And Then There's Gatsby

There are days when college seems absolutely ages ago. I'm not going to go into any specifics, but a decade does come into play if I'm going to be honest. And in the time that has transpired, I have moved around a lot. It's not just about changes in place, but changes in focus and life and oh so many other bits and pieces of transformation. At the same time, when I think of the me I was then, I still feel like I know her, like we're connected intimately on so many levels. She's still a person I would want to take the time to consider a friend.

I can't deny that I allowed a bit of snobbery to affect my school persona. I was one of those student types, and I took it on completely, sometimes to the detriment of kindness when I felt the ideas of others were subpar. But time has passed, and while I've had the chance to proof read a couple university thesis papers for former students over the last two years, it's been a long time since I've had to do any sort of elevated writing. I'm sure that if I pulled out my college essays I would be tragically amazed by what I knew that has now just floated away into the dimmest reaches of my mind. Not that I've fully sunk to idiocy, but the days when I basked in the glow of the Intelligentsia...

A few weeks ago, I saw a preview for "The Great Gatsby." It was a purely magical display of color and light, typical of the Baz Luhrman theatrical style, and I was instantly caught up in the desire to refresh my memory regarding this glorious achievement in American Literature. I picked up the copy I read back in my Simpson days, and found myself instantly immersed in memory. My wiggly underlining and scribbled side notes recalled the era so clearly. Though my actual recollections of the story are hazy, just reading the opening lines drew me back into the me I once was. Of course, as I read it now there are different lines that pique my interest, new themes that draw my attention in, life experiences that color the way I view the characters and they way they interplay with one another, but the beauty of the language, and the clarity of thought with which F. Scott Fitzgerald weaves his story still captivate me utterly.

It is so easy to get so caught up in the daily routines of life that the freshness of each new day becomes dull. Life becomes little more than the passage of days scratched in the walls of a prison cell. The hopes of the future are dim wishes, clouded by the struggles of keeping a business running. I find myself removed so far from the me I thought I was that I scarcely know who I am any more. But reading this book brings the past back poignantly, even though it is impossible to repeat it. Reopening the door, taking a walk, seeing things anew in varying shades of light.



I suddenly realized not all the pictures I wanted ended up here. Hmm...Let's see if I can find the rest of my self promoting poser shots...



Okay, that's better. I have now successfully demonstrated that the girl with the spiky blue hair that I knew to be me my senior year of college is more a figment of my imagination at this stage than any sort of reality...

Ghosts of Easters Past

I've found myself all over the place in Easter memories today. I have such fond memories of childhood Easters in Horse Creek. We would get up in the cold early morning dark, dress quickly, and drive to the hillside with the white cross, where Dad usually had a nice fire burning. There wasn't usually much of a crowd, but those who found their way to sunrise service were always glad they came. Mom would always give the starting note and we would sing "up from the grave he arose" with all the fun echoes, and "Christ The Lord is risen today, with rolling a-a-aleluias in abundance.
Breakfast in the church basement always consisted of bacon and eggs and all sorts of cinnamon rolls. After the meal, it was time for a quick bath and clothing change into the new flowery Easter dress. Then it was time for church, and the crowded celebration feeling.
I always loved the bouquets of Easter Lilies, and there were always tulips and daffodils blooming in our yard. Spring existed to the it utmost.
The rest of the day consisted of egg hunts for candy in the house, and for those lovely boiled eggs we'd spent so much time coloring the day before. There was always at least one egg that had taken the all night soak as well. The eggs would make colorful salads and sandwiches in the days to come. It never bothered me when the dye leaked through to the edible parts inside. That only made those boiled eggs even more special.
In the years since childhood faded to adulthood, I've spent a good many Easters far from the comforts of my early memories. I will never forget joining friends from The Vine Church in Hong Kong for an Easter lunch of dim sum. My first Easter abroad was a far cry from the norm, and yet the heart of the celebration remained the same.
Then there was Easter in Poland with my old roommate, Naomi. We were amazed by all the monks and nuns walking around, a sight which would have been highly unsual in Czech where we lived. We enjoyed the Marketa, strolled by the Vistula River, and enjoyed the fabulous markets full of colorful wooden eggs.
I could go on, recalling Easter with the Wendels, or Easter in Prague with Marek and Malin, but it is nearing midnight, and I want to post this before Easter ends. Those who want the picture show should check the Aprils of years past. They're highly enjoyable if I do say so myself.
This Easter we had fabulous weather. We didn't make a sunrise service but did get to church, then spent the afternoon redoing most of the store. Perhaps not the most inspiring Easter ever, but being able to relive those past moments, and having a chance to continue working out our future was still a good way to spend this special day.

