the art of living | by emily crall

not here anymore!

2011-03-13T17:19:00.000-04:00

If you're looking for me here, I'll tell you why you won't find me.

Because I'm over here now.

Ciao.

the second-place piece

2011-03-10T19:05:00.006-05:00

I have been given an award—a blog award! If you know me at all, you know that I love awards. I also love grand prize winner awards. As in, second place isn’t good enough if I know that I deserve first place. Do we have to relive A.C.E. convention senior year?

For those who don’t know what this convention is, it’s basically a mid-western states regional competition for private schools who use A.C.E. curriculum. It includes every variation of competition from vocal and instrumental music to chess tournaments to spelling to track and field to painting, sewing, woodworking…you name it. All of this competition was crammed into one week and so it was very important to keep a good schedule of what was happening where and when all across NIU’s campus.

Being a pianist, I had always competed in the piano solo category. My first year (7th grade), I got fourth place. The next year I got third, then second place and then, my junior year (the math is right; I skipped 8th grade), I got a command performance (a request from the judges to play my piece again for the morning rally, a huge honor) and first place. It was my moment of glory. Every year I had worked my butt off, moving up the pole of success and had finally achieved The Best. I glowed from this achievement. It was so great. It was indescribable really.

My senior year, my piano teacher challenged me and I took on my most difficult piece. I spent weeks—months, really—learning it, adding musical inflections, blending crescendo dynamics, and working it into muscle memory. Before competition, I would practice with my eyes closed to make sure my fingers had the piece memorized. I also practiced on an electronic keyboard that was turned off; because my brain was so in tune with my fingers, I could hear in my brain when my fingers messed up. I was coming back to compete as last year’s champion. I wanted this so badly.

Because this was an annual competition, I had gotten to know other schools pretty good over the years. There were things everyone figured out along the way of what not to miss: Beka’s vocal solo, Dayspring’s large and small ensembles, Lighthouse’s female quartet, Dayspring’s male vocal soloist, and, yes, my piano solo.

My nerves tightened as my time drew near. I never listened to other piano solos until I had performed mine (simplistic rule to staying positive and focused) so I waited in the hallway until the performance before me was finished. My friends and family were there and crowded into the ballroom when the doors opened for the next performance. My stomach quivered. It was always easier for me to play in front of judges than to play in front of people I knew. I stood in the back of the ballroom. The judges finished tallying up the previous performance and handed in their final scores. They picked up their next stacks of papers—my piece.

“Quiet please. Emily Miller, we’re ready.”

I inhaled, exhaled, and then calmly walked up the aisle, stood by the piano, smiled at the three judges and said, “Good afternoon. My name is Emily Miller and I am from Pathway Christian School. I will be performing a piano solo today titled 'Come, Christians, Join to Sing', a traditional Spanish melody arranged by Michael Fischer.”

I slid onto the piano bench, adjusted it for proper distance from the keys, lowered the music rack and slid it back on the track, glanced at the piano strings lined up and interlaced in front of me, positioned my hands on the keys, took another deep breath and, on the exhale, I began to play.

Everything disappeared. There were no judges. There was no audience. There was nothing but me and the keys and the sound of the music pouring out of the belly of the piano. I must have been breathing, but I didn’t think about it. This was my time. This was my song. This was my final year. This was it.

Four minutes and 50-some seconds later, my hands came to rest again, wrists strong, fingers curved, shoulders bowed forward. As I inhaled, I released the keys, sat up tall, stood and bowed my head towards the judges before walking back down the aisle.

I was the first into the hallway and behind me came my school, my friends, and my family. Everyone poured their congratulations on me, telling me it was perfect; it was the best they’d ever heard me play. There were hugs all around, a few tears, and overall, an immense feeling of accomplishment. I had done it. I had done my very best and it was damn good.

I didn’t expect to get a command performance in rally since I had gotten one the year before. As it happened, I got a command performance for my piano duet with my friend Lindsay (we rocked that!) which further confirmed that I wouldn’t have one for my solo. So even when, two mornings later, there was another female pianist performing a solo in rally, I wasn’t worried. I figured they had asked her to play since they had already asked me to perform the piano duet. If there was one thing I had learned from years of piano lessons and competitions, it was how to talk technicality and fundamentals and I knew her piece was technically lacking and not as advanced as mine. I wasn’t worried.

Friday was awards day. It started early and went until all the awards were handed out, which was quite a bit longer than any Oscars show (and we didn’t even give speeches). There were some other awards that I was called up for and won, but nothing mattered to me until we got to the Instrumental Music category: Female Piano Solo. My name was up on the screen along with 5 others. We waited on Stage Left as the names were called one by one starting in 6th place.

I was confident until it came to third place. I knew I had made it into the top three. But that other girl—the one who had played earlier in rally—was still standing beside me. I was confused. She hadn’t been that good. The fourth and fifth place winners had both been better than her. I couldn’t figure out how the scales had tilted so that she would get third place. They called the next name, the third place winner. It wasn’t me. And it wasn’t her. Now my confusion turned back into confidence because I knew that if it was between me and this girl for first place, I was hands-down the winner.

“In second place, from Path…”

That was all I heard. It was all I needed to hear. There was look of utter shock on the faces of everyone from my school. I had lost. I had performed the best piano solo of my career and had lost to someone who played a piece that I had played for fun 4 years ago.

I tried to keep my head up as I walked up the stairs to accept my ribbon. I vaguely remember shaking hands with someone. I eyed the opposite side of the stage and made it my goal to just make it to those stairs. Get the frick off this stage. My feet were lead at the same time that my body felt like a ghost. I was stuck and floating all at once.

As I fumbled down the steps, the guest speaker for the convention came up to take my hand and help me. He had come to my performance. He knew. He was also a pianist and an accomplished one at that. I had purchased one of his music books of original pieces as well as his CD. The look in his eyes mirrored the anguish in mine. He simply said, “I’m so sorry.” and let go of my hand as he sat back down and I ghosted back to my seat.

I remember very little from then on. I crawled over laps to get to my chair and people touched my shoulder or my knee and said kind things, but I didn’t hear them. I swallowed back vomit. I couldn’t see; the tears had finally built into too much of a pool in my eyes and were sliding down my cheeks like silent little waterfalls. Someone—a teacher—handed me a tissue.

I felt void.

After the awards ceremony, I must have packed my bags; one of the guys carried it to the bus for me. We must have taken an all-school photo because I have a print somewhere in an old scrapbook, but I don’t remember smiling for it. We must have driven back to Iowa, but I don’t know how long it took. My mom must have picked me up at school and gotten the story from someone else because I don’t remember telling her what happened. I must have gone home and crawled into bed because the only thing I remember is staring at my bedroom ceiling, shivering under the blankets.

I slept and cried emotionally-unprocessed tears that weekend. And though my friends were one hundred percent supportive, walking into school on Monday morning took every ounce of strength in me. It had been a devastating blow and it had rocked me to the core.

I had worked 8 years to get to this place. I would have been happy to lose to someone more talented than me. I would have considered it an honor, in fact, to fall in their shadow. But I couldn’t accept the fact that I had lost to someone who was 4 years my junior in technicality, who hadn’t memorized her piece and had used sheet music, and whose mother, I later found out, was one of the judges.

Life isn’t fair. That week was probably one of the first times I realized that. Yes, I had had my share of heartbreak and other unfortunate situations, but I hadn’t invested my life into them. I was known as a pianist. I started playing Pomp and Circumstance for our high school graduations when I was twelve. I later both sang and wrote songs for graduations. For my sixteenth birthday, my parents had purchased an hour of recording time for me in the music hall at the University of Iowa. Aside from being a volleyball setter (which was a seasonal sport), piano was who I was and where I invested my time and energy.

I continued to play piano, though that was my final competition. Shortly after that loss, I performed my senior recital, where my second-place piece was on the repertoire. It was hard to play it. It was hard to feel, or even pretend to feel, the emotion that I had originally put into it when I now felt such detachment from it.

In fact, I had detached myself so far from that piece, from that day, from that second-place ribbon, that, until just a few weeks ago on my way home from a dinner date with Kevin, I hadn’t talked about it. When I started telling Kevin about it in the car, it unleashed a beast in me and I realized how deeply I had bottled up that experience and how sad and angry it still makes me. I’m relearning what it means to live through unfair circumstances. I'm relearning how to mourn a loss, even one as immature as a piano award.

I wasn't lying when I started typing out this high school story; I really did win a blog award. But when I started typing this story way up there on the page, I was joking around and acting silly. I didn't expect to dive into this place, into this real, honest, dark, hidden place that still haunts me. The blog award came with stipulations; I had to write 15 things about me. I guess I failed since my "15 facts" turned into 1 tough story that, even now, has me shedding a few more tears.

This time around though, my tears are real. I can feel the sadness now. I can feel the heartbreak and the pain and the shame and the disappointment. I can feel the bitterness and the anger and the disconnect. I took a break a few paragraphs ago to blow my nose and go out to the garage, where I dug around in several boxes until I pulled out my old piano music. I found my second-place piece. I look at all the black notes on the pages now and I'm starting to feel again. It hurts to feel, but hurt is better than void.

So me and my second-place piece; we're just sitting here having a soulful stare-down. Someday soon I'm going to put my fingers to the keys and me and this piece, we're going to make it real again.

puppy love

2011-03-06T15:42:00.001-05:00

I've never been fond of dogs. I dry heave when people kiss their dogs; this includes making out. (Yes, I have seen this before and have had to leave the room; it's very uncomfortable for me.) I find dogs generally purposeless except to dress up or go for runs. All of the other stuff, the barking, the pooping (and scooping), the hair--oh, the hair, the smell, all of these things about dogs annoy me.

Perhaps I'm my father's daughter more than I knew. I grew up with my dad drilling into us that animals are not for company, they are for doing jobs on the farm. Animals of every species were never allowed in the house, with the exception of several fish over the years. The cats were for killing mice in the barn. (I dressed them up though when I was little enough to still like them.) Dogs were for herding the cattle. Chickens were for laying eggs and eating (both the chickens and the eggs). Cows were for selling and/or butchering. Pigs were for selling and/or butchering. Rabbits were for selling. And the occasional pony was really for no purpose except to eat grass and get fat. (Dad grew up with his grandpa being a huge horseman so maybe that's why we were allowed a pony. I think we had grand schemes as children of saddling up the pony and galloping through the fields like Indian warriors, but our ponies never galloped. They trodded and plodded and generally hated the annoyance of having to actually carry someone on their back.)

So I think my general outlook at animals is much like my father. The biggest difference though is that if I had a dog, I would dress it up. My dad would think I would be insane. (I also desperately want a teacup pig and he laughs and laughs at me, saying, "I'll get a teacup pig for you. In a few weeks when the sows are farrowing, there will be a teacup pig for you." I don't think he understands that teacup pigs never actually get big. That's the point.)

Kevin and I have long agreed that we won't have a dog. Even if we have children someday and they beg and beg and promise the dog would be their responsibility, we won't get a dog.

Then we were at my parent's house last night and Dad brought the four little week-old puppies into the entryway in a cardboard box for us to see. It was like love at first sight. They were the ittiest, bittiest little things I've ever seen and they just grunted and slept and whined. I picked up a little black one with the start of wavy hair like her mama and she just settled right in and slept while I held her. She had the tiniest little nails and squished up nose. She was the cutest thing I've ever seen. If I could bottle her up and make her stay that size, I would never let her leave my side.

Now I must add two extraordinary things that happened last night, aside from me falling in love with a puppy. Not only did dad bring the puppies into the house, albeit only one foot from the front door, but he let Sam, the mama dog, into the entryway too while we all oogled over her puppies and told her what a good job she did. This is significant because, as stated before, my dad never lets animals into the house. In fact, they're not even allowed on the porch and will get a whooping if they ever entertain the notion of sitting there. I was both confused and surprised by my dad's sudden softening over letting the dog sit inside the door.

The second extraordinary thing that happened was that my littlest niece, Kylie, reached over to carefully pet Sam. Kylie has always been terrified of animals. From a distance, she will watch them, but she is a skilled climber into anyone's arms if an animal starts to come closer than 500 yards. (That might be part of the reason why there are no animals allowed on the porch. It became the "safe place" for the kids to play if they wanted to be outside.) So not only did she hold the puppies, I saw her reach over and pet Sam and I thought to myself, "Wow, two miracles in one night! Too much!"

During the night, I dreamt that I bought that little black puppy at Buckle, where I've never shopped, along with a pair of aqua high heels and as I walked out of the store, I panicked because there was a no-return policy on the puppy and I suddenly realized that Kevin and I have to move since I bought the puppy and we aren't allowed to have animals in our condo. I guess it's a good thing because I'd end up spending more money on dog clothes than I do on my own wardrobe.

But, gosh darn it, if she isn't the cutest thing I've ever seen...and I want to keep her.

a quarter of a century

2011-02-27T13:34:00.000-05:00

Becoming 25 was a big deal to me. With it comes the knowledge that I've lived over 1/4 of my life now. I have, at the very most and not even likely, only 3/4 left. That's a lot of pressure. I used to love my birthday, but now I just get nervous because I hate the attention that comes with it. (No lie: I got huge stomach cramps last night that made me actually sick because I was so nervous about going out for dinner knowing that Kevin had something planned that he wouldn't tell me about. I had to take my muscle relaxant prescription and lay down for a while before I could actually think again. That's how nervous I get about stuff like this.)

This past week has been somewhat hellish at work. We were in the survey process of JCAHO and it was the most exhausted I've been in a while. On top of that, I was still balancing photography and teaching at the gym. I hardly thought about my birthday due to my single-focus at work. I knew it would be this way which is why I purposely kept this weekend completely clean on the calendar. I needed rejuvenation more than anything else.

Kevin, however, loves to celebrate my birthday. He hates celebrating his, but mine is a different story. Saturday morning started off with Kevin practically giddy about getting me to open my gifts. He grabbed the camera to document every step.

Pardon the sleepy eyes. I had just woken up and it obviously shows.

Yay, a Brutus mug!!!!

A bag bigger than me...leave it to Kevin.

Just what I've always wanted! My very own Keurig coffee maker!!! We plugged it in and put it to use immediately.

Gifts from my sister, Carla (and pretend sister, Jana). I failed to take a picture of the necklace, but it's my favorite thing ever! I will show you sometime.

My mother dropped off a tulip plant at work on Thursday and they are now in full bloom by the window. I love them freakishly much. Aren't they beautiful?

And what would be a birthday without cake? Ahem, with buttercream frosting.

The rest of the day progressed quite nicely. I got about 60 messages from facebook with people commenting on my wall wishing me all kinds of birthday miracles and my phone kept ringing off the hook with family members calling. My favorite part of the day, however, was the hour that I silenced all media outlets and had the most wonderful, relaxing massage (thanks, Joanne & Jim!). It was heavenly and it went far too fast. (Do massage therapists really keep track of the time because, I swear, it seems like only 15 minutes has passed when they announce that it's over.)

In the evening, we went out for dinner. Kevin wouldn't tell me where we were going and he was also abnormally busy on his cell phone so I knew something was up. (This was the time that my stomach started knotting up and I felt sick.) I was particularly irritable on the way to the restaurant because I don't do well with surprises. I actually hate them. I snuck a peek at Kevin's cell phone and saw he had been talking to my BFF, Sara, so I figured out quickly that there were people meeting us at the restaurant. Though, in the end, it was a wonderful time, by the time we got there my stomach was so worked up that I felt sick most of the night. I was also slightly cranky, not because I wasn't having fun, but I was just so worked up about the surprise aspect that I couldn't focus.

It's a tricky one to explain because I am truly thankful and blessed to have a husband who cares so much about me that he would plan special dinners in my honor with the people closest to me. It is not without much stomach cramping on my part though to walk into something unknown and then I end up feeling unnerved most of the time because I never had a chance to mentally prepare even when the people surrounding me are my closest friends. Can I be diagnosed?

In the end of the day, I had to admit that it was a great birthday. It was fun, relaxing, and I was surrounded by people who love me. What more could I ask for? Just maybe no more surprises next time...

Cheers to another quarter of a century of good life. I wonder what will happen in the next 25 years?

i'm no racehorse...

2011-02-24T20:17:00.000-05:00

I've always wished I was a natural runner; someone who actually enjoys running and can run with ease. I read an article once in Runner’s magazine about two women who are both marathoners and continued training during their pregnancies with these weird treadmill setups where they were basically cushioned in so their stomachs wouldn’t bounce. They’d run easier, shorter runs, logging only, oh, maybe 15 miles a day. Three weeks after birth they were outside on the trails again, getting ready for their next marathon. (Talk about not even having baby weight to lose!)

Then there’s me: I’m doing awesome if I can run 2 miles. (And by “run” I really mean “plod” or “trudge”. I’m not a graceful, beautiful, long-legged, deep-striding runner!) Two summers ago I worked my way up to 5 miles, which was an enormous feat of accomplishment for me. At that point, my easy days were 2.5 miles. In contrast, two nights ago at the gym, I barely eeked out a mile. The second the meter changed from 0.99 to 1.00 miles, I pulled the emergency cord and the treadmill came to a screeching halt so quickly that I fell into the front of it.

So, no, running isn’t a passion of mine, but I have learned a few things that make it bearable and possibly even occasionally enjoyable. (As a side note, running on treadmills bore me. This is why I try to avoid treadmills at all costs.) When I came home from work last night stressed to the bone and with a headache the size of Antarctica, I layered on my clothes, grabbed a hat and gloves, laced up my shoes, and took off running what used to be my easy 2.5 mile route. The cold air wakened my senses, my gloves because snot-wipers, my calves tightened up with rage, but my head…it felt good. And though I did manage to pound out 2.44 miles, it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t fast.

