Handywoman McGee

I got a present delivered to me today.

It was a present I bought for myself!

And (lucky for me) I didn't even have to haul it upstairs. These rather buff delivery guys did it for me, which is a really good thing because I had trouble hauling the boxes in even from the hallway to my room. Yeesh.

Anyway.

After getting said presents to my room, I proceeded to assemble them. (This is where the 'handywoman' aspect comes in.) See here:


This job required instructions. And a hammer. And a screwdriver. Yah. How handy am I? (It was also lucky that my nice roommate had a hammer & screwdriver to lend to me because otherwise I would have had to march off to the store & purchase one of each, adding even more to the total cost of this merchandise.)

So, after much muttering and hitting my thumb (only once, thankyouverymuch) I managed to assemble my nice, tall bookshelf:


Of course, I actually ordered three bookshelves. And actually, I ordered three that had kind of an oak finish. They sent me two oak and one white. But frankly, I was so eager to have bookshelves (and the white didn't look all that bad) and felt so bad about the possibility of making those guys come back and carry the set of white shelves down only to come back up in a day or two with a set of oak shelves (phew!) I decided to just let it go. I hope...I hope that's ethical. Um.

Right. So, here are the two oak shelves:


And, just so yous can gaze at more pictures, I've decided to show you what they look like now that I've filled them with all my scads of books. (Aren't you just thrilled down to your socks?)


And the twain which are oaken:


And that is it. Frankly, I feel like I've been a busy little handywoman today. I even wore a kerchief all day because, while I like my haircut, it isn't necessarily conducive to pulling back in a convenient little ponytail.

But that doesn't matter.

What matters is that I weilded tools like a pro. I pounded nails; I twisted screw-type things. I...(lemme think here)...I put shelves on stuff.

Yay me! And tomorrow, who knows what wonders I will accomplish?

Developing a proper pedestrian attitude

I've noticed that, even just in the few days since arriving in the Boston area, my interactions with drivers and other pedestrians has altered somewhat.

I've been rather used to the whole auto mentality. When I'm behind a wheel, I go fast and I scorn other drivers and pedestrians who, as a rule, seem to be operating under some sort of death-wish principle. Weirdos.

But now I see things from the foot-bourne perspective: I own the road as a pedestrian. Cars must yield to me. (It's a Massachusetts state law, after all.) Of course, that doesn't prevent me from looking both ways as I'm about to cross a road, (the law wouldn't really keep me from getting crushed by an unwary or impatient ton of metal), but it does mean that I've been stepping out more boldly instead of hesitantly holding back at crosswalks if I notice a vehicle within oh, a mile or so of my present location.

In fact, I'm becoming a bold pedestrian.

Not all that bold, of course--I still pause until the little sign says "Walk" instead of "Don't Walk"--but I'm getting there. Maybe by the time my semester starts I'll be jaywalking all over the place and only just being missed by ginormous trucks and little red Volkswagen beetles.

Or maybe I'll just stick with the crosswalks and the nice "Walk" signals.

But I'll sure have a confident (impudent, even) attitude about the whole thing. Just see if I don't.

Rain and the aphrodisiac properties thereof:

Okay. So I don't really know all that much about aphrodisiacs, nor am I really sure that rain would qualify as one. (Frankly, feeling like a wet rat who also happens to be wearing muddy shoes does not generally put me in that kind of mood.)

However.

I think it may have enhanced my experience at the local library today.

My roommate told me that our local library is actully just a short way off the route I take to the nearest grocery store. So, after the torrenting rain had mainly given up, leaving just this all-pervasive misty stuff, I decided to stop by on my way to procure food and laundry detergent.

The library is a wonderfully largeish building with a nice, open entrance area and huge comfortable-looking reading chairs. (I didn't actually try any out, as per my muddy shoes, but the appearance of said chairs was indeed enticing.)

Naturally, I had to find the juvenile collection, so I stared bewilderedly at a map for awhile until a kind lady at the information desk told me I looked confused and asked if she could help. I sheepishly explained that I was looking for the childrens' books and she helpfully pointed me downstairs where I walked straight dab into them. (Hurrah for helpful ladies behind library desks! How I hope to be one someday...)

Anyway.

So, I meandered into the Young Adult fiction section, where I checked name after name of some of my favorite authors. Looking over the shelves and pulling out a book now and then, I realized that I first met many of the books I love in settings such as this. I've pored over scores of volumes with laminated dust jackets and dewey decimal numbers printed in labels on the spine. I've stayed up late at night with already-tattered books that didn't belong to me, but ones I loved nevertheless.

I paced around for awhile, found the slightly younger section, looked around there, and at last went back out into the misty afternoon.

And I now know two very important things:

First, I have arrived. Having found the local library I now feel like I'm finally here. Once I'm able to procure myself a library card, I'll feel even more like I'm finally here.

Second, I want to read everything. (Well, I think I may skip the Goosebumps series, actually...) I could spend years and years of my life doing nothing but checking out five or so books at a time and devouring them cozied up in my comforter, sipping (sugar-free) hot chocolate. (And the rain just makes me feel more like doing that.)

I'm not going to have time, though. That's what makes me sad. There's all these books I own that I need to actually read. Then, there will be numerous textbooks and papers to write and information to study and once I've graduated there will be books I'll need to read to stay on top of the literature coming out, meetings to attend, people to assist.

But, my hope is that working in a library will afford me chances to sneak a book here and there for a little light pleasure-reading. Because really, isn't that what this all is about? And that, I've realized, will be lovely whether I have muddy shoes or not.

Why I am not One Who Dances:

So, last night I went swing dancing with my very nice roommate and a member of the ward who, as it happens, just graduated from the school I'll be attending in the fall. I asked mucho many questions and she answered them wonderfully.

Anyway--so we went to this church-type place that was much like an LDS cultural hall. There was a live band (Eight to the Bar) which was just--wow--fantabulous and there were tons and tons of people who--holy heck--really knew those swing dancing steps.

It would have been an awesome evening if just...

If I just...

(Oh I'm ashamed...)

If only I knew how to dance.

Because, you see, dancing is just Something I Don't Know How to Do, rather like speaking German or performing acts of higher math. (Haha! Performing acts of higher math! Yeah. It sounds like a crime or something.)

So I mostly sat on the side, tapping my foot (because seriously--the music was just so good that I couldn't stop) and smiling because all these very skilled dancing people were really quite enjoyable to watch.

And eventually, despite my decidedly Not Interested in Dancing Thanks pose (crossed legs, crossed arms, avoiding eye-contact, etc.) I did get asked to dance thrice by some very nice gentlemen (one twentysomething--I think he's in our ward, one probably-fifty-something and one probably-sixty-something) who were all kind enough not to scold me when I trod on their toes (I'm not kidding here) and messed up their moves and in short made a rather public disgrace of myself.

After which I sat down and tried not to think embarrassed thoughts.

But it was still a good evening and a good experience. In fact, I may go dancing again in a month or so and I'll be sure to get to the event in time to catch those oh-so-essential beginners' lessons I've heard about.

Wish me luck. And wish me less clumsy. Because, seriously, I am so going to need both.

Mastering the T, new comforters, and other reasons why I feel like a queen

Well, maybe 'mastering' is a little strong. But I did ride the T this afternoon. I rode it, in fact, to Bed Bath & Beyond, where I found this charming comforter set (well, at least I think it's charming):



Which I also managed to cart home on the T all by myself, thank you very much. (You may have noticed that previous pictures showed, to your dismay, that I only had sheets on this bed o' mine. Well, I'm no longer comforterless, thankagoodness.)

As I set up the comforter, all the while exclaiming to myself how happy I was with my choice (I kid you not--I really am that lame) our buzzer rang, so I dashed downstairs in my slippery flip-flops (the ones that have no traction) where I discovered a mail carrier with a heavy Bostonian accent was carting in 10 of my 16 boxes. Hurrah! He (in that wonderful Boston speech) explained that he was going to just leave a notice for me, but he thought that I probably didn't have a car (cah) and so he decided to go ahead & deliver them to me. Yay! (He also told me to take it easy when I told him I lived up on the 4th floor. Ohman. I was feeling a bit warm after hauling all them boxes up.)

