "North and West", they merely hoped to get more than half way to Durness before night fall. Thus it was, with a glorious freedom from having any idea where they were, that the two stopped for lunch at the small cafe in the tiny town next the the gorgeous old church pictured below. The cafe, unfortunately, did not merit a picture. The extra strength mustard on the sandwiches and the rich, creamy hot cocoa that came afterword, did. Unfortunately, our diners were too overcome with the joy of warm food to be bothered with picture taking. (Also they thought photographing their hot cocoa would make them look kind of crazy.)

Top right: Old Church, Top Left: Old Dead People. Not Pictured: Intense Scottish Mustard on rye.

The afternoon passed in much the same way as the morning had, with giddy squealing, patient driving, and much taking of digital photos. And then there was this.

Do you really need a caption for this awesomeness?

Unwilling to leave Eileen Donan and the prospect of it being a gateway to that time travel she'd been waiting for since the frigging plane landed, our heroine decided that they would stay in the nearby village for the night, eat dinner from the local pub, and otherwise wait to be abducted by eighteenth century men in kilts. Her obliging husband quickly found them a suitable bed-and-breakfast and then ran to the pub for "anything with french fries". Oh how I wish our dear honeymooners had thought to take the camera down for what happened next. Alas, when her bridegroom returned, victoriously with his french fries, and pulled her outside for what would turn out to be one of the coolest things our lovely young bride would ever see in her life, she left the camera on the bed. And thus it is, my dear friends, that I cannot show you any evidence of how creepy/romantic/unreal that castle looks when it is lit up at night under a sky of stars reflected in the waters of the loch. I cannot even tell you, my lovelies, because it was just that amazing.

So, did sword wielding immortals of the clan MacCloud come tearing across the stone bridge and drag our two heroes into some swashbuckling adventure as per highland-romance tradition? Given that the bridge groom not only has a growing collection of swords but also the ability to handle himself in swordplay....stay tuned, dear ones, stay tuned!

What you don't need to know, can still annoy you.

2011-02-17T06:49:00.000-08:00

Look, I love my husband, okay? A lot. More than that, even. It's pretty crazy how much I love him. And yeah, you probably don't need to know this. And that's okay. I'm just putting it out there and walking away.

But before that walk-away, which I am about to do, let me just tell you something else you don't need to know.

People, I recently learned how to fold an origami heart with a neck tie on it. Like, totally. Why did I learn this important life skill? I have no idea. But it is awesome and you will be jealous. It's sitting here on my desk, looking at me, with this I'm-too-sexy-for-this-desk type attitude. And it is too sexy for this desk, people. It so totally is.

You know that movie with Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp where everybody eats chocolate and there's some kind of plot revolving around chocolate while the chocolate is there looking chocolaty next to the chocolate that you want to roll around in with a Johnny Depp made of chocolate? Well that pretty much describes my last weekend. Sort of, you know, minus the Johnny Depp. But the chocolate? Oh yes, darlings, that part was there. Spicy Aztec, orange infused, dutch processed, 60% cacao, semi-sweet, white chocolate with peppermint extract, mini chocolate chips, and melt-in-your-mouth milk chocolate truffles of awesomeness and glory. And that, my friends, you totally needed to know.

Scotland I: The Curse the of Great Glasgow Noodle

2011-02-10T12:59:00.000-08:00

I should have taken more pictures in Glasgow. I just wasn't sure how to do it. The picture that could hold Glasgow's awesomeness is simply too big for my little camera.

We landed in the rain, and sloshed out way out to the rental car. The Awesomeface paused only a moment when he realized he'd be driving a stick-shift, on the wrong side of the road, in the rain, in a totally foreign city. He took to it like fish to water, of course. There is a reason I refer to him as "The Awesome One" and it is not limited to his excellent taste in women.

And with the help of our fabulous rented GPS, which spoke to us in a delightful Scottish accent of course, we found our way to the guesthouse where we had reservations for the night. Oh, how I loved that little guest house. Oh how I loved sleeping again at last.

So it was that our first truly conscious experience of Scotland was at night, in the industrial beauty of what must be the most under-appreciated city I've ever visited. Glasgow is gorgeous, people. The buildings are a strange hodgepodge of turn of the century architecture and modernism. It's all running with soot and rain. It's like Urban Decay, only it's not really decaying. And at night, everyone is drunk. Okay, not everyone. Just everyone we ran into. That may be due to our decision to go out searching for sustenance so late at night. The guidebook mentioned a noodle joint, and by golly I wanted noodles! Speaking of, I fear I will forever be haunted by the memory of those noodles. They were, hands down, the best I've ever had. Some Asian-type lemon sauce stuff and big fat noodles of joy and triumph. They have ruined me for all other noodles, my friends. I will never be the same.

Then, because Mr. Awesome had officially mastered this whole Scottish-driving thing we went for a drive through the city. We didn't even turn on the GPS, we just drove, wildly guessing at the meanings behind the traffic signs and managing not to turn the wrong way down one way streets. Somehow we ended up near an old church with glowing stained-glass windows behind a row of trees lit with twinkle lights. It was sort of magical and weird, because no one was there but us. And then we saw the old blue "Police Box" nearby and understood. If the TARDIS is in the neighborhood, strange things are bound to happen.

Listen, it's the TARDIS. You should be grateful for any picture at all, blurriness be darned.

The next day we checked out of the quietly efficient guesthouse where the cardigan clad owner had cooked us a lovely warm breakfast, and drove to the huge shopping mall where we wandered about looking for various necessities before commencing our honeymoon road-trip. First and foremost, neither of us had packed a coat or a jacket for our week-long sojourn in Scotland at the end of September. Friends, we are awesome at traveling (see the "Duplicity of Airlines" post, below). Also we needed cookies. And again, the cookies were mind-blowingly good. Seriously, Glasgow, what is with you and the crazy good, haunt-you-forever type food? Huh? And these were just from a little place in the mall. Like the Scottish version of Mrs. Fields...if Mrs. Fields baked unicorn tears and fairy dust into her cookies because I'm telling you those cookies were freaking awesome, dudes. Freaking. Awesome.

And then we turned North and West and drove out of the city and into the lush, green, misty beauty of the Scottish highlands. Did I immediately commence serenading the Awesomeface with old Scottish ballads learned in my youth and savored up for just such a moment? Dudes, we were in Scotland. Of course I did.

"Oh ye'll take the high road and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland afore ye!"

Did somebody say Loch Lomand? Oh darlings, that's totally coming up next.

Oh bonny Portmore, I'm sorry to see
such a woeful destruction of your ornament tree
For it stood on your shores for many's the long day
till the long boats from Antrim came to float it away.
And the birds in the forest, they bitterly weep
sayin' "Where shall we shelter? Where shall we sleep?"...

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone
say could that lad be I?
Merry of soul he sailed on a day
Over the sea to Sky...

Twas there that we parted
in yon shady glen
on the steep, steep side of Ben Lomand
where in purple hue
the highland hills we view
and the moon comin' out in the gloaming...

Why yes, I do know several verses to these songs, and a few more ballads besides. Stop looking at me like that.

In which I contemplate the unthinkable

2011-02-02T09:04:00.000-08:00

Murder, my friends. Cold-blooded, premeditated, and carried out with relish. It's true, my lovelies. I am considering the imminent demise, at my own fair hands, of my Facebook account.

I'll make no pretenses here, for what would it serve me to pretend I had any real feelings of warmth left for that gossiping, flagrantly indelicate bore? How often must I listen to that hussy telling me that someone else has broken up/had a child/gained a few pounds/planted a row of beans in an entirely fictitious garden somewhere in "Farmville." Honestly, why is any of that my business? Oh, and the way that bore of a social-interloper has of bringing up people from my past, about whom I have not thought in years, with the idea that somehow we ought to be friends now, and share such intimate details as how glad we are that it is the weekend! My dears, it is rapidly approaching my limit of social grace.

And yet I have let the relationship linger, on life support as it were. Thinking that perhaps this nosy little twerp who keeps poking me (unprovoked! I swear!), was somehow worth the trouble. Because, of course every so often the little blabbermouth comes out with something funny, some mild unprepossessing status update that I can truly enjoy. Heaven knows, these rare outbursts of usefulness are quickly smothered among the mundane, pointless, and (most annoying of all) pointedly coded status updates that serve no useful purpose to anyone, as only the author cares about the subject or even, in the latter case, understands the references. Ambiguity is fine, when used to good purpose. Ambiguity for ambiguity's sake, or merely for attention, smacks of conceit.

And so we come, mes amis, to the crux of the matter. Dare I go forth, flouting social expectations and modern conveniences of communication, bravely marching into the unknown of limited online social interaction, and stab that publicly indecent, gossipmongering voyeur right through the heart? Or will this be another empty threat levied against the strange privacy-free virtuosity that has become our social world?

I cannot say, my dears. I cannot say.

Wherein we discover the duplicity of airlines.

2011-01-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

This past weekend the Awesome One and I packed up our little bag and flew to the homeland for a brief (very, very brief) visit. Only, when we got there the strangest thing happened.

It wasn't the homeland anymore. Weird.

Also weird? We spent a good half hour watching bags go by on the baggage claim, desperately hoping our big black rolly bag would be among them as it should, only to watch the carousel come to a desolated halt without ever producing our black rolly bag. As is customary whenever something goes wrong for us, I began to panic and outline exactly how this was about to ruin my life forever and ever and ever, and Mr. Awesome listened calmly and before taking my hand and leading me to the baggage-claim-office-place-with-the-people-who-do-the-stuff. We explained that our big black rolly bag had not come on the plane and we were therefore about to die and never be happy again, ever. So they helped us look over the unclaimed baggage and had us unzip one big black rolly bag (that I knew was not ours, btw) just to be sure. And I mean, come on people. I packed that bag and he lugged it several blocks to the metro, through several airports, and all around Scotland previously. We know what our bag looks like, mmmmkay? Eventually one of the people-who-does-the-stuff took our little baggage claim slip sticker, read it, got a very funny wrinkled-brow expression and said "It's right there. That big blue one." And it was. That big blue rolly bag that was not at all black was filled to the top with our clothes and goodies. Can you believe it, people?

The airline had died our bag blue!

The audacity. I'm telling you. Good thing I caught on to their little game or I might have been feeling reaaaaally stupid right about then.

And then we departed for what would become a three day festival of driving and eating with occasional stops for sleep. At one point, in the course of two hours, we ate four courses of Thai food followed by some random frozen custard, and then the biggest slice of homemade chocolate cake I have ever seen. I nearly died. It was awesome.

Eight nieces, two nephews, five hundred miles of driving and two suitcases full of my old textbooks later, we took our big I-swear-it-was-black, blue rolly bag back to the airport. And for the first time in my life, I was flying home and away from Utah at the same time. It was bliss.

Conversation in the car on the way through SLC:
Me - "So, Utah is kind of fun huh?"
Him - "Yeah, it is."
Me - "Yeah, so many good memories..."
Him - "mmmhmmm, yeah."
Me - "Let's never live here."
Him - "Deal."

PS. In the course of packing up and getting rid of my life-storage in my mother's basement, along with the two suitcases full of books (what? I gave up like four boxes of books here people! That was me exercising restraint!) I ended up taking home my prom dress. Why? Because it fits, obviously. Also Mr. Awesome suggested I wear it out dancing with him at least once. He'll get a tux and buy me a corsage and we'll go waltzing. Who says no to that?

A few thoughts you don't want to hear

2011-01-13T12:57:00.000-08:00

Because it's a blog, people. I use it to air my biased, ill-formed opinions on an innocent world. That's how this deal works, yo.

It won't come as any surprise that I don't swing right, and don't have any respect for Palin as a legitimate political figure. And her reactions to this whole thing have done nothing to sway my opinion. Although, can we just take a second and realize that while the use of the term "blood-libel" was ill-judged, calling Palin anti-Semitic for that is just a tad far-fetched. I mean, come on, does anyone honestly believe she knew what the term meant? Let's not start overestimating her intelligence here, people.

Actually, let's take more than a moment to disect this "blood-libel" anti-semite moment. Because, by golly, it's bothering me. I will totally get behind the idea that it was innappropriate, but this reaction to it has a nauseating familiarity. Taking one small detail and using it to caricature someone into a horrible, anti-semitic, anti-american, satanic messenger of evil? Who does this sort of reaction remind us of, students? Hint: rhymes with Then Heck!

Honestly, children, the last thing we need is to start modeling ourselves on that type of reaction. Speaking of reactions, there were two that pretty much summed it up for me. One was Jon Stewart's opening for the Daily Show on Monday. If you haven't yet, I recommend watching it. And don't worry, it's safe for conservatives and liberals both.

The second was this dude. Because you know, when he is off he can be pretty off. But when he is on? He is awesome.

Finis et Principii

2011-01-06T09:04:00.000-08:00

Alas, dear ones, January 6th has come. Which means, of course, that with the Feast of the Epiphany today, Christmas must finally come to a close. And you all knew that, of course. None of you have been guilty of cutting the season off early, or (heinous thought indeed!) taking the Christmas tree down on January first! January 1st, my dears, can you imagine? Why, that is only the seventh day of Christmas. Imagine, cutting off the season before the full twelve days have passed! Unthinkable, my dears. But you knew that, didn't you? Yes, of course you did. And that, my lovelies, is why are are such close friends.

Ahem, as I was saying, Christmas is now ended. One always knows, when setting up the tree and stringing the lights and finally turning up the volume on the Christmas tunes you have been listening to since September, that someday it must all come down. And that day, my friends, is today. Or possibly next week. Or sometime in February. Listen, I don't like to push these things, ok? I try to have it all packed away by Valentine's Day but don't rush me!

So, here we are. 2011. And I must say, so far it's been quite pleasant. Some of you may remember last year's resolution post wherein I described the difficulty and inherent silliness of New Year's Resolutions. And if you do remember that, well, you are obviously clogging your brain with irrelevancies and should probably knock it off. And if not, then I have just reminded you. So we are all on the same page. Excellent. Let's begin.

Despite my vague antipathy to year-long resolutions, since discovering "self-parenting" I've developed a good relationship with goals and the setting thereof. This year I've set a goal with Mr. Awesome to spend at least an hour a week doing something active together. Since we set this goal halfway through our weekend hike through the woods, it feels not only doable but natural. And when the weather is good we're a pretty active couple anyway. So this isn't a goal to really start something new so much as to be more consistent about something we already do. Also, instead of a boring (and ultimately useless) "exercise more" goal, this one has the benefit of actually being fun. Hiking, ice-skating, swing-dancing, biking, kayaking, fencing, and all the things we already do for fun, only now we get to pat ourselves on the back for doing it. So basically, our goal is to be proud of ourselves for doing what we already do. Nice.

For myself, I'm sticking with last years "lifely" goal of eating fresh produce, and I even got a shiny new veggie cookbook to help out. (Can you say steamed artichoke? Yes, yes please.) Also I'm going to spend less on books (good luck, now that I have a kindle and the ability to download books anytime, anywhere.). Truly we live in a day of instant temptation and fulfillment. Now if you'll excuse me, there are three new books positively screaming to be read on my Kindle. Adieu, dear ones, may this season-leading-up-to-Christmas be as fulfilling and productive as last year was.

Fa-la-la-la-la

2010-12-20T13:42:00.000-08:00

I don't post as often as I used to. But let's not get greedy, people. 'Tis the season and all.

Speaking of, can we talk about that whole "Tis the Season" nonsense? I see that phrase everywhere these days "Tis the Season...to save big at (insert store name here)", "Tis the Season...for a McCafe!"

No. No it isn't. Stop using that phrase!

