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!

yellow gumdrops

I'm afraid I've left this to the last minute tonight. Everything (and I mean everything) about today was unexpected. And I'm not too good with The Unexpected. I'm missing B terribly today. I wish more than anything I could have walked straight to her house after church today, grabbed gumdrops from the buffet, sat down in her cheery front room and then she'd tell me exactly where to go from here. The raindrops have finally stopped, leaving the house too quiet for my tangled and wandering thoughts which aren't transferring to this blog page. Time to pull out a Sharpie and have at it.

Saturdays, Cigars and Ushankas

Third time's the charm. As if twice wasn't enough, on the third attempt, the car was still in reverse. Oops. I'm pretty sure the incessant laughing didn't help, either.

A Saturday spent with the Stevens Sisters is a Saturday well-spent, and usually a day not short on adventures. What a day!

"Is that a cigar?! Oh! And...he's wearing a fur hat. You guys, this...is culture!"

Here I Stand, Head in Hand

I've had more than several comments about my "confusing" posts. Hmm. Is this true? Be honest. I know I'm wordy. Really wordy. But confusing? I had no idea. Sure, I like puns and an occasional play-on-words, but is it all to my reader's frustrarion? Just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo? It maka-no-sense? Oh, no! Have I got to hide my words away?

Total BUMMER.

(NaBloPoMo 9)
After an appointment for work today, I decided to drive past the Walter Ware House. It had been a while and I was just a few blocks away. A few blocks from my beloved Walter E. Ware House is another Avenues Gem, which marshals fond memories.

In high school, my friend Ashly drove a BUMMER. It was a Beast, with tires nearly as big as any of it's passengers and twice as big as Janey. We could fit the whole soccer team in it, and did, on a few occasions. This gas-guzzler was the perfect Girl-Mobile on the weekends. We'd sit hip-to-hip, five-across the front, Ash at the helm. Richard, Ashly's dad and the brains behind the Bummer, had fashioned the most amazing heating system for that Bad Boy. The vents on the dashboard were removable and transportable! Attached to a long hose, each vent resembled an elephant trunk, once fully extended. The heaters could reach all the way into the back, and up Elle's shirt, on most occasions. It was ingenious. (On Richard's part. Not Elle's. Well, I guess whatever you have to do to keep warm. I guess...)

We could be heard from miles away. And not just because we were eight girls laughing, screaming and belting Deana Carter at the top of our lungs. That thing drove and sounded like a tractor. There was nothing discreet about it. Why we used it to do "drive-bys" weekend after weekend, is beyond me, but at the time, it didn't phase us.

The weekend brought the routine route, past boy's houses. Post Crush-Cruise Giggle Parade slash East High Honk-fest, Ash would head up Emigration Canyon to 4-wheel it. Here's the thing about Ash: she's absolutely fearless. Whether it's cliff jumping in Powell, defense on the soccer field, or off-roading into the dark oblivion, there's no stopping her. The 4-wheeling would come unannounced. We'd be on the highway and...off we'd go. Like she'd lost it. (But, she hadn't). There was Ash, having a hay-day, as our heads knocked against each other and laughter bounced about the Bummer.

When I saw this house today, it brought back memories of a Bummer of a break down. (Remember, Girls?) One Saturday morning, right in front of this exact house, at precisely the moment the dweller wanted out, we happened to be Bummin' by. She kicked her Mercedes into reverse and...clank. Out went the Bummer. We'd boxed her in. We'd boxed her in good. Still cell-phone free in those days, the only way to reach Richard The Mechanic, was to use her land-line. I remember wanting to bustle right behind Bill (Elle) and Ash because I knew her house was bound to be spectacular inside. Elle didn't come back with details on the house, but she gushed about the size of this Mama's biceps. We didn't stop hearing about them the rest of the day. Elle was bent on benching just as much after she had had two little ones. Truthfully, we were all impressed.

I don't recall the exacts on how Richard rescued us, but he did. Today as I drove past this house, I laughed out loud when I thought of The Bummer Days, Ash the Fearless Pilot, and our 4-wheeling adventures. BBindaBUMMER!