So, now I only have to wait until the other 5 arrive. (One box of books came yesterday morning.)

Oh, and also, let me show you a picture I took of the subway line:


Trees. Trees everywhere. Even by the subway rails. I can hardly wait to do some more exploring!

Now lookee here:

Okay. As promised, I have taken lots of pictures of my new apartment so you could all see where I live. And here we go!



Okay. The above picture and a few of the following will be views of my room. The above was (obviously) taken from the bed, looking at the assortment of books that have actually arrived from the post office. Oh. And also my laptop is there too.



Above is the view from the corner (where you can see a mirror in the other shot). And below is a view from the hallway into my room.



And here is me sitting on that bed in my room after setting up my camera on the A/C unit in the window and then timing it so that I look composed and settled for my picture.



Um. Yay, me!

Okay. Here's more of the apartment:



Above is one view of the kitchen. And yes, that is a coffee pot. And no, I haven't used it. Yeesh.



Above is another view of the kitchen, slightly to the right of the last view. (I wanted y'all to see that there round table. It's pretty cool. And, like, round.)



'K. That's a picture (slighly fuzzy) of the bathroom (which, thank goodness, is not fuzzy). Oh! And that reminds me: I discovered this morning that the nice, nice and (kind of) expensive towel I bought leaves dark blue fuzzies all over. Yucky.



Okay. Just to give you a sense of how long this apartment is, this is a view from the bathroom looking down the hallway. The first opening to the right (from whence light shineth) is my room and the opening to the left (which you can't really see, sorry) is the kitchen. The family room (or common room--not sure what to call it) is one opening further down the hall from my room. You can see the room below:



And here's another view of the common room taken while I sat in the corner of that couch you can see above:



What's awesome about the room (besides the nice, big TV and the VCR/DVD player you can't see but I can and I'll use it, too) are the awesome bookshelves to the right. Because, seriously. You can't have too many bookshelves.


And here's a mirror shot of me. Because mirror shots are just always so much fun. Yep. That's me. Hanging out in my apartment in the Boston area.

Still can't believe it all. Not yet. I need to wander around much, much more before I feel like I'm really here.

I is here.

And with the equivalent of, I believe, about 45 minutes of sleep sporadically grabbed last night while the nearly full moon shone in on me from the airplane window, (I recall one moment when I looked out the window and the high clouds had created a white ring in an arc around the moon; I love these surreal and beautiful things we get to glimpse sometimes), I'm afraid that I've been falling asleep while I've been sitting here, typing on my computer.

So. Er.

I'm alive and I'm here and there are lots and lots of trees. And also I can't believe it. And also I haven't gone to the grocery store yet.

But I'm thinking pretty much everything needs to wait until I have slept for approximately 10 hours. Because I've (almost) been up the whole night.

And also those four flights of stairs up to my apartment are a killer, even without the 45lb luggage I so foolishly took with me.

I don't think I really get it.

The lasts are coming thick and fast now; I've bid goodbye now to one of my sisters, her husband and child and one of my brothers. I've also sung for the last time at that one retirement home and have said goodbye to the wonderful residents there.

Every time I go through something like this, I seem to have a hard time feeling pain at the parting. For me, the pain starts just as we're driving away, or a few minutes after that, when I realize that I really have seen that person for the last time in what will be months. At that point, I feel desolate, forsaken and empty. But when I'm hugging that person goodbye, I almost never feel a sense of sorrow.

It's like I don't get it until the thing has actually happened. It's impossible for me to imagine being apart from people I love when they're right there in front of me, smiling and embracing me.

So all of this makes me wonder: what exactly will I be feeling as my plane lifts off the ground tomorrow night? Part of me hopes I'll be too tired to feel anything. But if what I'm feeling right now is a kind of preview for what's coming, I think I'll feel more desolate than I have in a long time.

*I hope I'll have time to post something tomorrow, but just in case, this may be my last post for a while. Keep checking, though! I'll update you all as soon as I can.*

And just because you needed to see more of these:

Here's my very favoritest of the LolCats:



And if you have ever read The Canterbury Tales, or just Chaucer in general, or if you have even just heard of Chaucer, or even if you haven't and you think you might have once looked at a copy of a textbook that had some medieval literature in it, then go here, where Geoffrey Chaucer, the intrepid blogger, has discovered the world of LolCats and created his own for illustrations of The Canterbury Tales.

If you don't get it, fine. But if you do, you'll know how good I have been to link you thusly.

Going Green

I'm a little concerned.

You see, my weightloss is kind of stalling. I'm not sure if this is because I'm building muscle mass, in which case I'll see the actual poundage come off later, or if it's because I'm not eating as many vegetables as I should, or some other unknown cause, such as the planets being out of alignment or something.

For some reason, I can't seem to quite get to that 80lb loss mark, although I'm pretty close. (Right now I'm hovering around 76, which is pretty good, but it means that I'm still more than 50 lbs away from my goal. Bleh.)

What I'm really hoping is that all this will change once I get to Boston and start walking everywhere and using public transportation and such.

Because, as you know, not only is public transportation good for the environment, it also helps you lose weight!

And makes you more attractive to the opposite gender!

It's just like that line from that one movie, where the male lead says, "I just love a girl who uses public transportation."

Well.

Okay.

I made that up.

But I'm sure the sentiment exists somewhere with someone. So I'll get all pretty and stuff and that someone will say, "Wow! You're all public transportation savvy and you've obviously lost a great deal of weight within the past 8 or 9 months. So. You wanna get hitched?"

And then, of course, I'll have to turn him down because at that point I'll be all career-oriented and won't want to have anything to do with men for at least the next twenty or so years.

But it'll be nice even still.

And it wasn't even September 19th!

This morning, my dentist (who also happens to be my little sister's father-in-law--yah, I know--weird) treated all of his patients (plus up to 3 family members each) to a special showing of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End.

Most of the adult members of the family were there, along with my most adorable nephew (who obviously preferred my company to any of his other aunties or uncles--hurrah!) and quite a lot of other patients of this Dr. Sister's Father-in-law. He (the dentist) actually dressed up in full costume with a scruffy beard, long dreadlocks and seriously ratted clothes. He and his assistants also spoke pirate talk, employing words such as "Arr," "Avast," and "Blow me timbers," even though it wasn't International Talk Like a Pirate Day yet. (Yah. Like, seriously early, people.)

Before the movie got started, said dentist and said assistants did fun things like throw out frisbees to all the audience members who wanted one (or three) and passed out raffle tickets for door prizes like oil changes and certificates to day spas. (Man. I wish I had won a trip to a day spa.)

Anyway--as said frisbee throwing got underway, things were, as you can imagine, slightly hectic. I kept turning my head to follow the frisbees, but I wasn't about to go out of my way to catch one because--hey, just one more thing to pack, y'know--so I was completely unprepared when I turned my head back to the front and a frisbee, coming in vertically, whacked me (WAY hard) right between my eyebrows.

Ohmygoodness I did not know a frisbee could raise a welt that quickly.

So.

Next Wednesday, when I arrive in Boston, I'll be able to greet my new roommates and all those nice young elders quorum members (who I'm sure will just spontaneously show up as soon as my 16 boxes arrive) for the first time with a nice big bruise/lump on my forehead.

First impressions really don't seem to go well for me. Bleh.

ok i has bad englsh now, thx.

I've just spent about an hour looking at LolCats, which are pictures of adorable animals (namely cats) mixed with captions that employ really bad English. LolCats also apparently have their own little Wikipedia entry, which really explains the whole thing better than I ever could.

So.

Um.

Caught up in the moment (and in the rudiments of this distorted English) I made my own:

Twice:

And I just dare you--I dare you not to go out and make your own. Because. Seriously. Addictive.

And almost gaggingly way too cute.

