Post-Party Post

2186 filled fast on Saturday night, friends filing in and out. We invited a lot of people for fear that no one would show up. However, at one glorious point, this house was filled to its little capacity. Mixing. Mingling. Munching. Bodies upstairs and down. And, of course, Rock Band. There were so many moments when I literally jumped for joy at the sight of some friends - people who I invited but, for one reason or another, I didn't think would stop by. Some I hadn't seen in way way too long.
I forgot that I don't like being hostess; wanting everyone to get along, hoping that backgrounds and behaviors would combine as well as the ingredients in M's banana bread (which many people thought was flan because she baked two round banana bread "cakes" (?), something quite entertaining, actually. The bread was absolutely delicious. I've had my fair share of it and then some). All-in-all, I felt like it was successful. I don't know how the party-goers feel, but I was happy with the outcome. I thought of Aunt B as I put mixing bowls in the sink and separated plastic forks and cups to put in the trash. She was the hostess of dreams, telling her guests to "Leave the dishes, please," explaining she liked to smile over her suds and think of the various moments of the night; the conversations, the delicious food, the friends meeting friends; all elements of a successful party, which hers always were.
We all feel officially "warmed" here in 2186 after our first party. Some guests came bearing housewarming gifts, which was above and beyond. Many thanks to Mike G and his artistic eye for hanging our natural curiosities coral pictures. Not only can he rock out on rock band, he truly is quite the "creative person," right Mike? A thank you is in order to Joel who brought us a housewarming gift (very thoughtful), and also opened all the cans for the homemade bean dip with a bottle opener, poke by poke. (Thanks to Lauren, too, who lended us her Letherman with said bottle opener, without which there would have been no bean dip) and thanks to all our guests who made Saturday night a success!

on a steel horse i ride

As if sanity isn't reason enough, tonight we discovered yet another reason (according to M, it's the reason) to move to your own place: rock band. We're gaining fans by the tens of thousands.

Mikey makes one fine John Bon Jovi. Nuff said.

A Christmas Without

The table seemed empty, yet we had to cozy up to fit around the two tables, over-flowing into the living room. We were snug, on new dining chairs amidst Swedish food galore, a tradition which, after 100 years in the Haglund family, is still going strong. The J.H. Haglund boys are still going strong, too. Steven is nearly as tall as Michael (something J.J. is a bit upset about. And, I won't even start on Phillip, who boasts that, despite his lesser stature (he's still above 6'0"), his biceps are thicker than all of his brother's necks. He's right). J.J., Phil, Rich and I rounded out the end of the dining room table, leaving the adults to themselves in the living room. We talked of frat bros, studying abroad, girls, boys, and moving out (real grown-up stuff) as we munched on dup (traditional Swedish roast with sausage and gravy - delectable, if you ask me), goat cheese, flat bread, veggies galore and mashed potatoes to die for, each grabbing second and third plates.
Grandpa's spot sat empty, his patriarchal presence was all but unnoticed, yet we continued on with the rice pudding. R. called the boys in from the football game so we could dish up the rice and dish out the free verse. He was the right man for the job - four boys magically reappeared back at the dinner tables, ready for the rice. Dad and R. stole the show, as they always do, reciting the best on-the-spot poetry. Second place most definitely going to O, K and J, who gave the most darling of performances. Mine was short and sweet. Not even worth recording, but I think RCF got it on video nonetheless.
I love knowing that all over the country - from Chicago to Tennessee, from Irvine to Texas, Boston to Virginia, we all eat the same meal and we all participate in the same traditions: dup and potatoes, and no rice before impromptu poetry. So the years continue, as we think of Grandpa with fondness - He the one who fostered it all, carrying on from previous generations, Grandma at his side, mixing and mashing, spreading the table full of delicious Swedish food and wonderful decorations. God Jul!

it won't be long before we'll all be there with...

S*N*O*W

I can't get enough of this wintry white stuff!
picture from here, via here.

spread some.

in the still of the night

Rush, rush, rush, right? Or so I told Matty tonight on the phone. It was good to hear his voice amidst the holiday hullabaloo. We had to make it quick - the store was closing and I had yet to decide, indeed placing me in the Last-Minute-Shopper category. We promised we'd talk soon - and catch each other up on all the news. With that, I picked out a few things, headed to the register and out into the white and drifted snow, (oh!)

It seemed like a good idea at the time; to get a little shopping in before the storm hit, but as I approached 215, I felt unsettled. I heard that voice in my head (undeniably my mother's) saying, "Is this such a good idea, Martha?" I almost gave an audible, "No. But..." as I got on the on ramp. I was feeling a bit nervous, too, but...

When I pulled my scarf tight as I stepped out into the wind-gusted parking lot, post-gift purchase, I heard the voice again. As I glanced up into the stormy night sky, my eyelashes filtering snowflakes, I swear I could see my mother looking back at me with her famous 'told-ya-so glare. I grabbed the scraper out of the car and quickly dusted off Jack's Frost's latest evidence, the last of which landed on my lap after I got in the car and shook my head. I turned on the heater full-blast and put the car in forward to face The Storm. It looked bad. Maybe Mom was right.

The freeway looked dangerous, but The-Sooner-The-Better Side won the argument in my head (freeway instead of side streets) and out I ventured, at a whopping 30 mph, onto the very freeway which had seemed o.k. forty minutes earlier. With the push of a button, the carols were silenced and I was literally all eyes and all hands on deck, wipers full-speed ahead, still not fast enough to keep up with Feisty Jack Frost. The ride home was going to be slow and silent. Let's add slippery and make that "s" sentence deuce a trio. We could round it off to an even four and say scary, but shh...don't tell The Mom in the Moon. (She already told me so).

I passed one exit-full of an assemblage of slippers and sliders, grateful not to find myself in the mix. It was adios to the freeway and hello scenic route, although I knew it would add time to my travels. At this point, if I had dared, I would have shed my scarf and coat, seeing as I had worked up quite the sweat trying not to slip slide away. My eyes peeled and my knuckles white, I forged slowly on. I was on silent prayer number seven when I slid right through the stop light by The Cotton Bottom. Luckily, there was no one to be found. (Apparently everyone else obeys their mother). Holladay Blvd. was clear as day (no cars) and as white and wintry as I've ever seen it. My knuckles let go of the steering wheel and my shoulders loosened. I dialed the Roomies to tell them I'd be a while, shouting on speaker-phone. M said she had just been out at her brother's and that I should take my time. I hung up and held tight. All I could see was snow. All I could hear was wind. It was as eerie as it was beautiful.

At this point in the drive, I took note of my geographical surroundings as best I could. Visibility was at an all-time low. If my car were to take a sudden spin into the cottonwood trees, I could call on the G. family. They'd take me in. Sure, W has been married for over a year, but I know her mom would feed me M&M's and hot cocoa and W's dad would could pull me out with one of his state-of-the-art winter tow toys in no time. I passed Hillsden Drive without incident. Next up, Aunt B. If my engine went out, I could hike my way up to Wander Lane. If I landed (stranded) North of 45th, I'd spend the night with Aunt B. For sure. If I happened to slid south of there into Cottonwood creek, I could call on Lar-Dawg B. Lori's all for helping the homeless. Plus, she's so much fun, we'd probably stay up all night chatting the storm away and make a snowman at sun up! I was beginning to think that my Near-Death-Donner-Party Experience (kidding) wasn't half bad! I passed both the B's and the N's safe and sound. The list went on from there: the M's, the J's, Bishop H, K and I...Oh! I felt so loved. Even if I was found frozen in my gift-filled car, at least I'd know I had lots of friends and my family would (no doubt) be able to divvy up the packages.

