Confession

One of my professors makes fun of blonds (even dudes) and people from Texas. It's hilarious and everyone knows he's kidding.

I don't do dumb things very often. However yesterday I did something really dumb. Embarrassingly dumb. In front of a new group of friends. Within seconds, hundreds of people knew. Truly, hundreds. It could be because it's been a while since I've done something extremely stupid. Or because of the late hour.

After all was said and done though, I laughed harder than I've laughed in, oh, let's say a year. I'm pretty sure I pulled a muscle. Kathryn called it the sleepover kind of laughing. All the embarrassment was swallowed up in laughter (and the ensuing encores of laughter, which lasted until 1:30 am.)

Confession

Tonight I went to the Sunnyside house. I love all its inhabitants. I left with a package of New Moon conversation hearts. And, I ate them. That's the first time I've partaken of anything New Moon, Twilight or the like. (I almost shuddered as I typed that.) The package was handed over in such excitement and with such love. Plus, who can resist candy hearts? I read every one before putting them in my mouth and tossed the one that said I heart EW. I assume that means Edward. I kind of don't want to know.

just add the filling

Many times in my life I've thought I wouldn't mind it if my life turned out like Anne Shirley's. The following story, however, was not exactly what I had in mind.

I was already running late. This, I knew. I was also running short. On cream cheese. One pumpkin cheesecake down and one to go, I mixed the filling and dashed to the store, well aware that I was going to run smack dab into the five o'clock honey-what's-for-dinner? rush at the neighborhood market. I grabbed three packages of cream cheese and stepped in line just in front of my across-the-street-neighbor. (If only I had known she was headed to the market. I could have avoided this whole kerfuffle.) We waited in line while the credit card of the woman in front of us was declined, updating each other on the latest goings on in our Avonlea. Minutes tick-tocking away, I sped home, whipped up the cream cheese and went to add the layer of pumpkin to the second pumpkin cheesecake.

What happened next was very Anne-forgot-to-put-the-cheese-cloth-over-the-plum-pudding-sauce-so-a-mouse-climbed-in-to-take-a-final-bath (min. 5:45). While I was on my grocery getaway, a fly thought that he needed to test my pumpkin filling. I found him belly up, legs twitching in the pumpkin sauce. "I suppose in the end, it was a romantic way to perish...for a (fly)."

The "Oh no's" of moments before turned to "Oh well's" as I looked at the clock and realized I barely had time enough to bake the thing, let alone whip up another batch of pumpkin filling. So, I fished out that fly, said silent prayers of forgiveness (one for killing the fly, another because I didn't plan to tell a soul about it) and popped the pan in the oven. Thirty-five minutes later, I arrived to the activity with two cheesecakes, well aware of which one had been de-flied on the fly.

I imagine there's still time for bike races to the bridge, diamond sunbursts and marble halls. For notes signed, "your chum" and teary scenes at train stations. There is the part where Anne writes, "Averil's Atonement." Dear Diana edits the details about baking a cake. Maybe a Rolling's Reliable Baking Powder Company contest is on the horizon.

*To any and all girls who consumed said cheesecake, it was baked at 375 degrees. I think we're safe. (Right?)

holding out for a hero

Confession: I haven't read the seventh Harry Potter book. Or the sixth. I got part way through number five and stopped. It's not that I don't want to finish, I just haven't gotten around to finishing. I haven't finished the fifth, which means I can't start the sixth, and so on. Harry has to win, right?

This one little confession makes me an outcast in my family. I'm the Quasimodo of the bunch, sent up to the bell tower, shamefully aware of the Harry hunch on my back. I spent the first few months after the last book came out with cotton in my ears (so to speak) trying to avoid hearing how it all ended up. I might have to refresh your memory, but the world was all abuzz about the happenings at Hogwarts. Girls and boys, the old and the young, would emerge from dark basement reading rooms and comfy couches, with tears in their eyes, desperately wanting to discuss the details. I would politely excuse myself as to avoid finding out the fate of my favorite fictitious wizarding friends.