I’ll never be a natural runner, but that’s okay. I guess.

Emily’s Guide to a Bearable Run:

Run outside; never on a treadmill. Treadmills will rip your knees apart faster than King Kong, plus they are super, uber boring because you can’t use tips 4 and 5. If you must use a treadmill, cover up the meter or else you’ll be checking it every 5 seconds to see if you’re done yet because it’s just that bad.
Run in the early morning, if possible. You’ll feel great the whole day and, in the summer, it’s the only time you won’t get heat stroke.
Make up stupid games like, “If I make it to that next electric pole, I can stop running. … Haha, just kidding, keep running, fool!” or my favorite made-up game, Decorate This House. I imagine the layout of houses I pass and then imaginarily paint them and buy furniture and arrange everything inside. The next time I pass it, I rearrange the previous arrangement. Do you know how many houses in our neighborhood have been mentally decorated by me…multiple times?
Use landmarks as goals and sometimes you’ll get lucky enough to get a break. For example, there’s a place in my longer route where I have to cross a busy road so sometimes I’ll tell myself that if I can just make it to that spot, there’s a chance I’ll get to pause while I wait for traffic. Most often, my wish comes true.
Look for spots to photograph later. Just this past Sunday, I went for a run and passed an awesome tree/bush that was reflecting beautifully in the melting pool of snow that had surrounded it. After I got back from my run, I grabbed my camera and went out and snagged some shots. I have also found a place where sometime, with a summer newborn, I would love to photograph in this weedy, forested patch of trees that will probably soon be bulldozed for housing.
Track or log your runs. I use the Nike+ system so I have a little tracker in my shoe and the app on my iPod so a nice man will tell me how far I’ve gone, how fast I’m running, and a plethora of other tidbits. After my run, it uploads into my online Nike+ account and graphs everything for me. I can compare runs from last year or two days ago; I can set up coaching runs; I can train for events; etc.
Have a Power Song. When you think you cannot run a second more, hit your Power Song and, guarantee, you’ll be able to make it at least 3 more minutes. Mine has been the same song for the past 2 years: Black Eyed Peas’ I Gotta Feeling. It still works for me.
Run in populated areas. Not only is this safer, but it will, again, give your mind something to do. Look at the kids fishing in that pond. Look at the people sitting on the patio at the restaurant. Look at the couple on bikes. Look at the family with a baby tucked into a stroller. If you want to dice it up a bit, imagine what their lives are like; what their favorite food might be, how they treat their spouse or children; what their style is; what kind of jobs they have. You can make up whatever you want! It’s allowed because it’s running therapy.
Listen to music with only one earbud. This is for swiveling purposes only. Since I run by myself, I need to be aware of my surroundings all the time. I can’t see what’s behind me so occasionally I’ll turn my head to the side to get a peripheral view, but mostly, I rely on my hearing. If I leave one earbud out, I can hear both my music as well as surrounding sounds. This has also helped me escape dogs a few times, which makes it mandatory in my running book. Plus, there’s nothing worse than having a biker (or another runner) pass you and you jump into defense mode because you didn’t hear them announce their presence. It’s embarrassing and unnecessary.
Wear cute running clothes. Yes, it sounds stupid (but doesn’t all my advice?), but honestly, if I feel like I look good, I will run better. If I'm running frumpy, then I feel frumpy and not very energized at all.
Wear spandex. I don’t care who you are or how you want to layer it, you will eternally thank me for not getting heat rash between your legs. If I ever wear regular running shorts now sans spandex, I use Body Glide on my legs. Rubs on like deodorant, but is a lifesaver against those damn blisters.
Breathe properly. Lastly, my only chance, even with all of my games, music, spandex, and mileage trackers, of actually running is using my Pilates breathing which is a big inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth. Once I learn to control my breathing, I can run much further because proper breathing helps me avoid those dreaded side pains that make me think I’m dying. Seriously. Sometimes I really think I’m dying. Wouldn’t that be awful to die doing something you didn’t really like to do in the first place? Like the time one of my coworkers was running and got hit by a car…I mean, she hated running and then she got hit by a car while doing it?! She’s totally fine, but I don’t know if she’s gone running since then. So…just breathe.

before spring there's february

2011-02-20T16:38:00.000-05:00

Every birthday I can ever remember has mud in it. Not necessarily that I got muddy, but just that the colors outside are dull and monochromatic and everything is damp and musty and if I were to step off the sidewalk, I would get mud in my shoes--yes, in them, not just on them.

This is February. My birth must've been about the most exciting thing to happen to my parents that month because Lord knows there wasn't anything else too pretty to look at in Iowa around that time.

And so here I am, 25 years later and I'm stuck in a February-rut of dreariness. The snow is melting and it's almost time to start shedding layers, but not quite...so I hold out for March because surely March will bring some sunshine and color. Right?

saving the trees one awkward moment at a time

2011-02-13T17:42:00.002-05:00

I am like a magnet for awkward bathroom moments. Seriously.

The irony is not lost on me that during services this morning at church the vocal team was talking backstage about funny bathroom stories. After that funny conversation, I went to the restroom and my ear monitor fell off of the cord and hit the toilet seat and then bounced to the floor. I kept thinking, "Thank you for not falling in the toilet! Thank you for not falling in the toilet!" How would've I gone in a explained that to everyone?! "Um, sorry guys, but my, um, ear monitor just fell in the toilet so I flushed it down because there's no way I'm reaching in there. Can you, um, order a new one, please?"

After church, I went out for lunch with some best lady friends. We had not planned out our travel arrangements very well so after lunch, Sara took Hanna and Chandler back to the church to get their cars and then Sara was going to meet me back at the mall to chat for a while. While I was waiting, I went into Target and used the restroom. It wasn't until I was completely, ahem, done that I realized there was no toilet paper in my stall. I mean, zilch. They had two dispensers, each with two spots for those giant rolls of paper, but every single one was down to the cardboard middle.

I panicked. Crap. What does one do in this situation?

So there were other people in the restroom and I finally got up the nerve to ask for help after looking under the walls to see feet in the stalls on either side of me. Ahem. "Um, could anyone..." Whoosh! Everyone else in the restroom instantaneously flushed their toilets and I was drowned out by the noise.

Dangitall.

Then I was left by myself in the Target bathroom to contemplate my next move. I knew Sara was coming back to meet me so I texted her and said, "Are you nearby? I am in the most awkward situation! I am stuck in the Target bathroom without toilet paper!" She texted back and said, "Give me five!"

Two minutes later a miraculous thing happened and another person came into the bathroom. Miracle of miracles, good pete, she went into the stall right next to me! I did a little throat clearing and said, "Um, is there anyone next to me?" Silence. Then finally, "I don't know who's talking, but I'm here." I said, "Um, sorry to bother you, but I don't have any toilet paper in this stall."

God bless her soul, she said, "Oh, don't you apologize about that! It could've happened to anyone! I always carry some napkins in my purse just in case I run into a sticky situation." And she unrolled some paper, tore it off, and handed it under the divider to me.

I thanked her profusely and then tried to quickly get out of there, but the second after I flushed my toilet and beelined to the sinks, she also came out and then we had a little, short, awkward conversation about how terrible it is to be stuck in the bathroom without toilet paper.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough! Target, clean up your bathrooms and please, for the love of every woman out there, fill up the toilet paper dispensers!!

See other awkward bathroom stories:
when you gotta go
public bathrooms

crackhead

2011-02-12T10:24:00.000-05:00

1) The Fall

2) Addendum: Scarface

3) Twelve Days Later

When I told my sister that my forehead was healing from my big face plant, she asked, "Can I still call you my crackhead sister?" Sure, Carla. I deserve that.

It's been a little over 2 months now. It doesn't hurt, but the bump at the bottom of the scar from the upside-down V split is annoying and I want to pick at it. Then I remember that it's a scar. I can't just pick it off. People tell me that it looks good; that they didn't even notice.

Yeah right.

I'll admit, it does look better. But invisible?: hardly.

my man, my home (and ppi)

2011-02-11T21:58:00.001-05:00

It goes without saying that I love my husband. When I left last weekend to go to the PPI convention is Des Moines, I may or may not have cried a little bit. As I hugged him I said, “I miss you already.” He told me to have a fun time, which I truly did, but he was always there in my mind and my heart was always missing him. It reminded me all over again of our year of long-distance dating and how truly heart-breaking it was. Seeing him for a weekend here and there was so awesome, but taking him to the airport shook my world and watching him walk through security and out of my sight brought me to shaking sobs every single time.

There is something about Kevin that is home to me. And while I was excited to get back after 3 days to my bed and my couch and my computer and my kitchen and my shower (my friend, Sarah, calls it “home-itis”), I was most excited about hanging out with Kevin again. He just gets me.

As for PPI, I had an entire post dedicated to it, but just couldn’t come up with the right words. It was a great experience. There are so many great photographers in Iowa and I was blessed to meet many of them. I am also, and maybe mostly, blessed to have a core group of photographer girlfriends who are comedic, kind, and awesome. I got several stomach aches from laughing so hard.

PPI was also exhausting. Running on little sleep and long days wore me out. (I was also wearing my new contacts which made my eyes extra tired.) There were a lot of good speakers from whom I soaked up knowledge and a few no-so-great speakers from whom I had to take some and leave some. There is always a lesson to be learned though, whether it’s figuring out where to go in business or figuring out where you don’t want to go. What works for one, doesn’t work for everyone and I felt confident in knowing that I was nailing down my vision and my style and who I am now in comparison to who I want to be. I’m setting higher goals for myself and I’m exciting to push myself harder. Nervous, yes. Scared, yes. But excited, definitely.

the only kind of blizzard i like is dairy queen

2011-02-02T09:15:00.002-05:00

Somehow when the weather is terrible, the inner children come out in the professional workplace. People are giggling at their desks, someone is heating up hot chocolate mix, someone is munching on animal crackers (that would be me), and everyone has weather.com up as if the radar is going to give us a personal message to just go home already.

It’s very reminiscent of being in elementary and whispering that maybe, just maybe the teacher will announce an early out or, better yet, maybe tomorrow will be a snow day!

Except that now we’re adults and we don’t get snow days anymore. So we just hope for the impossible and check the windows and say, “Man, doesn’t it look terrible out there?” and then proceed to swap winter war stories about friends of friends who said that they heard someone say that there are 35 cards in the ditch within a 5 mile range on I-80. And then someone else tops that story and then someone else tops that story until, within a few minutes time, we’ve decided that we’re all going to die from the gusting wind that is going to tear the building apart and hurl us into the blizzard where we’ll freeze. And then someone will say, “Wouldn’t it just be better if we all just went home?”

But we don’t. Because we’re corporate American adults now and we don’t get snow days anymore. So we drink our hot chocolate, top of our coffee, nibble on our crackers, and think, “As long as I get home tonight…I’d rather be stranded there than here.”

(Have I mentioned yet that I hate winter and I hate snow?)

when we're old

2011-01-30T14:29:00.003-05:00

Old couples are cute.

Case 1) Ramona and I were in Des Moines at the Veteran's Memorial Auditorium to be guest pianists at the Iowa Prayer Breakfast. The day before, we played at the Governor's Mansion and got to take photos with the Governor (Tom Vilsack at the time) and his wife, Christie. Regardless of politics, which I knew nothing about at the time, they were both so kind and I was enamored with them, feeling as if I met true celebrities.

The morning of the breakfast, we had to be at the auditorium by a freakishly early hour, 7 o'clock or something. We were bleary eyed and nervous. As we walked through the over-street covered walkway with our piano teacher, Susan See, we passed an elderly couple. They were both hobbled over from bad backs and the man had on a tie, the woman had on a slightly-outdated dress with a sweater. They were holding hands as they inched along.

Ramona and I couldn't stop talking about it. At the time, though we were both early high school age, we kept talking about how we're going to marry men who will grow old with us and hold our hand as we hobble around in our aged bodies.

I remember that old couple better than I remember the breakfast. I know we met several state representatives and senators, but I couldn't tell you their names. Why? Because old couples in love make longer-lasting impressions.

Case 2) This morning, Kevin and I had breakfast at IHOP. In a booth across from us sat an elderly couple. What first caught my eye was that they were sitting on the same side of the booth. They used the empty bench to lay their coats. The woman got chilled so he got her coat and wrapped it over her shoulders. They held hands under the table. He poured her coffee.

I talked about them pretty much the entire breakfast. I pretended to talk on Kevin's phone while secretly taking pictures of them. That's how cute they were.

Eventually, they moved to the other side of the table because she was too cold by the window. So they shifted everything and sat facing the other direction. It may have also been so that their backs were to me; did they notice my stalking??

I told Kevin that's how we're going to be when we get old. And though he denies it, he will. Because he loves me. We're going to be a cute old couple too.

my cowboy

2011-01-27T20:37:00.002-05:00

I don't have a child to brag about or a dog or even a fish. I killed those all off several years ago...the fish, I mean.

But I do have a husband and he makes me incredibly happy with laughter because as serious as he is when he's in business mode, I feel so lucky to get him at home in his comfortable, casual mode where his ridiculous jokes make me nearly pee my pants. Every. Single. Time.

This morning I was putting on my boots to go to work (because I change into my heels once I get there since my pants aren’t hemmed properly yet and they drag on the ground—totally inappropriate, I know) and I was like, “What the heck?! There’s a sock in my boot!”

Kevin immediately piped up in perfect Woody voice, "There's a snake in my boot. You're my favorite deputy. Reach for the sky."

And that's the moment when I felt, for the millionth time, that I am the luckiest. And that I might pee my pants.

sudoku makes me smarter + other ramblings

2011-01-23T21:07:00.000-05:00

I'm a bookworm. I'm also a sucker for sudoku and spider solitaire. I think my husband is the cutest thing to be put on this earth. And I eat Nutella with a spoon.

That about covers it.

My weekend, though it had its parts, was for the majority relaxing. I went to the gym a few times, cleaned the bathrooms (Gosh, the worst part of my weekend by far! Hate those dang bathrooms.), had a photography shoot, and otherwise sat around intensely playing sudoku and shouting every time I got a new high score. I am currently at 82,542 points. I advanced all the way through the expert level so there's no higher place to go so I'm just trying to beat my own scores. It's kind of exhilarating. At one point, Kevin said, "You sound like you're out of breath." I said, "Well, it's kind of intense over here."

(I do have to point out at this time that all this sudoku-ing has really proven to work to my advantage as Kevin and I had a disagreement last night about whether or not penguins have feathers. My sudokued brain won hands down after the disagreement was taken to Google for settlement.)

To take a break from my intense games, I alternate to my book. Then I jazz things up with some coffee and Nutella and then start the routine all over again. Why, you ask, am I writing about this on Sunday night? Duh, because I've been too busy all weekend relaxing.

On a side and final note, my new goal is to stop burping like a man. It has become a grotesque habit and I'm not proud of it. Kevin thinks it's hilarious. I do it without thinking, which is truly awful. I'm going to master this yet.

sorry, wrong number

2011-01-20T21:07:00.000-05:00

Thursdays are big meeting days at work in preparation for a big survey coming up. We go to the hospital, then back to the central office for another meeting, then host a conference call meeting with all the clinic managers.

When I got to work this morning, I was getting all of my notes in order and papers printed before the meetings started. I called in to Quest to set up our conference call for 2:30 that afternoon. It was easy as pie; I've done this several times. The nice Quest lady emailed me a confirmation right away with the phone number and passcode for everyone to get in. I sent out an updated meeting invitation with the information on it.

The meetings were moving along and it was nearing 2:30. We were just getting ready to dial in from our conference phone when M got a call on her cell from one of the managers. M started laughing and looking over at me. I couldn't figure out what was going on. She hung up and said, "Um, Emily, the number you sent everyone is a...um...risqué...phone operator."

My face must've turned 10 shades of red as everyone started laughing. It was 2:30 so I knew all the other managers and doctors were calling in right then so I got up and ran out of the conference room back to my office to try to find the correct number in my trash bin. I logged into my computer and sent out a hurried update of the number (it was supposed to be 888 and I told them it was 800) and then went back to the conference room.

Needless to say, every single manager had called the wrong number first. It was the topic of conversation for the first 5 minutes of the meeting as no one could stop laughing. Someone said that maybe I was just trying to jazz up the meeting. Another said, "Yeah, there was some kind of jazzy background music when I called."

As if falling on my face my first day of work, puking in a bucket in front of everyone, and getting 11 stitches wasn't bad enough, let's just add giving everyone a phone sex number to call for our weekly meeting.

Just another day for me...

coffeeholic

2011-01-19T21:03:00.003-05:00

Kevin made the best coffee for me this morning. I mean the best.

Now, in truth, I put the coffee grounds in last night and preset the brew to start at 7 AM, but when I was running late because I’m ever the procrastinator when it comes to leaving the house in the morning, Kevin took the initiative to fill up my mug and put it on the table by my purse. (He knows my addiction—just another reason that I love him.)

I grabbed it as I ran out the door and didn’t take a sip until I was on I-380 in stalled traffic.

It. Was. Delicious.

I emailed him when I got to work to tell him that he made the best coffee ever, he wondered if that means he has to do it every morning. When I asked him the secret, he said that he probably put more creamer in than I usually do. No wonder the gooey sweetness!

In other coffee news, Kevin claims he doesn’t like and/or drink coffee. Yet with just the two of us at home, my mug suddenly showed up empty on Saturday morning when I just poured myself a cup and asked if he wanted one. (His response: “No thanks.”) That’s case in point number one. Number two case in point is that whenever I go out for coffee, he always wants me to bring him home “a treat.” I’ve figured out he likes the sweets so I usually grab him a s’mores or caramel frappe. He downs it like it’s water. I think he is a closet addict. Come clean, my love. Come clean.

cheesiness of every kind

2011-01-16T15:28:00.000-05:00

Savannah is on a diet. I don't exactly know what's worse part of her diet: the no-cheese (among other things) or the cold showers. Actually, I take that back. The cold showers are definitely the worst part of it. Regardless, Saturday is her cheat day so on Wednesday when she was craving every form of cheese possible, we decided to fully embrace this cheat day with her and have a party on Saturday to celebrate.