As I approached 2100 east, my heart began to settle. The home stretch. If, by chance, my car couldn't muster enough spirit to make it all the way up Bryan, Wheetie would save, for Wheetie always saves. Cinnamon Santas, chocolate kisses, crumbly, gooey, goodies for all. I decided that if my car stopped mid-way between my house and hers, I'd pick Wheetie's, hands down. And not just for the treats. She's like my second Mom. Her house smells as much like home as my own.

Needless to say, here I sit, safe and sound in the YBH, my space-heater warming my feet, typing away. All in all, I was scared. I won't lie. It wasn't exactly smooth sailing. I'll remember this the next time I want to feel part of the Holiday Hubbub. I'll grab my fleece blanket, a book and my tea and sit and sip (grateful to not be slipping). I'll watch the snowflakes silently falling and think of all my hospitable friends between here and Interstate 215.

Christmas Downunder

Hey, R's, keep your eyes out for this guy! He looks a little too skinny to me. Maybe you can fatten him up between now and the 24th.

by the chimney with chairs

The most cherished gifts are the little ones. And who can resist a miniature? I know exactly who would adore these. And how adorable are they? Love. (I found these on a cup of joe. Here's the link).

In my attempt to become just like S & E, I've taken up collecting little chairs - S added one to my birthday package this year, rounding out E's unbelievably thoughtful gift. The chair is wonderfully geometric and shiny white. It now sits proudly in front of my chair bookends bought on my trip to Chicago in '99. Karli and I took The Windy City by storm. Well, it took us, actually. K, in her sandals and a hooded sweatshirt, (in January, no less) was begging for a blizzard. On our Michigan Avenue shopping spree, she spent her money on mittens and socks (and Frango mints at Marshall Fields, which I proudly partook of. It is, after all, tradition). I bought some adorable chair bookends at a store on Michigan Avenue, the inaugural chair set for my miniature chair collection. Then, to escape the absolute blizzard we found ourselves in, we rode the escalator up to the fifth floor of Borders, with stacks of books and magazines and watched the snow squall roll in off Lake Michigan. K and I make the best of travel companions. I can't wait until she comes home. Less than ten days. We'll sit by the fireplace, in the chairs here on Bryan - last night I stayed up too late making wreathes to attach to the back of each of them - and laugh into the night, digesting the Frango's that are bound to be at Grandma's by Christmas Eve. Can't wait, K. Bring your mittens. It's cold outside.

O Christmas Tree

This is indeed stealing. My apologies to Janie and Ben, but somewhere between The Yellow Brick House and Yale Avenue, I lost my camera adapter, and can't post this picture myself.

We kicked off Christmas with a great dinner party a few weeks ago. Thanks to Ash and Mikey for hosting. Ash, your house looks incredible - between your new kitchen, your beautifully decorated tree and your amazing food, I think we're coming to your house every year. Plus, with Mikey as endless entertainment, why would we want to go anywhere else?! With many friends far away for school and work, it's nice to have some who are still so close. Can't wait to see most of you very soon!

Oui, Six Kings.

It's so beyond late. Beyond beyond beyond. And yet, the page beckons. An evening enticement. Or, so it was supposed to be when I started forming sentences in my head hours ago, miles away from my computer. There is sleep before 2 a.m., is there not? As yesterday was somewhat more than monumental, I feel the need to expound.

The King's Singers. They basically equal my childhood when it comes to certain things. Some of you may stop reading right there. Others of you, those of you who know the Royal Rhythms and Catchy Crooning of which I speak, may wish to continue. If it weren't for my Uncles (K, P, B, R, and D, respectively, correct me if I'm wrong) I would have thought that those Gents from King's College were the brains behind such tunes as "You Are The New Day," "The Boxer," and "American Pie." Now I may have lost the rest of you entirely. But, as mentioned above, my mom has seven brothers (who later found seven brides). They versed her well in all things Lennon and McCartney; Simon and Garfunkel. She then passed that knowledge on to us, as well as her love for the classic contemporary (Rutter, etc.) And hey, jamming to six guys who can sound like a symphony all their own, no instruments needed, was pretty cool.

Trips to the cabin, Sunday drives to Bountiful ("The Other Lot," if you will) and the Every Day were soundtracked and accompanied by those six guys from across that Great Big Pond. Dad would sing the First Tenor part, hitting all the high notes in perfect harmony. I would close my eyes and imagine him as one of them, Uncle Robert, heading up the baritone part. One night I had a dream that Dad and Uncle Robert were the first American King's Singers. It was quite vivid and very exciting. If I close my eyes, I can still picture what Robert and Dad looked like, in fuzzy dream form.

When it was announced that The King's Singers were coming to sing with the Tabernacle Choir for their Christmas concert, the Fetzer household was high-fiving it up, singing Riu, riu, chiu! as we danced about the kitchen.

As I watched that Sextet walk onto the platform in The Conference Center last night, childhood memories flooded back, creating a pond all my own. They harmonized, blended, intoned and entertained, leaving us all charmed. It was, for lack of a better word, exciting. However, the thing that I'll remember about the evening won't be their clever Brit-wit, their lightning-fast rendition of "Jingle Bells," nor their synchronicity. The best part about last night, the thing I'll remember long past this holiday season, is how I felt when I saw Dad up there, larger than life in front of a crowd of over 21,000, blending with those British Boys, looking more handsome than ever. Way to go, Dad. He's not only living his own dream, he's living mine.

In the name of Love

I'm not going to be naming names, 'cause you know who you are, but Bottom Line: Way to be!

I love/Love you a million Great Britains.

stockings were hung by the chimney with care

Sankt Nikolaus

We spent family night at Grandma's last night. Mom had us play our instruments. Every time I get out my violin these days, I fall ever so quickly back in love with it. The chance to play anything with my sister (she plays cello) is highly entertaining (leave that to me and, what my formal teacher used to call my "creative counting.") My sister and I grew up playing duets together and spent many Christmases in a quartet, ("Vivace," as we called ourselves) playing for various Christmas parties and holiday wedding receptions. Libby always laughs at me, and says something to the exasperated effect of, "Martha! (rubbing her eyes with her bow-in-hand like she really can't believe her eyes, or her ears) Why can't you count?!" Then she erupts into a mini fit of laughter. I stand up for myself and find some brilliant excuse for my unique counting ways and we start again at the pick-up note to measure whatever.
I am happy to report that after a quick run-through session pre-performance at Grandma's, we came through a shining success, leaving Grandma clapping her hands, crossing them over her chest and saying in her ever-happy manner, "Wonderful! How thrilling!" Take that, sister! Just kidding. I couldn't do it without her, nor would I want to.
Being up at Grandma's during Christmas always makes me think of Dad's time with Grandma, Grandpa and Uncle Robert as a boy in Germany. Dad and I were remarking tonight that we missed St. Nicholas Eve this past week. It came and went, with no hay-filled shoes by the door, no nipped-at carrots in the morning or a new Christmas book. We're all so busy this year, we mentioned. But, I think he and I both regret not taking the time to participate in that long-standing tradition. I was reading Marta today and found this. And this. I love Marta, and not just because her name is so much like mine, and what I would choose mine to be, if it weren't for my great-grandmother, Martha, hailing from Germany, herself. Either way, with or without the "h," I'm grateful for my German heritage, for the tradition of a little on-the-spot recital at Grandma's and wonderful Christmas observances which delight and thrill as the years march on.

Ready Setty Getty.