Friends, Romans...

Dear All...(three of you).

A) Bless your little souls for even visiting in the first place, and...

2) I begin each post with every intention of keeping it short. Cross my heart! But, regrettably, it never turns out so! Why? What didn't I learn from dear Suzan (besides everything, really). I guess I missed that lecture. I just need to learn to quit (if ever) while I'm ahead.

3) Last but most definitely not least: Love to you all...three. Well, four if we're counting the Romans. And, I think we should.

med/moy in Manhattan

(NaBloPoMo: eight)
There are few things I love more than a great pen. I've got boxes and boxes of fine point Sharpies, which since design school have become The Favorite. Then there's Micron...oh!...and Staedtler...love Staedtler...and Zig...You see? Few things I love more. When felt tip or rolling-writer won't do, there's Bic, tried and true. I've been known to hang on to certain Bics for years. E.M. and Kates, do you recall the turquoise-green Bics I was given that were almost more precious than the boy who bequeathed them? The last one ran out of ink last night. Truly, an emotional evening.

As one can imagine, I've got quite the pen collection. My nightstand drawer houses hundreds hyperbob-ly (that's for you, Linds) speaking, but I've got lots. As not to make the drawer-dwellers feel forsaken, there's a great little wire basket at arms-length, on the bottom shelf of said nightstand. A good pen needn't go friendless. My drafting desks...well, that's another story! A Universe of Pens.

While in NYC a few weeks ago, I found myself in an atrocious situation. After flipping on my book light for some light reading, I pulled out my journal to do some night-light writing. I searched my bag for Mr. Sharpie. What?! But how? The gasping could only go on for so long. K lives in a loft, so there's a "Shh!-the-Loft-Mates-Are-Sleeping" policy posted and strictly enforced. Because of the bitty-barracks, along with the "Shh!" policy, they also live by the credo, "What's yours is mine and what's mine is ours," which was in my favor that penless night. So, Book Light Beacon and I were soon on the grave-shift prowl. Two design students in residence, this place was bound to be a pen-haven. I'd have a 05 Micron between my knuckles in no time. No need to panic.

Alas, alack and, woe indeed, my discoveries were definitely discouraging: a lone Bic. A lone Bic (!) And not my beloved med/moy, but a fine Bic, which totally cramps my style. To make the midnight more calamitous, the pen's top had been chewed to bits. I made my way back to the futon and muffled my despondent yelps. Not only was this the only pen in the household, this proprietary pen had been assaulted. This wasn't the work of a girl. No, no. Girls don't carry out such acts. This was most decidedly the work of a MALE. How can I be sure? Here's how: along with the munch-marks, the pen had been drawn on with another pen. Graffiti-ed. Tattooed. Who does that? Lest we dwell on such savagery, let's go back to me, my book light and K's loft in mid-town Manhattan: Pen in hand. Collected, I passed the night pensively writing away, with the aid of Mr. med/moy Bic. He did quite well for himself.

A few moments ago, here on Yale, a similar situation, involving paper and pen, presented itself. I reached for the closest writing instrument when...What the? My hand felt something prickly. Yucky. I looked down, and there it was. The Innocent Assaulted Pen. I abducted Him! Why? And now He'd settled in to abide with the others: The Felts, The Rollers, The Bics, The Staedlers, and The Zigster? All cozy-like and accepted. My pens. They had risen to the occasion. It's almost as if they shoved Mr. Innocent to the front of the line - The Head of the Class to ensure His usage tonight. I guess it's for the better, you know? Loneliness can get old, right? And, we've got a history now. A good pen needn't go friendless. So, K, Hillary, and Jordan, if you're missing your dear Bic, don't you worry, He's not out on the streets. He's safe here, back in a big Bic family, getting used - in the good way. And, for crying out loud, girls, walk a few doors down to the CVS and buy yourselves some Sharpies. You won't be disappointed, nor will your midnight-meandering guests.

27.

“For there is no friend like a sister, in calm or stormy weather, to cheer one on the tedious way, to fetch one if one goes astray, to lift one if one totters down, to strengthen whilst one stands.”

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY,
LIBBY DEAR!
I love you.