Advantages to driving a van:

Firstly, you suddenly realize that you could go about 10 miles under the speed limit and nobody can stop you. They can't intimidate you because you, my friend, have the bigger vehicle. By a long shot. (Take that, little sport mustang with your impatient red-colored temper. Ha!)

Secondly, you can see the road from way high up. This means that your line of sight is not obscured by things such as really tall grass. And joggers. And. Erm. Fences?

Thirdly, you can haul a heckalotta boxes (for example, 16 in total) to your local post office so that you can mail them all to yourself so that they will arrive (you hope) about a day or two after you fly in.

See Exhibit A (from the back of the van):


And from the sliding side-door view, Exhibit B:


And here's me afterwards. Oh, what's that look? Why, that's my "I'm so happy that's over and my arms are really tired and slightly scraped up from the edges of all those many cardboard boxes and I've suddenly realized that it may be difficult when the boxes actually arrive, I mean, because I think my apartment is upstairs and that means carrying 16 heavy, heavy boxes up a flight of stairs to my room and I'm not sure my arms will hold out," type of look. Oh, and also, I got a haircut.


Overall pretty good, don't you think? (Except for those flyaway bits in my hair. Eugh. But I was going for authentic anyway, so what can ya do?)

(And also, lest you think I didn't label the boxes properly, I smudged out my address on the photos I took because--hey, not stupid here, people--and if you really want my address you can blasted call me or email me and if you don't have my phone number or email address then I likely don't know you (although I can think of a few exceptions) but if you prove that you're a real person and not a scary person and that your reason for wanting my address is legit (i.e. you want to send me a birthday card, not now but in a few months, and not, like, an explosive device or anything) well then, I'll think about it.)

Oh, this is nice.

So apparently I'm one very popular girl.

Well.

I guess one very sort of popular girl.

I just received this in the mail:



It's an acceptance letter from the other school I applied to: the University of Washington (distance MLIS option). (I had originally intended to apply to five schools, but the Bostonian school's acceptance came first, so because it was my first pick, I just decided to go with it rather than wait and see what happened with all the other programs. Dumb and yet smart at the same time. Yeah.)

Which--Yay! I mean, hoorah! More than one school wanted me! So, I guess if I had been completely uninterested in leaving the state and my family and had decided to reject that Bostonian school's acceptance and had not felt strongly that the Lord wanted me to go to Boston, I would have been okay. Because there was another program out there that wanted me. Just me.

I feel kind of guilty now because I have to write them an awkward email saying, "Er...you're kind of a little late; I already accepted my admission to this other school. So sorry. You'll just have to make do with a slightly less qualified applicant." Except that would involve hubris. Which is never a good idea. (Please refer to classical Greek tragedies for more information.)

So my email will probably go something like this: "I am not insensible of the great honor you do me by this offer. I know that it has taken time and effort to decide who (of the many who have sought your favors) you will take unto yourself. However, at this time, it is impossible for me to do otherwise than reject your kind (and gracious and lovely and not-right-for-me) offer. Best wishes for your health and happines, XOXO, -Lizardbreath."

In fact, I think I may just copy & paste that little message right there. Very appropriate, dontcha think?

Rather than the 1000 words,

let me just show you how darn adaptable I am:



And before you ask, "Wait--is that what I think it is? Is Lizardbreath cooking in the bathroom?" let me prove to you that yes, indeed, I did cook in the bathroom this morning:


Seriously. A toilet. And an electric frying thing. You can't get any more 'cooking in the bathroom'-ish than that.

However, so that you all don't think I make a habit of this, or that I'm doing it for fun, let me just explain that my parents are getting the hardwood floors in their kitchen, dining area & entryway all sanded & refinished so they can get their house on the market.

So. The kitchen is off-limits, our fridge is in the mudroom and our cooking takes place in the bathroom. Good times, folks. Good times.


And also it means that those are my scrambled eggs with cheese & salsa on the washing machine.

I just feel darn weird.

The End of Penultimates

They're officially over. Penultimates, I mean. We're now definitely (even decidedly) into the 'ultimate' range, since a week from today I'll be flying out of Utah and into Boston. So today is the last Tuesday I'll spend at home (even though I won't be home mostly--I'll be attending my sister's graduation and going off to a book club meeting and such).

And tonight will be the last Tuesday night I sleep at home in this little bed. And tomorrow will be the last Wednesday I spend at home, and I'll also have the last haircut done by this particular member of my ward, and then we'll be into the last Thursday and the last Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and then...

Then...

On next Tuesday I'll be done. Done.

Done with seeing that lovely greening mountain just to the south of us, done with listening to the annoying crickets outside my bedroom window, done with living among stacks of boxes, done with seeing my family every day, done with Utah life. Perhaps forever.

But after that, I'll have a whole lot of firsts to go through. And so, I think I need to focus on how exciting and wonderful those firsts will be, rather than focusing on all these lasts going on right now.

Yeah. That's the idea.

And I'm still sad. And also happy. And. Just. Everything.

That's all.

All the juicy details.

Because I know that's what you come here to read. All those juicy little details about my dramatic life. Yep.

So.

Here we go:

I packed all freaking day.

And I now know that it takes 7 boxes, each of which weigh approximately 50lbs, to hold all the books I want to send to myself in MA.

That's a lotta reading material, folks.

And I still feel sad about the books I'm getting rid of.

I keep using that word.

It keeps cropping up: in emails, in blogging, in comments on other people's blogs, in my face-to-face conversations...

I think it's become my new tag word, which is a dangerous, dangerous thing. My last tag word was 'honestly,' which I used at a rate of roughly 1 per 50 words, which is pretty darn frequent if you ask me. (Which you won't, of course, but that's beside the point.)

My current word is, apparently, 'decidedly.' Such as: "But I was decidedly against shaving cats that day, so I didn't participate at all," or: "My opinion of squirrels has decidedly gone down after one made off with my turkey sandwich the other day."

It's too much and I need to stop.

But if I stop using that word, I'm afraid it will leave me a little more wishy-washy. Things will be ever so slightly less stable and stability is really what I'm looking for right now.

So tolerate my usage of my tag word a little longer, if you would. It makes me feel decidedly more in control.

Honestly.

Backward and Forward

Today in the midst of packing I ran across two of my old journals. Reading journals (especially old ones) is an experience in which embarrassment and a kind of crude fascination coexist in surprising harmony. Mostly though, what I felt was a deep sympathy with my old self. After all--I was there. I know what she felt, for pity's sake! (Even if she seems just a little bit melodramatic now...)

However, I'm not going to discuss that.

What I am going to discuss is my rediscovery of a moment I had almost exactly four years ago when I visited the Boston area for the very first time. I had gone out to see my aunt and uncle who live in Franklin, a ways south (and a little west, I believe) of Boston itself.

Here's what I wrote on May 31, 2003:

"Before I go to bed I also wanted to mention something that happened the first night I was here. We were coming back from the airport and everything was dark. Trees hulked along the sides of the road, darkly obscuring the distance. I loved it. We got off the freeway and started going past some houses. I was suddenly overcome with the emotion that I belonged here--that this was my kind of place. I wonder if this area holds at least part of my future in it."

Sitting surrounded by this:


And also this:


I was suddenly struck with how the past and future are intersecting right now (not to mention how messy and chaotic that intersection is) as I stand poised between this life which has felt so stagnant to me and this new life that seems rather frightening and yet, oddly, so much the right thing to do.

It's also good to know I'm making a move now that I already felt was right nearly four years ago.

Aurgh! Everything is CRAZY!

So my plans (it seems) keep changing at a rate of roughly once every two and a half minutes. (I'm exaggerating, of course. It's more like three minutes and fifteen seconds.)

Originally, I was planning to take all my stuff out to Boston. All of it. This includes the cheapo folding table I acquired about two years ago, an old dresser that belonged to my grandpa, my short and sad little bed and numerous bookshelves, among other things.

However.

Things have changed.

I now have furniture waiting for me in Boston (woohoo!) which means that I won't have to drive a U-Haul truck out. So then I was going to drive with my dad out in our van, carting boxes & boxes of books and (I hoped) that one really nice bookshelf that I got for Christmas one year (one of the singly most appropriate gifts I ever received).