Meanwhile, have I mentioned that we've been called to serve in the Nursery? Yes, that's right. Undeniable proof that somebody up there hates us. And the thing is, I really do want to believe that some day (some far, far day) I will want children of my own. Spending time with other people's little bundles of joy makes me want children sooooo much less (if that's possible). Because I can only desire to want children in the abstract. When faced with the reality of what children are, I am forced to admit that I want no part of it. It's like my goal to one day climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Sure, it sounds exotic and fun, but do I really want to train for weeks beforehand just so that I can sweat and choke and heave myself up some dumb rock? No, not really. But you know what? I'd enjoy that scenario a whole lot more than I would ever enjoy giving birth to a parasite that will spend the next 18 years sucking the life out of me.

Which brings us to the fact that my sister is pregnant with twins. It's one thing to have another human being living inside of you, but two? Two whole other people chillax'in in your abdomen? Holy. Rusted. Metal. Batman.

So, to sum up: Congrats to my sister and a big fat I-am-so-incredibly-sorry-for-whatever-I-did-to-deserve-this to whoever decided I should spend 2 hours a week surrounded by small children.

Amen.

In which I convince you that I truly am in need of medication.

2010-12-06T13:11:00.000-08:00

Okay, so it's still a little weird to me that I'm married. I blame movies. And vivid dreams.

It's like when you watch a movie or have a particularly clear dream and you wake up the next day thinking it was real (or at least some parts of it were real) and then you have that quick realization that no, you are not actually a CIA agent in disguise (and thank heavens for that, because I would totally suck at that job). Well, I keep doing that with the whole "husband" thing. Only it turns out it is real. So it's like this twisted cycle of "Hey, I think I'm married...oh no, that was just a dream, silly me...uhhh, was it a dream? I think I did get married...woah, vivid dream again...why is there a man in my bed?!?!"

Honestly, it's tripping me out. I've been looping this cycle for over two months now. When does it end????

In other news, I had this wicked rad dream the other night wherein I had re-discovered my ability to fly and my husband was very supportive of my new skill set. Only I knew it was a dream because of the whole "husband" part. I mean, me married? That'd be soooo weird.

Standardized Anxiety

2010-11-22T08:51:00.000-08:00

Watching me preparing to take any standardized test must be like watching someone the morning of their execution. Because, of course, this test is not merely a measure of my test-taking skills, it is an accurate and unquestionable measure of my worth as a human being. If I do not do well, the world will not end. I will die, of course, but the world will not end.

Deep down I know none of this is true, but for about twenty four hours this sort of lunacy bubbles just under the surface of my frail, silent, terrified sanity. I try chasing it away with self affirmation, but I'm so much better at sarcasm. Occasionally I can drown it in copious amounts of orange soda. Why orange soda, you ask? I honestly have no idea. But thanks for asking. This time I cried on my husband's shoulder while he affectionately told me that I am, in fact, totally insane. It worked pretty well, actually.

But anyway, I passed the GRE. Or, more accurately, I laid that sucker over my knee and spanked it.

Pity Anthro programs care so little about GRE scores.

This picture looks much cooler on my phone than it does on this blog.

2010-11-09T12:23:00.000-08:00

There is a pond on the Mall, a memorial of some kind--something about Daughters of the American Revolution I think--which I walk by most days at lunch. Also there are trees a changin' round here. Not all of them though, just some. And lampposts, which is a funny little word with a double P for no good reason.

Today was warmer than yesterday, but colder than I'd like. Only it's not so humid now, which means my hair looks nice.

What if I took a picture with my phone everyday, and then posted it here? Who would get bored first, you or me?

I'm betting on you, since I have a pretty good attention span. I'm not like those people who apologize for having short attention spans. Mostly because I think those people are just trying to find a more polite way to say "Your existence bores me to tears", and I'm just not that polite.

Where were we? Oh yeah, the picture-per-day idea. Well, I think it's pretty obvious that neither one of us cares whether that materializes or not.

Annnnnnnnnd....done.

The Lady Amalthea

2010-11-02T07:25:00.000-07:00

Uuuuuuu-nicorn! Uuuuuu-nicorn!

Tell me you've seen that movie, please. Tell me I am not the only one who gets the sheer awesomeness of that freaky animation mixed with a soundtrack from America. I mean, come on people, "When the last moon is cast over the last crumbling mountain, and the last lion roars over the last dusty fountain..."

Honestly, why haven't more people seen and memorized this movie? How can a movie with a transvestite song ("Now that I'm a woman, everything has changed!") not be more widely loved? Ok, so it's not really a transvestite song so much as a ballad about a Unicorn being turned into a human girl by an inexperience magician trying to save her from the Redbull (no, not the drinkable kind, the giant bovine made of fire kind) who drove all the other Unicorn's into the sea so that King Haggard can watch them in the tide only now she is falling in love with a human man and forgetting what it's like to be a Unicorn and that's bad because only she can save the other unicorns!!!! This is EPIC people! SAVE THE UNICORNS!

Fact: My mother hid that movie from me for ten years because listening to me belt the lyrics to every song ("Look and see her, how she sparkles, it's the LAST UNICORN!!!!!") everyday for a year eventually began to wear away at her sanity and it was either separate me from that movie or kill me. Friends, there were days during the first few months when I wished she had gone with the latter rather than divide me from that magical VHS. Eventually I stopped looking for it, but I never forgot the words (not just to the songs, but to the entire movie). Then when I was 20 years old, perhaps thinking it would be safe now that I had finished more than a year in college and was living on my own, my mother brought it out of hiding. Actually, I think she had forgotten about it altogether and only accidentally stumbled upon it while packing up the house to move. And suddenly, there it was. The magical VHS that had for so long evaded my searching. The movie that had shaped the child I was and defined the woman I would become.

The Last Unicorn.

And behold, the heavens did open and the walls did shake as, once again, at the top of my now considerably more powerful lungs I belted the words to that beloved song "In the distance hear the laughter of the LAST UNICORN! I'M ALIVE! I'M ALIIIIIIIIIIVE!!!" And behold, my mother did weep bitterly.

Anywho, I obviously now own that movie on DVD, (Special edition, Suckas!) and the day my now-husband agreed to watch it with me one Sunday afternoon was a defining point in our relationship. If you've ever wondered when it was that I knew he was the one for me, well folks, I'm pretty sure it was the moment he held me as we watched King Haggard's castle fall tumbling into the sea while hundreds of glittering unicorns came out of the water and rushed forth into the world again! (What can I say? My husband has the patience of a saint.)

But seriously, I know you've only read this far because you are waiting for that moral lesson to come out where I somehow tie this into something I learned in India and make it a microcosm for some big, philosophic idea in life. And don't worry, friends, I'm almost there.

Because you see, near the end when King Haggard has discovered the Lady Amalthea's true identity and the Redbull knows ("Molly, he knows! He knows!") that she is The Last Unicorn meant to be driven into captivity in the sea, there is this short scene with really bad dialogue (which matches the dialogue in the rest of the movie), in which Amalthea begs to stay human. "Don't let him change me!...Everything dies. I want to die when you die! I'm no unicorn, no magical creature! I'm human, and I love you....Lir, I will not love you when I'm a unicorn."And it sounds so familiar sometimes, doesn't it? "Please don't expect more of me! Don't ask me to do hard things, to be something greater than I am right now! Everybody gives up sometime; I want to give up too! I am happy as I am, and I'm afraid of wanting more."

No, this isn't about choosing career over love or never making compromises or the inevitability of death. It's about being afraid to accept your true potential because if you do, then it means you are capable of more than you are doing right now. It means you have no excuse for not doing great things. It means you'll have to make sacrifices and be brave and face up to your biggest fear. It means you'll have to turn around, look the Redbull in the eye, and fight back.

It means you have to apply to grad school again.

"She will remember your heart when men are fairy tales in books written by rabbits. Of all unicorns, she is the only one who knows what regret it - and love."

Between Sleep

2010-10-26T07:09:00.000-07:00

I wake up before the dawn, and roll over into lumpy warmth and comfort. It smells like a boy, but I mind less and less. It grumbles and chuckles when I poke it awake. And then it opens bright blue eyes, and the day begins again.

How odd to hear his shaver as I run my morning shower. How strange to step over his cast-off pajamas on my way to plug in my curling iron. He leaves before I do, and though I should be in the bedroom getting ready for the day, I can't help standing with him in the hall as he chooses his shoes, closes his jacket, and heaves his bag over his shoulders. I'll see him again in a few hours, but still. I don't want to waste any of the precious morning minutes together.

I'm always a bit crankier in the evenings when I get home. Tired and cold and still so unused to sharing my space with another. This was always the time I most needed solitude. But he's home already, in his socks and wrinkled slacks and untucked shirt. He's been on the computer, and the kitchen needs cleaning. But he comes out to hold me, to ask about my day, and somehow that makes it all so much better. Together we'll make dinner, and eat sitting on the floor by our cardboard-box table.

And at night we'll laugh together, snuggled in our bed which is our only furniture so far. Until the lights go out, and we lay talking and confiding. When sleep comes, she finds us together.

That's "Mrs." Awesome to you, kid.

2010-10-07T07:23:00.000-07:00

Soooo.... I got married. Hot dang.

The tricky thing about planning a wedding in two months is that afterwords it all seems like such a blur, and like so many difficult but rewarding times in life, the stress and pain all kind of fade away pretty quickly in the glow of happier things. One thing I will tell you, wedding planning is not for wimps.

So many little things that had seemed sure to go wrong ended up going so well. In fact, the accidents that came out of minor catastrophes ended up being some of my favorite parts.

The invitations, for example, so very nearly sent me to an early grave. Getting the addresses was not bad, actually, but getting cards and photos printed on such short notice was grueling. I found myself two days away from my mailing deadline with nothing to put in the envelopes. In fact, I didn't even have envelopes. That night I discovered Fedex online. Two days later I was standing in my living room, holding a box of full color invitations with envelopes and inserts. And I loved them. I still do. No really, I absolutely adore my invitations. And somehow our photo ended up matching them perfectly. Minor miracle? I think yes.

The dress was more than a minor miracle. With my specifications (6'1" and LDS) getting a wedding dress that would be long enough and fit the modesty bill would be difficult enough. Getting that dress in less than three months? Tee-hee, good luck. Most dress shops can't even order in a dress in that time, let alone get it fitted and altered to specifications. So it should come as a huge surprise that I found the perfect dress in the first and only shop I visited. It was even long enough as-is, so long as I didn't wear heels (I hadn't planned to anyway. At my altitude, I don't need any extra vertical help). The only set back was the lack of sleeves. Like nearly all wedding dresses, it came totally strapless. Enter Russian-designer-and-shop-owner-of-Awesomeness. "My dear, ve put like dis, same material, it goes in a V, you see? And buttons!" I'm pretty sure she must have been whispering Bippity-Boppity-Boo in Russian under her breath because the transformation was pretty magical. The whole thing took less than three weeks from the day my mother first teared up watching me in the dress shop to the day I tried on the finished gown. Well done, White Swan Bridal. Your arsenal of Russian women with attitudes is impressive, to say the least.

And then there were the flowers. This seemed easy at first, all I wanted was a simple bouquet for me and a button-hole for the main man of the night. However, not only did I put off talking to a florist until the week before the wedding, I barely even talked to the florist. Turns out a simple bride's bouquet can be pretty pricey these days. So basically, I heard the price quote and said "Crackah what? Please. Take me to Costco, people. I'll do my own flowers."

And so it was that six dozen roses (two white, two pink, and two pink-tipped-white) ended up spending the night in my refrigerator the night before the wedding. And then when we opened the fridge the next day, five dozen of said roses were dead. (Let's just say I left the responsibility for changing the temperature on the fridge to the wrong person, and leave it at that.) Somehow my mother managed to make two button-holes and three bouquet options from the survivors, and the thing is, the first bouquet was absolutely perfect. One reason I had hesitated in contacting a florist was that I was still so unsure about the bouquet in the first place. I don't like those tightly wrapped balls of flowers that seem too geometrically perfect to be real. I didn't really want a sheaf of roses either, and though I had toyed with the idea of carrying a single rose instead of a bouquet, that didn't seem right either. So when my mom handed me three perfect pink buds with long stems and a graceful, droopy pink ribbon tying them together, I was thrilled. It was perfect. It was absolutely what I wanted. Simple, innocent, elegant, and unique. Wow, mom. Just...wow. And that is why I am actually grateful that my refrigerator murdered most of the flowers, and even more grateful that my mother is just as magical as my Russian dress shop owner.

You know what else was magical? The lighting at our wedding. And this, it shall be acknowledged here and now for all the world to understand, was entirely at the hands of my sister, who also speaks Russian, as it turns out. So maybe she, too, was whispering Bippity-Boppity-Boo in Russian as she wrapped strands of lights and lit candles and luminaries all over the grounds at our venue. Originally, when I had first started planning my reception, I had envisioned it all taking place just before sunset, in that gorgeous soft light of early evening. Take a note people: the sun sets earlier in late September than it does in early August. In fact, it set exactly one minute before my reception was scheduled to begin. I realized this was going to be a problem the week before the wedding, the day my sister casually mentioned "are you at all worried about lighting?" and followed that up with the perfect solution and the organizational skills to pull it off. Later she asked me if I would rather have had the reception in daylight after all. Answer: Ummm....did you see my magical, romantic, glowing garden reception? Trade that for daylight? I repeat: Crackah, please.

Oh, I also forgot to plan music for the event until the night before when I spent an hour making a playlist for my iPod. Which might seem kind of lame, but my arsenal of Russian speaking geniuses had not yet run out. You see, my Russian speaking brother just happens to play the guitar and sing. He took the time to learn a Jack Johnson song the groom and I both love, and then he played and sang while we had our first dance. Which was awesome. I cannot tell you how awesome. I get a little choked up when I think about it, actually.

And then there were friends who flew all the way across the country to be there. Some brought chubby, gurgley babies to smooch, and others came early and stayed late to set up luminaries, tie ribbons, and figure out how the fetch that last button on my dress is supposed to go because the photographers are here and my new husband just tried to fix it with a pen.

(On an aside, that conversation went something like this:

Him: I can't figure this last button out....

Me: Hmm, can you go get my mom to help me then?

Him: Actually, I can just use my pen to-

Me: TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF THE BRIDE AND BACK AWAY SLOWLY. There will be absolutely no contact between your ballpoint pen and this wedding dress. You sick, sick man!

Friend of the bride who just walked in: Let me get that, Jen. It's okay, Groom, you can go now.

Bride: Thank. Heavens.

End of aside)

We served artisanal breads and preserves with a variety of really cool cheeses, and though I had always pretty much planned that, it still kind of surprised me that it went as well as it did. It looked gorgeous, and though I didn't get to sample any of the cheese myself (I spent so much time in the softly glowing gazebo greeting guests) I hear it was all pretty darn good, particularly the brie torte with fig and cranberry preserves. Also I just like bragging that we had a brie tort at our wedding.

I did get to taste the wedding cake, or course. But when your wedding cake is actually a variety of world-famous Georgetown Cupcakes, in all your favorite flavors, you make time to try some. And the groom manfully restrained himself from smashing cake into his bride's face. I think something about the pen incident a few hours before sort of tipped him off about mixing messes with my wedding dress. Also he didn't want to waste the cupcake. When cake tastes that good, you don't mess around with it. I only got one, but it was divine as always. Two words people: Key Lime.

Hmm, this is turning into a really long and boring post about my wedding reception, so I'll refrain from describing the necklace I jerry-rigged out of an earring or the antics of our 2 yr old flower-girl whose skill with a ribbon wand is to be greatly admired.

I will tell you that our set up was pretty fantastic for greeting guests. I mentioned the gazebo before, strung with white lights and hanging candles. But to get the full effect you need to imagine it in a moonlit garden with a soft breeze and the sounds of laughter and joy coming from the terrace where the food and guests had converged. That's where Mr. Awesome and I spent almost the whole night, greeting guests as they came, but mostly just being with each other. Because it was separated from the main party area just a bit, it gave us a chance to be alone together between influxes of arriving guests. To dance a little bit without everyone watching us, and laugh at our own dumb inside jokes. We got to enjoy the romance of a perfect fall evening with each other, on our wedding day. And that was priceless.