Tornado Tag

(NaBloPoMo 7)
There are some things in life you just can't avoid. In my case, it's being "tagged." I've been tagged twice now, so I guess I'd better execute. Thanks, K. Thanks, A. You two are the best...and I mean best! Luv ya tunz.
The rules are as follows:
Rule 1: The player lists 6 facts/habits about themselves - try to find 6 you haven’t already posted about!
Rule 2: At the end of the post, the player tags 6 people and posts their names, and then goes to their blog and leaves them a comment, letting them know they have been tagged and asking them to read your blog for the rules.

WAY more than you wanted to know about me...

Fact 1: One night at a Haglund Family Reunion, M and K and A and I were sitting in our condo playing "Brainquest." During a lull in the game, (M and I were cleaning house in the Hum-dinger department and went on to win the FRANGO award for our ability to "Recall Rock-n-Roll Through the Ages.") M took a peanut and stuck it up my nose. Far. I immediately started laughing and therefore inhaled, making the peanut go further and further up my snauze. It took about 20 minutes to get it out. I've never blown my nose so hard in my life! Bruce, M's Dad, did the same thing with a bean, but he was like 2. M was 17. I guess that made us even, though. In Colter Bay, a few years earlier, I slammed her hand in our minivan door.

Fact 2: When I was young, my Mom would make us (when I say make, I mean force) take two sessions of swimming lessons each summer. We went to a swim club in Salt Lake that had a long, black asphalt walkway, with overflowing flower pots, which led from the parking lot to the pool. Mothers would drop their eager little children off and they'd run along the asphalt and hustle their way up to the pool, usually because the Utah sun had made the ground so hot their bare feet would get burned unless they scurried. I ran, too, but not because it was hot. Nope. I ran from flower pot to flower pot, barfing into each, out of mortal fear. I hated swimming lessons. Sometimes, I would even trow up in the pool. Especially if we had to swim in the deep end. But, as my swim teacher used to say, "That's what chlorine is for, Martha. Swim across!" Oh, did I mention that my swim teacher was my Uncle? Yeah. And, if you were thrown off the high dive at age four by some cruel man named "Roger," (your mother looking on in utter terror) a man who appears sporadically in your nightmares to this day, my uncle was your swim teacher, too! Don't worry. He's much nicer on dry land. And, as he's reminded me many times over the years, you haven't drown yet, now have you? Exactly.

Fact 3: I'm horribly scared of escalators. As in, I think I might die each time I use one. It's something about depth perception, the ground literally splitting beneath me, and the fear that my pant leg or shoelace might get caught between the teeth. I don't like to talk about it. Let's move on.

Fact 4: When I was little, I liked neat handwriting so much I decided that when I grew up, I wanted to be the girl who painted signs for grocery stores - the kind that say, "Lean Ground Beef $1.49 lb." Now, that I'm older and wiser, it's not so much the grocery store butcher paper sign artist job that intrigues me as it is the chalk artist who writes "Sandwiches" or "Cheeses" on blackboards at great delicatessens. Keep your eyes peeled for a job opening...

Fact 5: I memorize license plates. Just letters, not numbers. I like to make words or sayings out of them. I also memorize car makes and models. I can tell the difference between a 1999 Honda Accord and a 2000 Honda Accord. The only difference: a white strip was added to the tail lights on the 2000 models. BMWs: same deal. They didn't streamline the tail lights into the trunk line one year. HUGE design flaw. I feel bad for people who bought BMW's that year. UG-LY. As soon as they learned the small tweak lost them the signature BMW look, they fixed it an the Beamer beaconed again! Jetta and Passat lights are like that, too. It's not just lights I pay attention to, though. I can spot Audi A6s and A8s from blocks away, and...Wow. This is completely. useless. information. It's a design thing. Since I'm never going to own great wheels myself, I might as well really enjoy looking at everyone else's.

Fact 6: Mandy Moore is my idol. Mandy Moore the singer, NOT the actress. (As if that makes any of us feel better). Although, I'd be lying completely if I said I hated "Chasing Liberty." But wait! Mandy Moore was in a movie with John Krazinski. Okay. She's totally my idol and if she's not yours...something is wrong with you! John Krazinski = Total BABE!