She came armed with bags of groceries. Every variety of things she had craved throughout the week that she hadn't been allowed to eat, they were all there. Velveeta cheese, string cheese, muenster cheese, pepper jack cheese, colby jack cheese, and, of course, varieties of crackers, chips, and summer sausage. She looked like a kid on Christmas, just pleased as punch with her spread.

She also brought cake mix and my kitchen was filled with chopping, slicing, mixing, slow cooking, frying, and baking. We had enough food and alcohol to serve a small army or SWAT team. (That's for you, Savannah.)

As you can tell, we were really excited for the cake. We were so fully by the time it was done though that we only ate one row! One row of cake! Lame.

After every variety of cheese had been eaten, we were exhausted. We propped up our feet and talked for hours, a smattering of sad news and happy news, funny things and tearful things.

There were only a few pee-my-pants laughter kinds of moments (namely the "I'll do it" Harry Potter witch stagger with billowing cape move) and lots of additional this-is-what-true-friends-are moments. As I always feel with these ladies, I am incredibly blessed. It was the best kind of Saturday, cheesiness and all.

happy birthday to you

2011-01-15T00:55:00.000-05:00

She's the one you've known forever. The one you go to for honest advice and genuine support. The one who accepts your quirky little habits and understands you in a way few others can. She's the one you can call at any hour--to laugh or cry or complain... The one whose voice has been there all along, sharing secrets and dreams and singing your song when you needed to hear it most. She's the one who can read your mind, hear your heart, and love you just the way you are. She's your lifelong friend...but so much more. She's your sister.

Today is Carla's birthday. Let's relive a bit, shall we?

The weekend of my high school graduation. We partied like it was 1999, but really it was 2004.

The night before I flew to Uzbekistan. We had both been crying in case that wasn't obvious.

Christmas 2005. Cool sisters coordinate their outfits, including bras.

Carla and I went to Europe in 2006. It was the best vacation I've ever had. It was hilarity at its best and we tripped around Europe like we owned the place.

Living it up in London as royalty.

Obviously, strange things happen to us when we're on our yacht on the Coralville reservoir.

We like to mimic bad couples photos from the '80s.

We both love Buckeye football and use black, sparkling eye shadow to portray this.

We are notorious for making things as awkward for photographers as possible.

We might, maybe, possibly, with just a hair of a chance be a little bossy sometimes too.

We took a spur-of-the-last-minute trip to Niagara Falls one weekend in the summer of 2007. It was a riot.

Our love for the Buckeyes runs deep enough that we brave rain to watch them play...in the spring game.

Thanksgiving 2007

Christmas 2007 or maybe 2006. This one was lost in the shuffle of photos...

In preparation for our stint on The Amazing Race, we tried rock climbing. Didn't go so well, but we felt like champions nevertheless!

In 2008, we did City Chase Chicago. It was...memorable.

New Year's Eve 2008 was a riot with our own karaoke in Carla's basement.

Two nights before my wedding at a bridal shower. We are super tan (and a little orangish) because we just had a spray tan 4 hours before this.

My wedding day with my two sisters as my two bridesmaids, April 2009.

Shopping for (and finding) Carla's wedding dress, January 2010 (almost exactly a year ago).

Iowa wedding reception, Memorial Day Weekend, 2010.

And, in case you're wondering what happened before my high school graduation, I'll just tell you that there are photos, oh yes, but that was back in the film age, before digital, so I don't have them on my computer. They are glorious. Sometime I'll have to show you.

For now though, I want to wish Carla a beautiful, happy birthday. I am blessed with my family and I'm blessed with my sisters. Carla, in case you don't know how much you mean to me, just know that you're the best friend I've ever wished for. I love you, truly and deeply.

Little sis, E

oh, let's go fly a kite

2011-01-12T09:42:00.033-05:00

There are two key elements to kite-flying: the kite and the kite-flyer. I suppose you could go technical on me and demand inclusion of the wind, the string, the structure of the kite, etcetera but admit that the kite and the flyer are the two bare-boned, minimum elements.

A kite comes in any shape, color, and size. It is bright and bold and demands attention. Sometimes it's even gaudy. It dips, climbs, and dives all over the sky in a mind of its own and, on occasion, crashes into the ground at which point the flyer needs to give it a little heave-ho to get it back up again. It rides the currents and goes where the winds take it. A kite’s only restraint is the little string connecting it to its flyer.

I am the kite. More specifically, I am Kevin’s little kite.

I am a generally carefree person. A map?: Sure, but don’t I just need to go east to get to Ohio? When my sister and I went to Europe, I will give her every credit for planning out our trip. It was so much fun, but my participation in planning was screaming with excitement and naming places we should go and then she’d have to look them all up and figure out the where, when, and how. (Thank you, Carla!) Without her, I would’ve been backpacking around Europe for months, just hopping rail lines and grabbing taxis.

I’m a “mayli mayli” person. From Uzbek to English, it literally translates “alright, alright”, but is used in conversation with similarities to “que sera sera.” [Include a shoulder shrug with both palms facing up, “Ach, mayli mayli.”] That’s me. A kite.

Kevin is the opposite. Kevin needs facts. Kevin does in-depth research. Kevin reads real news. (I look to TMZ for mine.) Kevin wants a map with details and pictures and a voice navigation system. Let’s be honest, I just pack the snacks. And while some of that intense research and knowledge seems like nonsense to a floater like me, I know that I wouldn’t be where I am without him.

Our differences make us a team because, Lord knows, I need someone to hold onto me as a flit and float about. Kevin keeps me grounded and brings me back to reality when I get carried away too far. (Which, obviously, never happens.) What would I be without him? I’d be a flyaway, stuck in a tree branch somewhere in the Dakotas saying, "Ach, mayli mayli."

I'm not saying I'm stupid or useless, but everyone knows that a kite in the sky is better than a kite in a tree, though both are still kites.

I'm his little kite and I'm crazy about him. He will probably never understand just how ridiculous my level of infatuation for him is. I just adore him. I would dive and swoop and make beautiful arcs in the sky just to make him smile. That's how much I love him.

Baby, let's go fly a kite.

death and sadness

2011-01-10T21:34:00.001-05:00

My grandma’s sister died. She was 2 years younger than my grandma. I read her obituary online today. How do people decide what to put in an obituary? How do they figure out the bullet points of someone’s life and summarize it in a paragraph? Though always tastefully written, it holds no true definition of who that person was.

The obituary states the typical: date of birth, date of death, visitation times, service and burial (she had wanted my dad—her nephew—to officiate her funeral service). It goes on to list family who died before her and family she left behind.

Then it said something else that caught my attention: “…In 1987 Suvilla and Joe moved to the warmth of Arizona to enjoy their retirement. They moved back to Kalona in 2003. … Suvilla was a creative person - sewing, quilting, cake decorating, oil painting, ceramics, flower arranging, cooking and more. All that she created was made perfectly. She was a giving person who touched the lives of all who met her, be it a radiology trainee, a foreign exchange student, her grandchildren or nieces, or a total stranger. Her immaculate home had an open door and was a welcome haven to those who entered. Her home was always surrounded by the beautiful flowers that thrived under her green thumb.”

I thought that I didn’t remember anything about my great aunt Suvilla—I always had so many cousins and aunts and uncles around that I don’t really have memories of any of my Greats—but it turns out that I do.

It must have been when they lived in Arizona that my family visited them. I only deduce this because I know we were on vacation and I know it was warm. I was little, really little. I remember a room in their house that had paneling on one wall and lots of windows on the other walls—almost a sunroom maybe?—and the light came in and splayed across the thick, shag carpeting and it felt warm against my feet. I think the carpeting was orange or possibly green; it was thick and warm and my toes could make designs in it. There were plants in that room, all over, growing and hanging. I remember a crocheted plant hanger, those old cream-colored ones,hanging from the ceiling. I vaguely remember a fish tank, but I can’t trust my memory one hundred percent on that.

My only other memory of that visit was Great Aunt Suvilla taking me into a room filled with ceramics. She let me pick something to take home with me. I picked a ceramic cat that she had painted like an orange tabby. It had blue eyes and a curly tail. It was hollow inside so if I tinked my fingernails on it, it gave a little “pling” sound. I felt so special that she let me take that cat with me and I wrapped it in tissue paper until we got home to Iowa where I placed it on my dresser in front of the mirror so that I could see the front and the back of the cat at the same time. (Great Aunt Suvilla may have created a monster in me with her gift. We later visited someone else who had a series of books about animals that they were giving to their grandchildren and I boldly thought they would give one to me as well. Imagine my embarrassment and disappointment to learn it wasn’t customary to give gifts to every child who enters your home.)

I have no idea where that ceramic cat is now. I had actually completely forgotten about it until just moments ago when I read the obituary. Those are my memories of Great Aunt Suvilla.

I wonder if my grandma understands. I wonder if she’ll remember or if every day she wakes up still wondering how her sister is doing. Just a week ago when I visited her, she pointed out through the window to the cottage where her sister lives. (Although, she did remember at that time that her sister wasn’t doing very well and was in a room in the nursing home for the time being.)

My grandma and her sisters this past September

And if I’m completely honest, the notion of my great aunt passing away is as scary to me as I had hoped it wouldn’t be. Because her passing means that there is one less sister. The reality of one passing on means that more will as well. Then there were four, now there are three. And my grandma leads the troops at a strong 94. But someday, as morbid as it sounds, it will come. And I dread that day with my whole being.

My heart breaks at the thought of my own grandmother’s obituary. It will list Emily Crall as a surviving grandchild. That’s all. I’m just two words in her life’s bullet points. It’s no matter what they read though; I am more than two words or a bullet point. I’m her grandchild and she loves me. She told me so just last week. Those are the parts of her life that slip between the lines that no one can read. My name will fall in line with almost 20 others. I will be Emily Crall, surviving grandchild.

But for now, her and I, we’re still surviving together. And for that, I'm grateful.

To my Great Uncle, his children, his grandchildren, and his great grandchildren, I am truly sorry for your loss. I can only imagine what it feels like. I don't want to imagine what it feels like. I'm sorry.

friends and the teej

2011-01-08T22:40:00.000-05:00

We are friends and we love each other, shopping, and coffee. It's always a pleasureful mixture of laughter, exhaustion, coffee intake, and subsequent caffeine-highs. It's always a good time no matter how you look at it.

A little over a year ago, I didn't know these people. I can't imagine how my life would be right now without them. I found my best friend and I got the bonus of her sister and a plethora of other lovely ladies. My life has changed in a lovely, beautiful way. Girlfriends are underestimated. When you've got friends like mine, you can't help but just smile from the blessing of it all. I honestly don't know how to express how thankful I am. There aren't words.

But there are pictures... We went on our (almost) monthly trip to TJMaxx (henceforth referred to as "teej" because we shorten everything) and had a riot. We have the store mapped out to best maximize our short attention spans, our shopping highs, our grumpiness after shopping too long, and the cart space. We start in purses, move to scarves, sunglasses, shoes, housewares, then clearance clothes, and lastly, regular-priced clothes. We end it in the dressing room, making piles of yeses and nos.

It's rather an exhausting process, but at least we have a map! We also have a very full cart. Every single time. If you dare to believe me, it got taller than this after I took this photo.

And then sometimes we find funny things like this not-so-clever marketing package of an itty-bitty flask and a tape measure. But, heck, at least it's dressed up in purple gator! Sold.

Shopping is more than piling our shared cart and taking turns being responsible for pushing it. Shopping is just a means to an end of deeper friendships and forever-memories. My heart is happy and full. My bags were stuffed and my wallet is a little bit emptier, but it's a small price to pay for priceless friendships.

rough days

2011-01-06T21:37:00.000-05:00

The holidays are over. There are no more short work weeks and long weekends. It’s January. This is when the reality of cold, bleak, monochromatic Iowa winter sets in. Along with it always come a certain level of depression and sadness.

It’s dark in the morning; it’s dark at night. The only time I see daylight is on my lunch break and even that is not a given, depending on the bleakness of the day. Some days it’s just lighter than darkness, but not really daylight. That’s how bleak it can be around here.

When I get home at 5:15, I put on my pajamas to make dinner and we’ve fallen to the horrors of eating dinner on the couch most nights. This would have been completely unacceptable in my family as meals were a regular and scheduled event at the kitchen table, no excuses. Breakfast was 7:30-8:00 with morning devotions included. School started at 8:20, so there was a flurry of teeth-brushing and lunch-grabbing promptly after breakfast. Lunch, during the summer or on weekends, was at 12:00 with a variety of Tupperware containers of leftovers—a small buffet really—to choose from. Dinner was at 6:00 and Saturday night was always pizza night. (I’m sure if my mother is reading this, she is horrified at our lack of organization when it comes to meals. Maybe someday, Mom…)

I can’t wait for spring and taking up running again [maybe] and the smell of green grass and flowers.

It will come, right?

the price is right

2011-01-02T23:29:00.000-05:00

I never watched The Price Is Right when I was a child. We didn't have a television. I still to this day haven't watched it. I don't really know the concept or how it works, yet somehow Kevin and I have managed to turn our grocery trips in The Price Is Right contests at the checkout lane.

Kevin tells me that you have to be the closest to the correct price without going over. So as we pile our groceries onto the belt, we throw out our guesses and then get excited (or disappointed) as the total starts increasing. I'm quite certain that the cashiers think that we're crazy. Then again, it might be because I like to use a British accent in the grocery store just to make Kevin go mad. Between the British accent and the conversation over the total bill, we're pretty much looney tunes, but that's okay, because we are having fun.

Today I guessed $121.17. Kevin guessed $114.00. Our total bill?: $114.75. He may have been doing calculations while he was pushing the cart, but my guess is that he just got lucky. Seventy-five cents off. Very lucky indeed.

Now if you're asking how two people can spend that much on groceries, don't even bother. Our refrigerator was absolutely empty and we also needed little mini ice creams. Priorities, people. Priorities.

So for today, The Price Is Right winner is Kevin. Game on.

wish i could tell you

2011-01-01T14:04:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder who comes up with the words inside Hallmark greeting cards. Are they fresh-from-college-marketing-class, scrubbed-up young kids? Are they wisened, experienced people waiting to retire? Are they just clocking their hours and writing witty phrases? Do they write things because they want to say it to someone they know? Do they write from their brain or their heart? I'll never know.

But I spotted this card Thursday as I was shopping for my grandma and it nearly broke my heart in two as I read it. In fact, truth be told, I started crying right there in Wal-Mart, of all places. Even later as I signed my name to the card, I wished I could underline every phrase because I truly mean them all. She has no idea how loved she is. I wish I could tell her...I wish she'd understand. But love is hard to describe. It aches from bursting at the seams. It hurts from being so full.

Wish we could tell you the number of times you're spoken about with such pride for being a woman of wisdom and strength, kind, yet with courage inside. And wish that these words could convey the respect you've inspired in our family's eyes. No one could replace the place that you hold in our hearts, in our minds, in our lives.

My grandma turns 94 today. When I stopped by to visit her yesterday, she was the most coherent I've ever seen. She was in lively spirits and was actually sneaking some cheese puffs from a baggie tucked away in her dresser when I got there. I took her flowers and she kept exclaiming that they were "the cutest flowers I've ever seen!"

I asked her if she remembered that her birthday is tomorrow (which, as I'm writing this, is actually today). She knew, oh, she knew. She said, "Oh yes, it's going to be a big day. I was born in 1917. I guess that makes me pretty old." I said, "Oh, no, Grandma, you're still young!" She started laughing, giggling almost. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

She kept hugging me and thanking me. She told me that she loves her new room and took me to the window to show me that Joe and Suvilla (her brother-in-law and sister) live just down the street there (and she pointed it out), but that she heard that Suvilla isn't doing very well and she just wishes she could visit her, but she doesn't know her way around the nursing home so she doesn't venture outside of her room very much.

I pointed out the garden outside and said that in the spring she'll be able to see the plants start growing. She liked that very much.

I told her she'd probably be getting a lot of visitors on her birthday. She thought I was probably right. I told her that my parents were in Ohio and she remembered that my dad had told her they were going to go there. She couldn't remember who lives there, but I reminded her that both of my sisters live in Ohio.

I didn't get to stay for very long since I was on my way to Washington to shoot a wedding, but she loved that I stopped by and told me to come again when I can stay longer. She told me she loves me. I told her that I love her too and that I hope she has a very happy birthday. She stood in her doorway until I disappeared into the elevator.

I smiled when I left. This was my grandma as I remember her from years ago. The good days make up for the bad.

Happy 94 years, Grandma! I love you.

2010 year end review

2011-01-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

I can’t believe it’s that time already. Time to take down the Christmas tree and wrap the ornaments in their tissue paper. Didn’t I just take them out and hang them?

If you’ve been following my blog this year, you already know what happened in our lives, but here’s a recap anyway, just to finish off 2010 with some good old bulletpoints. (How I love a good bulletpoint!)

Please note: All links in this blog post are to my own historic posts regarding these subjects. In case you wanna reminisce in more detail.

January

The Buckeyes won the Rose Bowl! It was the happiest New Year’s Day ever and I cried as the celebratory confetti starting pouring onto the field. Happy Duck hunting, Bucks.
I tried a new class at the gym called Body Combat and officially got my butt kicked. Ouch.
I flew to Columbus, Ohio to visit my sister, Carla. We went wedding dress shopping and found The Perfect Dress for her (and a bridesmaid dress for me too!). We also went to Red Lobster and learned just how annoying it is to eat crab legs.
I got severely sucked into the Hunger Games book series and changed my super hero name to Katniss.