Last summer my brother, an avid fan, gave me an ultimatum. He said I had until January 1, 2009 to finish the series, or he'd spill the Bertie Bott Beans. In the end, his plan was to tell me everything. The summer came and went. Book five came and went with me, on an airplane ride or two; to the beach; I packed it in my swim bag to read after laps at the pool. But always in the end, I found something I was more excited to read, and I pushed Harry Potter to the back of the proverbial bookshelf in my mind.

"The End" was used and abused as a threat. Rich would want something...something bad. Like a Frosty from Wendy's or something equally as life-sustaining and slash or important. "If you don't go now I'll tell you the end of Harry Potter!" he'd shout, like he was the captain of the Quiddich team. Feet up on the ottoman, remote in hand, he'd watch shows he likes to DVR while I ran out, fingers in my ears. Let's just say Rich ate a lot of Frosty's that summer. When D Day arrived, instead of Happy New Year, I got a very somber, "Martha, it is now time to tell you what happens at the end of Harry Potter" Auld Lang Syne a la mon frere. But, somehow I managed to squeeze a little more life out of the threat hanging over my hallowed head.

Tonight, over dishes, I heard it all. While Rich and Dad scrubbed, Sunday shirt elbows deep in suds, they spoke of spells and wizard weddings. Of horcruxes and deathly hallows. They told me that Harry dies but, after a discussion with the beloved Dumbledore, he lives again. For all I know, they could be making it up. I guess I'll have to read and find out. To my credit, I've gone almost a whole year (give or take) without knowing who dies at the end of the Seventh Harry Potter.

The folks over at the Wendy's drive-thru are really going to miss me.

I hate those digital things you sign after you swipe your credit card. They make your handwriting look atrocious.

Confession

I miss the Pie Maker.

Confession

If a boy brought me a copy of the holiday House & Garden (the UK edition), Veranda, or Southern Accents right now, I would love him. Forever. I'm just saying. (It's a pitty boys never read this.)

Confession

...I have a weakness for guys with cuff links.

Confession

...I was wrong. Mern isn't crazy after all. There really was an alarm in the basement all along! Thanks to Steph for helping us get to the bottom of it.

Confession

...we drove right past a man with an almost-flat tire today and didn't tell him.

Confession...

Today was the kind of day when I wish that N was in town. She and I would sit cozily inside in the basement with the fireplace roaring and watch The Rescuers or 101 Dalmations. We'd let Lauren play on the floor and the two of us would take turns quoting every other line.

Today, the lyrics of a John Lennon song matched the weather and my mood: "In the middle of a cloud, in the middle of a cloud I call your name!" Today, I missed him. Out loud.

Confession...

I like when people spell favorite: favourite.

Confession...

...Sometimes spending other people's money is hard.

Confession

It's easy to disappear into the interiors of the worlds I create for others. To insert myself between the ticking stripes; stuff myself into the drawers of mahogany buffets or hide in cupboards under the stairs. Following my first instinct comes instantly when I'm making decisions that aren't my own. I trust my gut. Speak my mind. Tell them to go with the red paint or to put the contemporary fabric on the couch that may seem like a juxtaposition. It will make a statement. When it comes to making decisions that will affect me, it's not so easy. The lines in the patterns blur. The floor plan isn't as clear; the footprint indecipherable. I can't hop from one room to the next with such designer's ease, encapsulating creativity at every corner.

We talk about it all the time - how we want to be that girl. The one with her Life put together. The classy, elegant, timeless girl with shoes for every occasion. The one with a social calendar full of black-eyeliner-worthy nights out and enough close friends for cozy, meaningful nights in. The girl who can pull off pearls and a Free Tibet t-shirt all in the same outfit. Sometimes, (a lot of today) I wish I was that girl.