Clean up was not priceless. But the friends who stayed to help were incredible. We sent them home with some extra food from the event, too, so I hope it wasn't too hard on them. And anyway, I happen to know most of them don't have church until 1pm the next day. Our new ward starts at 8:30 am...guess who didn't make it that Sunday ;).

And then we were exhausted and ecstatic and married!! And we ran off to Scotland together, which is a post for another day.

Misc L. Aneous, esq.

2010-08-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

I was having a temper tantrum, though not a very big one as tantrums go. Something about my chin in a picture I think. "Jenni, remember when you were in India? What was it you said about loving your..."

"Knock if off. Only I am allowed to philosophize about my trip to India!"

But of course, he was absolutely right. And look, I don't want to get into some sappy post about my engagement but let me just say that I would greatly appreciate if he would NOT DO THAT. Okay? In the first place he is way to patient with me, which totally makes me look bad, but there is no reason to compound the insult by being right. Mmmkay?

Anyway, I did learn some junk in India and I do tend to forget it. This basically means I need to go back to India, right? Right? Whose with me?

It costs 3x more to buy a stamp than it does to buy a 4'x6' photo print. Also the mail man at my office is totally crazy. Sometimes it's cute, and sometimes it's scary. About a week ago a coworker came running out of her office thinking he was attacking me. Nope, just banging my desk for emphasis. He really hates misdirected mail.

I think I broke my toe. And when you hear that you think: Oh sure, a broken toe, big deal. But it IS a big deal, yo. Because it hurts to walk on this thing, and closed toed shoes are currently out of the question. And wearing flip-flops in the office is generally frowned upon. So pity me already, people! And yes, the fact that a certain republican spent significant time holding a bag of frozen raspberries against my foot (while repeatedly asking if I was okay and do I want some water and can he give me a back rub) should probably cover me in the pity department for several foot injuries to come. Yes, I know this. But my foot hurts!

Lessons we have learned in this post so far: Cathlin is a twit. Her fiancee is greatly to be pitied.

How It Happened

2010-08-05T16:48:00.000-07:00

I spent the evening running. Well, jogging/walking/running. It's all just an excuse to be alone with my thoughts anyway. Easier to let my mind wander when my legs are doing the same thing. Anyway, it was also humid out, and I took the last hill home at a full run. And I walked in the door a fluffy, sweaty, flushing mess of satisfaction. Which is how all exercising should end, fluffy and sweaty and at peace with God and man. Sorry, I've just waxed poetic about humidity and sweat.

And then the rocks hit the door, and I knew. I knew in the way you always know these things, which is to say that I had no idea, knew all along, was completely surprised, and remained unfazed in anyway. Two rocks hit the door and my life flashed before my eyes, or maybe it was my reflection in the mirror. She looked confused at first, and then she shrugged her soccer-jersey clad shoulders and ran a hand over the wisps of hair escaping her pony-tail. If she could deal with it, I could. We were a team, this sweaty apparition and I. Together we opened the door.

He wasn't there of course, no one was. Just the small stones scattered on the balcony, the fireflies dancing in giddy anticipation, and a disembodied voice reading Cyrano's lines. Do you know Cyrano? Of course, we all do. We have all been Cyrano at one point, haven't we? Calling out our lines from under the balcony, where no one can see our huge noses. Only this Cyrano does not have such a large nose. In fact, he has a perfectly charming nose. I love his nose. But he stayed under the balcony anyway, reading out lines from the play I love. And because I did not have any lines of my own to read, I passed the time peaking through the slats of the balcony floor, pelting him with the pebbles he had used against my door. And then he stepped out into the glow from my door and held up a box. More stones. But this one is yellow and sparkly and magical. A sapphire, which defies reason with its color. And I take it. With all my heart.

Reflections on a Year That Didn't Exist

2010-07-16T08:42:00.000-07:00

It's been a year now, since I moved to DC to embark on a fictitious year in a life otherwise totally planned out. A full year since I stepped out of the hallowed doors of academia for a brief hiatus in the "real world", a place of employment and dating outside the ivory towers I've so long considered my true home. For the most part, things have gone according to plan.

I got a job, though not nearly as menial and low-paying as I had anticipated. Oh, I am most certainly NOT complaining! I am very grateful for the employment and early promotion that pretty much fell into my lap within a month of moving here; such luck I did not expect nor deserve. And though the plan to work full time and not write papers has succeeded brilliantly, what I did not anticipate is the relationships I would form within that work context. The paycheck and benefits are nice, but the people have stretched me, challenged me, and improved me. There once was a little girl from Minersville Utah, and I'm not that little girl anymore.

I took a fencing class, too. I never expected to come out a world-class Dread-Pirate-Roberts-Style fencer, but I would be lying if I said I didn't harbor a certain illogical hope. That said, what I did learn in that class was how uncomfortable I am with my physical abilities. Whether I can do something well or not, I am terrified and mortified at the idea of someone seeing me do it. This made the course more than a little difficult for me at first, but over the weeks I was able to loosen up about it. Eventually I even learned to enjoy it. I would have expected my fencing style to be someone reticent, slow paced, and even retreating. In reality, my fencing strategy turned out to be along the lines of "Attack! Attack! Attack again! MustnotlethimhitmesoIwillhithimfirstattaaaaaack!" Not always graceful, but unfailingly aggressive.

I did not learn to tango, unfortunately. So this form of dance must remain on my to-learn list. I did learn a little bit about 18th century dancing technique, however, and a little more about swing. About the former I still know relatively little, but I did attend a short dance lesson in George Washington's assembly rooms at Mt. Vernon. As far as dates go, that one will remain one of my favorites. Hot cider, gingerbread, and dancing instruction aside, I highly recommend taking a moonlit stroll through George Washington's private garden with your significant other around Christmas time.

I also highly recommend swing dancing! East-coast swing, to be more precise. I'd learned west-coast style before but the lindy-hop seemed at once too complex in its basic step and too simple in its variations thereon. West-coast has a simpler basic step and allowed more improvisation thereon. I learned all of this, of course, on another date which ranks in my top dates of all time. This time, set the stage in the 1950's. Picture an old amusement park, with a carousel and bumper cars. Imagine a ballroom packed with couples, jiving to the groove of "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" and other similar tunes as played and sung by a live band and appropriately costumed singer. And of course, when it gets too hot inside with all the dancing, you'll just step outside and wander down to the swing-set where you'll talk and laugh and watch the stars and fireflies. Then you'll dance again, of course, and race to the carousel where you'll ride matching ostriches and hold hands. And when it's all over you'll go for a malt at the Silver Diner, and then he'll walk you to your door like a gentleman. And this time-traveling year will feel even less real then before.

I had also hoped to cultivate a disinterested approach to watching politics unfold in DC. I came here an independent, and independent I remain. But I had wanted to be an observer, sort of like taking my anthro training into my political life. And it is not that easy. I find myself drawn into political discourse, fascinated by both sides but undeniably pulled to the left. I will probably never register as a democrat, but I wonder if I'll ever seriously consider voting republican at all. The protests, the arguments, the rallies and the speeches fascinate me. But I cannot remain aloof to it all. I take sides, have opinions, and argue back. Someone, somewhere, a lofty anthropology professor probably, in a tweed jacket, will laugh at my naivete. Lesson learned, oh young fool! It is not as easy as it sounds, particularly when, unlike your stay in India, you actually understand what is going on.

Overall, this year feels like such a resounding success to me. It wasn't as I had imagined it, and that is as it should be. So, now, time to pack up right? Time to tie off any loose ends of the year-that-didn't-exist and finish up preparations to resume my real-life in academia. Scotland awaits!

Except, you can't plan everything can you? Sometimes the world surprises you. Life surprises you. Sometimes, despite all your best laid plans a boy walks into your life and turns your best laid plans on their head. True, sometimes that boy is a republican. But sometimes that boy is also incredibly smart and funny and good. Sometimes that wonderful boy asks you to marry him.

And sometimes you say yes.

June Prose

2010-06-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

The air conditioning in the lobby is incredible, and the rush of hot, wet air that hits my skin as I push through the outer doors is a relief, at least for a moment. Humidity is fickle like that. The dessert heat burned and scorched, killing you quickly and impersonally. This heat is worse perhaps, because it does not kill impersonally. It lives and breaths and creeps into your nose and lungs. This heat does not kiss your skin like sunlight, it invades you and transforms you. I can feel my hair rising, curling and waving with the hot, wet air. My skin feels more alive and less my own. This heat does not kill you. It consumes you.

The pigeons have it in for me, you know. They wait, just there across the street. Innocently pecking through a crushed mound of potato chips or bread, dipping into the fountain specked with sunlight and fungus. As though they do not see me coming, as though they have no intentions toward me at all. But they are too quiet now. I do not trust these pigeons. See? The fat one, there! He'll be the one today. His turn to fly at me, just past my face. A great fat flutter of gray wings and feathers, like cigarette butts and death.

The sun is here, of course. She's everywhere, that whore. That great glowing Grushenka. She'll steal it all from me, one day. Ruin me, like Katerina.

If I were the Queen of the Forest:

2010-06-15T13:07:00.000-07:00

No one would ever again use the word "prego" to describe being pregnant. It's an insult not only to the Italian language but also to cheap, sodium filled spaghetti sauce and I WILL NOT STAND FOR THAT.

I'm pretty sure no one but me can read this and still love me.

2010-04-23T08:14:00.000-07:00

I cannot stand hearing that ugly accent asking for a certain co-worker of mine when I pick up the work phone. Sometimes whoever it is mumbles, too, which I find very disturbing. Maybe it's not even the same person but it drives me nuts. Why does it bother me? I think partially it is because while English is associated (in my mind) with my own culture, that accent is associated (in my mind) with stupidity. So I somehow come out feeling that whoever it is just called my culture (and by extension myself) stupid. I think this makes me some sort of linguistical-elitist and/or socialist. Thoughts?

Also the mumbling seems disrespectful because it feels like whoever-this-is has decided he/she/it can be lazy about MOVING THEIR FRIGGING MOUTH and expect me to put forth extra effort to interpret the garbled message they give me. So I always say, even when I somehow manage to understand him/her/it the first time, "I'm sorry, WHAT??" That way this lazy, rude, mumbling him/her/it has to repeat the message and thereby expend more effort. Sometimes I make whoever-it-is repeat it multiple times. In other words, mumbling-throat: I'm totally messing with you, Suckah!

In other news, I'm dating a republican. Freaky, I know, right? Somebody call the X-files because an alien has invaded Cathlin's body and is making her do CRAZY stuff. Anywho, some random problems with the ideological differences in the relationship (unsurprisingly, all of these are my fault):

1. When I read political news and find myself trudging through the sludge of the comments section, I find myself reading every republican/tea party/gun-slinging, hate throwing, right wing meanie-head comment and then associated them all with him. This means at the end of the day, without even knowing it, he has managed to insult me and and my political opinions dozens of times, with a smattering of profanity, misspellings, and death threats thrown in for good measure. I honestly find myself thinking "How can I be dating someone who would write this sort of filth?" and then I find myself thinking "How can HE be dating anyone who is so obviously confused and delusional?"

2. Sometimes when he isn't around and my family starts joking about republicans I get this weird mother-bear instinct and have to restrain myself from threatening to leave the family if they don't STOP INSULTING MY BOYFRIEND! I. Am. Nuts.

3. I spend significant portions of our time together (while we are talking, driving, watching movies, and even eating) poking him in the face. This really has nothing to do with our political differences, and I can offer no real explanation for why I do it. I'm just putting it out there as further proof of that this post's title is an apt one.

Spelling Lessons

2010-04-09T09:10:00.000-07:00

O is for Old, because he kinda looks it now.
B is for Barack, because it's his first name (duh).
A is for American. Or America. Or Armpit.
M is for Mayonaise, because it's almost lunchtime.
A is for American Armpit. I already told you that. What, you want a different word for each letter? Well, then you should have voted for Obami or Obamu or Obamt. Yeah. Obamt, I like that one.

Obamt: To be obalmost as obawesome as me.

Happy Friday, Everybody!

I am officially an April-idiot.

2010-04-01T13:23:00.000-07:00

None of the following are in anyway related. This sentence is superfluous. China.

I've been slowly but surely developing a love affair with putting periods behind every. word. in. a. sentence. It makes me feel--relevant? Revelatory? Punctual?

I don't want to go into too many details here, but have you ever seen the movie "Meet the Parents"? I hated that show. However, it taught me a valuable lesson: I don't wanna "meet the parents". Oh wait, I already did that and it wasn't that bad at all. But still, I don't want to have the parents meet the parents! And since I am relatively sure none of the people directly involved in this situation read this blog (Except Mom. Hey Mom!) I'm gonna go ahead and admit that. Partially because I can feel the awkward now, but mostly because I'M NOT FRIGGING FRAGGING FROGGING ENGAGED SO DON'T GET ANY CRAZY IDEAS PEOPLE! Whew. That felt good. And just in case I was wrong about the whole "they don't read this" thing...erm...hey there Smoochy, how was your day?

In other news, can I just say, I love DC in the spring time? It's not just the cherry blossoms (But that's part of it, and it's awesome, so be jealous, obviously). But there are these flowers, and fountains, and festivals! And lately, waiting for my bus has been a little less like a strange form of freeze-the-snot-in-your-nose torture. Plus: can you say "Cardigan Season"? Not that every season isn't cardy season for me, just that the stores are selling them now so I can restock for the next few months. What? You think my ever-present cardigan is a bad fashion choice? You want I should don a medieval cape and dress instead? Because I've seen people who do that and it is SO MUCH WEIRDER than me!

Lastly, I bought this flavored water today (and visions of the plastic bottle spending an eternity in a land fill have been dancing in my head ever since.) But anyway, flavored water + vitamins. And, okay, so I don't really care what vitamins the stuff has as long as it tastes good. Which means I didn't read anything on the label other than "black cherry-lime" before whisking it through the self-checkout. Now, half a bottle into it I just checked the label again and actually looked at the vitamins it offers. Among vitamins c, a, and e you know what this little darling has been loading me up with for the past three hours? "40 mg caffeine". That's right. The girl who never drinks caffeine in any form just bought herself some buzz-juice that will have her awake and jiving to the beat of her own drum for the next 12 hours at least. I have April-fooled myself. Awesome.

Represent A. Tive, Esq.

2010-03-22T09:19:00.000-07:00

Down 20th street to Constitution, I pass security guards at various checkpoints, though I've never taken the time to identify the specific buildings they guard. Eventually, after the stop-and-go rhythms of walk signals and traffic lights, I reach the footpaths. They are paved in concrete, in asphalt, in cobblestones, in sand. They twist and wind around each other, ordered in their disorder. Most days I choose a light concrete path and let it lead me to the white stone temple where Lincoln sits, enthroned and mildly menacing to us, poor tiny mortals gazing up at him. I've wondered, many times, what it is we worship in that temple; for we worship something, some vague American thing.

Rarely, in fact only once have a taken that first right turn onto another footpath sloping gently into disaster. On that path thick black stones rise slowly higher as I pass, first to my knees, then my shoulder until finally they tower over me, reflecting my image back to me through a haze of dead men's names. I feel strange there, guilty. It is not my war. I cannot reconcile with it, claim it, comprehend it. The other war memorials here are kinder to me. They splay out easily, telling me their tales of honor won and wrong defeated. They do not mix tragedy with victory. They do not bury me in dead men's names.

Washington's is as unambiguous as they come. I do not go too close to that memorial, of course. I am not welcome there, not really. I am American, yes, and a patriot too. But there is something uniquely unwelcoming to me, as a woman, about the towering phallic symbol.