Taking cue from Anteaters and Titans, here's a post to butter up any Getty-lovers. I love The Getty, LA and was recently talking to a friend about The Getty Villa in Malibu, which I've never been to. Jen, Moof, Kellie, are you ready for a reunion trip? I think we need to hit up Malibu! What do you say? I've done a little browsing on the website (thanks to Meka's post) and I'm in. Any takers? Say, in February, perhaps? Here's a picture (above) from our Los Angeles trip four years ago. Check out the link for The Getty Villa. A little taste of Pompeii, right in Kellie's back yard!

Have A Yule That's Cool

Okay, so I Love (capital "L") our little house. Love. However, the last few nights, I've slept with a beanie, ski socks and two (count them two) down comforters, and I'm still freezing. Last night, I awoke in a frozen frenzy, opened the door and walked out into the hall to check the thermostat. A warm rush of air flooded the hallway. Sure enough, the temperature read 69 degrees, as I had set it. So, I'm sleeping in an ice box, but it's the Isle of Naboomboo just outside my door?! Somebody call the Super.

The Walking Man Walks

The other day I was out color-hunting with a client. To color hunt all one needs is a good partner, a good paint deck and a good neighborhood. We had all three. Plus K (less like a client, more like a dear friend. We get off-topic all the time. It's so much fun) has great taste and she's brazen. She's got the gumption I lack. She'll step out of the car to ask a stranger just how they made their arbor or what, exactly, is that color on their house trim. The results have been pleasing. We've met the kindest of people. I love hearing House Histories. Every house has one and when you find an owner who belongs to their house, rather than the other way around, you'll find that they will tell you the most interesting of stories.

This post, however, has nothing to do with houses. Except that it was while color hunting that I met Peter.* K put on the breaks, tires rolling to a stop; the rolling window stopping simultaneously. She leaned over my seat and said...something to this 40-something man (obviously her acquaintance) as he approached the car. The first word that popped into my head: blue. And we're not talking trim colors here. This man had reflecting pools for eyes. So blue they command attention. And you better believe I stood at attention. Sat, actually. Straight up. I took one look into those eyes then couldn't look at them for fear I'd be drawn right in. I fanned out my paint deck, mindlessly flipping to the blues. A possible subconscious attempt to match the hue of Peter's eyes; to make a color memory. They weren't any one color, but every color, breaking all Laws of Chromatics. Scattering. Reflecting. Absorbing. They were inches from me. I couldn't take it!

His voice: melty. His jawline: divine. Then, then there was his hair. Those dark locks, lightly frosted with a few graying strands. The perfect length. The perfect thickness. The perfect texture. (Not that I touched it. But, oh! How touchable it seemed!) At this point, I'm hoping anyone in the audience knows me well enough to know that a) this man really was attractive but/and b) that I love dramatizing every little small detail (Linds, that's a lyrical quiz slash Test of Friendship, if you will). Back to the Walking Man. So he and K are talking and all I'm hearing is "blah, blah, blah" and thinking that this man has got to have some sort of Italian in him. That Roman nose. I couldn't stop fantasizing about those azure pools with depths unknown. I was just about ready to dawn an oxygen tank and dive in when, all conversation stopped. I felt those placid blue eyes shift their gaze and land on me. It was...uncomfortable in the most wonderful sense. His eyes drew my face up and before I knew it, blue locked with brown as Gavin looked at me. He said, "I'm sorry (touching my arm and pausing) I was talking, then all of a sudden I looked at you and I thought, 'Wow, she is beautiful!' You are beautiful!" Come again? (I didn't say that to him, but I was thinking it). I said a very bashful "thank you," and out fanned the paint deck again. This time, I was mindlessly manning the red zone, trying to match the pink shade of my cheeks. Pink indeed! I felt them flush in mere milliseconds. As I was dopely doing so, I shrugged my shoulders and thought, "Well, I'm good. Good for life. Drive on, K. Drive on!" Honestly I am. Good for life, I mean. A compliment like that from a man like that? That, my friends, is something I can go off of forever. When I rejoined the scene, Peter and K were back to their gabbing. Something about children on the playground not getting along. Grown-up stuff...trailing...trailing...

A few moments later, K was summing-up salutations, and we were off. I managed a "Nice to meet you." His reply, "Really. You're gorgeous." I think I melted right into the seat as we drove away. "Okay, so he's like McDreamy with an under-bite!" came the comment from K's seat. I was still off in Lah-Lah Land, but agreed emphatically. I was so undone by his eyes and hair, I didn't even get to his teeth.

And, just like that, K's my favorite client and I'll go color hunting with her any day!


*This is not his real name. His name has been changed to protect his attractiveness. Or something. I asked M what a good-looking man in his early 40's would be named and she said "Peter," so Peter it is.

To You and Yours

In anticipation of the annual R-F Nativity, Vince Guaraldi's Christmas tracks are playing as I type. I love his trickling tunes. The arrival of a table here at The Y B House yesterday brought glad tidings of great joy. No more lap-topping on my lap. Merry indeed. We're a week in, and feeling a bit more settled, another snowstorm under our belt as of this record. I made a friend of the school boy/ski bum across-the-street-neighbor of ours. The Boy From Maine and I have said a few hearty hello's as we've both scooted off in the morning. He's from Maine, therefore he's mine. Plain and simple. He and his roommates play midnight football, never missing a day, or a play, even with the sheet of ice that covers 2200 east. We'll be minus an M this week. She'll be missed. We promise not to sleep in her bed (It's the comfiest. By far.) In the words of Annie, "I think I'm gonna like it here." As M studied a few nights ago, I put together a wreath with the few odds and ends that I had. We needed a little Christmas. Tonight I set out a centerpiece on our newly-delivered table. With our frosted windowpanes, red teapot in constant use and Christmas DVDs on repeat, we're happy here in our little house.

window to the skies

Our kitchen window faces South. It's the only window in the kitchen and the only window in the whole house without panes. All the rest are six-over-six. True divided light (each piece of glass was installed individually within the pane -- they don't make windows like this anymore.) When I eat breakfast I stare out the single-paned window at the world.

The Yellow Brick House

I'm here on the floor in 2186, M to my right, sipping hot cocoa. We're nearly furniture-less, and loving it. The purchase of an IKEA futon was put to profit last night after W & R used their muscles to help us do all the hammering.

We love it here - this house with it's drafty windows, old heating vents and creaky hardwood floors. It's surprising how filling a place full of a few things (we all still have a little ways to go) makes four walls Home. Such a small word for a place with so much significance.

Our Little House has as much to offer us as we have to offer it: a great backyard, a long driveway (only notable after the snowstorm on Friday) a patio, a front porch; a bay window anticipating a table (we're hoping sooner rather than later) future dinner parties and late-night lingerers, a cellar (not quite sure what we're going to put in there, but Mern has a few ideas) and a great basement room for all things futons, games and spontaneous dance parties.
It's lights out here at 2186, at least for me.

Goodnight room.
Goodnight moon.
Goodnight air.
Goodnight noises everywhere.