However, my dad told me today that he thought I should fly out and just have my boxes shipped out to Boston through the Post Office. (Of course, this would mean leaving behind said bookshelves and cheapo folding table and that dresser, but it would be much, much cheaper. I think.)

So, suddenly I'm trying to figure out how many boxes I'll need in order to pack up all the stuff I can't live without (and some stuff I definitely could but don't want to) and how much they'll weigh and which ones I'll be able to send media mail and which ones I decidedly won't be able to and...

My brain is fried. I can't think anymore.

Therefore I must sleep.

But I have a feeling that boxes or packing or flying or all three may be things my subconscious plucks at for dream material tonight.

Oh, goody.

What I want to be when I get old:

This commercial makes me brim over with happiness every time I see it.

Here's me!

I decided that I ought to upload a pic of myself, because I think there are some people hitting this blog (including future roomies! Yay!) who have never seen me before and, frankly, that profile picture I drew just isn't helpful.

So this is me in real life:


And. Yes. Well. It's pretty accurate, seeing as how it's a photograph and all, and not a drawing of myself.

(And yes, this means that I haven't really done any more packing since my last post. And I'm also still shuddering at my stupid high forehead. Good gracious.)

To pack or not to pack

So far, I've packed two entire boxes of books and I've cleared out two of my bookshelves. I have a pile about three feet high that's headed for DI and I've got a stack that I haven't decided yet whether to keep or give away.

I'm making progress, in short.

However, I've run into a bit of difficulty.

You see, I'm not actually leaving for about another two weeks (well, a little less than two weeks now). If I pack everything up now, what will I read in between now and then? Especially because I'll have (perhaps) lots of time now that I'm not working and also because I (probably) will be driving out to Boston and thus will need at least three novels to keep my mind from exploding with boredom (a well-known medical malady).

So. My question to myself is, should I keep packing and lifting heavy book boxes? Or should I leave my books as the very last thing I box and tape up, kind of like the way the very last things you pack for on your trip are your hairbrush and makeup?

Questions, questions.

I think I'll keep packing.

Fin.

It's the end.

Today was my last day at KMA, my last day at a job I've held for a little over two and a half years, which, now that I think about it, was both a really long and really short time.

I'm feeling mostly what Robert McCloskey describes in his picture book Time of Wonder (which, incidentally, is pretty much my favorite picture book ever): "A little bit sad about the place you are leaving, a little bit glad about a place you are going."

I feel wistful and happy and sad and relieved and (guiltily) rather glad to be getting away from customer service, at least customer service in a retail business. I also know that in a day or a week or six months, I'll feel some serious pangs of missing the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful people I've known there for the past couple of years.

I'll miss them.

What's startling is how easy it would be.

Today was our penultimate day at work. This means that tomorrow is our last day. (Or, er, we're pretty sure it's our last day, at least. We think.)

Anyway--so in recognition of said penultimateness of said day, our office supervisor brought in homemade fudge.

It's really amazing how the smell of fudge can fill a middling largeish room like that.

As I passed by said fudge frequently on my way to doing other stuff, I realized just how easy it would be to reach over and cut myself a little (or not so little) square. I thought then what a simple thing it would be to put said square into my mouth and for said mouth to curl round the fudge in delighted ecstacy for a few moments as said fudge melted in said mouth.

And I dunno--I always thought that things like breaking your diet would feel significant, that there would be considerable guilt afterwards, but also considerable hesitation and going-back-and-forthness before.

(I didn't eat the fudge, in case you were wondering.)

I guess it's like many things in life. Things that you expect to feel significant (like a penultimate day at a job you've worked for nearly three years, or the last family reunion you'll have with your sibs & parents before you head eastward) aren't always. They're just moments and minutes that tally up to the sum of our lives.

I wish I could hang onto them a little bit more, make them all a little more significant.

Books are bad for your back.

This I discovered today during the very beginning portion of what will become (I am sure) a multi-week packing process.

Yes, folks, I have started cleaning off my bookshelves. Most of the books went into the U-Haul box, but I managed to pry my fingers away from a goodly pile of them which are now stacked neatly next to my semi-empty bookshelves, which pile I will donate as soon as I can get it over to our local DI.

However, it's not the pile of books that were the problem today. No, no. The problem was with the box which, after I had stuffed it as full of reading material as I possibly could, weighed approximately as much as a Volkswagen Beetle (a blue one).

This is the box I then tried to lift off the ground using mainly my (thanks to climbing local hills) bulging thigh muscles but (unwisely) ended up using a goodly portion of my back muscles as well, which back muscles proceeded to talk sternly to me for a moment and then, not having grabbed my attention quickly enough, started screaming something about the end of the world and that I was killing them! Seriously!

So, I half-dropped said box and half-collapsed on top of it, all the while uttering half-articulate cries of "Ow! Oh, OW!"

Thus it has been painful over the past few hours to do things like sit, stand, breathe and move my foot from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. Luckily, right now I only have to worry about the breathing and sitting problems which aren't really too bad at the moment.

However, I must confess that (my irritation from being in pain set aside) I'm glad this happened now rather than in a couple of weeks when my box-lifting skills (or lack thereof) will be needed in earnest. I learned today that lifting with your legs really is a good idea and that stopping by bookstores so I can gather more heavy volumes that I will eventually have to lift is a very bad idea.

(And yet I fear I still won't be able to resist.)

I talk at people like they're interested

I've discovered over the past few days that I'm a self-obsessed human being.

Dang it.

For instance; this afternoon, my sister called me and we started off the conversation by talking about how soon I'm leaving for Boston (pretty darn soon). So, as I'm wont to do in these types of conversations, I was all ready for the talk to be all about me. I was geared for explaining my nervousness; I was prepped to talk about my future; I was prepared to discuss my plans.

I was so much so, in fact, that when my sister asked about times that I'd be available over the next couple of weeks, I naturally thought she wanted to get together with me and the other girls in our family and plan an outing before we all head to the four corners of the earth. And so, many sentences (and much confusion) later, I realized that, duh, she's trying to ask me to babysit so that she and her husband can have a nice evening together because they won't be able to do so on said sister's birthday next week.

Oi.

Guilt and embarrassment all rolled up in one.

And I keep doing things like this. When members of my ward ask how I'm doing, I'm liable to launch into a 30-minute speech about why Boston is the best of all places and how I feel about moving there and how much it will cost exactly to rent a truck and drive for four days to reach it. (Luckily, the dull glazed eyes of my audience usually pull me back before I get too far into it.)

I feel bad. You see, I'm so concerned with and just plain interested in things going on in my own life right now that I assume other people are automatically just as concerned and/or interested as I am.

But they're not.

They're interested (and absolutely rightly so) in their own lives. Because, honestly, first and foremost that's the most important (and urgent) thing you have to deal with. Once you've got your own life in tolerable order (not perfect, but tolerable) you can then begin to focus on other people.

I guess then that I'm hoping my own life will calm down in the next little bit (as it is liable to do) so that I can become, eventually, a less selfish person than I am right now.

What I've been missing

Sometimes something comes along that you just have to 'Thank Goodness' for. Sometimes, you encounter something that you needed to hear when you didn't even know the need was there. But you feel that need filled when you do.

I think I've been...not too hard on myself, exactly, but a little too inclined to look at the worse aspects of myself (and I've been looking at them for a long time). I needed to realize, I think, that it's okay not to be a genius, or a world-class musician, or a great writer, that it's okay to be just me. Because I'm okay.

Now, writing this, I realize that all of this is sounding a little too much like the prose-version of lyrics to a cheesy (yet uplifting) song. But realize--what I'm writing is just an approximation of what I'm feeling.

And maybe, to get a better idea of what I'm feeling as why, you too should listen to the CES Fireside President Faust gave on May 6th. (I missed it then; I was schmoozing with my dad's family, but I just watched it online. Just now.) It's a half-hour, so I don't know that you'll have time, but if you do, please watch. (Especially if you haven't already seen/heard it.) There was something so calming and peace-filling about what he said and how he said it.