Confession

I spent most of breakfast stirring the food on my plate, sunny-side up eggs turned scrambled, at no extra charge. I cued the melancholy music as I sat down to work - acoustic. Chords that reverberate in the hallows of my mind, forcing me to remember. The strings and melodies tug at my heart, which is currently hanging by a thread. One that needs sewing up. A heart that hasn't been whole in a long time.

Confession

Aside from my other everyday work, I've taken a job at a small store here in town. I am in charge of some of the purchasing and setting up displays. It takes a few hours out of my week and some Saturday mornings. I spend a good part of my time in the basement of an old building, below floorboards which bow with time and the tapping of feet above them. It's dark and quiet and at times rather lonely, but mostly it's a cozy little nook of the world where I can go with my thoughts and let them spill like packing peanuts and styrofoam.

I've never been good at letting go. If anything, people, places and memories have an eternal shelf-life in the store house of my mind. If we've met, most likely you've had an impact on me, plain and simple. Obviously there are people who have impacted my life more than others; those who have more boxes of memories, more keepsakes to unwrap during times of nostalgia. I roll back the tissue paper and gently pull out what's inside, like a package on Christmas, and a smile surfaces.

I've packed up some memories as of late and let someone out of my life, for good. I've dumped everything in a box, taped it up tight, and sent if off into some sort of void somewhere, or at least that's what I'm trying to do.

Confession...

...I think video games are a horrendous waste of time.

Confession

My mother makes a mean Chinese chicken salad. It's so good in fact that "Mom's Chinese chicken salad," has, from time to time, graced surveys under the favorite food question. It's nearly next to ambrosia which, in high school we decided was a Butterfinger. (I'm happy to say my palate is a bit more sophisticated at this point. Although Butterfingers are quite delicious. And whatever Zeus snacks on up there on Mount Olympus, I'm 99.9 percent sure it's some sort of combination of peanut butter and chocolate). Mmmm. I digress.

Chinese chicken salad. I'm happy to report that up to this point in my life I've been fairly successful in my attempts to recreate my Mom's Hall-of-Famer recipes. I haven't tried all of them. She makes the best Swedish almond cake this side of The Fjords. I'm not going to touch that one. Why bother? If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? Not that her chicken salad is lacking. I just felt up to the task.

In preparation for a small gathering last Saturday, I spent Friday frying won tons and baking chicken in soy sauce. Thinking I was ahead of the game, I settled in to watch the Jazz defeat the Lakers. The air smelled of sesame oil and soy sauce, and Carlos Boozer was on a roll. Three hours (and two packages of won ton skins) later, I was finally finished. And that was just the beginning. Now for the confession: all-in-all, it took me nearly five hours to make that salad. Should I find comfort (or desolation) in the fact that it was devoured in less than 30 minutes? To add insult to serious injury, I don't even know if the Jazz won. I was too busy with my face in a frying pan to find out!

Confession

Each night as I go about getting ready for bed, I go between my bedroom and my bathroom about 57 times. It's become somewhat of a routine, and my roommates, especially the ones who live below me and get to listen to the floorboards squeak, are angels for putting up with my to-and-fro.

Confession(s)

When I'm driving on the freeway (or anywhere, for that matter) I get excited when I see several cars of the same color all in a row, or in the same section of the road.
It drives me nuts to let my cell phone battery drop below three bars. It is always fully-charged or I'm in a panic to plug it into its charger.
I collect acorns - from Central Park, Boston Commons, my Grandma's backyard, from walks with Linds on the south side of Provo.
I can't parallel park. As in physically cannot parallel park.
I hate it when the microwave doesn't show the time - when people forget to clear it. When it reads 00:30 (30 seconds).
I love pick-up trucks.
I love shapes. Especially when they're combined. We have a square-back chair here in the YBH with a round mirror over it. I like it ever so much.
I had the most enchanted childhood. Hands down. And, it still continues, even though we've all gone our separate ways, per se. My neighbors are my sisters and I love them as such.