Happy All Hallows Eve

It's Halloween. How did that happen all of a sudden. Weren't we just experiencing lovely summer weather a couple weeks ago? Now we're socked in with clouds that can't seem to stop dripping (although we really can't complain in comparison to the mess in the East! Blessings on those poor folks...)

For some reason I have a poem I wrote in college stuck in my head. Okay, the reason is pretty obvious, seeing as you it was all about Halloween. I was in this creative writing class, where most of the students seemed to think that their writing was so far beyond the understanding of mere mortals that any interpretation or critique was clearly nothing but foolishness.

No doubt, it was arrogance that provoked me to write a poem in a standard rhyming format, littered with innuendo regarding the world of masks we live in, and how only on this classically darkest of days can my real self be revealed. I wanted them to sweat through interpretations:

It's Halloween, Oh Halloween,
A night by ghouls and goblins seen,
Oh what a dream, a perfect dream,
To dance with death on Halloween.

It's getting dark, I see a spark,
I wonder, could it be a lark,
Or could it be, a breath so free,
That only darkness lets me see.

A mask comes out, a scream a shout,
Now freedom, true, can come about,
etc, etc.

I can't remember the whole thing verbatim, but you get the gist. Seems to me, my classmates weren't quite so savvy.

Anyhow, I'm dressed in black today, in silent witness to the bygone era of trick or treating in the past. I left my eyeliner stitch marks by the wayside this year, figuring they wouldn't fly so well for postal customers :) All the same, I'm full of memories of years gone by. Mark and I did get a little pumpkin to carve and stick outside our door, although it'll be after 7 by the time I'm home, so we're not likely to have any trick or treaters this time around, but at least a couple cuties have come through the shop today, so I'll enjoy it all I can.

Pretty Sure I'll End Up Dehydrated

I have a thing for drinking. It's one of life's essentials. Not many people could just give up drinking and make a go of it for very long.

The problem is, I don't just enjoy drinking, I'm also rather picky about it. When I moved in the 8th grade I gave up water all together. The sulfury nastiness that passed for water in our new home just couldn't compare to the sweet well water that I grew up on. So for all of high school I didn't drink water. Period.

Unfortunately, that only meant that my thirst was generally quenched by something sugary. And, thus, I developed a craving for sweet liquids to carry me through the days. In college, I fed my need with Gatorade Frost, and cheap Shasta Kiwi Strawberry soda. In Hong Kong, I became increasingly fixated on the plethora of fabulous Fanta flavors that the wider world affords. In recent years, I've settled more on things that also include caffeine. Dr. Pepper, Cola, or sweet coffee drinks cry out to me from every direction.

In the Czech Republic, beer is cheaper than water. They consider it bread. Something essential as both food and drink. When you're sick, the instant prescription is to consume copious amounts of hot tea. I didn't get into either of those, and actually managed to drink a lot of water while I was teaching. We had a big bottle, regularly changed, out in the hall, and that worked for me. I even managed to convince myself, on occasion, to leave my sugary sweetness addiction for meals out, rather than stocking up on it daily. (Although, I must confess to a Pavlovian urge to salivate every time I hear a can of soda cracked open. Makes me weak in the knees I tell you.)

The hear and now has further complicated my need to consume liquids. I'm in my store all day, with no chance to go anywhere, so I have to haul in whatever I'm going to drink. We have no fridge to keep things cold. I bought a big gallon of water once, but it's awkward to pour cups all day. Instead, I've fallen into the trap of getting a soda on my way to work. Here's the real bad part, the cheapest drink I can buy is a 44 oz refill for 79 cents at Circle K. It's a real budgetary blessing, but do I really need to consume 44 oz of soda on a daily basis? Um, not if I'd like to continue having a semi decent waist line. But it's so cheap, and so tasty, and diet soda is nasty, no two ways about it. I sometimes blend a sugar/diet caffeine loaded cup, but it's just not as good, so on tired days, I let myself indulge.

The heart of this post, however, is in today. Today, I decided to be good. A customer gave me a tea bag months ago, and I decided to put it to use. It was my only beverage for the day. I boiled the water, I poured the cup and warmed my hands. I enjoyed the beauty of my Sally Nightmare Before Christmas mug, and even persuaded myself that the tea smelled good. But then I had to drink it. Alas, even the perfect cup could not make it tasty, and the fact that it was caffeine free only added to the failure.

All that to say, it's 6. Time to close up shop and head home for the day. And I'm thirsty!