Last but not least: as for the rest of you...E, Jen the Hen, Becca, Meka (this makes 2) Les, and Linds...Tag! Ladies, you're it! And let's throw Jen and Ty in there for fun, too. Kates, if you feel so inclined...but I know you posted "111 Things About Me" recently, which was darling.

Right Through the Very Heart of It

(NaBloPoMo 6)
Something has to be said for being able to take in Rothko, Albers, Van Gogh and Warhol, then Puccini's Madam Butterfly at the Met, (so spectacular I cried as soon as the curtains parted and Mme's stunning red kimono rippled out, silk rivers of red, before our eyes) explore a 16-story building full of designer fabric and only fabric, inhale the best deep dish apple pie a la mode in all my 25 years, puddle-jump through The City a la Gene Kelly, (the cabby who launched upon me a virtual tsunami from hip down only added to the experience), watch an early Halloweener-gone rubiks-cube try to fit through the subway, dine on the most delectable burger known to Man in a restaurant only equipped for 19 and chat with the owner while doing so (he wasn't so bad his British self!), feel smaller than a dot, equally as important as one, love every minute of it...and still manage to get the best sleep of my life on an air mattress all within a 24-hour period.

I heart NY.

Knock Knock

Everyone in my family has a signature knock. Rich's isn't so much a knock as much as it is a knock/walk-right-in express combo. He's never really understood that after you knock you're supposed to wait for a response. If I didn't adore him so much, I'd send him away. My Dad's is quite distinct, his knuckles rapping in sync, three times on the door. He knocks on my door nearly every night as he's on his way from Rich's room back to his and Mom's before tucking in.

I don't know what I'd do without my Dad - the jokes, the puns (even the bad ones are truly clever), the post-its on the bathroom mirror, the notes on the back step, the teasing, the delicious crepes, the spontaneous moments he breaks into song - like yesterday when E came to borrow the popcorn maker. She clutched it in her hands, ever so lovingly as we chatted, dreaming of the caramel corn to come. My Dad bounded in from church, scriptures in tow, the usual stride in his step. On cue, and in falsetto no less, he burst out, "Popcorn popping on the apricot tree!" He had passed us by the time he got the last word out, as if he thought we wouldn't notice his impromptu performance. I'm quite sure this is a location thing, unless you know my Dad. E and I looked at each other for a second, then gave my Dad just the response he'd want: giggles. It's in the silly moments, and the serious ones, that I feel like the luckiest girl in the world!

Looking Forward to Looking Back

(NaBloPoMo: 4) I was going to drive past The House the other day - the one with the lights on the arbor and the hanging lanterns - but it wasn't quite dark enough. It is, after all, The Magic House and, if I saw it too early before dusk, it wouldn't have been Magical. Besides, the wonder is really only evident when walking. On foot, the shimmer can be reveled in much longer; the luster lingers. E and O get all the credit for its discovery. During daylight, it blends in with all the other houses, uniform and more so commonplace. But, when sun and horizon meet, something magnificent begins.

During the summer, this was Our House. Our nightly summer walks turned from spontaneity to necessity, as we craved time to chatter, to vent, to gush about boys. To talk about how we just don't understand our mothers yet we feel we're becoming them. To speak of the future. To recall the past. We'd round the bend, the Magic House in periphery. The trickle of the fountain ushered us in and the glow of the lanterns grew brighter, the Magic becoming more and more evident as we approached. On the far side of the house and we'd begin the ascent, if you can even call it that. This is the spot where, sometimes, more often than not, O would feel she just couldn't make it. E and I would try to transfer our energy to her, E exclaiming in her older-sisterly tone, "Olivia. Please." Then she'd giggle her infectious giggle, which really is becoming just like her mother's and we'd stride up the hill. Perhaps it was the glow of our Magic House that carried us on our way up the hill as our tittering dawdled and scattered into the air of the summer night.

Although today brought Falling Back and now the days grow shorter, I feel the necessity of a walk coming on. We'll bundle up, walk arm in arm and revel in our Magic House, talking and giggling the night away.