Rugs to Rich's

A client of mine and I have been on the hunt for some rugs for her master bedroom. We've just revealed and refinished the original hardwood floors and now it's time to cloak them with a woven work of art, full of dazzling colors. (I didn't think I was a fan of rugs until I realized that rugs can serve as the palette for the entire room. That said, I like more muted rugs. Vegetable dyes. Soft tones, simple motifs, florettes, leaf and vine patterns, and geometric anything, but I digress).
We have been working with a specific company here in Salt Lake - the only Rug company, if you ask me. It's the place I take everyone. And no, it's not The Historic Villa Theater-Turned Aladdin's Rug Palace. And no, it's not the place I posted about with the anything-but-inviting wrought iron gate surround, complete with guard dogs and a bald security officer named "Bull." The place I'm referring to has the best inventory, the best showroom, the best staff, well-versed in every woven thing. Our Rug Guy, our go-to man, our well-trained, well-versed, well-mannered sales associate is Richard, a skinny little guy who likes to dress head to toe, monochromatic: as in his hair is several shades of gray and so are is his clothing (and footwear). Reasons we like Richard-Rug-Guru: he's light on those little feet of his, happy and hopping, a wee chap in smoke-colored duds. He makes pleasant conversation. For instance, today's topic was Tempurpedic. Mattresses, that is. He can't live without one. Hauls his Tempurpedic pillow (in a gray sham, no doubt) from place to place - air, land, or sea. Back to Reasons To Love Rich: He picks up the (black) phone in one corner of the showroom (no need to dial) and says ever so pleasantly, "Jose, help with 6x9's" And we're off, just like that, to the next level where Jose greets us and the two of them begin flipping rugs. Oh! Richard does it with such flair! Hands all about, the lover of all things colorless, goes on and on about the reds, the blues, the golds: "Now this (he pauses and puts both hands out in front of him, fingers fanned) This. Is. Stunning." lingering on the "uuuhhh" sound for about half a minute. It's as if he somehow escapes to this magical place where only weavers and rug-wonderers exist, united in a Rug-Loving Purpose: to Spread The Rug. Jose (who, today, in stark contrast to our Richard, was wearing a t-shirt that said, "I'm a go-getter. My girlfriend works and I go get her") brings Richard back from his Magic Carpet Ride. Back to me, back to Jane, back to black. Jane and I are now mid-discussion will this red go with the red in her window treatments, holding up her fabric samples to see if the palette-combination would be complimentary. Our Rug-Man then puts one hand on his hip, the back of his palm at his waist, the other in a slight fist, then sits snugly under his chin. And, with a thought-provoking look, he awaits our assessment. I'm voice, stating, we like this about it, but not so much this, and the flipping with flair continues.
After today we're back to Square One, the third time around. Square One cubed. We've taken four rugs out on approval. That was just today. Richard assures us with a "Not a problem at. ALL," that this is indeed okay with his signature nasally chortle head-wobble combination. Another lift of the phone and he reports that his (delivery) men will arrive at Jayne's with the rugs first thing in the morning. Such power he has, that Rug-Guy. He might as well run the place. With one final comment about his love for all things Tempurpedic, Jayne and I are out the door, as Richard waves emphatically behind us. Next time, I hope Jose is wearing a t-shirt that says, "Spread the Rug."

30 days

And so, the NaBloPoMo days march slowly on. Lately I often find myself repeating "Thirty days hath September, April, June and November..." then, I bursts into a silent symphony, grateful that November isn't in the "All-The-Rest-Have-31" category.

30 Things I'd rather be doing than coming up with yet another so-so post tonight:

1. Reading: the stack of unfinished books beside my bed, the latest articles in Traditional Home, Architectural Digest and House & Garden, the newspaper, other friend's blogs...
2. Sleeping
3. Eating ice cream, although posting really can't stop me, now can it?
4. Chit-chatting on the phone
5. Invoicing. (Ha! So that's a lie)
6. Writing in my actual journal which has not only taken a back seat during this month of Thirty Days, but would now be considered hanging onto the hitch of said hypothetical car-with-back-seat.
7. Sketching: house plans, doodles, my name over and over again, scribbles, and the like
8. Lesley, The Rev Al Green and blue thermals in the dark.
9. Organizing my office (I'm serious on this one. My Dad now refers to it as "Baghdad")
10. Helping Chard with his infamous Christmas Music Mixes
11. Any and all things OME
12. Laundry (again, I'm serious).
13. Enjoying the finally-December weather
14. Watching "Mad About You" re-runs
15. Finishing up a few iMovie projects
16. Starting my Christmas cards
17. Taking in great art at any local gallery
18. Traveling
19. Time with the cousins
20. Road-tripping
21. Getting a pedicure
22. Making homemade pizza or Mom's apple cake
23. Catching up on emails
24. Taking in the magical lustre of Temple Square this time of year
25. Cabin-ing
26. Ho cho/sno sho
27. Attacking The Pile Museum (the curator est moi) in my office
28. Walking with Kates and Gracie
29. Roasting chestnuts on an open fire
30. Decking the Halls

Only 2 more days and the hiatus begins!

Say When

Today has been one of those spectacular days when, unexpectedly and gloriously everything turns out just right. The weather was perfect. I've been waiting on SN*W for weeks now and today...it came; Brilliantly white, dancing down onto the windshield, while I danced inside, snapping my fingers and swaying my head to some new favorite jams. The heater was up full blast, blowing my hair as I swayed, adding a silent percussion all its own.
I found an extra wad of quarters in a forgotten pocket of my bag. M&M's were 3 for a dollar at Maverick, even the almond kind. At Karen's suggestion, I stopped and found a treasure in snow-covered Sugarhouse on the way home. I called minimed and we trouble-shooted with success. Truly amazing. It looks like Bryan Avenue might be a go. As if The Good wasn't good enough, the night came to a flakey close as I joked and laughed on Herbert Avenue with some favorite new neighbors. I love when Life slips into place, even for a few hours of the day. Happy Tuesday! E, they're growing on me.

free verse

Our time was not long
The memories not yet old
We took our mistakes
And turned them into gold

You grasped the stars
And placed them in my hand
And we walked together
A bright new land

Soul to soul
A circle made whole
Painting the sky
A bright shade of blue

Nothing to conceal
Moving on seemed too real
Not wanting to know
One of us would let go

The passage of time
Too fast to hold
We stand and we fall
Unaware, if anything at all

As you turn and leave my hand
You've left traces in my land
Your shadow walks with me
This un-charted land

Sure as I'm breathing sure as I'm sad
I'll keep this feeling as long as I can

I've got to find my direction
I've got to walk that road
Rise up and set forth
Find my own new North

Searching for reason
In our separate ways
I'm leaving with more than I had
Those golden flecks you left in my days

As I walk, as I go
I've got a wish and I know
That the beginning is now at the end of this road

I leave here believing
Love has got no ceiling

*DISCLAIMER: This is silly, really. Something I challenged myself to finish and post. And, my first attempt at actual poetry. It hardy qualifies. If I were smart enough, I wouldn't have to title it "free verse." Oh well. Special thanks to E.V. And, for those interested readers/readers who are going to email and ask me who this is about: hint: "our time wasn't long." That may save me a few explanations. :)

Live the Dream

I love the moment when two people connect. When two passions fuse, creating equal territory for two people who otherwise would have nothing in common. This happened to me on Cape Cod a few summers ago. We were exploring Hyannis Port the night before we left for Nantucket. Having just finished dinner, my brother, sister and I set off to explore the docks in the August twilight. That's when I met Denny. A retired psychologist from Long Island, Denny closed his practice two years earlier to chase shutter flies and sunsets and capture dreams with his lens. Now, in a shack alongside ferry boats and wooden skiffs, worn as the salt sea laps against them, he sits and signs his photographs. Libby and I each bought one, but not before we talked about our love of the sea. It was as if I was looking at a mirror of sorts as we spoke; staring at a portrait taken of myself, someone who also longs for the sea, though she lives and works far from it. Denny and I had identical smiles as I slipped my framed photo between a brown paper bag. I took his card and we promised to stay in touch. I check his website from time to time. He's still living the dream, from one sunset to the next.