On the way back, walking north again toward Pennsylvania Avenue, I pass Isabella Reina. She is surprisingly short, and almost crudely shaped in iron turned all shades of blue and green. Perhaps because her placard is in Spanish, perhaps because she stands just off the beaten path, or perhaps because she is a woman among so many men, I find I like her best of all.

Honor Code Rebellion....or not.

2010-03-02T14:24:00.000-08:00

So I went to BYU. If you don't know what that is...google it. Anyway, I had this relationship of tension with the Honor code. On the one hand, I was desperate not to fit in. As a friend of mine likes to say, I needed to be different just like everybody else. On the other hand, I honestly liked the code and would have lived by it, or wanted to live by it, anyway. No boys in the bedroom? 'Kay, my bedroom is kinda messy anyway and it's nice to know I can walk into my room in nothing but a bathrobe and not find my roommate's boy-toy sitting next to my underwear drawer. (Yes, I just referenced partial nudity AND underwear in the same post. Are you freaking out? because I know I am.) No smoking? Awesome, I choose a cancer-free life whenever I can. No male visitors past midnight? Whatev' yo. I can handle a dude-free home after hours (see the above references to nudity and undies) and when I really did need some testosterone in my life past midnight no dorm-wide curfew could have stopped us. (Word to the wise for all you Zoobies out there, Rock Canyon park is not too far from DT and makes for excellent make out turf. Yes, Mom, it so happened. More than once...) Modest clothing? Great! The last thing we need is more uninhibited muffin-tops and cleavage rolling around in this country, and I've always been a fan of layers anyway. The day I discovered the cardigan, well, that my friends was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Even some of the "weirder" rules suited me just fine. Take the "clean shaven" rule for example: Have you ever tried to make out with an unshaven male? Trust me, clean shaven is the way to go.

Anyway, the point is I couldn't rebel against the Honor Code or even really be upset about it because it didn't ask me to do or not do anything I would have done or not done anyway. And the "we shouldn't have to be compelled" argument just doesn't hold water for me because when it comes bathrobes and panties I like to know my roommate is on board with the no-boys-in-the-bedroom rule. So how does one rebel against a system that neither represses nor even really annoys one?

Easy. Vote democrat.

Modern Conveniences or Why I Am a Spoiled Brat

2010-02-09T13:49:00.000-08:00

I woke up Saturday morning to a white filled world. The snow continued to fall all day, trapping my in my own house. And of course, my internet wasn't working.

Four days later, it's finally working again. Come on, comcast, get it together! I can't survive four days without internet access.

Who do they think I am, George Washington?

Gloria McAwesomeface

2010-02-04T12:13:00.000-08:00

80% of Americans claim they want to write a book.
5% of those get past the first chapter.
less than .01% of those get published at all.

Get this, one of those less than .01% of 5% of 80% people?

She's totally my sister.

I hereby claim awesomeness-by-association.

Brother Cooper's House

2010-01-23T10:05:00.000-08:00

I clearly remember the hours I spent as a child, staring at the closet door from the vantage of my bed, too scared to close my eyes, wondering if it would be safe to cross to my bedroom door and make a break for my mother's room. Sure, I was young, imaginative, prone to nightmares. But there was something in that closet.

Twenty years later, I still watch for monsters in the closet. I shouldn't be afraid of the dark anymore, but these monsters find me anyway. They haunt the closets of almost any house I enter. They wait for me, fangs dripping, mangled fur pressed against my coats and shoes. They are the specters of internal fears, of threats levied against my fragile sense of belonging. They bring with them a lifetime of fear and insecurity, of never knowing when the next blow would fall, the next safety net vanish.

And so, among the other gifts you gave to me, the advice, the blessing, the bed large enough to stretch my full length upon, I've one more thing to thank you for.

I lived in your house for six full months, and there were no monsters in your closets.

How I found God in the temple of the Goddess.

2010-01-15T11:26:00.000-08:00

"Being Mormon, to me, means that no matter where I go, no matter what language or country, there is always someone I can connect with: some one who loves me."-hopefullymormon.com

This quote makes me want to cry. It makes me want to cry because I've traveled just a bit (four continents and counting) and it's true. I think this statement has power on two levels.

The first is the most obvious. The LDS church is a worldwide church, existing all over the world in various countries, in dozens of languages, and with wide ranging singing abilities. I've attended sacrament meetings in French, Spanish, and Tamil. I've sung hymns with other members in hotel rooms, cathedrals, and the back rooms of an old house. In the stifling humidity of the south Indian jungle, the glory of spring in Paris, and the bitter cold "lluvisna" of winter in Argentina I've bowed my head to offer thanks to God with other equally sweaty/drowsy/shivering Mormons. And the one thing that carries over through all of these various experiences is that no matter what language they speak or what continent they call home, I love Mormons and Mormons love me. If it has "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints" written on the building, I've come home, no matter how far from home I've traveled.

But the statement quoted above has meaning and truth on another level. One of my very most favorite aspects of the true gospel is that all religions have some amount of truth to them and all people have access to the light of Christ. So, for me, being a Mormon means recognizing that everywhere I go I am surrounded by people who, though not LDS, are nevertheless just like me. They seek truth and light wherever they can find it. They yearn to be closer to God, however they understand Him now. They want to help other human beings, whether they see others as children of God or not. They love me, and I love them, irrespective of their familiarity with Mormon Hymns.

I distinctly remember the worst day I had in India. I am certain I always will. For reasons I have struggled with but ultimately forgiven, on that hot day in Tamil Nadu I found myself alone, heartbroken, and lost in a city of almost two million people. On that day I had no LDS members to turn to, no RS president to bring me cookies and no hometeachers to offer blessings. For that one day I was alone, outside the arms of my beloved religion, and devastated. But I wasn't alone, after all. All unbidden a handful of total strangers reached out and held me up. A man on a motorcycle noticed a lost girl and helped her find her way. A business man at the temple approached a strange girl to share the blessings of his religion with her and led her into a circle of faith otherwise closed to her. A woman with problems and pains of her own spent the afternoon speaking in broken sentences and strange new gestures to a girl who, though visiting in that country, did not speak the local dialect and could not communicate with anyone else there. None of those individuals were Mormon, but they are one reason I am glad to be Mormon myself.

Because being a Mormon, for me, means seeing the world for its potential to love and be loved. While I do not believe, as my Hindu friends have told me, that all roads lead to God. I do believe, as my religion tells me, that all humans come from God. And maybe, just maybe, we're talking about the same thing.

Resolutionativity

2010-01-08T07:20:00.000-08:00

The thing about New Year's Resolutions is that a year always seems like the wrong time-frame for a truly effective goal. For example, you want to be more patient and less easily provoked this year? Awesome, but why only for a year? Isn't that more of a life long goal? And if you are using this year just as a sort of measuring device for that goal, well, you can bet you'll forget if you don't break it down into more manageable bites of time. Or, let's say you want to get a gym membership. Umm...if that takes you a whole year to do, you are using the wrong gym. In general, signing up for a membership takes about half an hour or less. Now, they'll take money directly from your bank account every month for a year (at least) but that's more a goal for them than for you, isn't it? I like my goals to fit into one of three categories: weekly, monthly, and lifely (so totally a word, right?). But, if you're the type to set a New Year Resolution, well, I won't look down on you for it. (I'll laugh at you behind your back, for sure, but look down? Never.)

And for the time being, here is my resolution, which I like to think of as a lifely goal:

Eat more fresh produce.

What, you were expecting something deeper and more pensive? Vegetables are the fa-shizzle people. The fa-shizzle.

Snow and Snow and Snow

2009-12-24T08:47:00.000-08:00

If I were a shepherd, I would give a lamb. If I were a wise man, I would do my part.

But as I am I will give Him, give Him my heart.

If you're reading this blog, chances are I heart you. I heart you big time. Merry Christmas!

No Answers.

2009-12-22T08:27:00.000-08:00

"Madam! Madam! Please" She runs up to me, her little dress might have been green once. Her bare, bandaged feet, dirty black from the streets, must have been small pink baby feet once. Her worn, anxious face, thin and emaciated, must have been young once. Maybe, long ago. Not anymore. She is five years old. And you know? She's one of the lucky ones. She begs for money, but she is not sold for it. Not yet.

There are things I saw in India that I never wrote here. Desperate and starving and living on the brink of hopelessness. I did not write them here, because I can't. I cannot write those stories. Not even I, who play "more black keys than white", can find the notes for that.

But I remember them. They are like debts I have promised to pay yet cannot find a way to make it right. How could I? I am just one girl. They are so much bigger than I am.

I have no answers. In the face of such black hopelessness, I would stand small and insignificant, fighting desperately against monsters that swallow grown men whole. And I would not win. I could not.

But I would fight anyway.

http://love146.org/love-story

Merry Christmas.

Retri-frigging-bution baby!

2009-12-14T12:08:00.000-08:00

So profanity just isn't my thing. I'm not good at it, and it doesn't look good on me. Luckily, though, I have come up with an adequate substitute for swearing when I'm angry. At first I didn't even realize I did it, but one day a dear friend and roommate of mine heard me leaving a very distressed (to put it mildly) phone message. She laughed a little, and when I hung up she said "I love that when you get angry you start using really big words. It's like you become this high-powered lawyer/professor/Queen of England. Most people just say *#$@!, but not Cathlin. She busts out the four syllables." And I was all, Woah, I totally do that. Weird. This, of course, after I had calmed down and my vocabulary had shriveled down to my usual valley-girl-meets-nerd variety. Anyway, the point of this is, it totally works for me. And here is why:

You may remember a post or two ago I complained about some caterers who had contributed to what I now refer to as "Snot Rag Day" (again, the big words really only surface in the heat of the moment. Stop judging me.) I think now is a good time to give you the full story there, especially now that it has come to a much happier conclusion.

Ever heard of HoneyBaked Ham? Yeah, awesome. Me too. Did you know they do catering? Well, more specifically, they have an online ordering form for catering and a system to confirm your order by phone. That doesn't mean they actually deliver your food, though. I mean, come on, online ordering and a phone call from somebody so lazy/tired/high you can barely understand her really is enough. Why would you need actual food delivered too?

But yeah, I made that assumption too. I used the online order form, printed a receipt for my records, and did my darndest to understand and communicate clearly with whoever called me and murmured/slurred my order back to me to confirm it. Since I did this the Friday before the Tuesday meeting I figured it would all be just fine. So it was that I found myself blissfully daydreaming about honeybaked goodness during the first half of our five hour staff meeting, content in the illusion that it would arrive precisely at 11:30 to fill that conference room with something other than the stench of three hour old coffee. Ah, the innocence of youth! Oh, the pain of utter disillusionment.

11:45, no caterers. Cathlin is starting to get a little worried. I pull out my receipt and dial the number for the branch making our order. And so begins a fifteen minute game of bounce the call around. Plus they go ahead and make it extra interesting by giving me false information and then contradicting themselves about it. "Yeah the delivery company picked it up at 10:30, it should be there." Oh, ok. Thanks. None of my five senses are registering the presence of the deliverers or the food, but if you say it's here it must be here. Whew, so glad you cleared that up. "Oh, we have no record of your order." Dang. My eye sight sucks, cuz this sure looks like an official receipt in my hand. Also, I must be hearing voices because YOU JUST TOLD ME IT WAS PICKED UP FOR DELIVER AN HOUR AGO! "I'll call and find out where it is, I'm sure it's on it's way" Oh good, the imaginary food that you have no record of is on it's way! I'm so relieved by your competence that a bunny just farted a rainbow in my brain. "Ok, so we don't have your order. But if you'll tell me what you want we can have it there in about two hours." Awesome. Can you also jab me in the leg with a fork, because at this point that would be equally helpful. "Ok then, have a nice day" Is that idiot-speak for "I'm sorry I suck at life, how can I make it up to you?" cuz if I don't get an apology, something's gonna get broken.

Luckily there is an Au Bon Pain in our building, and three of us were able to grab enough ready-made sandwiches and soup bowls to stave of a herd or hungry, tired non-profit staff. It wasn't what we had expected to eat that day, but at least we got food. Also, Au Bon Pain gave us an unsolicited discount even though we totally cleaned them out of ready made sandwiches right before their busy lunch time. I love you Au Bon Pain. Let's get married.

The next day, feeling somewhat removed from the stress and after writing that cathartic blog post, I called the store again to find out exactly what happened. I explained my story no less than four times, in detail. Each time after I finished I was asked to hold. Then without telling me I would be transferred or even to whom I was talking, a new voice would pick up the line and say "Honeybaked Ham, how can I help you?" At this point, all the fuzzy warm thoughts of being nice to the poor incompetent people had withered away and my vocabulary was expanding like a maternity pants elastic on crack. (Where the fa-shizzle did that analogy come from, by the way?) Anywho, Cathlin had run out of patience by the time some unnamed woman admitted that they had my order on record but someone had forgotten to post it on the cork board so it never got put together. Just smacks of competence, doesn't it? You're totally on your way to order food from them online right now, aren't you? Plus, the cherry on this crap-cake? They didn't even offer an apology. Not one of the four people I spoke with even uttered the word "sorry". Customer service at its finest.

This, my friends, is why internet comment boards and review sites were created. And you know the best part? While rants containing four letter words and feces-analogies generally get you deleted or ignored, rants full of corporate lawyer/professor/Queen of England speak? They get you a call from HoneyBaked Ham corporate offices and 20 lbs of free Ham, some turkey, three loaves of artisan breads, two kinds of spread, three bricks of various cheeses, dijon mustard, a wooden cutting board, and a shiny new knife. Or in other words:

Reti-frigging-bution, baby!

Postscript: I do feel I should mention that while working with this particular branch was like poking myself in the eye with a cactus, HoneyBaked Ham corporate was incredibly nice and easy to work with. I've only ever dealt with them once, and I'm not in anyway advocating some sort of boycott mania of HoneyBaked. Actually, the free cutting board was kinda nice, so if anything I'd say go ahead and eat at their deli. Just maybe be wary of the catering option if you live in DC. Or, more specifically, don't use the Chevy Chase branch. That is all. Carry on.

Running for It

2009-12-11T11:18:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I run to the bus stop everyday. I give myself plenty of time to get there at a normal walking pace, and it's not easy to run in heels. It's cold now too, the kind of frigged cold that frosts your breath and numbs your lungs. But I find myself running down the hill every morning anyway. I guess there is something joyful about running in the early morning, even when I'm tired and it's freezing outside. I'm not sure. But I run anyway, down the hill, through the spongy, wet leaves gathered along the sidewalk. I only pause once, at the busy road, to wait for a break in traffic so I can sprint across the street.

Sometimes he is at the bus stop before me, and sometimes he doesn't come at all. Most of the time he wears army fatigues and a snazzy beret. Sometimes he wears a suit. Once, he brought a bike. We don't talk much, but we always say good morning or at least acknowledge each other. He seems nice. Organized. Grown up.

The bus driver wears a stud in one ear, maybe in both but I never see the other ear. I'm not sure how he manages to stop the bus exactly in front of me every time so that all I have to do is step up and I'm on the bus. My metro card makes a little ping sound to let me know it's been charged the $1.25, and I pause my iPod to be sure I hear that little ping. That's the only time I ever pause the music that gets me from home to work and back everyday. It lasts about one and a half seconds.

Another face I see everyday. Without fail. He sits in the same seat everyday too. The one reserved for handicapped passengers right up front. He sits there for the leg-room, I think, knowing that no one with a real disability rides this bus with us. I never acknowledge him, though I know his face well enough now that I could easily recognize him in a crowd. I sit at the very back of the bus. I need more leg room too, but I'm not gutsy enough to sit in the handicapped spots like he does.

They hand out free papers at the metro stop. I walk by them everyday, those two, but I never take a paper. Once, one of them whacked me in the stomach with one trying to force it on me. I didn't even bother to scowl. I couldn't spare the mental energy. The hardest part of my commute was right in front of me.