And I feel now as though I fit in my skin just a little bit better than I did before. And that's a comforting feeling indeed.

The most unyeilding sound in the universe

is the sound of car meeting car in a decidedly non-friendly way. And the most unyeilding feeling in the entire universe is the feeling of meeting someone else's car with your car when you though all you'd be meeting is the (rather more yielding) air.

In short, I hit another car today.

Actually, I backed into one. It wasn't occupied at the time, which is both a relief and a stress, simply because I had to leave my phone number & a description of what happened with an explanation that I didn't think I caused any damage to that green truck, but if I caused more than I thought I did the owner of said truck should give me a call.

I hope what I provided was sufficient. So, now I'm tied to my cell phone, dreading its (rather strange) ring tone. If I don't get a call within a day or two, I'll guess that the truck owner has decided the damage I caused (I may have dented the lisence plate) was minimal and he/she doesn't want to bother with it.

Until then, I'll just be even more anxious than I would otherwise have been.

Because every blog needs a formal announcement...

So. I've started another blog. I mean, another one besides the blog that contains the first eight (or so) sections of that NaNoWriMo novel I never finished...

(Sorry. I just must wallow for a moment in feelings of regret for yet another project I've only partially completed.)

However.

This new blog has possibilities. It has pizazz and flare and flying pilot whales (not to mention the igloos.) And it has a bold new color scheme!

That's right! It's my very own Dream Blog!

Um. That is, it's a blog where I post about dreams I have. It's not, like, my ideal blog, which would be another interpretation of the above sentence. Oh, and it's not about my dreams for the future. It's about my wacky, crazy, nighttime, (or morningtime), rambling, psychotic (and oddly entertaining) escapes of the subconscious mind.

Yes. These are my dream dreams.

And the reason why I needed an entirely separate blog in which to post said nighttime escapades?

They'd take up too much room here. And, of course, I need the room in my 'regular' blog to post about more important things. Like...my other blog.

Good heavens.

Discarding

As the reality of moving creeps up on me (rather rapidly now that I think about it) I've realized the necessity of getting rid of a lot of junk so I won't have to pack it.

So today, in accordance with said realization, I went through a couple of boxes of stuff that have just been sitting around collecting dust (quite literally) for the past nearly three years.

(And. Ew. Dust is icky.)

Going through boxes like this always takes me a long time; these particular ones contained numerous college notebooks, which all held handouts I'd collected in class, snippets of poetry on random pages and doodles everywhere. I did my best to sort through and really weed out the things that I would never, ever need again (and, I'm sorry, but my French literature notes did not make it, although my French lit book did) and keep the things that I might need in the future.

The only problem with doing this is that you're making the decision now. Weeding out your old things is a little like gambling--you weigh each item and decide what the chances are that you really are going to need this toy tiger or personality test sometime in the future. If you decide that too few things are worth keeping, you run the risk of missing something essential years down the road. If you keep too many things, your house will be filled with boxes and boxes full of junk that noone will ever look at. And also you will have about 50 cats. (Somehow, the two always seem to go together.)

I think that, in this round, I threw away about half of what I'd been hanging onto. Some of the things I kept included an enormous binder full of the letters I'd mailed home during my mission, notes I took in my Young Adult lit course (which I figured I may need later on if I become a children's librarian) and a binder full of my old college papers (most of which were really awful, but hey--documentation is important, I think).

So, now I've got a full trash bag and a nearly full plastic bin o' stuff. I guess, maybe this time, I struck a good balance.

Now for my scrapbook stuff. (Shudder.)

And just to give you a good visual tour of my time, here's the mess I made:

And here's the trash bag full of old notebooks (sniffle):

Polished

I realized last night that I'm not a fancy chic. (And I wish I were.) I normally do absolutely nothing with my fingernails and toenails. It's only recently that I've started applying a tame sort of iridescent mauve to said toenails in hopes that it will make my feet look less ugly. (Hey--when I talked about most feet looking good, I didn't necessarily include my own, okay?)

And also I did it because my niece rather persistently asks me to paint her fingernails and toenails whenever she stays at my parents' house, which is about once a week. So I do. Sometimes.

And recently that toenail/fingernail painting has extended, yea, even to mine own digits.

Of course, the problem with this is that I have no clue how one properly cares for one's nails. My idea of proper nail-care is to let them grow out long enough to be useful in such activities as tightening the screws in one's glasses, or opening those *cussword* CD cases. And then, when they break or tear or when I have a particularly bad hangnail, I go after those suckers & cut 'em down to the quick.

Yes'm, I do.

But now, with that same iridescent sort of mauve covering the tips of my fingers as well as my toes, I'm suddenly feeling both a little more girly and a little more insecure. You see, while I see nail polish on numerous other females' fingers, I really don't know how one is supposed to apply it. For instance, how many coats does one use? And if there's more than one coat, is the bottom coat supposed to be the color and the top coat clear? Or should both coats be applied with the same polish? And also, what's up with all that cuticle pushing? How do you do it? And with what?

I think...

I think I may just go back to pure ol' naked fingernails. Heck, I'll feel less polished (hahaha!) and less feminine, but I'll feel...maybe a little more in control? Maybe?

Subtle alterations

I have decided to go to bed early tonight.

Not because I'm tired. No, no. (I am, in fact, really quite wide awake at the moment.)

But because I have had trouble getting up in the mornings lately and I believe the trouble stems from my tendency to stay up late and check blogs and email and read book after book after book...

And also having my fan on prevents me from hearing my alarm properly. And somehow also makes me more morning-sleepy.

And also knowing that I have nothing to do at work (Seriously. Nothing.) and I won't have to go into work until 1pm anyway so why not just cuddle my pillow a little longer and whisper sweet nothings into its seductive little non-existent ear...

Ahem. But I digress.

So. I believe I will sleep soon. Although, I may just have to get an hour of reading in beforehand. You know. Just for old time's sake.

Yeah. It's a big deal.

Oh. I...I just (breathe, here) I just got an apartment. I (seriously! breathe!) sent emails and got emails and now I have a (phew) place to live in (oh, boy) a month.

A month.

I'll be in Boston in a month.

Hoooooh, mygoodnessgraciousme.

YAAAAAAHOOO!

Oh, boy.

Ooooh. I'm also emailing people about specific apartments in the Boston area now. I feel so nervous! And sort of grown up.

Sort of.

Coincidence? Or something more...sinister?

I love the comic Bizarro. It is frequently very strange and also exceedingly hilarious, both of which suit my taste to a T.

However, today's comic has me...shall we say...a little freaked out. It reminds me just a little bit too much of this post, one I made over a year ago. In fact, just so you can see it yourself, here's the image:

(Many thanks (and apologies) to Seattlepi for this unauthorized use of the image.)

I guess I'm disturbed mainly because, if faced with a firing squad, a bandana and a seriously untucked shirt, I would probably want to blog about it too.

Which just makes me even more certain of my brain's illness.

How to get over being cross:

I have discovered a secret today. (It's not, of course, The Secret, (which, I'm sorry, but What the HECK?) but is, I believe, a pretty good one, with or without commas,,,,,,,.) (Obviously, I have not yet learned the secret of good editing.)

In any case, I discovered a secret. And the secret is how to get yourself out of that irritable cross feeling that settles somewhere between your shoulder blades and turns you into a snapping monster with really sharp canines. Which I was today. (Except for the canines part.)

I guess part of it started at work where I had a bit of a run-in with a coworker. She was unhappy with me (and justly so) and told me pretty straitforwardly that she was unhappy, after which I sat at my desk shaking, trying to convince myself that being angry was not, in fact, the best response to the situation.

Then, this evening, on the drive home from work, I picked up my dad (we're short on cars at the moment) and he teased me about my driving. Which I responded to with rather more vehement opposition than was warranted by his remarks.

Then, later on this evening, I got into a minor tiff with my mom. About not watching a TV show. (Yeah. Pretty important stuff, there.)