The Heart of Life

Someone once told me that they admired my authenticity. Because of the context of this comment, and whose lips it left - someone who is truly authentic in every sense of the word, I took this as the highest of compliments. Then, I began to wonder. What exactly did _______ mean? What was it about _______ that brought that out in me (the authenticity, that is) and what, or who is The Authentic Martha, anyway? What does she look like? What does she act like? What is she made of? And...If the Authentic Martha were to go "Timmmbbberrrr!" all alone in The Forest of Authenticity, would anyone hear?
How refreshing to find those individuals who truly know who we are, inside and out. Those who, in their presence, we can shed all imitation and just be. The rare souls who can finish our sentences, read our minds, fill in our blanks. Kindred spirits who take what we have to offer, sift good from bad, and love us throughout the sifting, no matter what comes out the other end. Those who see us in glory and in shades of gray; Who wait with us for the sun to come up; Who rejoice with us in its rays.
After talking with a friend a few weeks ago, I was reminded of how much she has added to my life. It had been quite a while since we had had the opportunity to chat. It took mere seconds before we were back into the rhythm of our friendship, laughter seeping out of nearly every comment. She truly has become a part of me, The Authentic Martha. Our histories have fused and the times we have spent together, in part, have defined who I am. She has shaped many of my likes and dislikes and I owe her much. The value of a true friend knows no limit.
It's encouraging to know exactly where to go when I'm losing ground, when authenticity is thin. Of this I am sure: We're not to go it alone. There are plenty of shoulders to go around, so scoot in and stand together! The race is not to the swift, but to the steady. We're here to steady each other. We're here to remind each other of The Good, when The Bad or The Sad or The Lonely seems to clamor louder than we can bear; To cover each other's ears until the tumult dies; To whisper "I believe" or "I know" in moments of doubt; To shout hooray for victory and assure "I knew you could do it all along!" To remind each other that the heart of Life is good; To defend each other's silver lining.
So, to those who have steadied; To those who continue to to steady; To those who keep sifting; To those who have been literal and figurative shoulders (no matter your distance); To those who know the True Me and love anyway; To those who know the right way to use semicolons, but read right along; Those to my right and those to my left, I say, thank you, dear friends!

merci tout le monde

Thanks to all of you who made yesterday so wonderful. My cell phone was flooded with calls and my text message and email inboxes are both bursting with well-wishes. It was great to hear from so many of you. I am amazed at your wherewithal to sing with such ease into an answering machine! The choruses of "Happy Birthday To You's" are saved and will be used in the coming days and weeks when I need a boost. I'm glad for the chance to see and hear from so many. I'm grateful for each and every one of you and hope you are all well and safe. As I went to bed last night, I felt loved, spoiled and celebrated. I hope you had a wonderful holiday and look forward to seeing most of you within the next month!

Markings

Yesterday was full of family and feasting; recollections, recitations, Owen and Miles' violin renditions; gaming and much laughter. I can't help but think (know) that I come from the best family around. And, I've got 100 people to back me up on that!
Between turkey and pie, Grandma slid a hand-addressed envelope across the table in each of our various directions. Inside was a copy of a journal entry of Grandpa's, dated March 24, 1989. Matt was voice as he read Grandpa's account of "What of (himself) he owe(s) to others." Thought-provoking, patriotic, and tender were his responses. Few of us were dry-eyed by the time Matt reached the bottom of the page. We, too, felt "a sense of joy in togetherness." Such joy is an emotion fostered by Grandma and Grandpa. I've gone on to make my own list of "what of myself I owe to others" - it's full of things I owe to my sweet Grandparents, two I am forever grateful for.

King Marco's English

*E, I hope for NaBloPoMo's sake (but more so for my own) this isn't cheating. I've had requests to post this, so I hope it counts!

I just got home from the King's English. Bless the soul who opened that place. Bless, bless, bless! The bookstore looked too inviting on a cold fall night. I got out of my car and walked along 1500 east, the snow gently falling on my eyelashes. It was as if I had been encircled about in a snow globe. You know, the big snow globes; the kind that light up and play music; with the quaint holiday street shop scenes, people hustling through the falling snow, shopping about, the chefs in the Italian restaurant throwing scraps to stray dogs scratching at the back door...

I walked up the lantern-lit path and through the glass doors ready for looking. I went in for one thing, and came out with three, as well as seven minutes or so full of awkward compliments from a 30-something typical King's English male employee. Gay? I wasn't sure at first. ("Not that there's anything wrong with that.") He liked my glasses. That didn't necessarily answer my question. I smiled and accepted his compliment. Next comment, aimed at me, and the woman ringing up my books (Count them three, not one) at the counter, "There is something about women in glasses. The way they frame the female face..." At which point, I'm thinking gay (especially since he mentioned us as a separate gender) as I noticed his purple-shirt-purple-tie combo. I started to solicit The Powers That Be that he'd stop (oh please!) staring at me. No one seemed to answer and I felt the awkward gaze continue, "Every woman I have been in a relationship with has worn glasses." Bingo. Mystery solved.

"An art-aficionado, huh?" (He's still gabbing and, at that point had crossed the line into my personal space, peering over at my purchases, leaving me four-eyed and uneasy). "Yeah, well, I like to try to be," I muttered under my breath as I filled out my "frequent reader" form and handed my debit card to the cashier, praying she'd interject. "Then you're in the wrong city, my lady." (Do you have a picture conjured up in your head of what this guy is like, because you should! The kind of guy that says, "My lady." Who says that?!) "Uh, yeah. I know. I've got a great job here and I love the neighborhood. And there's always travel." Oh shoot. I should have stopped. I signed my receipt and repositioned my glasses with my index finger. Once my hand was free, Mr. King's English/Self-proclaimed Glasses-Guru extended his. "Marco. And you are?" his head leaning over the counter, ear taking lead, protruding ever so slightly to hear my name. "Martha." "Did he really just say Marco?" Funny that "Martha" means "lady." I wouldn't have been surprised if he offered such information on his own, along with his other tidbits....More smooth-talk a la Marco. And yes, it was indeed Marco. "With those glasses, My Lady, New York is calling your name!"

I told him that yes, New York is most definitely an artist's/designer's heaven. You can't beat the sites and sounds and food...something about my favorite restaurant in Little Italy. His eyes lit up and suddenly resembled the shade of his shirt as soon as my mouth formed the words "Little Italy." Thank heaven I couldn't remember the name of that great authentic Italian restaurant, or else he would have drilled me on the menu! "I much prefer Boston." I went on, hoping that would end all talk of the Big Apple. "Why?" was his inquiry. Uh...Same East Coast feel, but with a little more space to stretch. I love the bridges and the River, not to mention the history. I didn't even get into the Berkshires or Nantucket. I can only imagine. Dodged a bullet. No, not me. HE dodged a bullet on that one! If Boston is the topic, Nantucket and or The Cape is usually word vomit, but I somehow managed not to toss my cookies, so to speak, all over the Purple Pupil-Eater.

I had hoped that he wasn't an expert on Boston like he seemed to be on New York. "Oh, so it sounds like we have an East Coast Buff on our hands." My reply, in all honesty: "Who, me?!" The PPE: "I have friends from Boston College who just went National with their first album. And another friend who lives right outside of Cambridge. An artist, actually..." Trailing...Trailing...Trail...

Suddenly my thoughts weren't floating down the Hudson or the Charles. In fact, I wasn't quite sure where they were. So much for looking over those drawings for the Morgans or starting "The Architecture of Happiness" tonight. Then, silence and the sudden realization that I was back on 15th east talking with Big M. "No, not really a 'buff.' I just love the East Coast." There had to be people behind me. Wasn't it book club tonight or something? Not a soul.