Three escalators. My niece's dream come true, but much more akin to a nightmare for me. Heights, heels, and crowds all mixed together and multiplied by three. I try not to think about it too much. Three escalators from the ground level to the train level, and then I'm on the train. It smells like DC. A little sour, some international spices underneath, not terribly clean, but for all that not wholly unpleasant. I rarely get a seat. When offered one, I rarely take it.

Only two escalators to get back to street level from Foggy Bottom station. I love that name. It's so cartoonish, like I should expect to run into a fraggle while there.

There are no fraggles today, but there is a man in a banana suit. "Happy Thursday! Happy Thursday!" I'm not sure what he's about with the shouting and, well, the banana suit. But he's right, it is Thursday and I'm pretty happy. More men handing out free papers. They don't pressure me, though, the crowds are bigger here.

I pass him setting up shop, scurrying about in the chill light of early morning to get his snack stall up and running for the early morning commuters. I pass it twice a day, but I haven't stopped yet.

Five minutes or less and I'm walking into the doors of a shopping center. CVS, Expressions, Au Bon Pain, a news and magazine outlet. Through the fancy glass doors, smile at the security guard who knows me well by now. Elevators are still stressful, but nothing compared to the escalators. Fifth floor. Key badge. "NCEE and NISL, how may I help you?"

In about eight hours I'll repeat the journey in reverse. And there he'll be, sitting in the handicapped seats again. Somehow we always catch the same bus in for work and the same bus back.

I never run home. Even though I'm much more awake. It's dark now, uphill, and lonely somehow. No soldiers standing at the next stop, no business men sitting in reserved seats, no one to force reading material on me.

Maybe that's why I run in the mornings.

Total Snot Rag of a Day

2009-12-09T11:20:00.000-08:00

A few words of advice, from my life to yours.

Sometimes, people disappoint you. Often, these are people you know and love. Occasionally, these are people you don't know at all. In the former case, you forgive, you grow, you move on. In the latter case, you get really cranky and plot to steal their pets. Because when their ineptitude makes you look bad, cat-nabbing is really your only option. Or in other words, sometimes the caterers just don't show up.

Sometimes going thirsty is better than drinking the caffeine. Even though that meeting went on for five hours, and even though you got really really thirsty, and even though there was nothing else to drink that didn't directly violate your religious beliefs, a full can of fully loaded Coca Cola will not do you any favors. Or in other words, sitting still and acting like an adult after drinking a can of Coke is nearly impossible.

Sometimes, you should just stay home. Even though you really need to go to the mall, and this seems like a perfect opportunity to borrow your sister's car, you should just stay home. Because the two year old girl who will need to come with you will be a complete pickle, and there is nothing less flattering than hearing yourself repeat "Don't touch, sweetie" like a bazillion times in a single store. Or in other words, she may look cute in that matching coat and hat, but she will totally snot all over your shopping bags anyway.

Sometimes you have to cancel plans. And that stinks, because you were probably looking forward to them. And you kind of want to pout and whine about it, but you can't because that's what the afore mentioned two year old is doing and you are supposed to be the adult in this situation. Or in other words, *pout* *whine*.

Sometimes you will have bad days. Things will go wrong, you'll ingest too many stimulants, your niece will have a runny nose and flout your authority in public, and you won't get to see the international film you wanted to see. But maybe, if you're lucky, somebody will unexpectedly bring you chocolate and eggnog. Or in other words, boys are gross and totally have cooties but sometimes they can also be pretty awesome.

Because underneath all the sarcasm, I'm kind of a nerd.

2009-12-03T20:22:00.000-08:00

The sun rises more slowly now, and there seems to be an abundance of hot chocolate flavored cheer in the air. Though there is not yet any snow in my life, yet the season of seasons has arrived. It's Christmas time. So go get me a present!

No, really. I want gifts. Lots of them. Need a list?

1. Put a quarter in four parking meters for me. I don't have a car, but I know that it would pretty much suck to get ticketed for letting the meter run out. The people who benefit will never know you did it, but the $1 you spend doing it for me will make my day.

2. Tell someone she looks pretty today. Well, let me be more specific about this one. Tell someone you know that she looks pretty today, and do not do it on the metro. I don't care who she is or what she looks like. She needs to hear it, so just spit it out already. I'll love you all the more for it, whether I find out you did it or not.

3. Let someone into that congested traffic lane today. And when they smile and wave back, or just blatantly ignore you, I'm sure I'll somehow feel the karmic waves of that kind act.

4. Listen to someone's story without formulating one of your own in response. Just listen, take in what they have to say. This really is a gift to me, because I love it when people listen to me. Even when I've got nothing very important to say, I love to be listened to. I heard this line on a movie yesterday "Every voice counts". And it's corny and weird and I don't care. Every voice counts, so listen. I'll be grateful, I promise.

5. Thank a former teacher. Because they probably helped make you who you are today, and you were probably a brat to them at some point, and they deserve to know that all that hard work and the will power it took not to smack you upside the head paid off. I know. I've left a long line of weary, annoyed, nearly-homicidal teachers in my wake, and I'm super grateful they didn't smack me as often as I deserved it.

6. Give up your seat to another passenger today. So you're tired and you've had a long day? Awesome, you can totally relate to every other person on the train. Also, try not to discriminate based on gender when giving up a seat. Men and women both have long days and tired feet. Be an equal opportunity hero, for me?

7. Tell your mother how awesome she is. Because it's true. She's awesome. I know it, you know it, so go make sure she knows it. No, your mom isn't as unstoppably phantasmagorically fantabulous as my mom is, but then my mom is a special case. That doesn't mean yours isn't totally lovely as well.

8. Be good to you. I'm glad you are alive. I'm super glad you are alive. And you are too, most of the time. So be good to you, as a gift to me. I'll pay you back in kind.

9. Say something nice about a politician. I don't care which one. Republican, democrat, whatever. The point is, these people get a lot of mean things said to/at/about them. There is a karmic debt to politicians the size of the Grand Canyon out there. Do your part to even the score, and just be nice for once. You can get back to your regularly scheduled heckling and complaining tomorrow.

10. Talk to God. He misses you. I know, because He told me so. That's right, I'm the crazy girl who talks to God on the metro. And He left a message for you:
Pick up the phone, you little punk. I'm calling.

With lots of cheesy, corny, mushy love from every fiber of my Christmas-ed out hippy self.
Cathlin

Creep-tastic and How!

2009-11-30T07:41:00.000-08:00

There are some unwritten but pretty crucial rules to riding the metro. I'm fairly certain I haven't learned them all yet, but I hold to the ones I have learned. I've come to appreciate the boundaries firmly established by unwritten rules of mass-transit. Things like, if you are standing by the door of a crowded train when it stops, even if it's not your stop, step out to let others off and then come right back in. You don't need to ask to sit next to someone, just take the empty seat and try not to elbow them in the process. Excessive eye-contact is inappropriate, in fact any eye-contact is inappropriate but we forgive each other brief glances as long as we look away fast. Most importantly, though, the most important rule of the metro is to simply NOT be a CREEP. Simple, right? Wrong. Apparently, at least for some people, this is a real challenge.

There was no free seat. Which is fine, because there rarely is a free seat when I'm running late as I was that day. So I stood, leaning against the side of the train, my iPod gently pouring Aaron Copeland into my ears while I drifted in and out of full consciousness. That's what I love about mass transit: you don't have to be awake to get to work. And generally, I take advantage of that fact pretty well. This day, though, something kept me semi-alert. Honestly, there is no reason for that guy to be staring at me so much. He has now surpassed the "look away fast" limit and is boldly venturing into territory reserved only for the mentally handicapped and the extremely creepy. Folks, this could get ugly.

But, you know, it's kind of a crowded train, so I just move a bit. Put some people between us and relax again, let my consciousness wander into....wait, what the heck? did he just move too? Really? He feels so compelled to stare at a semi-conscious fellow traveler that he gets out of his seat? Code orange, people, we have a code orange.

And now I'm kinda cranky, because this is officially encroaching on my nap time. I take my commute seriously, I love that extra 45 minutes of shut eye. And this jerk is about find out just what 6'1" of pissed off post-India Cathlin looks like. I'll give you a hint: she isn't cuddly.

Luckily for him, he's sane enough not to try to get any closer. He's just standing there, staring at me. Like a total nut job. And I'm thinking: How PC is it to kick a man in a train in America? Because it totally made my day in India.

"This is Foggy Bottom, George Washington University, doors opening on the left." Perfect. See you later, crazy face, this is my stop and I'm taking it. But I must have smushed a whole colony of ants in a past life because Karma obviously has it in for me. I get like ten steps from the train before I feel his hand on my shoulder and hear his voice saying "Good morning! It is so nice to see you today!".

Stop. Turn. Utilize full height. Glare. "Do I know you?"

"You have made this day beautiful because you are beautiful. Goodbye beautiful!" And he's gone.

What the WHAT? Listen buddy, I don't know what you're smoking, but at 7:45am I don't even make my own day beautiful, let alone anyone else's. Whatever though, he's gone and I'm late for work. I'll just log that away under "Could have been so much worse". Because, of course, it does get worse.

Ironically, there is a seat open the next time. And when providence hands you an open seat on the metro, you take it. The iPod is in, the train is gently rocking, eyes are closed, and we're off to dream land. Or we would be, if friendly passenger next to me would stop poking me. Ok fine, he's probably new and wants to know how to get to the Lincoln Memorial or something. So I open my eyes and glance at him, quirking an eyebrow to communicate "Can I help you?" because, honestly, it's not even 8am and I haven't got the energy for complete sentences yet.

"Can I show you something?" he says. And he tilts his iPhone toward me. And there on that otherwise harmless device he has so cleverly written

You have beautiful eyes. Please don't close them.

Oh, brother! Really? Did I have to sit next to a serial killer today? Look, I know you probably have a set time frame and all, but I'm kind of busy today. Could we reschedule the rape and murder thing for another time? Cuz today just doesn't work for me.

And honestly, that was my internal reaction. Not creeped out. Not scared. Just annoyed at the prospect of being killed on a Tuesday. Because, obviously that's what's going to happen. That's what always happens. I've read the books people. I know these things.

On the outside I only really have the energy to say "Ugg, I'm tired. Just back off okay?" And then I put my earbuds back in and close my "beautiful eyes" because it's 7:43 in the morning and I'M TIRED!

But, as previously established, he's crazy. So he taps me again. This time he wants to talk to me about what I do here, how long I've lived in DC. And I'm SO not into conversations with serial killers. That doesn't seem to bother him though. When I don't answer he just guesses. And then he tells me all about himself too, because obviously the girl who is leaning away from you, cranking up the volume on her mp3 player, and looking the other way REALLY wants to hear about it. He graduated from GW, (where he obviously got a minor in creepy public transit come-ons). And now he works at the World Bank, when he isn't annoying innocent commuters that is.

But then he makes a tactical error. He asks me the one question you should never ask someone like me.

"What is your religion?"

That, my friend, was a serious mistake. See, he thinks asking a question like that will either draw me out (because religion is a safe topic right?) or push the creep out level to whole new heights. Little does he know. Now we are entering my territory, buddy. Because when it comes to religion I'm really good at creepy. Really, really creepy. Prepare to be creeped out. My veins quickly fill with the adrenaline of a hardened RM, I can feel my fingers slide into the "I really care about your soul" position, and I let my face radiate the scary "I've got your answer right here" look that turns even strong stomachs and closes even the politest doors. You asked for it, buddy, and here it comes.

I. Am. Mormon.

That's right! Those crazy, polygamist, Jo Smith worshiping, magic panties wearing FREAK SHOWS? Those are my peeps! Do you wanna hear about it? Do ya? Cuz I'll tell you, dude, I'll tell you.

And he murmurs something about Mitt Romney, but there is no way I'm giving him the upper hand now. I've got my "Won't you try my jello salad?" smile pasted firmly on my face and I WILL launch into the first discussion, pal. You want that in English or Spanish? Cuz I can do both, buddy. And if you don't shut it down, I so totally will.

And you know what? At that point he suddenly realized he had to get off the train sooner. Huh. Bummer. I was about to open with a Hymn. I'll just file that under "Reasons I'm glad my religion is freak-tastic".

But they always come in threes, don't they?

The bus is rapidly surpassing the train as my favorite part of the commute. For starters, I always get a seat on the bus. For another, the seats are more comfortable and therefore more conducive to the main purpose of my morning travel time: snoozing. And boy, can I sure snooze on a bus.

So the bus comes as per usual, and I climb aboard as per usual. I flash a weak smile at the same bus driver I see every AM at about this time, swipe my metro-card, and head for the back of the bus where I'll get more leg room. I'm about two rows from my usual seat when he gets my attention. He's seated on a row by himself, grinning at me and waving his arms. I can't be sure what he said to me just then, I silence my iPod for no man at this hour of the day. So I just glance at him to let him know I heard him, give him a chance to realize I'm not whatever girl he is mistaking me for, and convey the "not gonna happen, loser" impression that is now the crux of any interaction between us. Just to be on the safe side, I sit as far to the back as I can and put my bags on the seat next to me, blocking me off from all human interaction for the next 15 min. I love people, I really do. After about 8:30am I totally love them. Before that, well, let's just say I prefer to pretend they don't exist.

And of course, he gets up and switches seats so now he's sitting directly across from me. Awesome.

But I'm ignoring him, of course. Blocked off from all sights and sounds I'm determined to get that extra 15 minutes of sleep this morning, so help me. That's about when he started trying to kick my foot. I caught it out of the corner of my eyes that were almost but not quite fully closed. Ok, simple, I'll just tuck my feet under my seat and out of his reach. Fine, whatever, let me sleep.

And then I feel his hand on my leg.

WHAT THE FRACK YOU TOTAL PSYCOPATH?! So of course I jerk violently, open my eyes, and proceed to suck the life out of him with my homicidal glare. I officially hate this man. I don't know him, I don't want to know him. But I hate him. Oh, do I hate him.

And he chuckles awkwardly, sitting back again, unsure of how to proceed now that I look less like a drowsy commuter and more like an Amazon out for blood. Yep, it's official. He's a dead man.

Or he would be, if it weren't for the other passengers. We've just reached the busiest stop on the route and four more people climb aboard and fill in the seats around crazy-dead-man and I. One woman casually sits down next to him, opens a paper, and crosses her legs. I don't know if she did it on purpose or not, but she just totally cut off his visual of me. I official love this woman. I don't know her, I don't want to know her. But I love her.

Only a few more stops and we reach the train station where I'll transfer to the orange line on the last leg of my daily commute. When the bus stops I get up quickly, gathering my things and moving away without looking in the general direction of loser-face again. But there is a pause between the songs in my iPod and I hear him as I step down off the bus.

"Goodbye Beautiful!"

Seriously, the next time some dude calls me beautiful, I'm going to vomit on his shoes.

See you in the sub-continent!

2009-11-18T13:37:00.000-08:00

I wrote a post yesterday listing reasons I want to be back in India right now. It was satirical and a bit much for this blog, so I posted it on my other blog instead. Still, since this is the India blog, I feel I should include some version here. So, here are some things I miss about India. Some of them I miss a little, some of them I miss a lot. Some of them, I ache for.

1. Jasmine in my hair. Oh, how I miss having fresh flowers in my hair! I still use a sort of coconut-oil in my hair now (no really, I do. the humidity in VA totally warrants it), but still I miss the way the cool blossoms would sometimes fall to the side of my braid and brush against my neck. I miss the moments when a breeze would catch me from the side and envelope me in the smell of fresh flowers hanging from my own hair. There was something so feminine about wearing jasmine. It totally made up for the sweat and dust and gunny-sacks for clothing.

2. Gunnysack clothing. Ah the churdidars! No, they were not a great fit for my figure (obviously whoever invented them was totally flat chested and had no hips), but oh were they comfortable! It was like wearing pajamas all day. Especially the 100% cotton ones. Also, I could get away with so much more color in my wardrobe in India. I was actually pretty conservative there, and in retrospect I wish I would have purchased more flamboyant churdidar sets. Something in bright orange with green stripes. Yeah. Only in India.