February

The Winter Olympics took up the majority of my day and night. As always, I cried wastebaskets full of tissues. I was particularly angry at NBC this year for skipping over Uzbekistan in the opening ceremony.
I was neck-high at my job with the move of the spa to a different location and me in charge of creating the entire software and training for the new location. I felt like I could sleep for weeks and some days didn’t have the energy to even muster a smile. Coffee was like a drug.
My birthday was a huge production—much more than ever before! Kevin had a cake delivered to the office, my boss brought me flowers, my coworkers gave me a mani/pedi gift card to a high-end nail salon, my little brother made me his magical chocolate chip cookies, my mom took me out for Indian and she gave me flowers, Kevin bought me a new camera lens (angels are singing), and we ended the day with another cake…with butter cream frosting!

March

My new friends from church, Sara and Rachael, threw a little girl’s night/birthday party for me and we sat around talking for hours. Rachael has since moved to California, but Sara and I still hang out at least once a week and share the deepest secrets of our souls. We’re BFFs.
Michelle and I drove to Kalona and visited Amish stores. We were inspired to slow down our lives and not be so rushed and hectic. As if God were proving a point, on our way home, Michelle’s car ran out of gas.
Kevin and I went to our third Cirque du Soleil show, Alegria. I was inspired to have great abs and learn acrobatic jumps. It has yet to come to fruition.
We purchased our iMac and I welcomed it with almost as much enthusiasm as if it were a real baby.

April

We celebrated our one year anniversary. I was freaked out about how fast the first year went. Kevin was freaked out about eating the frozen wedding cake.
My mom made us a quilt. It’s beautiful and has matching shams to go with it. Thanks Mom.
I purchased my first strapless bra that actually works! After much research and money put into non-working strapless bras, I ordered one from the UK and, let me tell you, they have owmen's boobs figure out!
My sister, Carla, and Arneelius got married in Puerto Rico. It was sickly humid, but so beautiful. Kevin and I extended our stay for a few days to soak up the heat and rest our bodies and souls. Every day since I think, “I wish I were in Puerto Rico right now.” True story. Like right now?: I wish I were in Puerto Rico.

May

My whole family got together in Iowa for Memorial Day. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, more magical than my whole family being together. It’s the biggest circus and makes me laugh to no end.

June

I got strep throat and then suspected mono. I was put on bed rest and slept like a baby for days.
There was a huge storm and we lost electricity at work and had to call patients on our cell phones to cancel appointments. Good thing for flashlights. We got to go home early that day.
Sweden’s Crown Princess got married and it brought back all of my childhood dreams of being a princess.
I tried McDonald’s new McCafe frappe and loved it! Who knew that McDonald's could make great coffee drinks?!

July

The third book of the Twilight series, Eclipse, came out in theatres and I kind of drooled a little bit as I watched it. I entertained the notion of becoming a vampire.
We celebrated July 4th in good old American fashion with brats, corn on the cob, and fireworks.
We had a fire pit at my parent’s house and roasted marshmallows to make s'mores. Both kids and adults were a sticky, hot mess.
I drove to the middle-of-nowhere, Kansas to shoot a wedding. It was a ten-hour drive by myself, but I kept myself entertained with books on CD and plenty of coffee in my new Canon lens mug.
I visited my grandma for the first time since she was moved into the nursing home. She didn’t know who I was and it broke my heart. I shook my fist at God and told Him it wasn’t fair. He said that even though my grandma forgot me, He wouldn’t. My body shook with sobs on the way home.

August

Sara and I went to the pool and I forgot to reapply sunscreen. I got burnt to a crisp and spent the next week trying to avoid the doctors at work because I knew I had miserably failed. I finally broke down and asked for some medicine to help with my burns.
I visited my grandma again several times and, with each visit, it got easier. She knew me sometimes and most times she didn’t. I became okay with it. I became stronger mentally and emotionally. I just kept visiting and kept loving.
My mother-in-law hosted Margaritaville. We drank and were merry. It was a fabulous evening with family and I was armed with my camera for most of it. I wanted to drink the night in just like the drinks in our hands.

September

I went to the eye doctor for the first time ever and got glasses. I felt like my life was in HD suddenly.
The leaves started changing colors and football season started. The air smelled of fall and I was inhaling deeply.
I kidnapped Kevin for a surprise visit to the Tipton bakery where we savored the best cream-filled donuts in the world.

October

Kevin and I went on a hike on a beautiful trail and the leaves were showing off in full costume. I was in awe of nature.
The Chilean miners were rescued, every single one. I was glued to the TV and skipped the box of tissues to go straight for a roll of toilet paper, that’s how much I cried.
My grandma knew who I was without any prompting one day.

November

The Buckeyes came to Iowa City to play the Hawkeyes. We scored great tickets and spent the day tailgating with friends and then jumping up and down in the stadium, both to keep warm and to cheer. It was a much closer game than expected, but the Bucks still pulled out the win.
Kevin’s birthday was on game day and he got his dream gift: an iPad. His wife is so cool.
My dad’s entire side of the family came to town for Thanksgiving. We had to rent a gymnasium to contain us all. While they were here, we divided up my grandma’s belongings. I took a trip straight to the early 1900’s with some of the stuff she had saved. I also did a lot of strolling down my own childhood memory lane of visits to Grandma’s house. (part 1, part 2, part 3)
We put up our Christmas tree. It is just as beautiful as I remembered it being.

December

I quit my job at Town Square Dermatology after almost three years there. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye.
I started my new job at UICMS and, on my first day, passed out, split my forehead open, puked my guts out, and was taken by ambulance to the ER where I got 11 stitches. It was the most embarrassing event of my life so far.
I sang in the Christmas choir for the second year. It was just as joyful as before.
Sara and I celebrated our one year BFF anniversary. We're looking forward to a lifetime full of more anniversaries.
Kevin and I sent our first Christmas cards. We're, like, officially adults now.

We put a new plan in place to alternate holidays with our families. We spent Christmas with Kevin's family in Ankeny, Iowa. It was a busy weekend filled with food, family, and movies.
ECP finished the year out strong, meeting goals I never expected to actually meet! New Year's Eve was spent shooting the last wedding of 2010. Ring in the new year!

dance the night away

2010-12-31T23:59:00.001-05:00

Ring in the New Year and dance until you can dance no more! Happy 2011!

in my mind's eye

2010-12-31T12:33:00.001-05:00

Books have a beautiful way of making you see things that aren't really in front of you. Unlike movies, where you just watch and listen, books give you mental stimuli, visulizations, and the characters take on their own form particular to your mind's eye. Books are really the help guide to an imagination exercise.

Because I’m a book junkie, here’s a list of some of my favorite highs, er, books in no favored order. The opinions expressed here are strictly mine and I make no claims that you do, will, or should feel the same way about any of these books.

The Help by Kathryn Stockett
Opening this book, I had no idea what it was about. The cover has a picture of birds on it, for crying out loud. I didn’t know that I was delving into the lives of three individuals—two African American maids and one young white woman fresh out of college—and their accounts of African Americans working in white households in Jacksonville, Mississippi in the early 1960’s. It cracked open the inside workings of post-slavery that really wasn’t quite so different than slavery. I was embarrassed to be white as I read the book. I was embarrassed to be associated with these people who were so awful.

This is Stockett’s debut book and I can’t imagine how she’ll ever be able to top it. It’s so beautifully written, so rich and full and heartbreaking.

Series: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Stieg Larsson
I was told to read this series by a good friend of mine who is also a reading machine. I completely trust her reviews because she has never given me a bad book idea, but when I started reading the first book, I forced myself through the first several chapters and still didn’t get it so I took it back to the library.

A year later, I picked it up again, determined to give it another try. I will say this: it’s not a pick-up-and-read kind of book series. It takes a certain level of intelligence and stamina to read it because it was originally written in Swedish and then translated to English—fantastically translated, I will add—but it’s really deep, graphic political stuff within the Swedish government and there are lots of characters involved. The first book gives a lot of background and so it took me about 1/3 of the way in (on my second try) before I was like, “Oh, okay…” And then I couldn’t lay it down. In fact, because the waiting list at the library was so long, I had to start reading the second and third books online while I waited for the printed copy to become available because I am too impatient.

It deals with a lot of sick crap like drug trafficking, sex trafficking, and mafia-within-the-government stuff. It’s definitely a thriller/mystery type novel series and I commented while reading it that it is gory enough that I’m not sure how I would make it through if it were a movie. (To date, the first book has been released on film in Sweden and met with great reviews; the American version is currently being filmed.)

Series: The Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins
I caught wind of these books and thought, Uh, not my style of books at all. But I picked up the first one anyway. And there was no turning back from there. Katniss is my superhero. And though the books are written in the future (The United States, as we know it, is turned into 12 Districts), I found myself feeling like it was in the past due to the extreme poverty and harsh conditions of the poor districts and the Nazi-like ruling of District 1.

Book 2 was on such a long waiting list at the library that I just went out and bought it, which is something I rarely do. To make matters worse, book 3, Mockingjay, wasn’t released yet so I promptly pre-ordered it and had to wait three months until release day to get it in the mail at which time I stuck my nose in it and paid little-to-no attention to regular daily activities. Since then, I’ve read the entire series through again and purchased the first book to complete my in-house set.

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
Having lived in Uzbekistan, I was deeply moved by Hosseini’s writing because I could visualize the places, the people, the language, the culture. The book is based in Afghanistan and Pakistan, but the similarities are remarkable, though I’ll be the first to not link The ‘Stans together. At points, I cried and at points, my heart burst with joy when I read words I knew like, assalomu alaykum.

There was a library near my job at the time of my affair with this book and, on my lunch breaks, I would sit by the window in a comfortable library chair, eat ramen noodle soup, and read this book. Though I ended up liking his second book (but not a sequel), A Thousand Splendid Suns, better, this book will always remain a favorite because of the poise, detail, sorrow, sadness, and redemption…and also because a little piece of my heart will always live in Uzbekistan and, being neighboring countries, it is easy for me to fall in love with any narrative, especially positive, about the people of Central Asia. There are good people and kind hearts who are overlooked in most writings, but not in this book.

A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini
Having loved Hosseini’s previous book, The Kite Runner, I picked this one up right away thinking it was a sequel of sorts. It is not. It is, however, in my opinion better. I had more heart-involvement with the characters of this book, Mariam and Laila. They are the wives, one old and one young, of a viciously abusive Afghan shoemaker.

Their stories are so well-told first in Miriam’s hatred of Laila, the new, young wife who was able to produce a child and, in the end, their almost mother-daughter relationship and love as they fight together to save themselves against their abusive husband. I can’t put into words the love I have for these fictional characters because of my love for the real people I know who have been in these situations. It’s a hidden secret, a closed doors topic. Men are allowed to beat their wives and their daughters; sons are the crown jewel of the home, raised with more respect and honor than is given their own mother. I know this is true. I’ve seen that this is true. And I commend the courage of women who stand up to that and say it’s not right.

(Addendum: So as not to confuse people, I must say that the Uzbek family I lived with was a huge exception to the general rules of old Central Asian culture. I have much love and respect for my Uzbek father. He is kind and smart and loving and very protective of his daughters. As for my Uzbek mother, she is courageous and wise beyond belief. Of them both, I do not and will never speak bad things.)

The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd
This book has been around since 2002, but I didn’t read it until 2010. I hadn’t really heard about it before then. (How is that possible? It got so many great reviews.) Like other favorites, i.e. The Help, it is set in the early 1960’s in the Deep South and revolves around African American women and a white girl. With those similarities aside, the story is entirely of itself.

The Boatwright sisters (August, May, and June) are a force to be reckoned with and the young white girl, Lily, falls under their wings in the most peculiar way. When a book makes me sob or laugh out loud, I can automatically dock it onto my favorites because it’s a rarity and a wonder when an author can put together words and sentences so well that one’s heart becomes involved in the story. My heart was definitely involved and this book captured me fully.

And for the record, I both sobbed and laughed out loud while reading this book.

Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank
In many ways, this book was my first glimpse into history that I actually wanted to read. In probably 5th grade, a teacher read us this book during Reading, which was a very short period right after lunch. It was also during this time that he educated us on the correct pronunciation of her name: Anne Frank is pronounced AH-na Fronk (like “honk” but with an “fr” at the beginning).

After reading the book all the way through to us, he switched it up and got the play scripts and assigned us each a character. I was Anne. I took my role very seriously and, as I sometimes was in school, became an overachiever in Reading.

When we completed reading through the script, we were rewarded with the best Reading field trip ever: tickets to the theatre for the stage adaption of The Diary of Anne Frank. I got to meet the actress who played Anne and had her sign my playbill. She wrote, “Reach for the stars.” I could’ve touched the moon that night I was so elated. During intermission, I leaned over and told one of the chaperones that this is what I want to be, I want to be an actress. Hollywood and Broadway never panned out for me, but I’m still inspired by this book in so many ways. I have read it many times since 5th grade and I never tire of it.

(As a side note, on our way to the theatre, Ramona and I made up a little jingle that went like this: “The diary of Anne Frank, of Anne Frank, of Anne Frank. The diary of Anne Frank, of Anne Frank, ah-Frank.” To this day, whenever I see that title, I hear that jingle in my head. So right now, for example, it’s going around and around in my head like an old record that won’t stop spinning.)

Series: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn, and The Second Short Life of Bree Tanner by Stephenie Meyer
Before these books became wildly famous and international bestsellers, a coworker of mine said that her friend had given her a copy of this book, Twilight, to read. She thought it would be crazy and was not into vampire-style reading. Her friend told her to read the first two chapters and then give it back if she didn’t like it. She read the first two chapters and didn’t put it down until she’d read the last page.

Her presentation to me was the same, “Read the first two chapters before you make your judgment.” And, just like her, I was extremely skeptical and reluctantly took the book home. I couldn’t put it down.

Now, admittedly, had all the hype happened before I started the series, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it so much because much of the sincerity and sweetness, the rivalry and the bitterness were stripped down and pummeled by movie critics once the films were released. And can we all agree that the films did not do the books justice? In fact, the films really do deserve the reviews they got. I love Edward Cullen just like the rest of you, but the movies just don’t capture the books in their true form and take away much of the credibility of the original writing. That being said, the books still stand as some of my favorites and I have no problem being called a Twi-hard because of that statement.

Series: Black, Red, White, and Green by Ted Dekker
Absolutely mesmerizing. I read these books several years ago (in fact, it’s time for another go-round with them). The series begins strangely, shifting back and forth between two different worlds and the evils therein, but then you see how the worlds run on a similar vein of catastrophe.

Thomas Hunter is the main character and when he sleeps, he goes into this “Other Earth”. He morphs between being an integral part of this world and an integral part of that world. At first the Other Earth feels like a foreign place, then after a while, it becomes more real than Earth. As always with Dekker, it’s thrilling and strange at the same time while being so riveting that I can’t stop reading.

it wouldn't be christmas without you

2010-12-27T20:23:00.000-05:00

My family was scattered on Christmas. The last time I can remember us so scattered was when I lived in Uzbekistan. It was the Christmas of 2004. I was overseas with a sickly little Charlie Brown tree, Carla was braving an ice storm and emergency shelters in Columbus, and Megan was in Apple Creek. (Carla eventually braved the icy roads to join Megan’s family since electricity in Columbus was out and there was no heat.) That left my two younger brothers, Payton and Jordan, and my older brother’s family together with my parents. In brief, all of the daughters were gone and all of the sons were home. This year was, coincidently, nearly the same with the exception of me being in Uzland.

In past years, Kevin and I tried to make it to both of our families’ Christmas parties. It was utterly exhausting. We spent more time on the road going from North Liberty to Des Moines to North Liberty to Kalona and back to North Liberty. I cried a lot because I cry when I’m exhausted.

We finally put down the rules. No more back-and-forth, over-the-hills-and-through-the-woods. This year, we started our every-other-year with our families. Since we spent Thanksgiving with my family, we spent Christmas with Kevin’s. That took me out of the sibling equation at my parent’s house and, instead of Carla going to Megan’s house this Christmas, Megan’s family went to Carla’s house. So, again, the daughters were all gone and the sons were all at home with my parents.

Gosh, I feel like I should’ve made an algorithm for that. Keep in mind that I’m 1 of 6 kids. There are 4 in-laws and 8 nieces and nephews. When my parents had a Knights-of-the-Long-Table style dinner table built for their dining room, you better believe it came with about 10+ leaves to extend it all the way into the living room to seat roughly 22 people. And would you believe that my mother actually has a tablecloth to fit it? She does. And dare we ever run out of room there, we’ll resort back to the trick of my childhood where the kids get to sit at the kitchen table by themselves (or, if we overflowed from the kitchen table, we also had a card table to fit 4 extra kids). Christmas at my parents house has always been hot in the kitchen, cold in the living room, mountains of food everywhere you look, PS3 competitions, piano duets, children shrieking and laughing (and then sometimes crying), thundering down the stairs, board games, cards games, running into people… Basically, it’s this huge chaos of mass confusion that’s ultimately so wonderful.

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t miss all of that this Christmas. I think it's natural to want to be with one's family on Christmas. But being with my in-laws is also wonderful in a much quieter, less chaotic kind of way. And I do genuinely like my in-laws so it was nice to spend time with them. Plus, I have the lucky bonus of being with Kevin regardless of where we're spending Christmas.