The cashier seemed more than content to let the two of us gab the night away. She was in no hurry to get me back out into the falling snow, which had now blanketed the lantern-lit bookstore path. And, to add my purple plight, they were out of bags. I wasn't about to carry my three new art books through the snow to my car. So, the kind female left me flying solo with Mr. Marco. He continued, "And how do we know these cities so well, Miss Martha?" Speaking of word vomit, I wanted to say, "Look, pal. I wear contacts every day. I just happened to dry up my last pair the other night. I'ts just my luck that my doc is out of the office on Mondays and Wednesdays and can't refill my prescription. And, had I known I was a) going to be out in the snow today, or b) stuck talking to you, I would have forgone the glasses all together!" But, the kind person in me, well, what was left of her at least, responded. Something about how much I love architecture, my uncle and aunt right outside Boston, my uncle's book on the Charles...a cousin just outside Little Italy in SoHo...one in Manhattan... blah...blah...blah...

"Well, you'll have to come in sometime and tell me the name of that restaurant in Little Italy. It's shrinking by the day." The news made me sad. Not sad enough to stay, but I bet my face bore expression of the disheartening news. I snatched up my art books from Miss My-Lips-are-Sealed-Eat-Your-Heart-Out-Marco at the cash register and turned toward the door as Marco got in one last line, "It's not every day that I get to chat with a smart beautiful woman." I hid my face and gagged. Then, I turned towards him and politely smiled. I cranked the handle and let the glass door swing shut as the warm air filtered out.

I tip-toed through the snow (I was in boots and there was no way I was going to let myself slip, or worse, let my books come right along with me) and I literally laughed out loud. One of those did-that-really-just-happen? laughs. Pleasant, but unbelievable at the same time. I got in my car and drove off, excited to delve into the new additions to my library, leaving fresh tire marks behind me.

Be White

M and I both count on snow before our birthday. We're three days and counting and the temperature's dropping. I set out later than expected for some exercise last night. Heeding the thermometer in my car (which had read 68 degrees only a few hours earlier) I slipped on my Michigan sweatshirt and set off. It wasn't quite enough of a buffer, but that didn't deter my evening jaunt. As the November air nipped at my cheeks, I thought of M, our birthdays, and the times we've been able to celebrate together: Harry Potter Lego sets, phone calls at first snowflakes, waffle breakfasts, pumpkin chocolate chip bread, puzzles in the dining room and the famous pumpkin cheesecake, which, as tradition goes, I'll make tomorrow.

After The Chill set in full-force today, I'm thinking maybe we'll get our wish. Think: snow. Happy Birthday, M. May it be Merry and White. (Just like we loughph(x)e.)

Prepare for Take-off

A Not-So-Manic Monday full of
"Minerva Red," launching airplanes off the top of the JFSB at dusk, browsing the art section of the BYU bookstore, standing hand-over-heart during the National Anthem (well, at least for the cymbal-crashing-symphony at the end), gelato on Center Street, and, quality time with E.

And, bedtime before midnight...if I hurry! Here's to twenty-six starting five days early!

People Keep Repeating

Taking cue from Marta, I'm just going to let my thoughts "spill." They've been coming full-force lately and I can't seem to get them onto paper fast enough.
1. Meeting Virginia yesterday was an unexpected dream. Opportunity and passion collided, and I'm excited to see where things go from here. Life is art. Art is life.
2. Dan in Real Life was, indeed, delightful. And K was the perfect person to see it with. We died laughing. And cried a wee bit, too. I could not get over that house! Could not, could not, could NOT! I've decided I'm going to make a slight career change: I'm going to be the person who scouts houses for movies. I'll just randomly knock on doors and ask for a full tour. Also, I'm pretty sure I'll have to spend the night; to truly experience the house - the light as it comes into the windows in the early morning, the shadows that dance across the porch at sunset. Any idea how to get started in that? Perhaps I'll just start knocking.
2.5. I won't quit my Day Job, though. It was too much fun to sit and play with tracing paper and colored pencils at Karen's last night. We ate pizza and talked house and garden plans late into the night. She's pretty much my favorite.
3. My parents are downstairs cooking dinner together, listening to Christmas music. Now is the time of The Season when I wish everything could stand still. We put so much thought in The Getting Ready. (Moore) I'm old enough now to understand that this is The Best Part. I wish now, more than ever, to enjoy the Getting Ready.
4. I'm so glad Will talked me out of a rain check today. It's been a long while since I've been behind a cute boy on a motorcycle, and today's weather was absolutely perfect. It felt a little wild; wonderfully wild. I couldn't keep my skirt from flapping in the wind. Oh well. So darling, that Will!
5. Twenty-six isn't going to be that bad.
6. Karen (cousin, not aunt) has finally found her prince charming. And charming he is. I'm so excited. She continues to be my ideal. She is as gracious and as beautiful as they come, adventurous, kind, spiritual, thoughtful, and she's got the brains to boot. It was fun to celebrate yesterday and the 28th can't come too soon.
7. I spent half of today in mourning. Anticipatory mourning. And then, all of a sudden, mid-Relief Society, I just stopped. There it was: Relief. I'm still scared and sad and overwhelmed and not sure where to go from here.
8. Emily has come back to church. This truly makes me so happy. Talk about a beautiful person. Her every comment I hang on. She is wise beyond her years and someone who exudes truth and testimony. She is hope and patience personified. I am oh so glad she is back.

Why Write?

Wow. This a-post-a-day thing is really keeping me on my toes; keeping me thinking. It's so very Anne Lamott. If only I could write like Anne! I find myself walking about, experiencing the day, noticing the light and the sound and the texture of it. Taking it in. Sifting it. Churning it. And turning it out again. Trying, in some way, in any way, to transfer it to the page. To make sense of it. To make it matter. Anne Lamott says it best:

"Why does writing matter again? ... Because of the spirit ... Because of the heart. Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: the feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirit of the people who are together on that ship." (Lamott, "Bird by Bird," p. 237).

The past two weeks I've longed for Mrs. Lake more so than I have since she set me free seven years ago. I'm constantly worrying Would Suzan approve of such posts? Oh, I DO hope I'm "showing" and not "telling" this story. WWSD? Not that that question (What Would Suzan Do) applies solely to writing. Nay. It applies to Life. I'd do well to ask myself that question honestly and often in regards to any sort of thing. What a True North that dear woman is. As I've written before, there are no words to adequately express how much I love the woman who taught me to love words (and Lamott) in the first place. I dedicate this month of November, this National Blog Posting Month to you, Suzan. Bless your face, my gadfrey!

It's All Relative

Only five days before two-six. As I approach those numbers - as they approach me, rather, for so it feels - I'm more hesitant to let two and five press on and let two and six take ground, wary they will define me.

Today I lunched with women of all numbers - from nine months to ninety-seven years. It was interesting to note how, in a setting such as that, age became relative. Indefinitive. Perhaps it was the setting: we had gathered to celebrate the up-coming marriage of my cousin, Karen, who will be married next week. Simply stated, Karen is my ideal. I have wanted to be just like her for as long as I can remember. She is as gracious and as beautiful as they come, adventurous, kind, spiritual, and she's got the brains to boot. I bet if you asked her she'd say she's getting married a bit older than she would have expected, but her life is no less rich. I hope, as the years roll forward, single or married, I can become more like Karen. In thought and deed.

Moondance

With an unusually warm November evening at my fingertips, the CD player is loaded and I've got at least enough gas to get me there. I don't think I can wait until Monday and who doesn't love a surprise? So, I'm off! My life is rather short on spontaneity these days.

All the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And Im trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the nights magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush

Hey There, Champ.