3. Temples. Do I really need to explain this one? Is there anyone out there who doesn't understand the desire to sit in holy places? Religion is my drug of choice, any brand, any time.

4. Me. I miss me in India. I miss the way I could look at myself and think "Hey Cathlin, let's go have an adventure, eh? Cuz you're awesome. So. Totally. Amazing." And I meant it. I loved me. I loved the tan-lines on my feet that looked so white it was cartoonish, my crooked fingers, my hiccup-laugh, my witch hair. I loved it all, accepted it all, lived in it all. I've lost that, somehow. Amidst all the hot showers and clean sheets I've lost the joy of being me.

5. Fear. It's been a long time since I've seriously thought "So this is how it ends for me?" and I miss that. I miss walking through the jungle alone at night, on my way home from an interview, trying not to jump at every sound, seeing mad elephants and evil cobras in every shadow, not looking down for signs of the scorpions I would later see smashed on the road in daylight. Riding home on the back of a motorcycle with a total stranger, unable to hold onto anything for support (It's totally not PC to hold on to a strange man, no matter how fast he is driving). The sinking feeling that comes when I realize I'm totally alone and suddenly, totally lost.

6. Maaza! Ah, Maaza! You were the very nectar of the gods for me. How many gallons of your sweet mango flavored glory did I wallow in on the hard days, revel in on the good ones? Want to know the secret to my heart? Find me a way to get Maaza in the states. Seriously. I'll totally have your children in return.

7. Faces. So many faces. It is neither easier nor harder to love people when you don't speak the same language. "My name is? My name is?" "Which Country!?!" "You...Obama!!!" Yes. Me, Obama.

8. Rickshaw rides. Because, really, when it comes to near-death experiences, nothing beats the fun of an auto rickshaw in rush-hour.

9. Michael Moments. I can't really think of a better name for the type of experience I'm thinking of. Those times when it hits you, suddenly, that you are in India. You are standing in a bus thronged with total strangers with Tamil songs blasting over the speakers and your translator holding your hand, grinning at your wide-eyed excitement. You have three colors of powder caked on your forehead, your feet are so dirty they look like you are wearing gray-brown socks. You are plastered against five different women, the smell of incense, spices, fruit, and other human beings bombards you from every side shouting "INDIA INDIA INDIA" until you are no longer sure where India ends and you begin. I haven't explained that well. I can't. You really want to know? Come visit me in India. I'll be there in 2011.

Oh, and if you are in the mood for some ubber-sarcastic Cathlin, I'm giving in to my inner demons and posting that original rant here. Warning: Contains inappropriate references and high levels of man-hating sarcasm. In other words, if you don't know me well and love me, don't read the following.

I'm going back to India. Here's why:
1. I don't have to worry about dating in India. What's that you say? I don't have to worry about dating in America either? Shut up and get off my blog. Of course I frigging do. I'm Mormon. I go to a singles ward. The universe will open up and swallow me whole if I don't. Also my sister will keep badgering me about my ovaries if I don't put forth a minimal effort. Seriously. I'd do almost anything to avoid another ovaries chat. I'd even date. But in India, I have more important things to talk about with my family. Like my chances of survival. So yeah, I'm going back to India. Leave my ovaries out of it.
2. Americans are stupid. Don't get me wrong, Indians are stupid too. I just don't identify with Indians. It's less embarrassing for me. I hate Americans. And people. "There is not a bus big enough to run over all of the people that I hate."
3. Idly with chutney. I could totally go for some fermented rice cakes with unbearably hot sauce in the morning. Love myself some early morning indigestion. This morning I ate yet another bowl of boring Special K. Which was awesome, because I pretty much love Special K. What's my point, you ask? What's your point? Did I not just tell you to shut up and get off my blog?
4. Temples. I miss worshiping a woman. I really do. Not that I ever really worshiped her, in fact, a lot of the time I had to have a little prayer first just to let God know He had no reason to be jealous. "I'm just here for the food! I swear!" Plus, the food totally sucked. And I had no idea what anyone was saying to me. But there was less guilt, you know? Like, they could tell me to repent and start dating all they wanted and I'd have no idea what they were talking about. Ovary chats are so much easier to deal with in Tamil, you know?
5. Kicking people. I really miss the opportunity to kick some dude. Granted, it only happened just the once, but still. It rocked. I would totally kick another jerk-melon right now. Also, the melons in India were awesome. Awesome as in they inspired me with awe and disgust. Jackfruit melon? Yeah, pretty sure that came from another planet. A smelly, over-ripe planet where people are stupid but you get to kick them so it's okay. That is why I frigging love Jackfruit.
6. Sweet milk. I hate sweet milk. Sweet milk makes me want to cut out my own tongue and poke my eye out with it. And if I didn't have a tongue or an eye, I'd totally sue some jerk-melon and get a huge settlement for it. Then I'd kick him, and steal his jackfruit.
7. This post would make sense if I were in India.
8. Shut up and get off my blog.

Srsly.

Amateur American

2009-11-10T06:27:00.000-08:00

I walk blisters onto my feet on my lunch breaks. I can't help it, I need to get to know this city. It hurts, and I should probably remember to bring better walking shoes more often. Still, I need to meet this city, because this is my city now. This is my city.

Washington DC is so fake it's real. Everything about this place is contrived, the architecture, the spacial relations between monuments, the sidewalks. And it's pretty effective too. I defy even the most cynical citizen to spend a few days here and not get at least a little shaken up by our heritage, our mission, our country! On the flip side, I defy even the heartiest of patriots to spend more than a few weeks here and not start to wonder what it is we've been playing at all these years. That's how it works though. DC overpowers you with monuments, museums, visions! And for a little while, that's all you see. The obelisk, Lincoln's Temple, the timeless dome of the Capital. And it seems so much bigger than you. It seems so old, so grounded. So very very real.

Except it isn't real. None of it is. It isn't even very old.

This country was not built by superhuman geniuses. It was built by farmers who didn't like paying overseas taxes. We are held together by geography and a shared story, one we make up a little more with each generation that passes. What is the American Dream, anyway?

Doesn't everybody dream?

Washington had several sets of teeth, made from wood, ivory, and mostly the teeth of other animals.

Jefferson made his own version of the bible, cutting out large sections of the New Testament, mostly anything that talked about Jesus' miracles. He didn't think those parts were true.

Hamilton, who lead one of the original political parties in this nation, wanted to run this country on a loose interpretation of the constitution. I guess since he helped write it, he didn't labor under the impression that its authors were gods. Or maybe he did. They say he had a big ego.

Madison stood 5'4" and never weighed more than 100 pounds.

Franklin lived in sin with a married woman and believed Christianity was a good idea but ultimately corrupted and untrue.

Ok, ok, I'll stop. Please don't sick Glenn Beck on me.

The point is, I love this city! I love that it's wrapped in its own hypocrisy, wearing it proudly like a mink coat in June. And I love that despite that, so many people are still trying to do good here. They still believe they can make the world a better place, that DC is a seat of real power that can be used to change the world for good. They are the right wing looneys looking to save family values. They are the left wing nut-jobs fighting for human rights and environmental responsibility. They are Americans. We are Americans.

I'm not a democrat. I feel I should let you all know this before you conservative pundits grab your torches and pitchforks. And now, before my liberal friends whisk out their superiority complexes I'd better be sure to confirm that I am also not a republican. I'm an independent. A proud leaner neither this way not that. A fence sitter. A spectator. An American.

But I live in Washington DC, with "tea baggers" (seriously people, get a better name already. You're grossing me out.) fighting for what they believe in, or what someone else believes in, or just fighting because they can. They think they are more American than you and me. Who knows? Maybe they are.

I live here with disgruntled liberals mumbling about change, transparency, and corruption. They are so used to being the underdogs at the political table that now, even with a filibuster proof majority, they play martyr as though it were an Olympic sport. They chant "Change" like a Sanskrit mantra that has lost all meaning. Who knows? Maybe it has.

And yet, I believe in this city. I believe in its whitewashed walls and reinvented history. I believe that every once in a while, something slips out and affects the world for the better. I believe that a group of farmers and amateur philosophers built a nation on nothing, and it's still standing. It's battle torn, lop sided, and completely unlike this perfectly planned out capital city, but it's still standing.
One nation.
Under God.
Indivisible.
With liberty and justice for all.

What do you mean this year doesn't exist?

2009-11-08T18:39:00.001-08:00

I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not supposed to be doing these things. I'm not this person. But, since my real life can't start again until I go back to school next year, let's have a little fun while we wait, shall we?

First off, a quick catch up on what's gone on since India. I think the most important thing that happened is that I survived, made it home, and didn't bring any uninvited microscopic guests with me. Overall, I call that success.

Then there was my thesis. I wrote it, it rocked, it's over. Please don't make me relive that in blog form!

Then, I applied to exactly one grad program. I've always been pretty certain of what I want in life, so I really didn't see the need to apply to any safety schools. Luckily, the University of Edinburgh didn't disappoint. Given my research as an undergrad, they admitted me to the PhD program without a master's degree. Or in other words: Suck it monkeys, who you callin' small town?

Then I graduated. Wait no, that sentence was far too straightforward to describe my graduation day. Let's try that again:

I never intended to walk at graduation. Why would I? I went to the largest college on campus (whose name will not appear here because I consider it inaccurate and a total misrepresentation of most of the departments that comprise it). Besides, I had a ticket to DC and no immediate responsibilities. Then, approximately a week before I was to fly to DC (having finished my last .5 credits of "wellness" via independent study), I got a very unexpected phone call. It would appear that I had been nominated and elected Valedictorian of the Anthropology Department. Yep. That's right. Wait for it...wait for it...

SUCK IT MONKEYS!!!

And then I figured maybe I'd be nice and accept the honor and walk with my peeps. (hello peeps!) However, apparently American Airlines had other plans for my graduation day. Specifically, they thought it would be much cooler to strand me in Phoenix. Now I know what you're thinking: Oh dear, poor Cathlin! She's so soft spoken and shy, there is no way she was able to fight her way onto another flight! She must have missed her graduation after all! Poor little thing! (If you seriously think I'm that kind of pansy, we need to talk. Call me.)

Of course I got home in time. American Airlines doesn't like to switch passengers onto other airlines, but they will. Thank you Delta, by the way, for getting me to SLC exactly one hour before I was supposed to be in my seat on the stand, in front of thousands of complete strangers and several extremely important non-strangers. (PS, If you are one of the rock stars who came to my graduation, THANK YOU! You rock my planet, you really do.) Luckily, my supa-fly big sister was at the airport, waiting to drive like a mad woman for Provo. Unluckily, I didn't have time to grab my luggage. I had planned to wear my wine-colored dress under my graduation robes, but I think providence had a better idea. So I led the Valedictorians onto the stage in black pants and curly-toed Punjabi shoes. And really, why would I wear a dress to graduation? I wear the pants in this relationship, and we all know it.

Oh, and did I mention I had whooping-cough for my graduation? Yeah, trying not to cough up a lung while Elder Christopherson congratulates me on my achievements, ahh the memories. But I did it. I looked that whooping cough dead in the eyes and I said: "Not on my watch, beotch." Did you know Elder Christopherson served in the same mission as me? Yeah, we're tight.

And for the short version again: I graduated.

Suddenly, however, at the prospect of going right back to school mere weeks after finishing the-paper-that-almost-did-me-in (aka my thesis) I grew faint and began to see spots. In another stroke of luck, my awesome future PhD supervisor was totally fine with my plan to defer my enrollment for a year. I now have an official start date of Oct 10, 2010. And so it happens that I earned my self a year of free time. A year to live someone else's life. A year that doesn't exist.

I've decided to use this year to explore what it would be like not to be me. Already I've done several non-Cathlin things.

I nannied for a few weeks, and am happy to say the kids and I all survived (didn't they Gloria?)

I spent all the money in my bank account...on purpose. Normally, knowing that I had no job would have stopped me from flying around the country, from Utah to DC to New York to Utah to Phoenix (on purpose that time, hi John and Cammie!) to Las Vegas (hi Hillary!) to Utah to DISNEYLAND (Hi mommy!) to Utah to Seattle (Hi Gloria, hi ocean!) and eventually back to DC. Was it scary using all the money I had saved? Of course. Do I regret it? H to the no.

I went to the American Idol's Live tour, and screamed my voice to shreds for Adam Lambert. I knew how he flew on Idol, but I really hadn't expected him to go so..."Village People" on tour. But as Heather aptly put it, Adam's performance seemed to proudly declare "I'm here, I'm queer, and now I'm gonna dance." And oh, did he dance. That man could be gayer than the volleyball scene of top gun, and I'd still scream till my ears ring for him. And come to think of it, I pretty much did.

I sold my car. That's right, for the first time since I was approximately 12 years old, I am without my own car. I find it simultaneously liberating and confining. But the metro and I are growing on each other, I think. In fact, look for future posts about the anthropology of metro riding. I do love knowing I'm living a greener life without a car. I'm actively looking for other ways to decrease my carbon foot print, so if you have any ideas please share!

Oh, and I got a job. Now, that in itself is not a particularly strange thing for Cathlin to do, I know. And I kind of failed this step in the "live someone else's life" plan. You see, I'm supposed to be working at Borders, or Barnes & Noble, or Pottery Barn. But, we are living in a recession. So, I take what I can get, and if that means I have to work as a research assistant at a non-profit working to improve the public education program, well, then, I guess I'll take it. But it is a little closer to my real life chosen field than I had anticipated. Also, they told me there was no possibility for promotion when I took the job. Why, then, did they just promote me? Never fear, though. They can hand me the key to the company squash room, and it will have no impact on my long term PhD goals. This is, after all, the year that doesn't exist.

Future plans for the year that doesn't exist include (but are not limited to):

Learning to fence. (My class starts in January)
Learning to Tango. (I already found a club, just looking for the time)
Unleashing my sarcasm whenever I friggin want to. (You think I already do that? Boy, are you in for a surprise.)
Striking up conversations with total strangers in elevators, trains, and on street corners. (Freaky much? Bring it.)
Utilizing the power of parenthesis more often. (Like this!)

But what do you think? What things should I try in this non-year of my life? What are some things you would never expect Cathlin (or Jen, or Jenni, depending on how you know me) to do? Let me know, but I'm warning you: I just might do them!

I'm baaaack

2009-11-08T08:27:00.000-08:00

I know I promised several of you that I would keep this blog running post-India, and I know it's been about a year since my last post. So, let's just agree to forgive me and move on, shall we?

Meanwhile, welcome to the Year That Didn't Happen! I'll be trying many new and exciting things this year, and generally being a whole different person while I wait for my life to resume on Oct 10th of next year (yes, that is my official start date at Edinburgh). Check back for my first post as a girl living someone else's life later this week. In the interim, however, here are some videos I never got to post while in India. Enjoy!

(And aftr much tribulation, behold, I did find success in uploading the videos.)

Siks Are Rad (or Ten Reasons I Would Marry a Pujabi Man in a Heartbeat)

2008-08-10T08:59:00.000-07:00

Warning: The following post is politically incorrect and contains descriptions and opinions that objectify men in the worst possibly way. Unless you are in a good mood, fellas, you might want to skip over this particular entry.

Tall men? Awesome shoes? A temple covered in gold? Welcome to the Punjab girls. Hold on to your religious beliefs, it's gonna be a wild ride. I've had my fair share of come-ons and creepy encounters with Indian men while on this journey, enough to make me loath the idea of having to have a solo conversation with a man while here. But then I got to the Punjab.