Where I Live...

I've lived in a lot of places. Three countries. Five states. Nine cities. I've lived in houses, apartments, dormitories, a colonial mansion (converted into an orphanage), a panelak, and rebuilt flat in an ancient city center, and a few basements.

Right now, I'm living in the home where my grandparents lived all my life. At this very moment I'm curled up on their old rocking couch where I watched cartoons as a child while petting the original Mitzi the poodle. I have a couple throw pillows from Hong Kong tucked in around me, and the blanket my friend Julie crocheted for my wedding wrapped around me.

This is a place filled with old memories, and is the first home my husband and I have shared on our own. Across the street, the Browns have been living for countless years. Mr. Brown is a few months younger than my Grandpa would be if he was still alive. Some nights, when I am cleaning the kitchen after a late dinner, I can see him framed in the window, keeping an eye on the neighborhood. In the morning, if he is outside when I am leaving, we wave and greet one another. But we aren't home often. The daily drive to Portland takes a lot out of me, leaving little time or energy for spending time with the neighbors.

It's the fourth of October, but miraculously, the rains have not begun to fall. Tonight, on my drive home, the horizon was the color of a fresh peach. The winds have started to blow, and a chill is in the air.

I don't know what the future holds. Will our little shop blossom, or fade? Will we continue to live an hour away from work, or one day find ourselves in the city? Will I suck up enough courage to publish my book (and those yet to come), or continue to let the fear of failure keep me unmotivated?

All I can know for certain is that this is where I live right now, so my primary goal is to make the most of it.

A Longing That Lingers

Ther's no way to really put my finger on it, but there are moments in life where I am overcome by longing. I wouldn't call it dissatisfaction, or even sorrow, but more of a sudden urge for things that are utterly out of my grasp.

I remember once when a dear friend spent an evening crying in the bathroom. I let her have her space, but when she was ready, I asked what had led to her misery. Her answer, "I was crying about all the goodbyes I am going to have to make in life." We were not at a point in time where a goodbye was close, but she was suddenly struck by the magnitude of the losses she would experience throughout her life time.

The thing is, I have been wildly blessed. I've managed to circle the globe and make friends in so many places that the sun never sets on the ones I love. But such depth of experience comes with a cost. Regardless of all that modern technology has done to make the world a smaller place, distance still exists, and connections do change.

Yesterday, as I drove over the pass above Newberg, I was struck with a deep ache for the lush green peaks and towering concrete, glass, and steel giants of Hong Kong. The gift of Instagram has allowed me to almost taste the succulence of Hong Kong style French toast, and to keep up with the daily sights of life in the city of life, but I am not there. I can't walk up onto my favorite rooftop and watch the twinkling lights, or go downstairs and curl up with a precious infant. I have to drive for miles to get to work, and the Portland skyline just doesn't have a chance.

Today, on my drive through Dundee, the geraniums around a shop transported me to Cesky Krumlov. The new school year is starting, but I have no lessons to plan, nor can I walk to the grocery store for soft herbal cheese and rohliky.

How does one balance the longing with contentment? It's a challenge, and knowing that I have no option to just set down what I'm doing so I can write another chapter in my travel log is hard on a transient like myself.

At the heart of all this struggle is also a lack of personal connection in my current life. Sure, I interact with people on a daily basis, but it's mostly that surface stuff that I quickly tire of when there is nothing of more substance to be acquired. I guess I'm missing long girly talks with all my roomies of old...

Blast From the College Dayz

It's September and school is back in session pretty all over the place. Every day on my way in to work I pass through the city of Newberg, home of George Fox University. As I watch the signs welcoming back the students, it has me remembering my college days. Those epic moments like the ice breaker get to know your new classmate games where they throw all your shoes in a pile and you freak out because you're not wearing cheap flip flops, but instead your expensive sandals that you can't possibly live without, so you make a new best friend as you bond to protect shoes that matter.
Then there's the classic car memories. When I was a freshman I was blessed by my oldest sister and her husband giving me their old 1981 Mercury Cougar. They had inherited it from his grandma. Yup, cool like a grandma even back then. Of course, the best thing was when said car would die at the school entrance, leaving me to embarrassingly wave the traffic around.

So I dug around through some old photo albums tonight and retook a few photos to help relive those epic college days and all their glory.

From freshman year we have a couple classics. What college experience would be complete without a dorm room. Naturally, it's important to be sure to decorate...

Somehow I didn't get the shot of my classic room set up, but this shows how many people we liked to squeeze in for the evening.
Then there were those random trips where we dressed up and took photos, just because we thought we were cool like that.