Tonight, for the first time in a long time,
I watched Jeopardy.
It's the Tournament of Champions.
Oh, I just love smart boys!

Of Muslin and Mothballs

I just returned from an unsuccessful work day in Park City. Except that as soon as I was certain it was unsuccessful, I resolved to go to lunch with Katie and Grace. Lunch with the girls is always a success. And, it was high time for some Katie and Grace Time. We met on Main Street and ate at our favorite place. Grace's fall-weather rosy cheeks softened as she dipped croutons in ranch dressing, exclaiming (in her 15 month fashion) "mmm!" with every bite. Kates and I lingered over fresh tomatoes and basil while we brought each other up to speed on Life. Returning to the showroom was useless, as they were putting up Christmas. I'd have to trip over tinsel and bound over tree bulbs in order to make it back to the samples. I'll return next week and experience Barclay Butera - Halls Decked - in all its Holiday Splendor. That decision easily decided, I headed back with K & G to the condo where Grace napped (after a few stories) and Kates and I continued to talk. There is always so much to say - we interrupt each other, laughing and reminiscing over memories from fourth grade on.

As for the mothballs, well, those didn't come into the picture until after Park City. You see, my Mom had been holding an all-day quilt workshop in our house. There were 25 plus quilters in our house from 10 am to 4 pm. Where there are quilters, there is usually good food, at least in my limited experience. That in mind, I figured I'd stalled enough in Park City to arrive home just in time for dessert. I walked in the door ready for sweet aromas of fruit and cheese-infused salads, sandwiches, and, of course, sweets. Not so! Not so! What hit me with full-force was neither of feta or fondant, but of mothballs and muslin; Shrimp and...Septuagenarian? The most horrific of combinations, as you can imagine. There was chocolate, but all things cocoa had been over-thrown by all things old-lady. (Just so we're/I'm clear: my mom doesn't look a day over 40. She'll thank me for that later. Truly. She brought down the average age (and smell) by about 30 years).

Instead of the audible "Mmmm!" I was so ready to utter, I gave a discernible "Eewww!" heard from the basement. I ran downstairs and said, "It smells like old ladies!" Rich, bent over himself and laughing quite hard at this point said, "I know! I know! Why do you think I'm all the way down here?"

Together, we tore up the stairs, and threw open all the main floor windows. We thrust the deck doors so wide they swung back and hit the house. Blessed ventilation! The fall air would do the trick in no time and I'd be munching on sweetness in a matter of minutes. I came upstairs to check my email. I stepped into my room and opened my laptop. What the? Shrimp?! Old Lady Shrimp?! The aroma had roamed! Upstairs, and into my territory. This. Was. Serious. Up went the shades and the windows followed. So now, here I sit, windows wide open, the fall air marinated in shrimp salad. Next time, Katie and Grace, we're getting dessert. And next time, Mom, the shrimp is off the menu!

Thanks, E!

Oh, Grate!

(Date of occurrence: May 8, 2007)

Sunday, early evening, I pranced in Richard's shadow across the path and over to the R's. My slippered feet leapt at the occasion to follow him. We let ourselves in the back door as Rich immediately began to give aid to O, her video for physics in a wee bit of peril. As I've mentioned hundreds of times before, in a half-dozen journals (and therefore dozens upon dozens of entries) I am just so grateful for our friends across the way. My Second Family; My younger sisters, E & O, whose contact I crave on a daily (if not hourly) basis; For D, the boy I will one day marry, because the ever-clever, (ever-growing-beautiful-by-the-day) N will somehow find a way to bridge the gap between our ages and D and I will live happily ever after in some glorious kingdom somewhere time doesn't exist...with all the basketballs in the world.

I sat and watched Rich at work, O in frantics, S (Mum) preparing dinner in the kitchen. Dr. S, D Man and N were just outside playing their typical pre-supper/appetizer game of "Around the World." E emerged from the basement, hot water bottle snug against her chest, and sat down at the island. Craving some conversing, I walked into the kitchen and began to talk with E and S (Mum), about nothing I am sure. After a few minuets worth of musings, S (Mum) slid a block of cheese across the white tiles. "I nominate you to grate cheese." Doc R, now fresh off the court, heard Mum's petition, came up to the island and gripped the edge. He squared his shoulders and, in fine British form, repeated aloud, "I nominate you to great cheese" pausing after "great" and "cheese" for dramatic effect. He went on, "Some are born great. Others have grating thrust upon them." N recognized his 12th Night illusion and finished the speech in tandem. S (Mum) gave him one of her priceless giggles and the rest of us chimed in with our chortles.

Such a silly Sunday Snippet of a moment, really (and to any outside reader, probably utter nonsense) but it's just another reason why I couldn't imagine life without them...without the late-night comings and goings between our two houses, without the open-door/open-fridge policy, without E's white Acura along the parking strip, signaling her work-hour release, and without N's ponytails bouncing as she strides up the street to The S's. And then there's the D Man. That nose. His jump-shot. The soccer cleats and the sports stats, spouted off as if life itself depended on where John Beck landed after the NFL draft.

As always, R & O pulled each other through in the end. The result: two masterfully produced, directed and filmed physics presentations that Newton himself would have been keen on.

* * *

Who would have thought that the move from Sherman Ave to 1920 would have changed the course of our lives so? It can all be summed up in one word: home. (Christmas, just for the record, E and O, is going to be...well, not quite Christmas. I don't like to think about it, but am so very excited for you! Where do I contribute to the NZ fund?)

When I got back from my 10-day NYC/MI trip a few weeks ago, Dad picked me up from the airport. We chatted in the car - he mostly listened as I spouted off a day-to-day summary of who and what and where, documenting my adventures in one of his favorite cities. We pulled into the driveway, unloaded my luggage, and just as he was off to choir, I hustled over to the R's. I had yet to set foot in my own house, having dropped my bags in the hallway and dashed. As I turned their door handle to let myself in, my Dad looked over at me, surprisingly. I shrugged my shoulders, in a "Yeah. So?" fashion then uttered, "Well, Mom's not home..." He just smiled and got in the car. Like I said, I couldn't imagine life without them!

Oh, Baby, Baby, it's a Wild World!

Turns out, Cat Stevens is right: It's a Wild World!

In the words of The Meekster, "I'm kinda freakin' out!" This whole blogging thing is much more than an interesting endeavor. As any visitors know, I post all sorts of things on here - from the mundane to the insane, not really thinking twice about who will see what. I can't quite explain what it is about the candid online confessional that caters to me. I can't help but return day after day to post, oft-times more personal things than I set out to.

The scary slash wild part: how many people actually read this stuff! MY stuff! In an attempt to see who/what stops by my formal (hardly) blog, The Happy Haven, about a week ago, I set up a site meter. I thought that surely my professional life (if I can call it that - professional, that is) would be much more enchanting than my personal life. According to Mr. Traffic Ticker, 'tis not so! The map that appears on my statistical report (thank you Mr. Site Meter!) attests to guests on MM from Turkey to India to The British Isles to Milwaukee! Mil-where?! Who lives in Milwaukee and why are they reading my musings? Since when do they have computer access there, anyway? Does this worry anyone else? I feel we should investigate. No, I jest. I've been to Wisconsin. It's lovely. (At least in the summer months).

I don't think this will stop the plain-spoken penning, which may or may not end up coming back to haunt me. Nor will this newly acquired knowledge of such open-book information regarding who is where and when stop me from my own blog-exploration amidst the random pages of you fellow bloggers. So we blog on, in this wild, wild blog world, as freaky as it may be...from sea to shining sea!