So, what was the cause of my irritation? Was it that altercation with the coworker? Was it the sense that my weight-loss is stalling? Was it the fact that I'm female and thus am subject to uncontrollable mood swings?

Nope.

It was none of these.

(Hehe. 'None of these.' That reminds me of a BBC spoof of old British educational films. Check out Maths; you may see what I'm chuckling about.)

Um. Where was I?

Ah, yes. My bad mood was (as I realized tonight) caused by a rather unsettling feeling that I had things I needed to do to secure myself a spot to live in Boston. Things to do, moreover, which I had not yet done. And which...I felt...unsettled about.

(Bah. I'm tired and can't write properly.)

Some time ago, my aunt gave me the names & email addresses of two single women who live in the Boston area who could give me information about singles wards & who might be listing apartments, etc., etc. However, before tonight, I had not contacted these good women. Why? Because I'm socially awkward.

However, (hurrah!) tonight I emailed them both! And I was charming! (Well, as charming as you can be in emails. Also, I used the smiley face too much. :) See?) But at least now I've reached out my hand in fellowship and...er...asking-questionsenship. So now, I feel like I've done all I can at the moment. I've met my goals; I've accomplished the things I needed to get done.

And that makes me feel decidedly less cross.

(That was the secret. Just in case you missed it.)

Approximations

I decided today that it's about time for a new profile picture, so I came up with the above highly accurate drawing of myself. For those of you who have never seen me, let me tell you, it is indeed higly accurate. Very. Especially the fact that I have glasses. And also those lips are exactly like mine. Ahem.

Not really.

For instance, I'm not very good about tilting my head like that. Even when a photographer cajoles me to do so, I'm reluctant or simply unable. No head-tilting for me. Also, the highlights/shadowing are all weird and off. My hair looks funky and my eyes are decidedly too peaceful looking. And that mouth? Mine is never that serene.

But it's an approximation.

Several weeks ago, I was in a museum with a dear friend who, as we studied great works of art, had numerous insights into the paintings and sculptures we saw. I could only make an occasional (vaguely) humorous quip, hoping to cover my ignorance with witty remarks that really weren't all that witty.

I felt myself lacking, in short. I felt that this friend possessed an intelligence I did not have and I felt humbled by it.

It was only today though that I was able to put my finger on what was missing.

You see, I draw, but I'm not an artist. I don't have an artist's insight into paintings; I don't have a feel for composition and symbolism and sheer artistic power. I can (sometimes) recreate (inaccurately) things I see, but I'm not capable (at least as I am now) of creating a Work of Art.

I realized there are other things in my life that are the same: I sing, but I'm not a musician; I write, but I'm not an author.

I could see suddenly that most of the things in my life that I'm proud of are mere approximations of what they could be, of what I want them to be, or even what I thought they were.

And yet, while feeling suddenly inadequate (this friend, for instance, is pretty much all of the things I wish I were) I've come to realize (just since beginning to write this post) that approximations are what we really are in this life. We are approximations of the beings we will one day be, all approximations of our Father. We live in a state of potentiality, ever striving to become, but never quite moving past our mortal limitiations.

But that's the way we're designed; we aren't meant to reach our full potential here. And maybe, as I move past my mortal boundaries, I'll meld my approximations with reality and finally become what it is I want to be.

Heartfelt

How am I feeling today?

Why, I'm so glad you asked! (Or rather, you didn't ask, but I could tell from the way you all are hovering that you're just longing to do so.)

I'm feeling nervous. And uncertain. Anxious, as it were.

I've had anxiety dreams about grad school and I keep feeling all fluttery-like when I wonder where on earth I'm going to live in a month or two.

Not to say that I'm not still also feeling glad and extremely excited and happy about all of this. It's just that everything's all mixed together, the uncertainty tainting the excitement with, if not bitterness, then certainly an unexpected tang.

I've also got to prepare a sharing time for tomorrow, so I'm a bit worried about that, seeing as how I haven't really gotten started yet. Um. I'm not terribly good at this calling, I think.

Let's see...what else? Well, there is something else and it kind of creeps into everything I do or think about, (especially today), but I won't discuss it here. Too personal, even for this rather too personal blog.

Aw, dang.

My last post (you know--the one about losing my job and options and stuff) was the 200th one I had written. And I didn't do anything special for it.

Why, I could've put together a collection of victorian engravings and made curious and amusing captions for them.

I could've listed 200 things I should be doing instead of blogging. Or maybe 200 of my favoritest things in the whole wide world. Like ponies and rainbows. (Although you're probably glad I didn't.)

I could've talked in depth about the feelings I'm going through with all these changes that are taking place in my life.

I could've taken a moment to tell each of you why and how much I appreciate you, just for being who you are. (And also the fact that you raise the stats on my blog. That's pretty nice.)

I could have come up with an awesome image, kind of like the one for my 100th post celebration. Except that maybe I could've done a much better job on this one.

I might have talked about worms and the spiritual nature thereof, or how exactly green became my favorite color, or why I go all weak at the knees whenever I pass an office or art supply aisle.

But I didn't.

I asked for advice and you responded most helpfully.

So my 200th post was much like any other, which I guess is what a blog is mainly about. It's simply my way to communicate with you, to relate (some of) the random thoughts I get throughout the day, to let you know what's going on in my life and to explain (to my shame) that SPAM looked appealing to me the other night.

So thanks. Thanks for reading. Without you guys, I never would have gotten this far. Here's to another 201 posts.

Change is afoot.

Today I found out that I will be losing my job in 3 weeks.

Yep.

It'll be me out on those street corners, making everyone feel uncomfortable with that markered cardboard sign and crouching forlornly in all sorts of weather. (Actually, about that cardboard sign--I've always wondered--why do they always have to be on cardboard? I mean, couldn't someone find a discarded bit of posterboard or something? Ooh. Erm. I think I'm being callous.)

But losing my job is actually doing something strange to my brain. I'm suddenly thinking of options, and to my surprise, there are many of them.

I could stay here and get a temp job for three months before moving out to Boston. This is what the logical part of my brain is urging me to do.

However, the happy-go-lucky carefree part of my brain is saying, "Why not use this opportunity to get out to Boston even earlier? You could move out there and get a temp job, for instance. Or no job at all! Just live off of your savings and have a great grand ol' time! Or you could go somewhere completely different! You could move to Arkansas for a few months! (You know how much you've always wanted to move to Arkansas.)"

The happy-go-lucky carefree part of my brain is kind of stupid.

But its ideas are rather appealing. (Except for the Arkansas thing.)

So what do you all think? Should I stay here & temp or should I venture out into the wide world for a few months? Good heavens. The possibilities are numerous!

Seriously. If you have any thoughts, say so. Or any ideas. Should I write a novel, for instance? Try to make a sale that would earn me enough money to pay for my education? (Haha! Not likely.) Er...or...should I travel? To England? Even though I can't afford it?

OH, the options. Yes. Please tell me what you all think. Because I am in a quandary, and picking your brains is better than relying on mine alone.

Ummm... I should blog?

I know I should. I really do. I know that you people are coming here from all over the US (and even a few internationalities!) and you want to read stuff. Interesting stuff. Stuff I have written that's full of wit and verbosioness.

However.

I'm feeling...really rather tired. Tired everything. And I don't have anything to write about.

Aw, wah, wah. I'm such a whiner.

Okay. Here you go:

Today we (i.e. my mom, dad, two brothers and myself--my younger sister is currently in California) went to go see the Mormon Tabernacle Choir record Music and the Spoken Word. My sister has been in the choir for a few years now, and this is (if I remember correctly) the first time I've attended one of these Sunday morning recordings.

It was lovely, of course. The Tabernacle has just been refurbished, so the choir is back in their home building, which is perhaps one of the most astonishingly acoustic structures I've ever been in. The sound was amazing; experiencing it live was definitely several scores of notches above merely watching the broadcast on TV.