Not to mention the, we go to a Christian school where the girls outnumber the boys by, well, a lot, so we throw all single girls Valentine's dinner parties.

Sophomore year I lived off campus, which meant we got some really classy furniture like this papasan couch...

It's getting late and I'm a bit distracted so I'll just toss up a few more epic pictures from back in the day for kicks.

Yeah, those were the days...

The Touch of Tiny Fingers

A woman came in the shoppe today with her three year old granddaughter. They wandered around here and there looking at a variety of things. It was near closing time, so I sat at the front desk, listening to their interactions. It wasn't long before the inevitable conversation took place: you can look, but don't touch.

I purposely have very clear memories of being a small child. At an early age, I determined not to forget the feelings that burned inside of my young spirit. Being talked down to drove me bonkers. Discovering bits of onion in my food set my teeth on edge. Drinking powdered milk kicked in my overly developed gag reflex. (The list of food issues could go on for ages...) and every trip to the fabric store filled me with a burning desire to touch EVERYTHING.

I can't help but wonder what it is about small children that makes every experience so intense. I've been told scientifically that taste buds change with age. Yes, I do willingly eat things I once termed to be barfola. Our emotional skin hardens to the insults that once rocked our worlds. We learn the borders in society that frown upon inappropriate behaviors that start as innocent fascination in the young.

I guess my question is, what do we lose as we move away from early discovery, and become the people society expects us to be? I'm not suggesting shuffling off all the shackles of social norms, but perhaps we could all benefit from taking a moment to run our fingers over the rough and sparkly surface of a handmade card, or let our hands caress the bolts of fabric in the aisles, at least as long as we make sure to wash them first ;)

Those Goals I Had

When I was a senior in high school my social studies teacher had us do the coolest thing. We wrote letters to ourselves five years in the future. I have no idea how seriously other people took this project, but being the weirdo I have always been, I didn't just write a note, I wrote pages and pages and pages to my future self. I had thoughts about who I would, or more importantly "should" be, and I minced no words. It bordered between being thoughtful and belligerent.

Five years later, as promised, the letter arrived. I was surprised by how judgmental I had been, disappointed by some of the goals I had not achieved, and amused at 18's naievety. There was so much I could not have known, no matter how well acquainted I believed myself to be with me.

At this point in time the writing and receiving of that letter are both distant history. In fact, last week I passed the 20th anniversary of the "epic" crash when my thirteen year old summer plans were dashed by a broken back. Life goes so quickly, and changes happen before I can even catch my breath and accept the fact that I'm not even in my twenties anymore.

Which all leads me to this post about the uncertainties of life, and the best laid plans. In January, when I was spending my days being caught up on journal writing, facebook updates, and spending hours a day writing my challenge book (which I still haven't nailed down a publishing plan for, grrr) it seemed that making a goal of reaching 100 posts this year conceivable. After all, I had never even heard of Holliday Gift Shoppe. Sure, I knew we were moving and would have to settle in and find jobs and all that sort of stuff, but I had NO clue of where life was about to take me. So now I find myself almost through June, with fewer than 30 posts, and it's clear that my bombardment of the Internet is not going so well. On the other hand, I'm a business owner now. Sounds pretty grown up, doesn't it?

I guess the question now is, what would 18 year old me think of the life I've ended up with? And what absurdities would I write to the me of the future, only to have that same future me shake her head at just how off my ideas were...

Winding Down

It never fails to amaze me how quickly life slips by. With a three month trip to the Czech Republic, I thought I would really feel like time had passed, but that wasn't the case this trip. True, I wrote most of a novel, did a ton of reasearch on publishing, and got more into social networking, including adding lots of photos to my repertoire. I also read about ten books (the lengths varied, but most were on the long side.) Then there were the trips to see friends around Czech and in Germany, as well as shopping trips with my Mom-in-law. Not to mention the bit about learning how to cook some traditional Czech meals. (Naturally, I still wouldn't say that I've reached any sort of proficiency in that area, but at least if I have a decent recipe I should be able to make an actual attmept.)

When I write it all out like that it looks like quite a lot. But the truth is, it has all flown by and we're down to one week. I find myself gearing up for the panic of packing and stressing over flight time management. I've decided to leave a list of things I leave behind on this trip, so that the next time we come over I won't overpack. It's so easy to forget, over the course of the year, exactly which outfits I frantically pulled out of my bag in order to meet the regulation weight.