Until you've been here and seen it, you probably won't understand it. But trust me girls, there is nothing sexier than a man in a turban. Except, maybe, a man with a turban and a sword. Dead sexy girls. No joke. Why? I have no idea. Even when the turban is bright pink and three times the size of his head, a Sikh man manages to make that thing look manlier than chain mail in the middle ages. You think I'm joking but no, I'm totally serious. Punjabi + Turban = Dead Frigging Sexy.
Altitude. True, I have spent the last few months in Tamil Nadu where the average height is around the level of my waist. But even in the states I find it very difficult to find men who are significantly taller than me. Not here though. Here, walking through the temple complex, I pass more men who are taller than me than men who are shorter by far and away. The other day I met a charming Sikh man with a black turban and a height of no less than seven feet in the temple. I usually say I'm married whenever I feel the situation is leaning toward awkward hit-on moment. But this time it was really, really, really hard to say yes when he asked me if I was married. Really hard. So hard that I'm pretty sure he saw through the lie the second it left my lips. He still asked for my number. Did I give it to him? No. But only because I drew upon superhuman amounts of self restraint.
Devotion. Amritsar is home to the Golden Temple where the Guru Granth Sahib (Sikh's holy book of scripture) is housed, and this means that most of the Sikh men I meet here are devout worshipers, trying to live a good life. They wear the five symbols of Sikh devotion: the metal bracelet that symbolizes the eternal cycle of rebirths from which we all seek release, the long hair and uncut beard (wrapped in those fabulous turbans, see point one again just for the fun of it) which symbolize a harmony with the laws of nature and help with meditation, the small dagger at their side which, though dull, is meant to represent willingness to fight for the truth, the comb (hidden in the fantastic turban, repeat step #1 one more time, you know you want to) which is a symbol of cleanliness in all aspects of life, and the unseen but very interesting holy undergarments (sound familiar anyone?) which remind one to remain pure in life (again, ringing any bells?). No liquor, no meat. Living a pure religious life is a tough road for a Sikh. Is it any wonder that I find a man who tries to live up to those high standards devastatingly attractive????
Interactions with families. I spent most of my time here people watching in the temple complex and have loved seeing more men carrying children than women carrying children. This is partially a reaction to the strict divide between men and women in Hinduism which has played such a role in my experience here. That divide does not exist for Sikhs. Men and women circumambulate the temple together, side by side. She doesn't walk one step behind him and he doesn't ignore the fact that she is struggling with three children. They walk together, and he carries his daughter or son. He is proud of his family, he loves them, he is a part of them. I took a photo of a large older man with an even larger white turban, bending down slightly as he walked so he could hold his granddaughter's hand and hear her speak while they walked together. You don't see that everywhere in India, but you see it here. Men who love their families. Again, dead sexy.
The Dancing. You know in those Bollywood movies when, suddenly and completely without context, all the men start dancing together with these really fantastic athletic moves? Well, imagine you're just sitting at Pizza Hut with a few of your girlfriends, you know, a girls' night out. And you're half way through the second pizza when your waiter (who, by the way, is about 6'6” and absolutely gorgeous with an apron on his hips that proclaims “Full Punjabi”, which could refer to the Pizza but more likely to him) turns off the corny American music and announces that for your viewing pleasure he and all the other fantastic “Full Punjabi” waiters are going to dance for you. Suddenly the room is filled with the heavy beat of a Punjabi mix and a line of six men in Pizza Hut uniforms is performing those same fabulous Bollywood moves right there in the restaurant. Oh yes, that really happened to us. Don't you worry; we got a video of it.
Weaponry. As previously mentioned, carrying a dagger is a part of everyday Sikh life. Now, that's pretty rad and, all don't get me wrong. What is even more rad, though, is the fact that even today an integral part of a Sikh wedding is when the groom arrives...on a horse...with a sword. Don't lie girls. You know deep down a part of you is still hoping for that “knight in shining armor” to show up. Well, maybe if you moved to the Punjab he would. Only he'd ditch the armor and get an even more attractive turban to go with his curving, beautiful, and very masculine sword. (Don't worry, mom. I am coming home anyway...I think.)
Mostly, though, I think the real reason I find Sikh men so attractive is that they are secure in their masculinity. They know they are men. They don't need to be reassured of it everyday; they know it. And they don't need to make women feel like cheap trash in order to prove it to themselves. So, basically, if you marry a Sikh man you can guarantee that you won't have to spend your entire married life reassuring him that he is a man. He knows it, and you can therefore feel free to be a woman without fear that your femininity will threaten his masculine insecurities. Or, in other words, sorry LDS RMs. You've been upstaged. By a long shot. I hope we can still be friends. (Yes, I just broke up with the entire single, post mission, male LDS community. It's not you, it's me.)
The shoes. No, not the ones the men wear. The ones that I wear. You know how Princess Jasmine has those lovely shoes with the curly toes? Well, add a little glitter and a lot more pizzazz and you have Punjabi shoes. Or rather, I have Punjabi shoes. Seven pairs of them. And if I opted to settle down here my love affair with north Indian footwear wouldn't have to end there, would it? So basically, I'm also breaking up with Payless.
The pants. Along with her excellent taste in shoes, haven't you also envied Princess Jasmine her ability to wear huge puffy pants and get away with it? Yeah, me too. They are all the rage in women's fashion here, though. Various styles: smaller up on top and poofy at the bottom, flowing all the way down with a sort of layered look on the back side, smaller poof at the bottom with a fantastic matching shawl. They work with almost any figure, including the invert-o-bum I inherited from my grandfather. One more reason to marry a man who can keep me close to the shopping scene in Amritsar.
This one would take a lot longer to fully describe than I can do justice to here, so if you really want to know you'll have to ask me about it when (if??) I go home. Punjabi man+turban+soldier's uniform+7'2” tall+Pakistani border closing ceremony= me coming as close as I ever will come to jumping a man.

And that's all I'm going to say about that.

2008-07-31T22:57:00.000-07:00

Me at the Golden Temple, head covered in respectful piety. Sikhs doing the walk around the temple, check out those turbans! It's enough to make Aladin jealous. And a shot of the temple itself, yes, it really is that pretty!

Buddha's favorite hang out, Bodhgaya.

2008-07-31T22:35:00.000-07:00

Buddha, Tibentan style. Every wall of this temple is covered in painted carvings about his life. And the bodhi tree under which buddha was enlightened, complete with Burmese monk deep in meditation on his way to enlightenment. Om baby om.
The bodhi tree

Varanasi, photographic evidence that I survived it.

2008-07-31T22:13:00.000-07:00

a group of bathers fresh from mother Ganga, and a view of the holy river from my hotel balcony. the burning ghat is on the other side of that tower.

Where God Is, and Where God Isn't

2008-07-28T00:17:00.000-07:00

A few thousand years ago there lived a prince named Siddhartha who sat down under a bodhy tree to meditate. Sometime later, under that same tree, he attained enlightenment and people started calling him Buddha. Maybe you've heard of him?

Anyway, a decendent of that bodhy tree still stands in the same plot of ground today, behind a temple dedicated to Buddha. And even though Buddhism is pretty much dead in India, it is still alive and well almost everywhere else in Asia. So there are monasteries from all those other countries here in this tiny town dedicated to Buddha's enlightement. That, I suppose, is why I am here: to learn something about Buddhism and meditation, about life and its purpose. About myself.

Someone once asked Michael where God is. His answer was “I dunno...everywhere?”. No. Wrong. God is not “everywhere”. God is in YOU. Or, at least that is what the Tibetan master told him. And when the master told him that, Michael had a flash back to when he was a five year old boy in the suburbs of LA and he fell down in the street. There was a moment, very short, when he was neither standing nor falling but just hanging in the air. And now Michael realized “Oh my gosh, nothing has changed.” He saw, in that strange experience, that there is some part of him that is unchanging, some small bit of awareness in him that is not just a reaction to the world around him. Something constant, something more real than the street onto which he fell. Something Divine.

And so, a few decades later, he is in India trying to understand that divine something that, even now, is unchanged within him. He has been searching in ashrams and meditation retreats in Nepal, India, and Tibet for about eighteen years now. He looks like it, too. He has one of those long, scraggly, mostly gray beards hanging off his face. His long hair is coiled into a bun at the point of his head (which, if we are honest, kind of makes him look like a small animal pooped up there). He wears all white, very simple, with a strand of wooden prayer beads around his neck. When I met him he was sitting next to the afore mentioned bodhy tree, legs crossed in 'lotus position', smiling at the universe in general.

Nearly twenty years in India is a long time. Four months in India is a long time, so I can hardly blame him for being a little “spacey” after eighteen years here. But I thought I would share a few of the things he told me as we sat together in the shade of that ancient temple and sacred tree, contemplating the meaning of life and who exactly was this Buddha figure

There is no “you” there is no “me”. Seeing a definition between self and other is the root of all suffering. We must eliminate suffering by eliminating the self.

When meditating, let your mind lose all distraction until you reach the center of awareness. The mind is like a monkey, continually jumping from branch to branch. The purpose of meditation is to let that all go and reach to real awareness, beyond self and time.

Let your heart shine within you. Let it radiate compassion until everyone around you can feel it and see it in you. Sometimes at night, you wake up and you can't sleep. Let your heart radiate compassion in those moments. Compassion is the expression of wisdom.

Some try to live their lives in avoidance, renouncing the world by not taking part in it. Others live through the world and renounce it by not becoming attached to it. The former will ultimately spend too much time dreaming of the world they have renounced. The later plays with fire, but at least they know what the fire is and what the fire isn't. They do not dream of fire.

Michael told me a lot of other things in the hour and a half we spent together. But these are the things which I liked or disliked the most. So, having given you his ideas, let me explain my ideas about them.

I am me, you are you. We are not the same consciousness, awareness, soul, brahma, call it what you will. And because I am not you, I cannot control you. Sometimes I cannot even control myself. And there is suffering. But there is also joy. I take the suffering with the joy. I take you with me. I take it all. And it hurts, but it's worth it. I cannot be empty, so I will be full.

My mind is a monkey, or an FM radio without an off switch. I spent an hour doing “zazen” meditation at the Japanese monastery here the other day, and never did achieve real quietness of mind despite the gongs, drums, and mystical chanting going on around me. I did manage to redecorate my hotel room in my mind, though. And I had a good long chat with the gold plated statue of Buddha in front of me about inflation in the US. But as far as real meditation goes, it was not a success. But then there was that time in Coimbatore:
Once about a month ago, I was just at the bus stop in Coimbatore, the city near the village we lived in for two months. Busy people all around me, buses coming and going with horns blaring the whole time. The ubiquitous smell of over ripe fruit and urine mingling in my nostrils. Women in sarees, college aged girls in salwars, and men in doties and western slacks passing in rapid blurry succession. I was alone, going home after a long day in the city. I sat on the corner of a tiled waiting bench, knowing it would be about half an hour until bus 96 came blaring into the fray, oozing people like a fresh wound and taking them in again just as fluidly. So I sat, and for no particular reason closed my eyes. I think I intended to say some kind of prayer about getting home safely or something, but before I had even formed the prayer in my head it happened. As soon as my lids closed on the scene around me I was surrounded by the Spirit. As though God had been waiting for me to pay just enough attention to Him, just enough peace in my mind and WHOOSH there He was. Not shouting, not warning, nothing urgent or mind blowing. Just quiet knowledge that He exists, that He is there, and that He is intimately aware of my every thought and feeling.
It happened again by the bodhy tree with Michael yesterday. He started talking about meditation and, trying to be obliging, I closed my eyes. And that was all it took for something to open up inside of me, like a direct line to Heavenly Father. Again it was not a warning, it was not a spiritual confirmation of anything Michael had said. It was just there, like God just couldn't resist talking to me now that I was in a quiet moment. Not because He had anything particularly pressing to tell me at that moment, but just because He could. That's all. I was quiet and still and listening and He was just...there. Like this weird wordless conversation “Hello Jenny. I'm here. I see you. I love you more than your mind can possibly understand and want you to be happier than your imagination can possibly comprehend right now. Just thought I'd say Hi.” and my response “uhhhhhhhh, Hi?”
So if that's meditation, sign me up.

Yes, let your heart shine within you. Compassion is lovely. But, rather than “shining your heart” when you can't sleep at night, DO SOMETHING COMPASSIONATE. You know, love someone, see something divine not just in yourself but in others as well, give something, see a need and fill it. Our capacity to love, and love deeply on a personal level is not an attachment that draws us further from God. Our capacity to love comes directly from God, and embracing that makes us more like Him, not less.

I neither play with fire, nor dream of fire. So...I'm neither a closet pyromaniac nor covered in third degree burns. Where does that put me?

Overall, I like Buddhism for its emphasis on finding out who you really are outside of your reactions to the world around you. I like the idea that I am more than the sum total of my fears and wants, my likes and dislikes. I also like meditation, on a strange level, and I fully intend to work on that skill. I don't want Heavenly Father to have to raise His voice at all to get my attention, so I figure I'll give Him more quiet time. You know, I'll just shut up for an hour or two everyday and see if He has anything to fill the silence with. What I don't like about Buddhism has mostly to do with its view of relationships between people. And that's okay. I don't have to like every aspect of it. Which is another thing I've learned here: I don't have to like it.

Nightmare

2008-07-19T03:34:00.000-07:00

You know how when you think of India, only a part of you wants to go there? Well, imagine all the worst ideas you have about India. Think of all the reasons that, when you think of me here, you breath a sigh of relief and think "better her than me!". Okay, now times it by five.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Varanasi.
Ironically, Varanasi (or Benares, as it used to be called) is the holiest city in Hinduism. The city of Shiva with dozens of holy ghats descending into the magical, mystical, mythical River Ganga. Unfortunately, that river is also the dumping ground for 30 or more sewers, so basically it has a content of 1.5 million faecal bacteria for every 100ml of water. Oh, and did I mention the smell?
We all know that cows are holy creatures in India, and no where is that more apparent than in Varanasi where in the middle of a busy intersection with traffic whizzing in all directions a single mournful cow stands unmolested, calmly defecating as traffic swerves around it. Heidi has been clipped by rickshaws twice in two days now. But do the cows get hit? No, oh no. Not the cows. They don't even get honked at.
Getting to our hotel is like walking into a Tim Burton set, except there is no way out. This city is supposedly the oldest living city on earth, so it is not surprising that the roads closest to the river are narrow, winding, and utterly filthy. Vehicles are not allowed in this part of the city, and even if they were how they would fit down these alleys I don't know. But our little Hotel boasts riverside views, so we wander the darkened, pooh lined alleys to get here and back everyday. Since there are no maps which show all the winding alleys of old Varanasi we are left to our own navigational devices every time we step out the door. One moment you think you are walking away from the river, you feel sure that the next turn will bring you to a main road, and the next thing you know you are staring at yet another curving, smelly, dangerous alley that is just as likely to lead you back where you started as to get you out of here.
The sky is always overcast here. It lends this sort of eerie feeling to an already freaky city. It also means that the humidity is almost more than humanly bearable. The ground is wet, muddy, slick where old cobblestones have not been covered in mud, cowdung, or...other things. And because I know the statistics of the river, I'm terrified of all water here, imagining everything is covered in the same 1.5 million faecal bacteria.
To be fair, our hotel is the nicest one we've yet stayed in. Clean, well run, and with those famed "riverside views". I took advantage of the view the first day, and that was enough for me. Little boys swimming naked in the river, old men with shaved heads waist deep in devotion, monks chanting as they washed in the holy waters. Then I saw some of them gargle it. And even now, I wretch just to think of it.
Scindhia Ghat, where our hotel is located, is right next to one of the burning ghats. There are two such ghats where devout Hindus who were lucky enough to die in the city of Shiva are cremated and flung into the waiting arms of their "Great Mother" the Ganga. This means that continually, day and night, if I open my door I can smell the bonfires of human flesh.
If you die in Varanasi, according to Hindu belief, you will be released from the cycle of rebirth immediately. A shop owner with whom I spoke yesterday explained it to me like this: "As you live you have good things and bad things. These things stay with you and when you die God will ask you about it and punish you with a new birth. But if you die here, you go to heaven and God will not ask you any questions." And I guess I can see that. I mean, living in this city is probably more than enough punishment itself without any new births.
I wish I could tell you I've learned something deep and transcendent here, something about the relationship between life and death or human potential and frailty. The truth is, thus far, I have learned one thing.
When in Varanasi, try not to look down.