Kevin had to work Christmas Eve morning so I had the bags ready to go as soon as he got off. The weather was icky, visibility was sketchy, and the roads were bad. There weren't that many people out as many of them had tried to beat the storm by traveling on Thursday night. I attempted to take a picture with my new iPod, but didn't really know what I was doing. Obviously.

We spent Christmas Eve at his mom’s house. We ate (she's a great cook and that's a huge compliment given the cooking skills of my own mother) and then opened gifts.

Then we got into a pretty loud, heated battle with Catch Phrase. It's hilarious how quickly heart rates rise just by hearing that beeping sound that gets faster and faster as time runs out. It was good we had the rulebook because there were some arguments that had to be settled. But mostly there was a lot of high-fiving and "go team"ing.

My sister, Carla, and I did our annual Christmas Eve gift exchange via phone. We kept it fairly short, probably mostly because I missed her so much that I didn’t think I would be able to keep my emotions in check throughout the rest of the evening. It's hard living so far apart.

Christmas Eve came to a close with goodnight hugs and Merry Christmases. As we slowly emerged from our beds the next morning, we stayed in our pajamas and cuddled under blankets and watched, appropriately enough, Toy Story 3 while we sipped our coffee.

We spent the rest of the day at Kevin's dad's house, where there was a table filled with chips, cookies, and fudge. The day whittled away and the snow was so white it was hard to look outside. In the evening when we went back to his mom's house, we piled on pajamas and went for round 2 of the movies.

Sunday morning dawned far too early and I was so tired. It is so hard for me to sleep in a different bed than my own. (Plus, we have a heated blanket. It doesn't get better than that, folks. Well worth every penny.) After lounging around for a while, we packed up our bags, dragged them to the car, and headed east to our home.

Within 5 minutes of walking in the door, there was a load of laundry in the washer and more sorted into piles. Why? Because that's what I do when I come home from places. I need to get things unpacked and back to normal as soon as possible. It's like I am turning into my mother or something...

Monday morning came far too quickly and waaaayyy to early. But God compromised and gave us the most beautiful snow-blanketed trees you've ever seen. I didn't have my camera with me or I would've been out there all day. Instead, over lunch, I grabbed these photos with my iPod. Words cannot describe how beautiful it actually was. I kept smiling all day just thinking about those Narnia trees outside.

The saddest part of December 26th is that Christmas is over for another whole year. It's time to put away the lights and take down the tree, but I just want to bask in this holiday hangover for a while yet. And let's be honest, who's to stop me?

So Merry Christmas everyone and Happy New Year. Two thousand eleven is going to rock my socks off. I just know it already.

between you and me, happy christmas

2010-12-24T10:47:00.000-05:00

Kevin and I had our Christmas last night, which is probably why I keep thinking that today is Christmas when it's actually Christmas Eve.

I always work too hard for our Christmas dinner. It's just the two of us, after all, but I feel that it's important to start our own traditions. So, for the third year, we had Christmas just between the two of us with food to feed at least 6 more.

The potatoes were a surprising treat as I had never made them, seen them made, or had a recipe for them. So I just baked them, hollowed them out, added some sea salt, sour cream, milk, parsley, and mozzarella cheese to the hollowed out potatoes and filled the skins back up again and baked them. I should have written down the amounts, but I feel like the magic lay in the fact that I was wearing my grandma's apron. Somehow, the amounts made sense using a pinch, a dash, a smidgen, and a dollop. If you ever need to borrow the magic apron, please ask. It probably helps if you have some baking common sense too, but maybe that comes with the apron as well.

Kevin said we had to clean everything up before presents. He is so much like my father. So we washed dishes, cleaned the table, put the leftovers (and there are plenty!) into the fridge, and then, finally, we got to gift-opening time. As usual, Kevin didn't follow the dollar limit. He's the worst at that and the best at giving gifts.

We spent the evening hanging out, arms linked, feet propped up on the ottoman, couch-cozying, watching TV, and watching the snow accumulate rapidly on the world outside. It was in that moment that I realized again that my dad was always right; Christmas isn't about presents. Christmas is about being with the ones you love and being thankful for the birth of the baby who would save the world. It was perfect.

Merry Christmas.

scarface continued

2010-12-18T11:11:00.001-05:00

Allow me to remind you what I looked like 12 days ago.

Here's how much I've healed. It's almost miraculous really.

So, yes, I have a jagged, lightening bolt scar, but all things considered, it's going pretty good. I have a clean bill of health from my doctor and hopefully no more episodes of this nature for a long time or forever.

One week until Christmas!!! I can't wait!

carrot cabernet

2010-12-15T07:55:00.000-05:00

Reason number 2,567,449 that my sister and I are so much alike.

Emily: “You would love [Microsoft Project]. I feel like it was designed for people like us. Right now in class we’re helping Becky grow her garden to have the carrots delivered to a winery for a non-alcoholic health drink by X date. Personally, I think that Cabernet Daucus Carota sounds absolutely disgusting. I wish we could set up a project for building the White House chocolate gingerbread house or something cool like that. Anything other than a disgusting carrot cabernet. Who drinks that?!”

Carla: “DISGUSTING.”

Emily: “I told the instructor that. He probably thinks I’m dumb and am not learning anything because I can’t get past the carrot cabernet.”

Carla: “Well, I agree – I would have a hard time with it too. Why couldn’t it be for something more reasonable and less distracting?”

icicle tears

2010-12-13T22:13:00.000-05:00

Another soul was laid to rest today. I wasn't there, but as I looked out the window, I thought, "This would be a day to remember. Negative temperatures, wind that cuts through your skin, and bleak gray skies overhead. This is just the kind of crappy day where you have to lower your dad six feet down and let the tears form little icicles on your cheeks."

He wasn't my dad, but he was the father to a dear friend of mine. He was young by elderly standards, only mid 80's, and active. By all accounts, he shouldn't have been the one. And while I imagine the heart break of my friend over losing her dad, I think of my grandma, who is almost 10 years older than he was. She's still kicking. Maybe not with a lot of comprehension, but kick she does.

Then I think morbid thoughts. Thoughts about death. Death scares me. Not because I'm afraid to die. I'm scared because I don't know how to live if someone I love dies. How do you say goodbye? What if you don't have the chance to say goodbye?

I take for granted that my family is healthy. My parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, my husband...we're all just fine. But if one was plucked away from me, I just don't know how I'd go on.

To my friend who has lost. May you learn how to live on.

addendum: scarface

2010-12-09T20:29:00.000-05:00

I received so many kind words from you about my little accident on Monday. Thank you.

I'm shaping up well, although today has been probably the worst since the swelling has now morphed down into my eye sockets. This means that I'm both physically tired trying to keep them open and exhausted from the pressure behind my eyeballs. Nevertheless, I'm doing good. I'm trying to keep my bangs over my forehead so as not to scare people. (I've been there; if it wasn't me with the stitches, I'd be soooo grossed out!)

But sometimes bangs just say, "Nope, not going to be banging today." Then you look like this.

Scarface.

I had a meeting today at the hospital so I vainly tried pulling my bangs into line on the way over there, but over frosted banana bread and apple cider treats, I could see people in the conference eyeing me. I was trying to think of a better story to give like, "I was attacked by a masked man and I still identified him a line-up" or "I had a small tumor removed from my brain through my forehead as a new technique and Patrick Dempsy was my brain surgeon!", but then I just stopped trying because, let's be honest, Patrick doesn't really perform brain surgeries and being attacked isn't something to lie about. And also because my true, legit story seems just as unbelievable as the made-up scenarios.

So I just let it be. Me and my lightening bolt are rocking the city. In high heels.

first day gone [terribly] bad

2010-12-07T13:47:00.003-05:00

It was going great.

The day actually moved pretty quickly, even with the hours of orientation, paperwork, videos, and 401k nitty-gritty. They took me out to lunch and the rest of the afternoon was spent finishing up insurance applications, emergency contact info, and having my photo taken for my ID badge.

I had almost made it through. Almost.

I was sitting in HR, signing my name to documents, when I excused myself to the restroom. I made it out of our office and into the building's lobby and then drunkenly stumbled to the couch. The room was spinning so fast I couldn't even walk straight. I plopped on the edge of the couch and put my my head between my knees. The ringing in my ears was so loud, I couldn't hear anything except weird static noises like an AM radio in the middle of nowhere. Slowly, the static faded and the room slowed to a gentle carousel ride. I could see the bathroom door from where I was so I thought I'd just try to make it there. After 5 steps from the couch, I couldn't tell where I was going because the carousel ride turned into a roller coaster on steroids.

I heard a weird sound, like a pool ball being thrown on concrete, but I didn't know where it was coming from. I tried to move, but was stuck and couldn't figure out why I couldn't walk. Then I realized that my nose was being pressed by something and my forehead felt really cold. I opened my eyes to the swirled painted cement floor half an inch from my face. I remember croaking, "Heeelllpppp. I need help please." But no one was in the lobby or within hearing. Blood dripped into my eyes and so I just put my head back down on the cement because it felt so cold and good.

In a blur, I managed to grab the two halves of my glasses and stumble into the bathroom. I remember blood dripping from my face splattering onto the floor with every step, making a Hansel and Gretel path back to the scene of the face plant. When I looked in the mirror inside the bathroom, I just saw blood everywhere, my bangs were matted to my forehead and blood was smeared all over my face. I grabbed a paper towel, pressed it to my forehead, then half walked, half crawled to the nearest office door. I'll never forget the look on the lady's face when I opened it and said, "Help me please."

I sank to the cold cement floor and then things blurred together. My supervisor, who is an RN, came running over and turned into an angel. Every time I opened my eyes more people were there; the executive director, the administrator, mixed with people I barely remember meeting briefly that morning. I tried to explain what had happened, but it sounded so bizarre even to my own ears. Who passes out on their first day at work and face plants straight onto cement?!

The nurse pulled back my paper towel, quickly masked her first facial expression of shock (but I saw it), and then calmly told me that I would need to get stitches and would need to go to the ER. She suggested having a plastic surgeon do the stitches since it was a 2-inch jagged laceration down the middle of my forehead.

The HR manager asked who she should call, which was almost comical because in all of the paperwork that we had been working on 15 minutes earlier, I had just finished my emergency contact list. She called Kevin's cell, but he didn't answer because he was at work. She came back and asked if there was another number for him. I said, "Yes, call him at work. It's 356-...., um, I can't remember the rest, but he works at MidWest One." She asked, "Is it 5800?" "Yes," I said, "Just ask them to transfer you to Kevin Crall." She left to call.

I felt suddenly sick to my stomach. I said, "I think I'm going to throw up." Within seconds, someone had pushed an ice cream bucket under my mouth. I proceeded to vomit everything that could have possibly been inside me. I remember, between breaths, saying, "This is just so embarrassing." The administrator was holding my puke bucket for me (and he also later disposed of it) and my supervisor was sitting behind me rubbing my back. After throwing up, I felt so much better. Prior to that I had been so hot, but as soon as I threw up, I was convulsing with shivers. My whole body was just shaking and my teeth were chattering so loudly, I actually remember saying, "I can't hear anything but my teeth."

The HR manager came back and said that Kevin was on his way, but since I had started vomited and then shaking beyond belief, it was executively determined that an ambulance needed to be called. So Kevin was called again, for the third time, and told to just meet the ambulance at the ER.

I remember wanting to pull myself together and be coherent so I tried really hard to focus on details. I memorized the first responders' names (Nate and Jason) and told them very proudly that the date was December 6, 2010. They put a neck brace on me and told me that I have a little neck. I said, "Thanks, I guess." They put me on the board and strapped me down, but I was still so cold I couldn't think, let alone feel my toes. So they put me in a body bag (with my head sticking out) to transport me outside to the ambulance. I remember when they lifted the board onto the gurney, it felt like I was flying.

Inside the ambulance, it was warm, but I still felt so cold. It wasn't until they hooked me up to oxygen, that my body calmed down from the shaking. They poked my finger, took blood, put in an IV line, checked my eyes, blood pressure, and a hundred other things. I remember they said my blood pressure was 108 over 72 and I tucked that away in my brain, feeling so smug that I could remember numbers. Later, I tried to memorize the serial number on the exam light in the ER, but I couldn't get past the first three: T38.

When they lifted me off the gurney and onto the hospital bed, I was so concerned that they wouldn't get their board or neck brace back. They assured me it would be fine and not to worry about it. They left and the nurse and doctor took over, checking my vitals, drawing blood, touching my spine and asking if it hurt (I said it felt good.), hooking me up for an EKG, wheeling me away for a CT scan, and trying to clean the blood off my face to find the actually wound.

After they determined that I didn't have any spinal injuries, they finally, finally took me off that board and I told them the hospital bed was so comfortable "like clouds". I'm sure that made them worry about the CT results. They kept the neck brace on for a while longer and I felt so horrible immobile. I remember tears rolling back into my hair as I laid there looking at the ceiling and all I wanted was Kevin. (He was there, but they had forgotten to get him. He actually beat the ambulance there and had been in the waiting room the whole time! When they checked the monitor, they said, "Oh, yeah, she's been here for 47 minutes, come on back." Jerks.)

All of my tests came back just fine, no problems. They decided to say that it was due to dehydration. That's the diagnosis they seem to give every time they can't figure something out. They started a saline drip and that set me into freezing mode again so they wrapped heated blankets behind me, on top of me, around me. I looked almost like a mummy. Then they went to work on my forehead trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

The numbing shot was the worst pain of my life. I wanted to scream, but bit my lip instead until it bled too. The medicine made my forehead feel like someone was holding a match to my skin. After it kicked in though, glory be, all I could feel were some little pricks and pokes and the sutures being knotted together, eleven total for anyone who cares. (I refused to tell the doctor that I could feel the pricks because then I knew he'd inject more numbing medicine and I'd rather have felt the slight pricking and tugging than go through the fire-feeling again.)

After that, it was all very...quick. They took off the neck brace, had me move my neck (which I moved better than even a normal person should be able to, they said), and sit up. Stage two was standing, which I mastered, then I had one last test, a urine test, and then, discharged!

Hallelujah!

I know now why people were staring at me as I left.

So the joke was that at least insurance kicks in on my first day because Calamity Jane here just couldn't wait to put it to use. I'll need to go get another pair of glasses (thank you, vision insurance!) and have a heart monitor on for a few days, but I am back to work tomorrow, battle wounds and all.

I fell asleep last night after mumbling to Kevin, "Thank you for take caring of me." I knew that sounded wrong, but I didn't have the energy to correct myself.

And now, lastly, after all of that worry about finding the perfect "first day" outfit, I shouldn't have worried so much after all. Seems like no one is going to remember me for that outfit anyway.

first day

2010-12-05T20:41:00.000-05:00

You probably remember it. The first day of school. For a whole week leading up to that first day, you rustled through your closet picking out the best outfit that said yep-I'm-still-me-and-I-still-have-style-welcome-back-to-school, but that also didn't look too much like a pick-me-pick-me-pick-me!-please kind of outfit. There's a fine balance of bold and subdued in the fashion world.

You go through interviews with the same closet-choosing, though there's a different balance to find with interview outfits. There's money at stake there, not friendships. You may even have to pull your lucky underwear into the mix. (Really? Was that just me?)

But then comes the first day of the job. You landed it, maybe even nailed it, and now you are in, but only on the very edge of the cusp. You've got a lot of learning to do, a lot of proving to do, and a lot of work to do. (After all, that's what you're there for...) So your first-day outfit must say a lot that your mouth can't say. Because if your mouth could say it, you would be rattling off five hundred words a minute along the lines of "TrustmeI'mreallyawesomeandyou'regoingtolovemeandI'llworksohardyouwon'tevenknowwhathityouandI'mnotintogamesI'mjustheretoworkreallyhardandIdon'tsurftheinternetoncompanytimeandIdon'tgossipandIwanttobeyourfriendandbythewayI'magreatcoworkerandIevenbringinhomemadetreatsonoccassion..."

It's like a dog jumping on you when you walk in the door with your hands full. It's just annoying and rude. (Don't get that dog hair on my pants!)

So instead of talking, you slide those shoulder blades down your back, tilt your chin up just a hair in a confident, but not snobby kind of way, and you let your outfit speak for you. Mix the bold and the subdued and let the smart meet the sassy.

To first days and first impressions. May the former be just as good as the latter.

the office

2010-12-03T18:13:00.000-05:00

I was getting my hair cut only two days after moving back to Iowa and mentioned to my cosmetologist (a long time hair-friend of mine) that I was going to fax my resume in to a local dermatology office. She said, "No, you walk right in their with your cute little face and they'll hire you on the spot." I took her advice, drove over right after my haircut, and walked in to drop off my resume. In a flurry of activity, two impromptu interviews, and one hour later, I was walking back out with a job offer in hand.

Two and a half years later, I said goodbye to these dear people who have become my friends. They couldn't be happier for me and I can't decide if that makes it harder or easier to leave. I felt like there was a frog in my throat when I told J and M that I was leaving. J said, "I knew it! I knew that's what you were having a meeting about!" M practically lunged towards me saying, "Noo! You're not serious, are you?" They both wrapped me in hugs and gave me all the blessings in the world to move on.

But I'm a creature of habit and the thought of starting over, something brand new, makes me nervous. Yes, I'm thrilled and excited and I know my new job is going to be wonderful, but I'll just miss my girls. (I made them take a picture together on my last day. They weren't delighted about it; I think they were just trying to appease me since I was leaving. They're so cute!)

I compiled a book of quotes for them, memories of our years together. It's hilarious, because they are hilarious. Their natural humor mixed with their aggressive work-ethic has taught me much about life.

In the front of the book, I wrote a little note to them: "It has been my pleasure working with both of you for the past several years. It is a rare experience to get lucky enough to work with people whom you genuinely love and respect. You have both been so caring, motherly, friendly, supportive, and funny. I will miss you so much, but will always consider you two of my favorite people to have ever worked with and dear friends of mine forever."