In other news, I celebrated my first wedding anniversary yesterday. Any sort of first is always a big deal. While it is true that each day and event is a gift, firsts generate a different sort of sensation. They remind us both of the passing of time, as well as the importance of remembering. Throughout the day I was thinking of little bits of my wedding day. I remembered the muffins we had for breakfast that I could hardly get myself to eat. Every time I have them now, I will be pulled back to that moment. I thought about going through a coffee shop in Philomath and buying drinks for a few of my girls who were in the car with me. It was such an incredible feeling to tell the barista that I was about to get married. Then, that night, I pulled into Dutch Bros. as a wife, and when I shared the fact the girl gave us our coffee for free.

I first started journaling seriously because I realized that every day we live will be both a first and a last. We mark the big events in life (birthdays, weddings, life changes, etc.) but often forget that this day (2-20-12) will never happen again. Regardless of your beliefs about the possibility of time travel, you will never be able to experience this moment in exactly the same way. This is the one shot you've got.

So as I come to the end of this post today I'm left thinking of the three months that have just gone by, as well as the year that I have spent as a married woman, and I have to ask myself if I have really remembered that each of those days was a gift. It's so easy to focus on the irritations in life, or the things that stress us out, but it's far more important to remember a lovely moment sitting on the snow with the sun in your face like I experienced this afternoon with Mark. I'm not generally one to moralize on my blog (though I can't always hold myself back when a soap box suddenly presents itself) but I think this is really worth considering. Life flashes by in an instant. Isn't it better to enjoy the time we have to live and grow and share together, than to stress and worry and make the people around us miserable? Here's to hope that the days to come will bring more moments to cherish and more chances to take ahold of joy.

Czech In A Deep Freeze

I grew up in the tiny town (Europeans would scarcely even call it a village) of Horse Creek, California. Our house was tucked right into the side of a mountain in a lovely valley along the Klamath River We used to joke that the population of 115 included both humans and animals. The scenery was beautiful, but the climate was extreme. In the winter, we didn't always get a lot of snow, but the sun never shone on our house, so the yard often grew a veritable forest of frost. I can remember years so cold that my sister and I would curl up on the couch as close to the fireplace as we could get, with blankets piled high. I was familiar with the cold, and the crazy part is, I loved it.

I think the turn in my personality took place around the time I broke my back when I was thirteen. Whether it was the life changing accident, or merely natural teenage body changes, I flip flopped in my temperature gauge. I was no longer the little girl begging her mother to let her wear shorts when it hit 60 degrees. Instead, I developed into an absolute sun lover. This was highlighted in my years at Simpson University in Redding, CA, (where temperatures could reach into the hundred teens even in the late summer) and turned into an obvious life style choice when I moved to Hong Kong.

But what did I chose to do after making it obvious that I love the sun and being warm? Did I move back to California? Did I settle down in the tropics? No. First, of all the absurd things, I spent a winter in Alaska. Then, I moved to the Czech Republic, where the winters are slightly less bitter, but still no picnic. And this year, I decided to journey back to Czech for the winter. Um, come again? What was I thinking.

Naturally, this year is one of the coldest on record. It's like I completely forgot that when we flew out in November of 2010 that Europe was going through a blizzard which shut down airports as soon as our flights got through. When my husband said he needed to go home, I said, okay. And what did I end up with? This:

No, my hair didn't go permanently white due to the horror, it only froze after the walk where I encountered this frozen puddle.

As well as these breathtaking views.

The lowest temp I've seen thus far is -22C. While that might still not rival the temps I experienced in Alaska, it's still ridiculously cold. Especially because here, I don't always have a car to just jump into. If we want to go somewhere it requires walking, and sometimes spending a couple hours just hanging out in all that icy brutality. No, I'm no longer the little girl who thought living in Antarctica would be "cool."