Sravanabelagola, Jainism

2008-07-17T22:46:00.000-07:00

These are all from Sravanabelagola, an ancient Jain pilgrimage site. Elephants walking around the base of a temple. Me walking the hall of a 2000+ year old temple, a Thirtankara statue in naked meditation, and me in slightly more modest meditation at the top of "big hill" where we climbed barefoot to see the temples. See the next post for what I learned here.

Where is your soul?

2008-07-17T22:39:00.000-07:00

We sit on the cool stone steps of the Bhandara Temple, in the shade of that two-thousand year old holy shrine. Eyes closed, body relaxed, I can hear the birds on the roof stir. Jwala's keeps her voice low, a practiced meditator and Jain devotee. Feel your feet. Now your ankles. Now your thighs. Now your hands. Your fingers. Now feel your hair. It is blowing in the breeze, can you feel it? Can you feel the color of your skin?
Yes. Yes I can. Wow, I can actually feel the color of my skin.
How is that possible? she asks as I open my eyes. I don't know. How is that possible? Where is your soul? she asks now. I touch my chest, over my heart. Yes, it is there, but it is not limited to your heart. Your soul, your athma, the divine spark that makes you who you are is everywhere. It is in your feet and your fingers, it is even in your hair and the color of your skin. And when you attain knowledge it is not in your mind. Knowledge is a part of your soul. And your pappa and punya, the good and bad that you do in your life, are carried with you on that soul. That athma is all throughout your body. It is chayathanyanaya: filled with light and energy.
India and I have a love hate relationship, our good and bad moments coming in rapid succession everyday. But one of the things I love about India is what it is teaching me about my body and its relationship to my soul. Up until this point I have spent my life taking my body for granted unless forced up against its limits. This means that for twenty four years my body has been either a non-entity or an enemy in my life. But India in all its heat and smells and overwhelming visions (good and bad) has taught me that my body is not a prison in which I am trapped or against which I fight. My body is the medium which I experience everything in my world. Before now my body has been the limitation and modern technology has supplied me with the tools, like air-conditioning, with which to fight it. But here, where my body is left to its own defenses, my body is my only tool. Today I hiked a sacred mountain in bare feet. My body and I are forced to live with each other here, and we have decided to join forces.
Bhahubali achieved enlightenment after meditating for a solid year. He stood still, focused entirely on the inner soul for so long that creeping vines mistook his limbs for trees. Now, thousands of years later this superhuman act of detachment from all things material is memorialized in a 58 foot nude statue. Nudity, in fact, is sort of a theme in Jainism, the religion we have come to this pilgrimage site to study. Everywhere you go another nude statue representing an enlightened and liberated soul stands meditating in eternal detachment. The result is that the human body itself has come to represent all that is most sacred in Jainism. The most important statues and idols in Jainism have no ornaments, no jewels or silks headdresses, nothing more than the simple perfection of the human body.
So much of my life has been spent fighting against my own body image, loathing it for its imperfections and flaws. Seeing my body only in terms of aesthetics, and that always negatively. Comparing it to what it is not, loathing it for what it cannot do. Maybe that is why, today as my chubby, wrinkled, beautiful friend tells me about my true soul, I can feel her words even in the color of my skin.
"No camera has ever matched the wonder of the human eye. No pump was ever built that could run so long and carry such heavy duty as the human heart. The ear and the brain constitute a miracle...These, with others of our parts and organs, represent the divine, omnipotent genius of God." Gordon B. Hinkley

Dumbo's Bigger, More Spiritual Cousin

2008-07-07T04:40:00.000-07:00

There are plenty of reasons to visit the Perur temple I suppose. One would be dovotion to Shiva, for whom the temple was built. Or maybe the age of the temple itself draws you, it is, after all, over 1300 years old. Or maybe its the stone work here where hundreds of pillars reaching up to 30 foot ceilings spiral down with intricate hand carved figures of animals, humans, and everything in between. And these are all legitimate reasons to visit the oldest, biggest, most important temple in Coimbatore. My own motivation, however, in making the trip is perhaps not so intellectual or spiritual or artistic. My own motivation is quite simple: the elephant.

But even it that weren't my reason for coming, I am pretty sure I would have reacted the same way as I did when I stepped into the long, cool, hall of the temple surrounded by 1300 year old sculptures and the sound of a Sanskrit chant echoing back to me from all directions. Because as impressive as all that was, He was better. there is something dignified in the movements of a creature so big, even from a distance. And move he does. He dances, really, to the beat of his own drum which has nothing to do with the recorded chant he must hear everyday as he stands in his post, taking donations and giving blessings. He sways smoothly from side to side, lifting his trunk first, then a back leg, then a front leg. Never still and yet his constant movement is more peaceful than the stillness of the rest of the temple. He is marked of course, three white lines on forehead, ears, legs, and trunk. the fact that this white powder is meant to represent the ashes of a cremated cow (which would have died of natural causes, obviously) strikes me as kind of ironic. Decorating one holy animal with the remains of another.

But as we walk past him all that magic dissipates as quickly as it came, because then I can see the chains. These huge, thick chains around both of his front legs and suddenly I'm not charmed anymore. I'm terrified. yeah sure, I'm a little afraid of the animal that would fit into such huge chains, but mostly I'm afraid of the man who put them there.

And I can't help feeling responsible, somehow, for the atrocities inflicted on that beautiful, graceful, and utterly melancholy animal. Because I came here to see him. I came here to put a rupee in his trunk, bow to him, and feel him rest his enormous trunk on my head for a few brief seconds. I came here so I could write to my friends and family about the day I saw an elephant up close and personal. And here I am, just as I wanted, watching the one of the most amazing creatures I've ever seen reduced to doing carnival tricks. And I step up for my turn, of course. I shakingly hold out my coin to him as he lifts his massive trunk and holds it, curving slightly, a few inches from my hand. I give him my ruppee, my measly two cents, and before I even think to incline my head I feel the weight of his trunk on the side of my head. Thump. Something between a gentle tap from him and what to me felt like a blow that knocked me a little sideways. There you go, transaction complete.

I step back a few paces and stand watching him as he follows the same routine for the family behind me. A ten year old girl held out a ruppee twice, having enjoyed the first thump enough to want a second. I try to catch his eye as he works, because I have this crazy idea that I'll find something there, some wisdom perhaps, some knowledge that, as an elephant, he never forgot. He doesn't look at me, though. He doesn't look anyone in the eye. He just goes on dancing his slow, sad dance and passing the rupees he collects to the skinny man at his side. And after a few minutes I give up. Whatever he remembers from his long holy life, he's not telling me. And why would he? After all, I came to the oldest temple in Coimbatore to see a trapped animal dance.

Om Shanti Om.

Paths to God

2008-06-23T04:21:00.000-07:00

It's just before rush hour in Coimbatore and I'm sitting sidesaddle on a motorcycle behind a man I have never met before in my life with everything I own strapped to my back and front. Don't ask me how I got here, it's not a pretty story. Somehow, though, even though I know I should be panicked and crying or praying or both, I'm almost choking with laughter as I cling for dear life with my one free hand as a bus full of Indian men passes within an inch of my knees. I should be heartbroken and scared and all alone but I'm not. I'm laughing, alive, and IN INDIA!!! for crying out loud. And while half of me is spinning in unexplained ecstasy the other half is thinking “so this is how it ends?”. I'm almost disappointed to be delivered so safely when my new found friend stops the bike and gestures at the hotel I was looking for a few minutes ago (and walking in entirely the wrong direction). Thanks motorcycle dude! Best of luck to you, crazy American girl!
The man behind the counter obviously thinks I'm a loose screw. But, given my appearance at that moment I don't entirely blame him. I mean, what kind of person walks into a hotel with a bulging backpack on her back, an equally bulging bookbag on their front, a purse around her neck, a “Lonely Planet” in one hand, hair that looks like it's been through rush hour on a motorcycle, and western style pants with a Salwar top and says “Hello!! Do you have a room?” with this weird accent that is somehow neither American nor Indian? I tell you who does that, I DO! And I mean it, you got a room? And he does, because despite the obvious fashion mistakes that seem to be dripping from me, I'm white and therefore have money and therefore “Welcome, madam. How many days will you be staying?”
The bell boy (who is neither a bell nor a boy) is considerably more enthusiastic about getting me into the hotel. He speaks English with that awesome I-learned-this-phrase-from-a-British-tourist kind of way and is absolutely charmed to meet an American girl traveling alone in one of the least touristy cities in South India. He gets me to my room and makes sure I know that to ring him all I have to do is press 007. No joke, this man's extension is the code name of the word's favorite licenced killer. He asks if I would like any coffee or tea and I ask for mineral water, “Shaken, not stirred”.
Then a few minutes later I am back on the street, looking little less like a pack mule with only a small bag over my shoulder. The autorickshaw drivers are happy to see me, but I don't want a lift. All I need is someone to point me in the general direction of the Dhandumariamman Temple. Which they do, and I'm off again. And part of me is thinking, “Why are you not sad?” and the other half is thinking “Why are you even asking me that question?”
The Dhandumariamman temple has to be one of my favorite places in the city, maybe my favorite of all. Mostly because it is so peaceful there. It sits in the middle of a very noisy block right next door to plumbing stores and used-shoe salesmen, but once you step inside that massive doorway the noise of the city fades away like music on a car-radio that someone finally decides to turn down a notch. I also love it because after you remove your shoes you are required to wash your feet. After walking the dirty smelly dusty streets of India, there is nothing I want more. So I step out of my chakos and smile at the tan line that makes it seem like I am still wearing white straps across my feet, place my shoes in locker 97 (because it seems like such a strong, committed number) and try not to run over to the water taps where I can wash my feet.
The temple itself is actually a smaller building inside this giant covered courtyard, and today I am a little disappointed to see the golden doors that should lead to Mariamman's shrine are closed. There are still a few women here, though, seated “indian style” on the cool stone floor facing either the shrine to the nine planetary gods or, my personal favorite, the huge banyan tree that stretches up and out of the roof and houses a little Ganaputi shrine (Ganesha in North India). And it is so calm and so peaceful you could sit here all day and contemplate...anything.
Which is sort of what I came to do, with a little ethnographic observation on the side. So I stake out a spot close to one of the huge pink and red pillars that stretch up the the ceiling and pull out my weather beaten notebook for jottings.
He saw me long before I saw him, and I got the impression that he had been watching me for a minute or two, working up the nerve to go and talk to me. He speaks lovely English and, shockingly, doesn't start the conversation with “Which country??”. I like him already. Actually, he was just wondering if I would like to join the puja they will be doing shortly? It is a very powerful puja, and I can come and be part of it. It will be good for me, bring me blessings. So I get up and follow him to the other side of the inner temple to where I see a group of worshippers, mostly women, have already gathered. Two women sit on the floor facing the side of the temple which has shelves carved out of it at intervals where other deities reside in less grandeur but no less importance than Mariamman herself. The women are facing one of these minor deities now, but I can't make out which one exactly. It's a woman god, though, that much I can make out from her clothing and decorations. The rest of the devotees are standing around some tall metal tables with lamps on them made of....wow, are those lemon halves? Yep, lamps made of fruit. And of course my latest friend would like to invite me to light my own lemon lamp. So I follow him outside the temple to where a man is selling flower garlands and coconuts and all the other odds and ends one needs when invoking deity in India and he buys me a sweet-lime which is kind of a cross between a lime and a very small lemon. Back at the tables he cuts my lime in half and instructs me to squeeze it inside out. Then while I am struggling with this idea he sets down a little vile of ghee next to me on the table and is suddenly gone again. Once my lime halves are inside out the woman next to me, with the slight smile I only ever see women direct at me and very small children (both being pretty naïve, I suppose), helps me to apply the correct markings with red and orange powder around the rims of my little lime cups. Then I pour ghee into each half and my friend is back, somehow, with cotton wicks in his hand. I try to light them but get a little chuckle from the woman at my side- You're supposed to dip them in the ghee first, silly, then you light them...no, then I light them dear because you are about to set yourself on fire...there you go honey. Or at least that is what I imagine she said in some South Indian dialect. And with my little lime lamps burning on the table amidst all the other lime lamps I am directed to sit myself down next to the growing group of women facing the idol as the men stand back in silence. So I do, and that is when I notice it.
They're chanting.
I can't understand a word of it, and it's probably Sanskrit so neither can they really. They aren't chanting loudly, and they certainly aren't swaying to the rhythm or clapping their hands or wavering on the brink of St Teresa-esqu ecstasy. They are just a group of women chanting, together. The “tune” is not musical, just rhythmic. And it's absolutely mesmerizing.
And here is where some of you start getting worried about me and my “testimony”. Because here is where I officially step off the “Mormon's have the corner on spiritual power” wagon. No, I'm not saying the statue stood up, spoke to me in an ancient tongue that I somehow understood, and pronounced me officially Hindu. I am saying that as much as I believe in the restoration of the Gospel through Joseph Smith, and as much as I know that Christ is my only way to eternal joy, right there right then sitting on that cold stone floor in a group of women singing a hymn in the praise of their god I felt power. True, unadulterated, spiritual power that left me crying and filled with joy. So you can hit me with all of your theories about where that power came from or what it's purpose was and nothing you say will change the fact that no religion, not even ours, can limit the power of God to work upon His children wherever, whenever, however He wants.
The rest of the puja was pretty basic, the usual offerings to the goddess poured over her in the form of milk, ghee, curd, dates, etc. The priest came out to do this part and ring his bell. Nothing spectacular about it, from my perspective. It was just that chant, which lasted only a few minutes, that overturned so much of what I thought I knew about God.
When it's over I find myself being chaperoned by a new friend. She is stunning in that way that only years of goodness carved into an old face can be. Her hair is white, pulled into a loose bun on her neck, and she wears a white cotton saree with light pink flowers. When she smiles at me, I see my own grandmother in her eyes and have to fight very hard not to cry for missing her. She is my first friend's mother, actually, and he has left me in her charge. So she helps me get my forehead markings on (white line with red dot over yellow dot in the middle), and tells me to get up and come eat the food. She speaks English, too, with a clear accent but limited vocabulary. The food is actually more offerings to the god which we can now eat on her behalf. Mother, as I have taken to calling her, gets me a little metal/paper plate and oversees the men serving me my portions of spicy rice and sticky sweet rice. Then she grins at me and puts a little crumbled laddoo on my plate too.
So we sit on the floor on the other side of the temple and I try to eat the food at the rate she insists (If I pause at all she starts pointing at my food and then her mouth). Sitting there talking about her life and family. Married at 15, five children, widowed, suffers from asthma. Then I hear from outside the courtyard the distinct tones of a Muslim call to prayer. So I ask “Call to prayer?” and she wrinkles her already wrinkled nose and says “NOOO! I don't like them. Musslemans. Dirty. Don't drink their water. They only bath once a week.” And again I am half laughing half crying because there it is. The source for years of bloodshed and hatred: they only bath once a week.
I guess you can draw whatever philosophical metaphors you want from all that. I've certainly drawn mine. And I'll go on drawing them for the next two months before I pack it all in and leave this country crisscrossed with paths to God.

Meanwhile, in the words of my fellow traveler Sydney: It's not fair to read someone's blog and not leave a comment.

random stuff

2008-06-13T22:16:00.002-07:00

yes, women do carry stuff on their heads sometimes. Jeeva serving us lunch in our room

and this is me in a saree at my first indian wedding, very strange to have complete strangers dressing me.