Here's to new chapters in life!

times a million

2010-11-30T17:56:00.000-05:00

When I got to the grocery store today and pulled my list out of my pocket, I laughed out loud right there in Aisle 1. Need I say more?

thankfulness, part three

2010-11-28T22:35:00.001-05:00

This is the last installment of our extended Thanksgiving weekend. With all of my cousins, their children, my aunts, uncles, and family in town for the weekend, it's been a bit crazy to say the least. Today was just my immediate family though, just my siblings and nieces and nephews. A much smaller crowd and more intimate, which is always a fan favorite in my book.

Regardless of the size of the group though, you can always count on oodles of food at my mom's house. As if we haven't been eating all weekend, there was another full spread today, including poor man's steak, mashed potatoes, peas, homemade bread and strawberry jam, salad, and three, yes, three kinds of pies. Kevin got his own mini pie with a candle to celebrate his belated birthday. It was the popularly-used tricky candle that can't be blown out. No tricks on Kevin; he knew before he even tried blowing it out since he's seen the candle at many other family birthday parties.

There were family pictures to be taken and Megan and I had worked out a trade. We got both the Sarver's and the Crall's photos done in 30 minutes, absolute record time! It took Dad longer just to get dressed for his and Mom's pictures.

Now let me just say, my parents are hilarious. They've been married for over 30 years and you think that Dad would just know by now to go with whatever Mom says, but when she told him to go get his dad's old bike down from the attic of the garage, it was a mess of explanations. Imagine later, when we photographed them on the bike, how my Dad was laughing so hard he couldn't even focus because Isaac, an Amish neighbor, was going by in his buggy and Dad just thought it was the funniest thing to know that Isaac would be telling the whole community about that Perry Miller out there by the barn on a bike taking pictures. My dad is very logistic and he kept saying, "Now, you know that this isn't a logical scenario; we wouldn't actually just be hanging out by the barn sitting on an old bike." Megan and I had a thousand laughs just watching my dad get all worked up. Another comical moment was when Mom was kicking the barn cats out of the picture because they were rubbing all over her ankles and Dad said they could be in the picture because, "They're my friends! They go with my all over the farm!"

So, yes, laughter was plentiful in the Mom/Dad photo shoot. But in the laughter is an incredible feeling of pride over the love that my parents share. Just hearing my dad's laughter in itself is a sort of magical, but to see my mom involved in making the laughter happen...it's just something really special that I feel privileged to witness.

Dad put more firewood in the stove and the smell of winter filled the house. As usual, Mom cracked open the kitchen windows because she was hot and Dad huddled by the stove to warm up. Games were pulled out and inclusions were made so that everyone, young and older, could play.

More food was put out for dinner, a whole new array of servings that my mom must've had packed away in the walk-in refrigerator. We gathered again to pile up our plates with mounds of food.

Gavin found his place at the table... And who wouldn't want to be a cute little scavenger? With Grandma and Grandpa spoon-feeding him ice cream, his spot was the luckiest one of all.

As Thanksgiving weekend comes to an end, my brain is mush with food overloads and happiness endorphins. Yes, family can be stressful and a family of such a large size has the big potential of being stressful, but then when everyone gathers around the table and holds hand to pray, you remember all of the happiness of being part of a large, loving, hand-holding, praying family outweighs the stress of so many different schedules, lives, locations, and personalities.

It's like Christmas magic has landed early. I wouldn't trade my crazy family for the world. Merry Thanksgiving. Spread your arms wide and dance and twirl in the magic dusting of sprinkles. Throw your head back and laugh. Throw your nephew in the air just to hear his screams of delight. Chase your niece down to force a kiss on her. Punch your brother in the arm just to prove that you still have a chance at self-defense. Tell your sister she's beautiful. Hug your mom. Give your dad a kiss on the cheek. The fairies are dusting love through all of our hearts. It's magic.

'tis the season

2010-11-28T11:02:00.000-05:00

Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. (Yes, I counted out the "la"s.)

It's my favorite holiday of all holidays. Christmas. Even just the sound makes me smile. If it were up to me, I'd have the tree up all year. Kevin says we have to wait until after Thanksgiving, much like my own father said when I was growing up. So we celebrate Thanksgiving and give thanks for all of our blessings, then, in a flurry of newspaper and tissue, we unwrap all of the ornaments and plop up that artificial tree and fluff up the branches to make it look more realistic, or at the very least, prettier. Last year, I hemmed-hawed over the tree for so long that if felt like a whole day production, but this year, that tree snapped up in less than an hour, decorated and all.

And then the marriage of my two favorites, Buckeye football and Christmas time, was performed flawlessly.

And for snacks at halftime (and let's be honest, throughout the whole day really), we stuffed ourselves with Golden Delight donuts and peanut clusters, fulfilling two of my major food groups: chocolate and sugar.

May your days be merry and bright!

thankfulness, part two

2010-11-26T18:05:00.001-05:00

While I joked earlier this week that we may need to take prayer breaks every 30 minutes, it seemed only fitting that my dad opened the "auction" with a prayer. He prayed that we would remember that we can't take things with us to our grave and that our family relationships are more important than any items we may take home (or not take home) today. In other words, no fighting, folks!

Today was the day where we divided up my grandma's belongings. Since we moved her into the nursing home earlier this year, we've been renting a storage unit for stuff. It's been long-coming, I guess, but still hard to process as I gazed over all of the rows of tables with endless amounts of pots, pans, pictures, knick-knacks, and patty-whacks. Everything was so old. My grandma never threw anything away so I guess you could say that now, most of the items probably have value that they never had before when they were just her every-day items. But mostly, beyond the antique value that they may have now, they are special to us, her offspring. So it was with some trepidation that we gathered for The Great Massacre for her belongings. We swallowed our greed and put our "wish lists" aside and took our turns from oldest to youngest and back up to oldest again. Amazingly, no blood was shed.

My grandma has never been rich. She raised 6 children by herself on a farm. (My grandpa passed away when my dad was only 12.) You could call her hard-working. You could call her strong-willed. You could call her one tough mama. But you couldn't call her wealthy. Yet as I took my camera through the rows of things, table after table, the memories that flooded over me were worth more to me in that moment that any monetary inheritance she could have saved up for us.

The wonder of it all is that each item means so many different things to different people. So when it came my turn to pick, I went for the items that meant something to me personally; not for the items that would be considered antique collectables by now. I went for the ancient Lite Brite that still works; the one that still has unpunched black design papers because Grandma never wanted us to use them all. I went for the container of wooden beads because I strung those beads for hours as a little girl on her green couch with the brown afghan hanging behind me over the armrest. I went for the game of Rack-O that I played with my grandma at her kitchen table. I went for Tiddly Winks because Grandma always beat me at that game.

I didn't walk away with Buddy, the very special doll that Grandma would let Megan and I babysit overnight sometimes, or the bookshelf that used to house her complete collection of encyclopedias. But I walked away with other things that were valuable to me.

These are little pieces of my grandma. Little pieces that I get to keep to show my someday-children. When none of their friends know how to play Tiddly Winks or string up wooden beads, you better believe that my kids will. When none of their friends know about the light-up toy that magically makes colorful images appear--because you have to wait to plug it in until the very end!--my kids will know how to plunk those little colored buttons into the holes. Those special moments with my grandma will live on for generations.

I can't take things to my grave, but these memories I can hold onto forever. So I'm holding, folks, tighter than you'd imagine.

My grandmother was never a proud person, but if she ever had a reason to be proud, I think it's right now. We're here because of her. She's so many things to so many people, but to us, she's family, our mother, grandma, and great-grandma. We thank her for being her and we love her for loving us. Her treasures and her knick-knacks are safely tucked into cars and vans and are in loving new ownership of her offspring. She gives us a thousand reasons to want to hold onto our memories because she's just that special of a person.

(For explanations of some of the items, please see the album here.)

thankfulness, part one

2010-11-25T21:38:00.001-05:00

"Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been."*

In the industry where I have worked for the past two and a half years, wrinkles are an absurdity, a horror, an embarassment, and a greedy slurping from a rapidly diminishing bank account as thousands of dollars are pumped into nasolabial folds and furrowed crow's feet.

But when I look at my grandmother's wrinkles, I see beauty. I see richness of life, hard-working stubborness, and selflessness. She beautiful. And, yes, she has a thousand wrinkles of varying depth and length, a cosmetic dermatologist's biggest challenge come true. I love her wrinkles. They give away a glimpse of the wisdom that she has that's tucked away behind the exterior of Alzheimer's disease.

It's so cliche so talk about thankfulness on Thanksgiving, but I truly mean it: I'm thankful. I am surrounded by a loving, solid family and am lucky enough to have my husband for a best friend. As for those wrinkles? Well, they are making their way onto my young face too. Maybe a sprinkling of my grandmother's wisdom? And that wirey, gray hair that I found the other day on my scalp? Maybe a peppering of my dad's hard work ethic and strong will. (I got the tweezers faster than you could say, "Crap!")

It's been a day smattered with rich, delicious, Mennonite cooking and family more than one can count and the weekend will continue with more food and more family. And, even in all of the crazy, I look at us and think, "Wow, Grandma, you did good."

And let's face it, when there's this many family members involved (I counted, Grandma has 64 children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren!), we have to rent a gym, Sharpie our names on our plastic cups, and have our turkey served cafeteria-style in roasters. (But, boy, if it isn't just as darn good.)

Just when the turkey and mashed potatoes, corn and noodles has slowed their aromatic driftings through the gymnasium, the games are pulled out and the children (now the fourth generation) run screaming, playing games together like old pals, though many have met rarely, if ever, before today. We catch up, we laugh, we talk about old memories. That's what we do. We're family.

So, yeah, I'm thankful. My blessings are endless and my heart is full and happy. Every day brings it's own twinkles of thankfulness, but mine is a collective sigh of contentment on the day set aside for thanks.

*Quote by Mark Twain

a heart attack at kinnick

2010-11-21T11:36:00.002-05:00

The woman next to me in black and gold leaned over and said, "For such a little thing, you sure do have a set of lungs! You're carrying this entire section." The lungs lasted me the entire game and then went scratchy and hoarse promptly afterwards and the entire section was filled with Hawkeye fans, minus myself and 3 guys two rows down. So, yes, I was screaming. Loudly.

But let start back at the beginning. We met up with some of Kevin's friends for tailgating, where I received endless amounts of ribbing for daring to show up in scarlet and gray. They were nice enough once I declared my marriage to Kevin.

Once it got closer to game time, we headed over to Kinnick where there were more Buckeye fans milling around. A good old "O-H" and "I-O" plus numerous fist pumps and high-fives were dosed out among us. It was like a secret little message passed between our eye contact that let us know we were all in this together. Win or lose, we were proud Buckeye fans to the core of our bones.

I rarely go to football games for several reasons. The most obvious reason is that my team is from Ohio, an eleven-hour drive away. Other reasons include the expense of tickets, the cold weather, the lack of easily-accessible restrooms, etc. etc. But this was a game that we didn't want to miss. If my boys are in town, I better pay my respects. It makes the rivalry all the better when most of my family are Hawkeye fans. (Four of us are Buckeyes fans: my sister, Carla, her husband, Arneelius, my brother-in-law, Mark, and myself.)

I was pleased to see my "friends" scattered throughout the stadium. Represent. (Also, for the record, the Iowa marching band has nothing on TBDBITL.)

There was a lot of cheering when the Hawkeyes came out onto the field. Each seat had a yellow pom-pom. I gave mine to the woman in front of me (after I stepped on it).

Here comes the tears and the Buckeyes. All these bits of Columbus right here in Iowa City just for me. Okay, maybe not just for me, but it suddenly felt like I was home. It was such an overwhelming feeling that I both screamed and choked. Then I choked back my tears and yelled, "Go Bucks" as loud as I could possibly yell.

Here we go, boys. This is it.

At half time, I was very thankful for my OSU snuggie and I wore it proudly. In fact, funny enough, the woman beside me said, "Oh, I didn't know people actually wore those. But I'll admit that I'm a little jealous right now." It was definitely cold out, but with my snuggie and all of the screaming and jumping, I kept warm.

The first half, I had kept myself semi-calm by saying, "There's still plenty of time." But in the second half, boys, it's time to buckle down and get it done. So I was pretty much a case of nerves the entire second half. I battled between sulking silence and lung-burning screaming.

At the very end, with only minutes left, OSU was at the 2 yard line and I couldn't see what was happening so I just watched the OSU fans in that corner and if they started jumping up and down, I started screaming. (Also, a plus to watching from home is that you can actually see what's going on at the opposite end of the field and you can see the TV-induced yard line to see if you've made it to the next 1 and 10.)

When there was a minute left, OSU up by 3, and OSU with the ball, people starting leaving. I was dumbfounded. I still wasn't confident in our win; anything could happen. We gave an interception early on in the game and, until the time is at 0:00, there's no telling what could happen. It wasn't until the very end, that I finally drew in a deep, raggedy breath and concentrated on my Pilates breathing to slow down my heart rate, which had been literally visible from the outside of my hoodie.

The game had been too close for comfort of any kind.

Buckeyes, you know I would've been proud of you no matter what, but I do thank you from the bottom of my heart for pulling out the win. It was sweet victory. Next time, please be the first to put points on the board and please keep the score in your favor the entire game. It would be helpful for my health. Thanks for coming to Iowa City and for bringing me pieces of Columbus. How I've missed you!!

For extra photos, see this album.

this is it

2010-11-20T10:38:00.000-05:00

As you may know, there's some division in our small family of two. Kevin is a Hawkeye fan; I am a Buckeye fan. Neither of us is willing to change teams.

And so it's here: the day when we don our opposing team shirts and cheer against each other. I've got the tickets in hand and my OSU hoodie ready to go. Would it be tacky to take my OSU snuggie to the game? Hah! Don't tempt me; I am just tacky enough to do it.

Ironically, on our big rivalry game day, Kevin is also celebrating his birthday. He asked me several months ago if I would cheer for Iowa as his birthday present. I said, "No way." I'll make him a cake instead or something equally delicious, but I won't switch teams no matter what day of the year it is.

Happy game day! I'm hoping to find some other scarlet-shirted fans to yell, "O-H" to. The glorious echo back is music to my ears: "I-O." Go Buckeyes!

curve ball

2010-11-15T22:31:00.000-05:00

When life throws me a curve ball, I have no idea how to hit it. I almost jump back from the plate as I swing and hear the bat whistle through dead air. Then I hear, "steeee-rike!"

It sucks. I don't like failure and I certainly don't like strikes. I always forget that I'll only be able to learn how to hit by practicing swinging. Yet swinging requires energy, patience, and a strength that I feel I lack. I like to consider myself a well-rounded person with a general knowledge of lots of things. Yet when I was hit with something yesterday that I have absolutely zero knowledge in, it shook me to the core and left me feeling helpless. How can I give advice when I have none? How can I approach a nitty-gritty topic when I don't even know anything about it?

I am left feeling an overwhelming defeat again. As if strike 1 and 2 aren't bad enough, with strike 3 comes the final judgement: you're out.

So I fight against this judgement call and I cry to my best friend and I feel every emotion imaginable: sadness, anger, defeat, pity, bitterness, sympathy... I soak in these feelings as if they were the bubbles in my scalding bath, letting them cover me from head to toe. When the last bubble pops, all that's left is cold, milky water and a sadness of still not having the power to reverse the call.

I watched this little girl play t-ball last weekend and I keep going back to these photos because this is how I want to attack life. I want to attack it so hard that it doesn't even matter if it's a home run; her glory lies in the fact that she popped the ball and knocked the t-ball stand over. That's how hard I want to play Life.

I have many things to learn, no doubt. But someday, someday, life it going to throw me a curve ball, I will swing, and instead of dead air, I'll head a resounding "clack" as my bat makes contact. That, my friends, may not be a home run, but a hit is a hit.

goodnight moon

2010-11-11T21:43:00.001-05:00

I was setting my alarm last night before bed when I skipped over a screen to my world clock settings. I have several times zones selected--Chicago at GMT-6, Columbus at GMT-5--but my favorite time zone is Tashkent. It's the capital of Uzbekistan and a city that I visited only four times: when I first flew into Uzbekistan, on a weekend vacation from Samarqand about three months after my arrival, on another weekend when I was in dire need of a visa renewal, and lastly, when I flew out of Uzbekistan to return to America. More importantly than Tashkent though, the city that grabs my heart with long, pinching nails and twists it around between it's hands of memories is Samarqand, the city where my life changed forever.

When I look at my clock and see the time zone of GMT+5, 11 hours ahead of me, I think of my family there. They had a little boy since I've been back. Three girls and a niece who they cared for and now after 13 years since their last baby girl, a surprise little boy. I laugh imagining the joy that Bahram Aka must feel when he sees his son. For a period of time, he lived in the same small apartment as 7 women (his wife, three daughters, a niece, myself and another American girl).

For Women's Day, a day highly celebrated in their culture, Bahram Aka gave me a small piola--an Uzbek teacup without handles--that was painted in beautiful dark blue with white swirls and a gold edge. It was the nationally famous style of chinaware and when I came back, I brought a set for my mom. But mine?: my piola is in my kitchen and every time I see it, I say a little prayer for my Uzbek family.

Sometimes mentally, just for fun, just so I don't forget, I take myself through their house, room by room, and remember the squeaky floors, painted with a thick dark brown paint, and the chalky walls that made your hands feel gritty and the bathroom that had just enough room to turn around in, where your knees touched the door as you sat. I can still visually remember the details. My sisters' smiles and soft, long, shiny hair, Fatima Opa's hard-worked hands and golden-capped teeth, Bahram Aka's shy smile as he tried to speak English and managed very well, producing my favorite quote, "Who want, they can."