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, Food

I missed my cooking lesson today. Oops. I got the run down of the ingredients, so at least I typed it up, but I wasn't there to see how the mixing looks or any of that good stuff. The cake is only half done, however, so tomorrow I get to help with the gelatine and fruit part. Should be interesting. Being a cross cultrual international person is just something that sort of happened to me. I always wanted to travel, but I never in my wildest dreams thought I would be blessed to do so much of it. Especially not with the sort of budget I have. While I firmly believe that people should expose themselves to different cultures whenever possible, I realize my lifestyle is not avialable to most people for one reason or another. Their time is taken up in other ways. That's just the way it is. So I'm not going to say that everyone should travel, because I know that isn't possible. And I won't say that people who travel are better, because that isn't true either. But I know that the traveling I have been blessed to do has changed me in many ways. And one of those ways revolves around food. Today I'm going to talk about something pretty simple. Baguettes and yogurt. These are the sort of things you can get pretty much anywhere in the world. But everywhere you go they're different. I've never been to France, except passing through on a bus ride to London, so I can't speak to the beauty of a true French baguette, but I've had some pretty good ones in my day. I can still remember a time my first summer in Hong Kong, when I went for a little trip to Stanley Market all on my own. I was twenty years old, and so fascinated by being some place so totally foreign and fascinating and beautiful. In my youthful mind I wanted to do something that could be equated to really feeling like a traveler. So I found a little cafe and bought a baguette, then got a bag of the most enormous red grapes you can imagine. I took them to a big concrete barrier near the water, and I climbed on top and sat there watching the waves and the sky and feeling like I was having a very existential sort of moment. I don't remember how the baguette tasted, but I do remember there were huge seeds in the grapes, and that I had a horrible time finding a place to wash them before I ate them. What I really remember is just the feeling of being alive and oh so very present in the moment. I grew up on your basic white wonder style bread. The reason for that was because I refused to try anything more interesting. I loved my mom's homemade bread too, but even there I went for white and fluffy and avoided the crust. It wasn't until my summer in Italy when I was seventeen, that I discovered the beauty of a nice crusty loaf. The bread there was so tough that it took some work to chew, but somehow that made you value the experience all the more. I have now discovered that, in my opinion, a really good baguette should have an almost buttery flavor. The crust should be flaky and crisp but not too tough. Today I ate such a baguette. It was part of my breakfast, and it made a bit of a mess as it flaked away, but it was oh so good. With that baguette, I also had yogurt. Here is where American sensibilities get things wrong. In America, it's all about health. Or someone's idea of what health should look like. Low fat, sugar free, artificial but somehow natural. I've had some good yogurt stateside, but it's nothing like the stuff you can find here. The Czechs, it seems, are not afraid of fat. They aren't afraid to use a nice thick cream, and boy can you tell the difference. The yogurt here is thick and creamy and just all kinds of amazing. So my day started off with a nice crusty baguette and a smooth creamy strawberry yogurt. I'm not really sure where I'm going with all this. I think it's largely due to the fact that I finally finished reading "Julie and Julia" as well as the fact that I've been watching two cooking challenge shows every day all this week. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to turn into one of those people who lives to eat, but it sure is fascinating to watch the people who love to cook get all excited about it. I'm just hoping that one day being faced with the task of preparing a meal for more than myself (since I'm quite happy with another baguette topped with meat and cheese and a nice creamy spread as a meal thank you very much!) won't fill my entire body with dread. Here's to hope says I.

Jet Lat? Or Something Like It...