Expect the Unexpected

And just like that we "carry on," good for another ten days. So it continues, this, The Circle of Life, consistently inconsistent, seven years in the making. Gotta love/hate it (as in the the good love/hate) as we say, right, M? Seasons of Love.

60 Minutes of Bling

Although my sister has been wearing her wedding ring for a year now, I still catch myself wanting to steal it off of her finger. Last Saturday morning was no exception. As we dined on waffles for her birthday breakfast, those facets taunted me all meal long as this year-long memory came to mind.

* * *

Libby had been sending me text messages for 45 min. straight. "Where are you?" "Who's viewing?" "Didn't you just go to a viewing?" "Come get me from class." "I'm bored." "Where's mom?" "How does she know this person?" "Where are you in the line?" And then...the clincher..."If you come get me in the next 30 minutes, you can wear my ring for one hour."

* * *

At this point you're probably thinking I am most blatantly rude and/or irreverent. However, let me give you more details. Libby had been running a fever Sunday, Monday and part of Tuesday. So, her initial "Come get me from class" text had my mother worried. I answered Libby's plea and told her I would come as soon as I could. I did this before I got to a place in the line where it would have been inappropriate. I then ignored the rest of the text message.

* * *

Although I came to the viewing to see ___, I didn't want to step out of the line before I got all the way through it. Well, I did want to, but I thought it would be a little awkward. So, I stayed at my mother's side until she had relayed my Grandparent's condolences.

As the two of us were walking towards our separate cars, I read the rest of Libby's text messages. All five! But it was the last one that had me running to my car to speed up South Temple. The "you-can-wear-my-ring" message. Now this was truly a reason to speed! Totally justified. I mean, poor Libby was sick, right? In dire need of a rescue-ride home. Me to the rescue! Bless my V6 engine! I pulled into the parking lot right in front of the UMFA. There it was. I mean, there she was. Libby managed to get her strep-infected body into the car. I more than managed a "gimme! gimme! gimme!" Libby: "Are you serious?" Me: " Uh (short pause) yeah!" followed by another round of the "gimme gimme gimme" hand motions. "Martha, I was only kidding." She said it as if it was funny. This was anything but an occasion that would have merited a chuckle. "You thought I was serious?" "Uh, yeah. Why do you think I got here so fast?!" Libby: "You didn't get here fast. It took you 40 minutes. I said if you got here in thir..." I rudely, but rightfully interrupted, "Hello! I was in a funeral line! It's not like I could bust out my cell phone and read the 'frillion text messages you kept sending! I came as fast as I could. As soon as I got your message about the ring!"

As you can imagine, Libby was in hysterics over my hysteria. She handed it over to me and I put it on my finger, as if it belonged there all along. As if she were the culprit of this misdeed. We drove around the round-about by the stadium, the street lights adding just enough light to make those diamonds project sparkles onto the windshield. We came to the corner of Guardsman and Sunnyside. I watched the ring at every angle as I turned the steering wheel. Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! T minus 57 minutes.

"Okay. Give it back to me now," came the request from the passenger's seat. "What?! It's only been two minutes. You said I had an hour!" She laughed. It was the only thing she could do. According to Libby, she had never seen such behavior. It was out of the ordinary and "totally hilarious." I wasn't laughing. "I don't get it. What's the point in wearing someone else's ring? You just have to give it back anyway." Is she human?! Wait. Yes, human, and Is she a woman?! "First of all, you STOLE my ring design." I didn't just go there. Yup. I did. And I was going to continue. "Then you tell me that I can wear your ring for an hour only to take it back after three lousy minutes?! You are so selfish." In all my furry, I took the ring off my finger, said "It's a good thing this baby's strong!" and pretended to chuck it at the windshield. Then, realizing that it would do more damage to my windshield instead of the other way around, I put it back on my finger. (At this point, I also felt like I was about seven years old. But, somehow, it didn't stop me).

Then, then came the comments that I really wasn't going to make. The place I really wasn't going to go. But, I was in hysterics. Dire straights. Between a rock, well, in this case, rocks-plural since Libby decided to fore go a solitaire, and a hard place. Alone in Sigledom. And I wasn't about to back down. The sinister inside me smiled as I snidely went on, "Libby, you don't get it, do you?! This may never happen for me! I turn 25 in exactly nine days. NINE days! And there isn't a boy in sight. No one is even on the horizon. For crying out loud in the dark, let me have this one moment. One MOMENT !" I ended in what was nearly a shout and glanced over suspecting her to cave at any moment. Silence. This was it. Triumph! My hour to shine. Literally. Well, hour minus 4 minutes. We approached 1900 East.

My no-longer-single sister broke the silence with what can only be described as a "she's-lost-it" giggle. An honest to goodness "she's-my-25-year-old-sister-and-she's-lost-it" guffaw. "You cannot be serious!" I gave her the eye. "Martha, this is hilarious. I can't wait to tell D. about this!" Miss Martha 7-year-old, "Fine. See if I care!" My rebuttal was interrupted by Libby's cell phone. I was relieved, seeing as I didn't have anything else to go off of.

It was Trent. They exchanged pleasantries and then Libby began to explain the situation at hand (no pun intended) laughing harder and harder the further she got into the story. She hung up and explained that Trent was at our house. "What exactly were you planning to do with my ring?" "Oh, just every day things like, write emails, do the dishes..." I could have gone on. I was beginning to lose my edge. "What does it matter?! You said one! hour!" Libby was practically crying at this point. No, not tears of separation, rather, tears of sheer joy. Apparently she thought this was funny. Entertaining. Amusing. So did Trent, as was evident when he laughed upon the sight of me as I entered the kitchen.

I didn't care. Libby and Trent were decidedly poking fun and telling me "(They'd) never seen anything like this!" My mom came after hearing all the commotion. Bless my angel mother! She was on my side! "Oh, just let her wear it!" Aha! An ally. An not just any ally, but an authoritative ally at that!

I turned, put my hands on my hips, and, with a "Ha!" and a foot stomp in Libby's direction, I set the timer. 45 minutes. 45 glorious minutes! I couldn't wait to dive right into everyday activities with a little "somethin'-somethin'" on my finger. Then, the announcement: My father wasn't coming home and we were to go out to eat. Now, this could have presented a problem. Possibly an issue. Would Libby want the ring back? Or, worse: what if I saw someone I knew and they asked if I was engaged?! Would I have to explain it all to them? And, would they understand? I don't think the whole "Don't-you-get-it/This-may-never-happen-to-me" drama-filled tantrum would fly.

Or...Best case scenario...A night out on the town with a ring on my finger!!! Now, this is not everyday, but I'll take it!

My mind was spinning as Trent, Richard and Libby discussed possible dinner locations. Nothing was uttered about the ring as we got into the car. I said nothing. Did nothing, except glance down at my hand about 12 times a minute. It looked glorious! It was my ring design, after all. Then, the dining decision. This was crucial. It would set the stage for my last 42 minutes of glory.

"Arby's? (pause) Sure," came Libby's voice from the front seat. Arby's?! Are you kidding me?! Arby's?! I'm blingin' and you're thinking Arby's?! You've got to be kidding me.

Indeed this is sad to report, but my night of Bling With My Sister's Ring was spent flashing the "Sorry, Boys, I'm Taken" signal at the employees of Arby's. Not exactly what I had in mind when I high-tailed it to the U of U that night. I'll be honest, though. It did look stunning on my hand. Stunning indeed. So, if you're in the mood for a diamond test-drive, you know where to come for excellent advice. Just know, it will cost you - the gas from South Temple to the University of Utah Museum of Fine Arts. But, believe you-me, it's worth all that and an Arby's shake!