I hope they are well. I hope they are happy. I hope they find peace. I hope that while I sleep during my night, the sun shines brightly on them in their day. It feels like we're worlds apart, but I guess it's just half the world apart.

Goodnight moon. When you see them next, please tell them hi from me.

stumble + tumble

2010-11-07T20:31:00.001-05:00

I'm clumsy. Does anyone in my high school remember the time that I got literally hung up by my shirt on a cafeteria table? It was one of my most embarrassing moments.

Tonight I baked an apple dessert. I made myself a big heaping bowl of it fresh from the oven and topped it with cold milk. I sat on the couch to chow down while Kevin and I watched--ironically--America's Funniest Videos. I was done with my apple oatmeal dessert, but there was leftover milk in the bowl so I got up to take it to the kitchen. Kevin had his feet propped up on an exercise ball, which is the choice foot stool around this house. As I got up off of the couch and tried to go to the kitchen, my leg nicked the side of the ball and sent me into an upheaval of a mess until, bam, I was faceplanted into the floor. I could almost feel the crunch of my right shoulder and my right knee as they both hit the floor before the rest of me, but after Kevin helped me sit up, I just doubled over laughing and crying. I felt drunk with the funnies because I could just imagine how the whole scene had played out from his view.

The big success, however, was that I kept the bowl upright though the landing ending up splashing most of the milk out onto me and the floor anyway.

After putting carpet cleaner on the floor and scrubbing it in, Kevin pulled out the vacuum to clean it all up and just shook his head. "I feel like I'm cleaning up after a kid vomited or something."

I guess it shouldn't be a surprise given that I went head-over-heels down a flight of stairs twice in one week; once in my wedding dress 2 hours before our wedding and then 5 days later in Mexico on the way to dinner one evening. My bruises still remain so I'm assuming I broke some blood vessels in the process of those two tumbles.

So really, spilled milk is nothing to cry over.

point a

2010-11-06T20:27:00.000-04:00

I had a meltdown last night. I needed a good take-me-back-to-Point-A and re-prioritize. I had a very busy day planned for today, so before the first photo shoot this afternoon, I spent some alone time, trying to recapture the reason that I first fell in love with this double-edged sword called photography.

I climbed over the rocks and I stared at the blue water and the cloudless sky and I raised the lens toward that beautiful sight and heard the click of the shutter. Remembering the joy in that moment made me remember why I do this.

I do this because I love it. I don't have much time anymore to take pictures just for me, for my pure, undiluted pleasure, but this...this feeling is magic.

trick or treat

2010-11-03T21:09:00.000-04:00

As a child, Halloween was not celebrated in our household. People who hear me say that are shocked because they had envisioned me with all kinds of glorious hand-sewn costumes stitched up by my sewing machine genie mother. Aside from the fact that we didn't celebrate it due to religious beliefs, it wasn't a childhood activity because we lived in the country on a farm on a busy highway that will take you all the way to the Mississippi; no children were going to come to our door and we weren't going to be able to walk to anyone else's door.

I don't have regrets about that. I feel like I still had quite an enjoyable, successful childhood despite the lack of halloween costumes in my closet. I understand why my parents chose what they did for our family and I respect them for it.

That being said, I am a grown-up now and I do enjoy a good little round of trick-or-treaters. I have all kinds of ideas for cute little costumes for my someday-children. I love the Kit Kat just like the next person.

So we had a girls porch party at my best friend's house and we were grown-ups eating cheeses, crackers, and grapes (yes, very Roman of us!) and sipping hot apple cider as the children gathered candy. It was magical, even if maybe only for the reason that we were more invested in each other than the cute children in their costumes.

And after the littles came and went, we took the party inside where we sank into the couch and talked some more. Jobs, someday-children, education, relationships, and even carpet shampooing. We may have snuck a bite of candy into that somewhere, but who is counting calories on a holiday?

So even though I'm late on the draw, Halloween is gone by 3 days, and the candy choices are now slim pickings in the candy jar, I hope you had a happy one anyway.

curly hair

2010-10-27T20:44:00.000-04:00

"How did you get your hair like that? It's so curly! I didn't know you had curly hair."

"It's just like your's, Mom. I got it from you."

"Oh...well, it's really pretty."

I smiled a sad smile as I overheard this conversation today in the waiting room at the doctor. It was between a daughter and her elderly mother. It was clear, coming from my experience with my Grandmother's dementia, that the mother was suffering from memory loss/dementia. The daughter was so gracious about it, unfazed that Mom couldn't remember that her hair had always been curly.

Mom didn't know why she was at the doctor. Daughter told her that they were just checking things out again to make sure it was all okay. Mom sighed and said, "Okay."

The circle of life continues and I am both captivated and saddened by the ever-churning waves. I want to build a ship in a bottle and cork it just to preserve it forever. I want to take the battery out of the clock and make it stand still. I want to freeze this spinning world without it getting frostbite. I want to stop my beating heart without flatlining.

Curly-haired Daughter, I bet you want these things too.

(My niece, Kylie, about a year ago. She has curly hair too.)

far-sighted memory glasses

2010-10-22T20:26:00.000-04:00

I got the best news today. Honestly, this news just sent me over-the-top with excitement. If I were cheesy and in junior high, I would be peppering these sentences with exclamation points and bold words and double underlines.

Remember a few months ago, when I first told you about my grandma? (If you can't, you can read it here.) I had been stricken that my grandma didn't know who I was when I first visited her after her move into the nursing home and her diagnosis of Alzheimer's. In the times since that first, heart-breaking visit, things have been pretty even-keel. Grandma still doesn't remember me, but I'm more used to it now and so I just reintroduce myself and call her "Grandma" like I always have. She hasn't ever said my name on her own though. She either doesn't know me at all or recognizes that I'm part of the family, but she can't remember me exactly.

Today that changed. Even if only for a single moment of clarity, it changed.

As told to me by my mother: Mom was visiting her today and pointed toward to the bulletin board on the wall with family photos pinned to it. She asked Grandma if she knew who the people were on the board. Grandma said that of course she did. So Mom got more specific and asked if she knew their names. Grandma didn't; she said she couldn't see that far without her glasses. When Mom pulled some photos off of the board and brought them over to her, she said she recognized them, but she couldn't name them. (To her credit, she has 6 children, 18 grandchildren, and 22 great-grandchildren. I'd have a hard time with names too!) Mom kept showing her different pictures of my cousins and Grandma couldn't name them. Then Mom showed her this picture from my first visit...

...and asked her who it was. Without a single second of hesitancy, Grandma looked at it and said, "Well, of course I know who that is. That's Emily."

I wasn't there; I didn't witness any of it. But knowing her recognition of me, that she knew who I was, that is enough for me. It makes me tear up with happiness because back on that day that the photo was taken, I had wanted to sob (and I did after I left) because I felt like I was forgotten and that this special woman with white hair, porcelain skin, and a bony little body would never remember that I was her granddaughter.

But today, she remembered.

My heart is aching in the most pleasing way, like it's just going to overflow. And though I know the next time I see her, she probably will not remember me again, I am okay with that. I recognize that she won't always have those clear moments--most of the time, things will be foggy and fuzzy in her memory--but those glorious moments when her memory snaps it's far-sighted glasses into place, well, those are the moments that make all the sad moments worth it.

Grandma, thank you for remembering me today. You have made this granddaughter feel like the most precious little girl again. I love you. Always.

i have a shelter

2010-10-17T20:49:00.001-04:00

We had barely buckled them all in, when from the backseat, Kylie piped up, "Grandma, I do not like that sweater you're wearing." I love the honesty of children. (Later, she said that she loves my purse. At least the girl, at only 5 years old, has figured out her taste in fashion. To my mom's credit, it was a lovely fall sweater, but it had the unfortunate chance of being a burnt orange and Kylie doesn't like dark colors. Hilarious regardless.) That started off our little jaunt over to visit my grandma on Sunday afternoon.

Love this one...I love seeing love in pictures.

Bunny ears.

In my family, my dad is known for his love of ice cream. There has always been ice cream in the house; it's a staple. There was one time in my life, sometime during my junior year of high school, when all the ice cream had been eaten and, by sheer lack of communication, no more had been stocked. It was the one and only time I can remember that happening.

So it's no wonder really that when I got to the nursing home today to visit Grandma, she was in the dining hall finishing her meal with, yes, ice cream! That's my girl. Apparently, my dad inherited her love of ice cream, then passed it on to his 6 offspring. (I will add that the ice cream thing didn't skip a generation as it hit his grandchildren as well.)

Grandma finished her ice cream and joined us in her room. She was shivering from cold while Hogan discarded his jacket from the heat. I pulled the blanket off her bed, much to her consternation as she thought she could "just handle it", and wrapped her up in it. I think she's beautiful.

The kids were along today (and my mom) so Grandma was content to listen to them. Afterwards, Mom and I discussed how much more comfortable is is to have children there because it's so difficult to have a conversation with her--almost as if it's easier for her to listen instead of engaging. Plus, she smiles more when she is watching and listening to them. They are funny kids after all!

Her memory is still the same, of course. She didn't ask who I was, but she never acknowledged that she knew me either so it cancelled out to a zero. She couldn't put names to the kids, but she recognized their faces. One moment, she talked about going to church this morning and then she asked the kids how school was today. They graciously looked at my mom to explain that it's Sunday and they don't have school on Sunday. They're gracious kids, after all.

When my mom told Grandma that my aunt Marilyn and uncle Lyle were going to come take her to the evening church service, she got very excited and said, "Good! I have been waiting so long for someone to take me to Fairview again!" He face fell a little when Mom told her they were taking her to the service at the nursing home and not to my dad's church, where she has been a lifelong attender. She seemed more settled when Mom mentioned that my dad's church was in charge of the nursing home service though. I guess compromise is a lifelong challenge.

You know that song that goes, "I have a shelter in the storm when troubles pour upon me. Though fears are rising like a flood, my soul can rest securely. Oh, Jesus, I will hide in you, my place of peace and solace. No trial is deeper than your love that comforts all my sorrows."

Well, in my complete honesty, I find myself falling into this song some days, especially after my Grandma-visits. I've only been to one funeral in my life where I sobbed and felt such a deep, wrenching, sincere loss; it was my mom's best friend's funeral. My entire body that day, from head to toe, was full of gut-twisting pain to the point it felt like I couldn't swallow. And though I am enjoying my Grandmother's presence with us now, sometimes I fall into the foreshadowing pain of growing older and the inevitable time--hopefully further away than sooner--when I will have to hug her one last time.

I'll be honest; at this exact moment, I couldn't bear to do it. Her little boney body against mine is like a security, like a fight against the hardships of the world. So when, even in these moments, I tear up because I just can't bear the thought, I listen to the song and I revel in the knowledge that even while my fears are rising, my soul can rest securely.

Someday I will have to say goodbye, but for today, I can keep visiting and I can keep hugging and I can keep capturing her smile and loving that she's my Grandma.

While I sat and penned my thoughts, Kevin played the Wii. It was strangely comforting being in the same room doing absolutely different things.

the light of day

2010-10-13T18:29:00.002-04:00

I admit: I am a sucker for a happy ending. I shed tears for the underdog in the Olympics. I cry like a baby during happy endings in movies. I sob during TV shows. (I do. Ask Kevin.) I don’t like reading the news very much because, frankly, mostly times are only sad endings, bickering fights, people dying, children hurt, and the world at war.

I want my happy ending.

You can imagine then my tears of joy as the first of the 33 Chilean miners was brought above ground last night after 69 days trapped in the mine. His wife and his son were sobbing with happiness and I just bawled along with them, sharing their joy--if only a small part of it--and trying to imagine their grief and stress through the last 2 months, never knowing if they would see him alive again.

I stayed up late into the night riveted to the television like it was a drug and I an addict. When I fell asleep, I dreamt that I was watching the rescue on TV. I woke up and my first words were, “How many are out now?” All day I’ve had CNN up on my computer, watching the updates that scroll across my screen telling me that one more, one more, one more has reached the surface. With each one, my heart just gives a little skip because these are people; they may not be my people, my family, but they are someone’s people, someone’s family. They are strong, courageous men who have survived the unthinkable and are finally being rescued alive! And to see their wives and children; those excited faces, those tears, those beautiful, creased worry lines fading into smiles so big you can see their molars...This is when I begin my crying all over again. Every...single...time.

It’s the best of the best happy endings! It's the ultimate happy ending.

I am amazed by their faith as well. Not only are they coming out of the rescue capsule with smiles and thumbs up, hugs and tears, but they are coming out praising God for saving them, bringing them through this, and for life. And this doesn’t seem like just a thank-God-we’re-alive kind of praise. Mario Sepulveda said, “I was with God and I was with the devil. They fought, and God won.” He said he grabbed God’s hand and never doubted that he would be rescued.

That’s faith, people. That’s faith stronger than my own. That’s faith without wavering, without doubting. It's just pure, undiluted faith.

The youngest, 19-year-old Jimmy Sanchez, said in a letter that he had sent up earlier this week, “There are actually 34 of us because God has never left us down here. … God wanted me to stay here, I don’t know, maybe so I change from now on.”

Here I sit on my couch, mesmerized, astonished, amazed, challenged. This is history in our world, live history, and these are people; individuals, loved ones, husbands, fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, sons…

And in a different language and a different country, they are challenging me to live with more faith, more of that undiluted, concentrated, black-as-coffee kind of faith.

Thank you, miners of Chile. Welcome back to ground level.

*All names, quotes, and photos taken from http://www.cnn.com/.

woodpecker trail

2010-10-10T16:22:00.001-04:00

We didn't see any woodpeckers on the woodpecker trail, but it was a gorgeous day nevertheless. Kevin and I went on a little hike this afternoon to enjoy the great outdoors. It's unusually perfect weather outside right now and I'm just soaking it right up.

The leaves fluttered around us and we occasionally came across other hikers. Mostly though, it was just us and nature, the crunching of the leaves making a backdrop to our voices.

And the colors? May I mention how beautiful the greens, oranges, and reds were? The leaves practically glowed with pride, as if they were shouting, "Look at us! Look at how beautiful we become as we start dying."

So I looked at them and I thought, Wow. Because what more can you think when you come across nature in such raw formats, the vibrancy of autumn glistening in its organic glory?

So we hiked and we soaked. I feel fully refreshed and wholly filled with happiness. This is when I come alive. Fall births something deep in my gut that just dances with joy at the mixture of the sounds, the colors, the smells...

It's just refreshing.

turn the page

2010-10-09T23:31:00.000-04:00

The smell, that musty scent that lingers softly in the air, overtakes me. I open the pages further, hearing them creak against their binding, and stick my nose right into the crease. Inhale.

Mmmm...

This is the smell that I want my children to know.

But, thanks to the rise of technology, I'm scared it that will fade. Eventually, my generation will be the last ones with our walkers navigating the aisles and scanning books out on loan. Kevin keeps suggesting that I download books onto my iPod to read and I keep saying, "NO! I want to turn a page."

I still buy books. I pile them in my bookshelf with pride because books are...books are smart. I even have a stack of children's books and old encyclopedias from my grandma. They're classics and I love them so much. In my dream house, I will have a library room lined with shelves and a grand piano in the center and a window seat against the outside wall, much like the library in the board game Clue.

So, no, I won't be joining the digital reading generation anytime soon. I much prefer burying my head in real pages that smell so rich and earthy.

As for the library aisles? They continue to lure me in like a kid in a candy store and I just want to sit on the floor between all those books and close my eyes. It's peaceful. It's quiet. It's warm. It's a beautiful place to be.

on variations of white

2010-10-07T18:48:00.000-04:00

When I was 14, my mom let me order two t-shirts out of a Chadwicks catalog. They had three-quarter length sleeves and a small dainty edging around the v-neck cut of a collar. It was a buy one, get one 1/2 off sale so it made sense, really, to buy two. But the dilemma, wasn't the amount, it was the colors!!

I piddled around for a whole week trying to decide which of the 15 colors to pick for my two shirts. They had everything, including a plethora of fruity colors (lemon, watermelon, kiwi, etc.) and yet another whole section dedicated to flavors (burnt orange, chocolate brown, rich blue, etc.).

The choice was too difficult. I had too many colorful, beautiful, vibrant options. I tossed every color on myself mentally and they were all wonderful.

So what two colors did I pick? You'll never guess. I picked white and off-white. The two most plain options of the pack. In my mind, I thought I was being frugal because white went with everything (right?), therefore, I could get more use out of the shirts if I kept them neutral.

Ten years later, that decision still haunts me when I shop. In fact, for several years, I cut white out of my wardrobe entirely. It's only been in the last 3 years that I have allowed a few white shirts back into the closet and in the last 6 months that I have started to like a good white shirt again. But those two fateful white shirts from Chadwicks still pause my hands from reaching for white shirts in stores.

Obviously my style has changed. I've grown into who I am and the style that showcases me best. I wear vibrant colors some days, vibrant jewelry other days, a hat here or there, often a scarf, even red peep-toe heels or an indigo boot. I'm no longer the white-shirted girl who can't make a style decision.

(And really, thank God for that!!)

So there's no ending to this other than to say that after all of this typing, I look down at my pile of whites on the floor ready to go into the washing machine and I laugh because here I sit, 10 years later, still surrounded by white. At least this time I can credit most of the pile to washcloths and socks!

cluttered desk + cluttered thoughts

2010-10-07T00:00:00.000-04:00

It's that time again. Bed time. I write best when I'm tired though. Or maybe I don't, but since I'm tired, I'm slightly warped in thought so words spill out easier. Whether or not they make sense is up to the reader, I suppose.