Can you still call it jet lag after more than a week? I'm beginning to feel oddly suspicious that it is simply a deranged new sleeping pattern. I can remember times flying back from Hong Kong, typically an emotional mess, that I would go more than thirty hours without sleep and then turn into a gooey mess of time flipped confusion that seemed to go on for ages. Typically this was because I coddled to myself. If I felt tired I let myself sleep. Worse yet, I would let myself sleep whenever I felt like it for as long as my body felt like sleeping. Rookie mistakes that spread the adjustment process out for far too long.
I no longer have any excuses. I am no novice flyer. Okay, so it's not like I'm some sort of world traveling journalist or something, but I've done my fair share of getting around the planet. I know that, while it's fine to sleep as much as you want on a flight, when you arrive the goal is to stay up as late as humanly possible, then wake up when your body prompts you in the morning, regardless of how early that may be, and then press on actively all day until you collapse into sleep at the end of a long day at a reasonable hour. It's not an easy thing to do, but if followed the system works. This is especially true on holiday trips when you have only a couple of weeks to enjoy whatever distant land you have come to discover.
However, this trip is not like that. We have three months. That's almost enough time to be sloppy about it. If we spend a week in mindless self indulgence, we aren't going to waste our entire trip. There is still time to go into town and bask in the golden glow of the ancient spa hotels. The oplatky isn't going to all be consumed without us. The trains will still be there.
Then there's the whole issue of the snow. It's not really piling up just yet, but in a short lap around the house with Katcha the other night, I came in completely covered in white. It's sort of messy and all tied in with cold and wet, two things that have never been my faves.
At the same time, another thing that has never been my favorite, is the early morning. True, when I was a tiny tot I would miraculously wake up before 7 every Saturday morning in order to curl up in front of the television and watch the fuzz until the cartoons would be begin. The house was generally still asleep, except maybe for Dad, and I would keep the volume so low that it required me to sit within a few feet to hear anything at all. And I can't deny that Redding sunrises are a spectacular sight to behold, but I was always more than happy to curl back up in bed after witnessing them during my work mornings in college.
Anyone who knows me very well at all, or who has ever seen, or even worse HEARD me in the mornings is well aware that they just don't do it for me. I'd rather stay awake until 5 AM than get up at that heinous hour. But that is exactly what I have been doing. True, this is largely due to my sweet husband, who doesn't have my strict rules about getting over jet lag having only made this back and forth journey once in his life, and has been taking long afternoon naps that sometimes stretch until 3AM and then being fully awake through all those early morning hours. On both Tuesday and Wednesday he came in cheerfully at 5 and informed me that it was morning and therefore time to get up. The pitch blackness beyond the lacy curtains was more than enough to convince me that he was a liar. Mornings are supposed to be about warm sunlight stealing gently across the floor and sweetly nudging me into wakefulness. Apparently not any more.
While I was able to groan and squeal, and mostly convince him that what he was doing was sick and wrong, the damage was done. I was awake. The fact that his parents were up and getting ready to head off to work didn't make escaping back into blissful oblivion any easier. So on both occasions, by 5:45 or so, I gave up. Sure, it's true, you can get stuff done in the morning. I caught up in my journal, finished reading a book, and got back into my Denise Austin exercise videos. These are good things. They make it easier to be at least slightly energized and ready to go by 9 AM when I've been beginning work on my book writing.
Unfortunately, it also means something more sinister. By 8 PM I find myself getting downright groggy. 8. P. M. This is NOT okay in my book. Not even a little bit. So I know people who put their toddlers to bed that early, but I scarcely remember a time when 9 was not my earliest bedtiem. And I didn't even go to sleep right then. That was when Dad would start reading to us, not to mention prayer time that I always tried to stretch out as long as possible with the hope that he would fall asleep on the floor meaning I wouldn't have to fall asleep in the room alone. This was in large part because my dad IS a morning person.
Anyhow, I've been using whatever devices I can to keep myself up just as long as possible, but it's depressing to find myself falling asleep before ten, completely unable to keep my little eyes open. Then, this morning, my body had the audacity to wake up at 5 AM of it's own accord! Talk about total rubbish. I put off turning my lamp on until 5:30. The other half of the bed was already empty, seeing as how he had slept through most of the afternoon and evening, and had only come in for a little visit between 2 and 2:30 when he have up completely and went back to watching TV in the other room.
I'm really hoping a pattern isn't being established here that will run on for very long. Eventually I'm going to need to be up at night. It's just a must for my general well being. So for the state of my nerves, I think I'm just going to keep calling this jet lag a little bit longer and hope it all evens out in the right direction soon.

The Slice Saga Continues

Yesterday I let it sit. I avoided water. I kept it safe. I'll confess, I was a wee bit afraid of what I might find if I opened it up. Today, that was no longer an option.
I did my best to cover it for my shower, but in the midst of it all, the water began to leak in. I looked down and suddenly discovered that the little bit of plastic bag I'd taped on was full of blood. Hmmm... definitely not so good.
I tend to pride myself on being pretty tough. I mean, I broke my back when I was thirteen and didn't even cry. That has to count for something. Generally blood isn't a huge issue for me, but every now and then...well, it just is. For instance there was the time in Hong Kong when I was taking a baby to the hospital and things didn't turn out very well. I was doing my best to keep little Tsz Ching quiet and calm while they squeezed individual drops of blood out of her hand, and thought it was going okay. then I started to feel a little woozy. Next thing I knew there were strangers waking me up. To make a long, and rather amusing story short, I passed out and hit the floor so hard that I broke the frame of my glasses into my head and had such a serious concussion that a week later I was still hardly able to do anything but sleep.
Back to this morning, I thought I was doing okay with the sight of the blood, but then I had to deal with actually taking off the bandages. It was not just painful, it was downright disgusting. When you bleed enough to soak through five bandages there's a lot of blood just hanging out. The farther I went the more light headed I got. In the end I can count at least 5 maybe 6 times when I nearly passed out and had to literally curl up in a ball on the floor until the nausea and spinning stars passed.
In the end I did get down to the skin. It was far from pretty, but I think it should heal up all right. Even if I had gone to the doctor I probably would have just gotten a butterfly bandage.
I survived another evening of work, and now we're watching some Cesko Slovenska Ma Talent (Czech and Slovakia have Talent). Good fun. It'll really help to prepare me for being culturally in tune when we head back at the end of next month.