Vida Boa

Oh, the inexpressible comfort of an old friend! Welcome back, Suz. Sooo good to hear your voice! Let's eat graham crackers and frosting together soon.

Heart and Soles

(NaBloPoMo: Nombre Trois)
You can tell a lot about a guy by looking at his shoes. I once knew a boy who wore plaid, in some way, shape or form, every single day of his life. Come rain, come wind, come sleet, come snow. On. With. The. Plaid! My favorite plaid placement: his shoes. Forever Plaid!

Sure, it depends on the occasion, but here I make reference to the every-day, casual, going-out-with-friends-on-the-weekend shoe. Relying solely on that, I've learned that I'm attracted to a specific kind of shoe, and therefore a specific kind of boy. Of course there's the initial attraction factor, as in personality, good looks and charm, but shoes are right up there. I'm not quite sure the dawning of this practice, but my eyes go from visage to shoes in a matter of seconds. Or, if I'm just people-watching (this is a real treat), it will most likely be the reverse.

I remember having several conversations with my cousin, A, about a certain crush of hers, in particular. While discussing a few of his less-admirable traits that had surfaced, I'd stop her and say, "Oh, but he has such great shoes!" And he did.

(An aside: Lest you think I've taken up office space with the likes of the those fashionistas from "The Devil Wears Prada," one pair of shoes will do. It only takes one. If it's the right one. Onward.)

This idiosyncratic trait of mine comes out, undeviatingly, on blind dates. Here, I'll give you a for instance: (The following initials have been changed to protect these innocent shoe-sporters) I knew I would get along with M because he wore old-school adidas sneaks. C came to the door in his Kenneth Cole's, which only worked for him, and, turns out, we hit it off from the moment he set foot inside my house to meet my parents. A sole connection. (Okay. SO bad. I know). Then there's S, adorable S, who sports good jeans (deserving of an accolade all their own) and New Balance. The perfect mix of city-meets-sporty. Triathlete meets J. Crew, if you will.

But yesterday, when I met D, I couldn't quite read him. I mean, his shoes. Dressed in business attire, (for a breakfast date, mind you) simple black Oxfords poked out from his slacks. Not bad on first encounter. Turns out, my Shoe Meter was on holiday, and here's why: I know there's a bad-date/good-date ratio of about 312 to 2, but I thought these Oxfords were a tell-tale sign that all was good on the date front. 'Twas not so. You see, D was dressed up because it was required for his law school seminar which he had to rush off to post-pancakes. We're still good here. I like lawyers. I like pancakes. I like pancake-eating lawyers.

After doing most of the question-asking (thus he did most of the talking) I learned that if he had his choice, D would be wearing ski boots on his feet 365 days a year. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm all for skiers. Plus, he's an Alta boy, which makes him all the better. It just wasn't there. The connection. On any level. I guess what I'm trying to say, is never judge a boy by his shoes. Although a good pair of suede driving mocs never hurt a guy. Or a girl, for that matter.

Beans

Okay, okay. I know that my first post today cannot defend itself as a true honest to goodness post, what with NaBloPoMo. So here's something a little more worthy. Or, at least that's the goal.

(NaBloPoMo #2)
There are some nights in my life I wish I could live over and over again...like the night I spent with ____ (Ha! Like I'd actually reveal his name!) when we chatted for hours, connecting on everything from art to Moz-art, chowing down on our Red Iguana; Team 23; craziness in the ACK/up in Park City with The Girls; weekends spent with the Brothers F; nights (I should say early mornings) in 161 F. Smith; spring scooter rides in Provo with my scooter boy, knowing I had a whopper of a French exam in the morning, but "wah-hooing" the night away; 6th grade sleepovers on Stansbury; the Monumental Monument Night '05; When Catherine Sloan (Blake) came to spend the night; Haglund Family Reunion Devotionals; cousin nights with A, K and M...the list could go on.

Tonight, thanks to three of the four heads that were actually present on this spectacular evening, I was able, at least to some extent, re-live a night that has forever and will forever live on in splendid fame.