Afterwards, our family meandered around Temple Square for awhile, had some sister missionaries stop and ask us for referrals (during which time we shamefacedly admitted we didn't have any to give them), then we drove to my uncle's ward, where my 19-year-old cousin was giving a talk prior to his departure to Taiwan as a full-time missionary.

Then it was off to said uncle's house where there was lots of food and lots of people and where my (freaking adorable) baby nephew urped all over my neck. Good fun. Fortunately, the kid frequently smiles when he sees me, (earning me the title of 'favorite auntie'), so I don't think the urp is an indication of disdain or anything.

And then I went singing to that one retirement home, where I managed to deflect questions about where my brother was (he's come less than five times in total, but they still ask about him every week) and play the piano softly enough that the audience could hear me singing.

And now I'm home. Home at last. In PJs. Because folks, when I said I was tired, I wasn't kidding around.

Nossir. Not one bit.

Desolation

Darnit.

Why do I get these sudden feelings of desolation?

I mean, I'll be just sitting there, cross stitching and watching a Miyazaki film, and suddenly it'll hit me, like a too-friendly dog, and I'll be overcome with this sense of being alone, or disconnected.

And then I'll sigh, Mom will ask me if I'm okay, I'll respond with forced cheeriness that I'm fine, and life will go on as usual.

These are just such strange, tattered threads in my tapestry.

But most of the other threads are colorful and cheery, so all is well, n'est-ce pas?

There's absolutely no luck in four-leaf clovers.

Perhaps you are now (as I once was) a believer in the power of the four-leaf clover. Let me fill you in on a few things.

Four-leaf clovers don't do much, if anything. What they do do (haha! doodoo!) is sit around looking green and sort of pretty. Which is not insignificant, I might add.

But they're not lucky.

No, not one bit.

I found a four-leaf clover once and I was ecstatic. I carefully put it in a plastic bag and carried it around with me for luck. I even took it to our high school football game, in the hopes that the extra boost from that bit of green sitting in my pocket would do some small good.

We lost.

I was confused; I had always been led to believe that four-leaf clovers grant luck to the holder. I, as a student at my high school, had some interest in the outcome of that football game. And yet the other team still creamed us. Violently.

Also, the entire time I had the four-leaf clover with me, I did not get any kisses from boys.

NOT EVEN ONE.

As I thought about the four-leaf clover's pitiful performance, I began to realize that all I had been taught about them just wasn't true. There was no luck in four-leaf clovers. None whatsoever.

So I took the tattered green little remnants from my pocket and tossed them in the nearest garbage can.

Now when I find a four-leaf clover occupying its little space on the ground, I just let it be. It's happier; it feels connected to its mother plant and continues to get all the water and...nutrients and such...it needs (until it inevitably withers in the dry Utah climate).

And I'm not laboring under a mistaken idea that luck is following me everywhere (rather like that black labrador that followed me around while I was walking this morning).

Thankagoodness.

April is the month d'amour?

So, what's up with this whole love thing anyway?

I see things like this: (many thanks to KMA for the image)

and I start feeling vaguely sick to my stomach. Honestly, people.

Am I a hardhearted individual because I've never felt the need to sidle upto a special someone and whisper the words 'forever yours' into his ear? *Gets sudden attack of the jibblies.* Or to write "XOXO" on post-its for him, or ask if we could cuddle?

Frankly, all of the above seems just slightly creepy to me.

(Well, maybe not the 'cuddle' thing. If couched in different terms.)

And yet...

And yet there's still a part of me that longs for that deep companionship that comes from a long, strong romantic attachment.

I guess when I finally do get to love someone, I don't want it to be cheesy. I want it to be deep and real and so much a part of me that it's inextractable. I want that deep immovable affection to run through me like veins of gold through rock, softening me and making what was once a lump of stone into something beautiful and valuable.

So I guess I'm just not a 'SWAK' type of girl. But then who would be, if you could have the REAL alternative?

For. Pity's Sake.

I went into Borders this morning to buy The Hiding Place. (I needed it for my book club.) So why did I feel it necessary to pick up a copy of War and Peace as well? (It's probably because I feel a need to read a Great Russian Novel before I die.)

I have a DISEASE.

A DISEASE, PEOPLE.

And also, reading course descriptions and misc new student info at that one school (the one where I'll be come fall) is very, very much fun.

Except it makes me want to be there NOW, as opposed to four months from now, which is the reality of it. Darn.

What to do...

I got a call from my boss this morning asking me to come in at 1pm rather than my usual 9:30am.

So my morning is completely and utterly free, which brings up the question: what on earth am I going to do with myself for the next few hours?

I could continue the monumental task of trying to organize my room, throwing bags and bags of old stuff away, or I could run out to a salon and get a spontaneous haircut, or I could go out and try to find a copy of a book I need to have read in two weeks, or...

Or I could sit on my bed and blog.

I think you're now aware of all the poor time choices I make.

Being Happy

I've spent some time today thinking about what it means to be happy, mostly because I spent a lot of the day feeling slightly miserable and sorry for myself. I even started ticking things off in my head, as if I were keeping a list:

Reasons to be unhappy:

• In 16 months I will be a 30-year-old spinster.
• I work in customer service.
• My hair is wacky.
• I feel like I'm coming down with a cold. Again.
• I have to do laundry today. And I'm coming down with a cold. Again.
• I'm a chicken.
• I do stuff wrong.

However, as I tallied my list, I realized that there were reasons to be happy that were in direct opposition to the list above.

Reasons to be happy:

• I woke up this morning to the sound of rain, which made me feel languid and peaceful.
• I exercised this morning. (Even though I'm coming down with a cold. Again.)
• Sunlight glowing through young green things is a lovely, lovely sight.
• I'm going to be in Boston this fall.
• I had marinara sauce tonight.
• I indexed two batches tonight.
• My mom likes me.
• I manage to do some stuff right.
• (Most important) God is there. And despite my stupidity and chickenness and despite the fact that I'm probably coming down with a cold, (again), He still loves me. Amazingly.

So. Does that make me an unhappy or happy person?

I think overall I'm happy. I allow myself to be unhappy too often, but I think that when it comes down to it, when I shuck all the outside garbage off, I'm happy.

I am.

That's kind of a cool thing.

I want to read everything.

I tried to clean my room today. In other words, I got out a couple of boxes of stuff that had been sitting around my room since I moved into my parents' house two and a half years ago and sorted through said stuff, mostly rolling my eyes at terrible (and sooo cheeeesy) poetry I had written and wondering why on earth I had kept a box of Easter-egg colors that I had never used.

Unfortunately, one thing I've discovered during all this sorting and throwing away is that I have too, too many books. I've now got at least a full shelf-worth that there just isn't room for, and which I have now stacked unbecomingly on the floor in front of my already bursting bookshelves.

Bother.

My problem is that I keep buying books. It's suddenly not enough for me just to be able to read them; I need to own them so that I can read them once and then years later pick them up again, brush off the inevitable accumulation of dust, and cozy on into the old familiar pages.

I want to read all the books I've bought that I haven't gotten to yet. And I want to read the books that I've read twenty times already but still just crave sometimes.

I need to go through my collection and weed, but I know that as soon as I get rid of my old French textbooks, I'll meet a French person who refuses to speak English to me, and then where will I be? Stuck without a reference. (Except for maybe Babel Fish.) And if I donate that novel I read once and (shockingly) hated, I'll realize ten years from now that it was full of pertinent little gems for my present life and if only I had kept it I would realize how humans look to arthropod-like aliens, (although I didn't actually dislike that one; I just never thought I'd read it again), or what to do when the Mafia controls pizza delivery.

So. I need to declutter. But before I declutter, I need to read. A great deal. But before I can read a great deal I need time. And time is something I just don't have.

So books will remain in stacks on my floor indefinitely.

Unless I invest in a new set of bookshelves...

Well, and so it is.

Sometimes you have to wipe up poop. Sometimes it's on the floor, sometimes it's just around the toilet seat. And sometimes it's on the bum of your autistic six-year-old nephew. And you just have to wipe it up. Because no one else is going to do it, certainly not your autistic nephew, who is trying to play with a green slinky while you're wiping up said poop.