I have a cluttered desk. I hate clutter. I have miscellaneous stuff lying around: September's savings account statement (looking better every month, folks!), a cookbook, a photoshop book, an empty container that had broccoli and cauliflower salad in it (but I ate it all), my Pilates certificate (had to make a copy of it for something), a flex spending receipt, my eyeglasses, a water bottle, my hospital volunteer application, the 2010 PPI member directory...

But now, even as I'm typing this, I'm breaking words up as I put papers away. Just speaking of the clutter is driving me crazy so I pause...and put another item back in it's place.

My dad always said, "A place for everything and everything in it's place." Perhaps I got my organization and decluttering from him, although--funny enough--he is a huge pack rat. You should see all of the stuff that he has tucked away in the crevasses of the house that he was born in and has lived in for over 60 years. That's a lot of years of accumulation!

Speaking of my dad, when I was in Kalona on Saturday, he requested some pictures of him harvesting. Well, he didn't really request it since he doesn't ask for stuff, but he more or less thought it would be a good idea if I took some pictures. So, between shots of my brothers, I snuck a quick one of my dad's field. (I didn't make up those clouds, folks! That was pure God genius at work.)

And because I just cannot resist trees...

So here I sit, crossed-legged on my computer chair, staring at the screen. It's official. I have passed my prime. I have to go to bed. Tomorrow I have a lot planned, a whole list of things to do. I'm going to finish clearing off this desk and then I will rest my eyes, my body, and my mind.

Goodnight world.

brothers

2010-10-06T21:58:00.000-04:00

I took my brothers' pictures. Then I reminisced like an old woman about how old they're getting and how they shouldn't grow up. I put those posts up on my other blog so here are the links if you're interested.

Jordan
Payton

sniffles, cake, and thankfulness

2010-10-01T17:24:00.001-04:00

I started writing on the couch, where I've been stationed for the past week, but two things happened: 1) my internet on my laptop phased off (It does that after about 10 minutes...it's very unreliable for anything that needs internet.) and I didn't feel like bringing it in here to plug it in to the hard cable and 2) nothing I was writing felt right. It just felt whiny. So I just shut the laptop.

I've been sick for the past week. There. I said it. That's what I had been typing about before on the couch, but who cares? Who wants to read about someone being sick? That's boring and, though possibly relatable, really plain-Jane to read about. I would hate to be plain Jane!

So here's to health and happiness, two of life's greatest treasures, both of which are hugely taken for granted.

On Tuesday, I had gotten a sub for my gym class just so that I could go to my little brother's football game. I was at home asleep. When I woke up, his game was over. I was so sad. I mean, really inwardly miserable. I had told him I would go to one of his games, but they're all scheduled on Tuesday nights, which are my teaching nights. I had planned this one! Then I slept right through it. I felt like I deserved the Awful Sister award. After the game, there was going to be a party for my mom for her birthday. I had to miss that too. "Happy birthday, Mom, here's a huge box of Kleenexes for your delivery. It's coming soon! A whopper of a cold." I whined about missing the party too, possibly cried a little bit. (I really love cake.) The next day, Kevin brought the most delectable cake home. It was a double-layer, buttercream frosting, marble cake. Yes. I ate so much of it that I actually asked him for some syrup of ipecac as I curled into a ball, rocking back and forth.

In other news, I've got nothing. I mean, absolutely nothing. I have several things brewing, but none that I can yet share. One thing I can share is my disappointing loss in a contest for a Canon 5D. It wasn't like there was anything I could do. It was a random draw. The winner was announced today and it wasn't me. I even prayed for it! Daily.

In choir rehearsal on Wednesday night, I was challenged to be thankful for everything. How I continue to fail in that arena! So even now, when I just want to whine about feeling sick and being sick of feeling sick, I'm challenged to be thankful instead. The sky is blue, the leaves are changing colors, there are clean, uncoughed upon sheets in the drier, the weather is beautiful for a change, and the weekend is ahead of me. I get to take pictures, I get to teach Pilates, I get to see my best friend Sara, I get to watch my Buckeyes play, and I get to hang out with my man.

Yes, despite the bad, I am very, very thankful. Happy October! (P.S. I'm putting up pictures of my tree over here!)

here's to you

2010-09-25T21:29:00.000-04:00

Here's to fireplaces and chatter.
To rainy days and coffee shops.
To best friends and cute purses.
To iPhones and iPods.
To creamer and sugar.
To green tea with honey.
To sore throats and hugs.
To bathroom breaks and job drama.
To new adventures and old dreams.
To copious amount of laughter and even a few teary eyes.
To understanding nods and "lmao" quoting.
To lazy Saturdays and skinny jeans.
To hours that feel like minutes and hoodies that serve as jackets.
Because all of this and more, you make my day so perfect.

five dollar foot long

2010-09-20T20:36:00.000-04:00

Kevin makes me laugh.

We recently borrowed the iPass from a coworker of mine for use while traveling to Chicago--a great way to avoid having to stop at the tolls. This morning, I gave it back to my coworker and told Kevin I was going to give her $5 for letting us borrow it. He joked, "Why don't you give her a $5 foot long?"

"Because...I'm just going to give her the money."

I gave the device back to her and she threw the money at me, disgusted that I would think to pay her for it. "I don't want your money!" she said. "I gave this to you as a friend."

When I told Kevin that, he said, "Why don't you take a $5 foot long into work tomorrow and tell her, 'Here, I got this for you as a friend.'"

knocking on doors late at night

2010-09-18T00:16:00.001-04:00

The clock is chasing midnight and here I sit, still staring at the glowing computer screen. My eyes are tired, but my mind is just bumbling along like there's no tomorrow when, in fact, there will be soon.

I have nothing profound to say--I don't know if I could speak profoundly at this hour anyway--but I do have several small doors to knock on before I go to bed.

1) I charted out my family tree starting with my grandparents on my dad's side. I am finding it interesting to see that, while my grandparents had 6 children and 3 of those 6 children had 3 to 6 children of their own, of all of the grandchildren (my generation), none have more than three children. It seems the cost of living is going up so the amount of children is going down.

2) I spotted a name tonight, Walker, that I love. My mind immediately tried to place it with a little boy and I laughed out loud in the car as I said it out loud, "Walker Crall." The poor child would be mercilessly teased. "Hey, kid, are you going to walk or crawl today?" (I feel like I always must make a post note whenever I talk about children online... I am happily, so happily, childless right now. Someday, someday, but I am in no rush. I love these moments where I get Kevin to myself and we can plan adventures at the flip of a coin. We are happy and while we will also be happy someday if we have children, we are happy right now. And that is important to note.)

3) Panera serves up the best onion soup. There, I said it.

4) I do not like country music and I do not like dirty floors, but I am a sucker for good ribs. That being said, I braved my pride to eat at Texas Roadhouse last night. (I do not like it's name because it sounds like roadkill. And I am also the furthest thing you'll find from a cowgirl!) They served me the best ribs I've ever eaten in my life. They fell off the bone so easily that I could clean the bone with a fork. Look, Ma, no messy hands!

5) The last door I'm knocking on tonight is that I'm scared of the dark. Yes, I admit it. (Overcoming this fear is on my bucket list.) My husband thinks I'm crazy because I have to pave a trail ahead of him every night so that I can turn on the lights in the next room while he turns off the lights in the room we're leaving. He's gone tonight so it will take me extra long to turn on the lights in the bedroom, then turn off the lights in the living room, then turn off the main bedroom light while keeping the lamp on, then getting into bed and turning off the lamp, signaling the automatic night light into action. I know, silly. My father would cringe if he saw me right now with every single light on in the condo, yes, in rooms I'm not even inhabiting. (Kevin is much like my father in that he would cringe too if he saw me right now.)

So off to bed I go, braving the darkness and sprawling across the entire bed tonight. Aggghhhh...I do love a good sprawl! I tell Kevin we need a king-size bed, but he says that it will only encourage me to take up even more space than I already require. I'm a sprawler, a tosser, a vivid dreamer, and sometimes, even an attacker in my sleep. (The attacking is only as a result of one of my nightmares.)

So one light, two lights, three lights, four...into bed. (Don't forget, lock the door!)

four sisters

2010-09-12T22:19:00.001-04:00

"Isn't it amazing that we're all here? All four of us sisters together," my Great-Aunt Edna kept saying. "Four brothers and four sisters and we only have one brother left, but all four of us girls are here."

Truly remarkable was that all four sisters were in the same room today when I stopped by to visit Grandma. Even more remarkable was that I had my camera with me. I would have been sick had I not been able to capture that moment. All four of them, so aged from time, seeing each other fall to illnesses and sicknesses and burying three brothers, yet they still stand. Together.

For just a moment, I placed myself in their shoes. I have two sisters. We are healthy, we are young, we are married, we have assumed long lives in front of us. Will we be in a nursing home together someday, trying to remind each other about lost siblings or where we live or who we are? Will we be signing the guest book and patting the heavily blanketed leg and promising to visit again soon?

It's hard to imagine. Then I thought back to decades before I was born, back to the days when these four women were young girls, pulling hair, borrowing clothes, washing dishes, and working on the farm. How long ago that seems as I watched them together today in Great-Aunt Suvilla's room, just two floors below my grandma's room.

Visiting my grandmother today, on the large spectrum, was much easier than any of my previous visits so I continue with the hope that it truly gets easier over time. I know, however, that there were so many distractions today that it hardly was a visit in the same regards as my past visits. Aunt Marilyn was there as well as her husband, Uncle Lyle, and my mom and Grandma's three sisters--Great-Aunt Suvilla, Great-Aunt Esther, and Great-Aunt Edna--and Great-Aunt Suvilla's husband and daughter. I mean, it was a packed room.

(From left: Grandma, Great-Aunt Suvilla, Great-Aunt Edna, and Great-Aunt Esther)

Even after taking Grandma back to her room, holding her bony, frail hand in mine, I felt like it was different. She seemed tired, exhausted even, but she laughed, her old familiar ringing laugh, when Mom recounted the story about a previous visitor today--another resident at the nursing home--who had told Grandma a sure-fire way to keep her bowels healthy. Grandma chimed in, recounting with a rare clarity, saying that the woman ate a chocolate candy bar every morning before breakfast. Apparently, that's how you keep your bowels clean. Who knew? This woman washes the candy bar down with a large glass of water (the water container was one she found in the hallway of the nursing home--I'm praying to God that it wasn't someone's urine cup!).

I left the nursing home feeling more peaceful than any other departure. Maybe it was seeing the four sisters gathered in one room. Maybe it was hearing from Mom about how one sister has tried multiple times to sneak Grandma out of the nursing home to take her for a drive. Maybe it was hearing Grandma's laughter, her real laughter. Maybe it was her gentle hug, so soft because I'm terrified of breaking her bones. It could have been a plethora of things. But today just seemed...happier.

And the only downer to this visit was when one of my great-aunts whispered to me, "Thank you for taking our picture. This could be the last time we're all together." The solemness settled over me before I could shake it off and I pulled my camera just a little tighter to my side, hoping against all odds that it would take another picture of the four sisters together on another day, smiling as they were today.

win-win

2010-09-11T23:11:00.001-04:00

It was an early Saturday for me. I rarely see anything before 9:30 on the clock on Saturdays, but this morning I woke up at 8:35. Maybe it was excitement?

I have had this little plan in my head for a week now. A patient at work brought in some donuts from the Tipton Bakery and they rivaled Golden Delight Bakery donuts, a huge feat of accomplishment! So I told Kevin this morning to get ready because I had a surprise for him. He didn't like that. He hates surprises as much as I do. He hates not being in the know.

So we went for a little drive--quite further than I had anticipated actually--and pulled into the little, quaint town of Tipton, Iowa. It had a darling little town square that had the itsy-bitsiest farmer's market you've ever seen, a one-tent produce shopping trip with maybe 3 venders. (I'm adding 1 for the benefit of the doubt; I only saw 2.) The storefronts were tall antique buildings that looked just weathered enough to have firm history imbedded in their walls and yet just enough charm to welcome people into their possibly renovated interiors.

The Tipton Bakery was one of those, although their interior--which I'm kicking myself over not taking a picture of---was very minimalist with one glass case of gooey donuts and cookies and the walls a yellowy-white bordered with a Pillsbury Doughboy wallpaper border. The room was finished with a Pillsbury Doughboy clock that hung behind the glass counter.

But none of that mattered so much as the fact that inside that glass case were the very things I had drive here for: croissants. I have no idea why they call them that because they are doughiest donuts twisted up like a hard-shell taco and filled with frosting instead of meat and powered sugar instead of cheese. They melt in your mouth and make you say things like, "Ohhh. Myyyyyy. Gooooooosh." I'm only thankful that they don't have a nutritional label! It was pure delight.

(Here is the only shot I have inside. Please notice the wallpaper border!)

The rest of the day has morphed into a typical Fall football Saturday. Our games were on at the same time (Kevin's an Iowa fan; I'm an Ohio State fan.) so we had to divy up our resources. This is what happens when you marry someone who cheers for another team.

The Iowa/Iowa State game was a blowout so at halftime, we switched and I took the living room and the TV and Kevin took the office and the computer with espn.com live television feed.

With both of our teams winning and those donuts still filling our bellies, we're a happy little family today.

the mexican turtle

2010-09-09T23:56:00.000-04:00

The little Mexican turtle shines his bright, exotic shell on our bookshelf, bobbing his head as if agreeing with everything he overhears in our house. Except sometimes, sometimes he turns away from us and face the wall. Then we know.

When were in premarital counseling, we were told this true story about another couple.

Once upon a time, there was a husband and wife who had their good days and their bad days. Sometimes, they didn't feel like talking about stuff or just needed time to calm down before talking. They devised a system using an ugly fake porcelain dog that sat in front of their fireplace. If they needed a moment (or more than that) for their own before sharing their frustrations with their spouse, they would turn the dog around to face the fireplace, with his back to the room. That way, without even needing to speak, the other spouse would know not to push the issue, but to give some space and time. Because, as much as they were best friends and happily married, they were still two individuals who might just need some alone time to think.

Our marriage counselors told us that story. It's true. I found this idea to be both clever and helpful. Because, let's face it, there are sometimes you just want to organize your alphabet soup before pouring it out into someone else's bowl and seeing the letters get mixed up again.

So when we were on our honeymoon, we picked up this little yellow turtle in the gift shop and chose it as our own ugly, fake, porcelain dog. When we got home, we placed him on our bookshelf and let him nod his head to the beat of our house rules and when we just want some time to settle our thoughts, we make him look the other way. Then we both know with a quick glance to the bookshelf, it's "me" time around here.

We'll talk later.

labor(less) day

2010-09-06T22:34:00.001-04:00

Although I understand that Labor Day is a day designed to honor the work force, I always find it ironic that, given it's name, Labor Day is actually one of the laziest days of the year for me. We sleep in, letting the breeze flow through the curtains as we read books in bed and play electronic games on our iPod. We eat chocolate for breakfast and sit in pajamas watching television. We mosey around in slow motion, picking on each other (out of love, of course) and think that this is the life, earning money while we're not even at work.

Once we finally get enough energy for showers, we get dressed and lazy around some more. I meet up with my best friend for a shopping trip to Cedar Rapids while Kevin meets his brother for a trip to the mall.

After shopping, there's fresh chocolate chips cookies rising in the oven and dishes being washed by a miracle machine, my friend, the dishwasher. Clean up. Lounge some more.

All of the cookies in my stomach push me to go for a short run so I take off outside to put a few miles on my shoes. Shower time, pajamas again, and now I'm back to lounging on the loveseat while Kevin puts his feet up over on the sofa.

Labor day? No thanks, I would rather relive this day, spending time with people I love, doing absolutely nothing at all. What a perfect, long, relaxing weekend.

P.S. Coming soon! The story of the Mexican turtle.

home

2010-09-06T19:46:00.000-04:00

Rest your head, o weary one, for this is your safe place, your home.

As you may know, I love, love, love trees. They are such a symbolism for how I want to be, grounded, but reaching to the sky. It only seemed right to have this.

I was deeply in love with The Thinker at the Rodin Museum in Paris so when I spotted this bright red replica, I couldn't pass it up. It's so heavy you would think it was carved out of stone, but it's so shiny and smooth that I can't help but rub his head and wonder what he's thinking.

the hap, happiest season of all

2010-09-03T21:50:00.003-04:00

The wind is whistling outside. The candles are flickering on my countertops. There is bacon sizzling on the stove and hot water boiling in the tea pot. Norah Jones is crooning in the background and my gray cotton jacket is zipped up around me. The windows are open a crack and it smells like drying leaves.

My heart is overflowing. Fall is here.

At last, I greet you, my long lost friend. You've come back again and I want to wrap you in my arms and make you stay forever. I want this moment, this zap in the space of history, to surround me and stay with me always.

As much as I love Christmas (and you know I do!), Fall is my favorite season. It's romantic. It's beautiful. It's perfect. If I could find a place in the world that was Midwestern Fall all year around, I would move there without a drop of hesitation. I would spend the rest of my life basking in all of this joy that has dropped into my spirit in a matter of one day.

Along with this perfect Fall weather comes the sparkly gray helmets and the scarlet jerseys. My boys were in fine form last night with a beautiful game. It was strange starting the season on a Thursday night, but I knew it was game day from the way my stomach was fluttering all afternoon with butterflies like I was about to meet all of my junior high crushes in the same room at the same time.

So I whipped up a cake (with buttercream frosting--thank you, Kelle Hampton!) and our guests were given their strict house rules of how they can behave when watching an OSU game (no smack talk, no jeering, no cheering for the other team, no snide remarks, etc.). I gave a great big "O" for O-H-I-O and I cheered, by myself mostly, but I cheered.

This is Fall at it's finest.