We jumped into the rusted brown Taurus (nick-named the "Poo Stain" for obvious and not-so-obvious reasons) ready for whatever the night had in store. M and I were in the back. Mo as pilot, N the Wing Woman. Four girls out on a Friday night. Harmless enough. The PS was handling like the '91 gem that it was, all squeaks and creaks; springs poking up through the brown velvet seats, which were only visible if all of Ashley's wardrobe (minus the shirts she stole from 'Mudge) were shoved aside. Oh, and then there were the beans. That's the thing about the PS: you never knew what you'd be sitting with, on or around. And, on this particular night, it was beans.

The Dynamite Duo (E & M) had gotten Mo back good. For what, I'm not quite sure, but beans were everywhere. You know, the hard uncooked kind...the kind you used in first grade to count out your tens and your hundreds. Who knows how long they'd been there. Weeks? Months? They'd been spewed all over creation, finding the PS's musty environment inviting. Some of them decided to jump ship and were rooted in the ground on Mo's parent's parking strip; the avid beans sprouting a bright green sprig.

There we were, Triple M and N, the Queens of PS Bean Town (I know you're insanely jealous), ready for anything. Seventeenth South and Michigan brought wondrous glee as the PS sallied forth over a large dip. It was so delightfully unexpected in fact that Mo tugged that baby into R, executing an immediate cross-terrain-quadro-reverse...flawlessly indeed. Before we knew it: Round Two. This time, the starting line was a bit further up the road. The PS's shoulders were squared and she was ready to launch. I recall thinking something about a seat belt. I guess I trusted that trusty, rusty Taurus, (and it's driver) so much, I was willing to risk my limbs for another rush of excitement, because I didn't buckle-up. Mo revved the engine. Even the beans felt a tinge of elation as they began to dance on the car floor, gaining momentum as the engine revved.

Zero to 10 in ten seconds, at least. (This thing had power). Suddenly, we were airborne, all four (and M confirmed this tonight) wheels of the PS in flight. I don't know who spotted him first. The stray cat's eyes glared back at us as if to say, "Good night and good luck, gals" but, Aha! This cat didn't know the illustrious Power of the Poo Stain! Power aside, the cat wasn't (aside) and needed to be, for we were headed directly towards it, still on the wing. I know we were still en aeros because Mo cranked the wheel as hard as she could in the direction opposite Mr. Chester. However, when rubber finally hit asphalt, the car hadn't turned. The axle clunked. The tires burned. Instantaneously, as we went down, Mr. C went up, taking his fur in flight, trying like heck to dodge the Bean-Queen Taurus Mobile. At this point, we weren't so much worried about the Cheshire as we were the fact that we were now perpendicular to the road, 90 degrees off of where we should be in order to avoid not only a very concerned witness slash cat-owner? and three cars parked on either side of the street. Mo did the only thing she could do - she cranked the wheel 90 degrees in the opposite direction, mere inches from a car on the other side of the street. Sir Isaac Newton on our side, by the time we came in range of the third car, we'd covered a significant amount of terrain - half on land, half on wing, and we missed the car by a long shot. There was a little more pinball machine-ing before we were positioned straight and narrow, closer to Herbert and Yale Ave.

Mo 10-and-2-ed it, and slowly turned up Yale. The PS and all passengers (beans included) were dead silent. Then, as if on cue, the all of us (I like to think the beans joined in) erupted with uncontrollable laughter. We had to laugh to keep from crying! Not only had we risked our four young lives, the life of an innocent (wait...cats are never innocent, but I'll give him this one) cat, but we'd brought the beloved PS as close to death as she'd ever been. And her dear beans? Those could have been toast, too. We sat in the caring brown velvet slash vinyl clutches of that Poo Stain of a life-saver, each telling and re-telling our account of our Ride-O-Death a la Seventeenth East. We've recalled the incident on numerous occasions since, living vicariously through our individual and collective memories, each time laughing so hard we nearly cry.

The PS was laid to rest a few years ago. All cars go to heaven, though. I'm sure of it. And this one, this Brown Beaut, climbed it's way to heaven from Mo's parking strip, on a giant beanstalk.