Well, poop really isn't all that bad. After all, everyone poops. It's just kind of stinky and kind of squishy and unpleasant, and it gets on your hands when you try to wipe it off of your nephew's bum and/or legs (how it got on his legs I will never know, nor do I wish to), but it's natural stuff. It's not radioactive (usually) and the germs contained therein are usually easily washable with the proper application of soap and hot water.

And if you wipe up poop, it usually means that your mother, who is tired after having watched her grandchildren all day, does not have to do it.

Which means you will garner favorite child status very quickly indeed.

Extinction has robbed us of so much.

As some of you may be aware, my favorite animal is the relatively understudied and unappreciated Chalicothere. (Of course, part of the reason why it's understudied and unappreciated is that, simply, it doesn't exist anymore.)

I've often wondered what exactly it would be like to come upon one of these lovely lumbering beasts in some prehistoric forest, and, glancing at the claws it used to snag itself those tender little branches, I think I would have run rapidly in the opposite direction. Or maybe I would have played dead. And tried very hard not to look threatening. Or like a leaf.

But I still really, really like Chalicotheres. I'm not sure why; I think it has something to do with the fact that they walk on their knuckles. Or at least some do. Not all species. Um.

And also, I think it's pretty cool that their closest relative in the modern mammal world is the horse. Wow. Horses. They're like Chalicotheres without the claws. And also they eat grass, whereas Chalicotheres ate tender leaves. Leaves...yeah.

Okay. So sometimes when we love something, we can't explain exactly why; we just do, and so it is thusly forever and ever. And I think Chalicotheres are awesome and I really really wish they were still around and I think it is beyond awesome that I got to see the skeleton of one in the Field Museum in Chicago. (Please see the helpfully arrowed skeleton below.)

And here you can see the Chalicothere all afleshed. (In ink, I guess.) And again, I apologize for my unsteady blur-inducing hand.

But alas, after seeing the Chalicothere in the...not flesh, in the bone, I guess, I know even more fully that extinction has rid us of one of the planet's most brightly shining jewels. And that makes me feel really rather sad.

I sez stupid stuff.

For. Crying out loud.

I can sure say dumb stuff sometimes.

In fact, I frequently do.

In fact, I even said some dumb stuff today, and did some dumb things.

In fact, the dumb stuff I said and/or did was potentially hurtful, which is the worst kind of dumb stuff to say/do.

Ugh.

So.

If you are a person to which I have said/done something stupid (either recent or not so) please know that I regret saying/doing it possibly as much as or more than you regret hearing/observing it.

So, sorry. Essentially.

What every library should look like

While in downtown Chicago, a (very patient) friend and I happened upon the building that once was the Chicago Library. Once we actually got inside, we discovered that it had become the city's Cultural Center, and that it contained art galleries, little museum displays, and very very excellent architecture and mosaics.


I now believe that every library (or building that was once a library) should look like this:

And like this:

Not to mention this:

And also it should be full of excellent quotes laid out in mosaic tile like this one from Milton:

(Sorry that the above pic is both fuzzy and orangeish. Darn camera/darn shaky hands.)

In short, this building is absolutely perfect as a library. Except for the whole lack of books part. That was kind of disappointing.

Cough Drops: an Unexpected Ambrosia

So, I've only recently (i.e. within the past two days) finally weaned myself off of cough drops. Who knew those little lozenges could be so addictive?

It all started when I got sick. Then, I got a cough that followed said sickness which produced a state of affairs in my throat and lungs that prevented me from talking or singing or breathing longer than roughly 30 seconds without breaking into chest-cracking convulsory coughing fits.

Not fun stuff.

So, to prevent said coughing fits I began sucking upon large quantities of cough drops (sugar-free, of course). Within only a few days, I was a cough drop junkie. It was all I could do not to raid my parents' cash drawer in search of the funds to feed my habit.

I went one day last week without cough drops at all and managed to startle numerous people who would have spent an otherwise pleasantly sedate day staring at paintings and discussing brushstrokes with their erudite companions.

However, my lungs appear to be pretty much back to normal, and while my throat still feels rather dry, I think this is mainly due to my transition from Illinois humidity back to Utah lack-thereof.

So cough drops are dropped. Not quite cold turkey, but it's pretty close.

(There are times though when I still dream of that eucalyptus-laced goodness. Mmmm.)

My life in flops

I was going to write a post about cough drops. Really. But my heart just wasn't in it.

So I've decided to write about flip-flops instead, because that is obviously a much more serious subject.

So.

Flops are great. Grand, even. They keep one's feet cool and produce an appealing slapping noise when one walks. And, if one has an itch on one's foot, it is surprisingly easy for one to reach down and scratch one's heel or perhaps the space just above the large toe. Ahhh.

I am a flop fan. An advocator of flips.

I am a flip-flopping girl.

And.

And...

And I have officially run out of subject material for this post. More on cough drops tomorrow. Perhaps.

A Note of Explanation

Here's another vacation blog entry, except it doesn't really deal with my vacation at all. I just felt the need to explain, in some small way, my major obsession with Jane Eyre. Seriously. Read on.

Perhaps I had better explain something. I've talked enough about Jane Eyre (both the novel and the recent Masterpiece Theatre Production) to make anyone believe (with good reason) that I am obsessed.

Which, actually, I probably am. A little.

So, lest you all suffer under the misapprehension that I love the story because Toby Stephens plays Rochester in the film (although, admittedly, he does a delightful job) please know that I loved Jane Eyre long before I saw the most recent film adaptation of it.

I love Jane Eyre for the same reason I love (and have also obsessed over) the story of "Beauty and the Beast." (I'm talking about the original story here, not the well-known animated version.)

I love these stories because, in some ways, they are stories about me.

For most of my adult life, I have felt wretchedly ugly like the Beast, or at least unremarkable and plain like Jane. (And I know some of you will spring up and say, "But you're not ugly!" Thank you for that. But please realize that never prevented anyone from feeling ugly.) Being able to read about these two characters and seeing them gain first admiration then love from those they loved has always made me feel (rather foolishly) hopeful that someone will one day see something inside me worth loving.

Because, you know, my inner self is really very good-looking. She has dimples and awesome non-frizzy hair and wears contact lenses. She is also blessed with dainty ankles. (I've always longed for dainty ankles.) Oh, yes, and she has, like, NO high forehead. Her forehead is completely and wonderfully normal.

So. Yes. Someday someone will walk up to me and say, "Lizardbreath, I see the inner be-dimpled, be-normal-foreheaded you, and I just love that about you."

And then I will be as content as Jane with her Rochester (sans mad wife) or the Beast with his Beauty (apres transformation, unless of course you're a Rose Daughter fan).

Lizardbreath in flight

Because I am a blogger junkie, I wrote a few posts out by hand while on my recent trip. The first I wrote on the flight out to Chicago, during which I waxed exuberant about airplanes. I really don't know why. But here you go:

Airplanes are cool.

I wonder why we don't all go around talking about airplanes all the time.

I mean think about it--they're awesome!

You take this enormous tube of metal, add a couple of wings and some engines and suddenly the thing is airborne!

Extraordinary!

In all seriousness though, I love it all: the thrilling rush of takeoff, the moving up through and above clouds into the blue-black sky, the sea of white beneath you through which, sporadically, you see glimpses of the mysterious shape of the land beneath, then the stomach-dropping descent below cloudbanks and back onto the ground where, for a moment or a day or for the rest of your life, you see things just a little differently.

It makes me want to wax poetic, if only I could.

Greater minds than mine should write poetry about flying.

Vacationary

Vacations are wonderful.

And very very tiring.

And also very very wonderful.

And seriously tiring. (I'm talking tiring here, people.)

So.

It is both good to have gone and good to be home, mainly because being home means I am once more free to blog. So, sorry for my week-long leave of absence, folks. I've got writings that I noted down in my notebook while I was gone, but that'll have to wait for another day.

Because as I mentioned, vacations are tiring.

And wonderful.