Lincoln City

Friday marked the end of something. I've had a lot of jobs. I've worked with a lot of people. There is always a melancholy feeling that bubbles up in me when things change. I'm still going to be working at the same place. I'll still be seeing the same people on most days, but Friday was the last day working behind the scenes in our lovely little stock room. I'll miss the boxes of fresh new clothes (okay, so sometimes they smell funny and are made of really strange fabrics, but you get the picture) all my responsibility to prepare for the public.

This week I'm spending time in another town learning how to fulfill my new lower management role. There is a lot to learn. I have to smile and greet people more, have that real public face. It's not that I haven't had that sort of meet and greet position before, but it's a change from being able to just hide out in the back. A growing experience, and lots of valuable training for the future, but exhausting as well. Especially since I have to drive 35 miles each way to get this training. I'll be glad when the week is over.

Obviously none of this is about the title of the post, but it's all connected. With the job change it's likely that weekends won't really be an option anymore. Sure, I'll still get a couple days off during the week, but it won't be as it was. I now have the joy of working evenings and weekends. It's the sort of thing that really messes with my head. When I work in the evening I don't feel like I have any time off at all. I'm just sitting around waiting for work to start. Not my favorite situation, but nothing really new either. All my overseas jobs have required this sort of schedule as well. It's just that there I was living some place cool...

Anyhow, we wanted to take advantage of the last weekend free, so we headed off to McMinnville. Our February trips to the Oregon Coast still hadn't left our minds, and we wanted to reclaim those memories. We'd been hoping to get over to the beach during the summer, but it just didn't happen, so we made do with an early October trip. In truth, the Oregon Coast in the summer isn't really much warmer than it was this past weekend, so it wasn't such a bad deal. It's not like it's ever really warm enough to just jump into the ocean without totally freezing.

Thankfully, this time around, the weather wasn't all that bad. It wasn't exactly hot, but it wasn't raining, or windy, or cold. Lincoln City is a town that has always been a part of my life. When I was a kid my grandparents had a beach house there and my siblings and I used to spend a week or so there with them every summer. We always went to the same beach where we would be warned never to turn our backs on the ocean, and were seldom allowed to step into the water beyond our ankles.

This time we found a beach I'd never been on before. We walked along the sandy shore and enjoyed some of the spectacular views that keep people coming back to the Oregon Coast despite the less than desirable weather patterns.





We made our way all the way down to a little pier where people were catching crabs. We walked around the pier for a while, watching as the crabs that were too small were tossed back into the waves.



We also discovered some interesting sea life. It's always fascinating to me to see the things that live in the deep, washed up on the beach. They tell tales of worlds below that we can't even fathom. We really enjoyed our little finds and they glimpse they gave us.

One of THOSE days...

Ever have one of those days when things just don't go right? It's like everything is just off kilter and bound and determined to get nothing but worse. Now, I've known a lot of people lately who've had ridiculous bad days. The kind where you wake up and expect normal, but by day's end someone you love is no longer in this world. It's been one of those years of death actually. Haven't known so many people that have died since 2003-04. (sigh) I certainly don't want to trivialize that sort of bad day with the kind I had on Saturday, but it was a doozy all the same.
It started out okay, pretty well even. Mark and I hit up some garage sales (something he's become quite fond of both hosting and visiting this summer) and we made a great find. A Foosball table in excellent condition. And not some wimpy little one, but a serious (heavy) one. So we had a little Christmas in September, and handed over the cash. It definitely wasn't going to fit in our little Milan, so we headed back to Moscow (all the sales were in Pullman today, due to the fair being the star event in Moscow this weekend) to borrow my Dad's truck.
While we were back at the house I had a little time. It felt good to sit be still for a while after getting up at 6 to check the sales, and I decided to check e-mail. I don't get much by way of exciting e-mail anymore these days. It seems most people now resort to facebook messages rather than actual letters (the paper kind obviously having fallen out of fashion years ago with the astronomical rise of stamp prices) so my inbox is mostly full of ads. It get lots from wedding sites, despite the fact that my wedding took place over seven months ago, as well as airline ticket companies, Publishers Clearing House, and different survey companies. Today, however, I got a most unfortunate e-mail that really kicked me in the stomach.
Basically I've been saying my entire life that I want to write. I've no doubt been spoiled by the praise of those near and dear to me. I got plenty of recognition in school, and figured I had a handle on the whole writing thing. Naturally, when my sister called me with the idea of joining some freelance writing website it seemed like a no brainer. I checked out a couple and was pretty excited by some of the options. Then I went to check my e-mail after having applied to a decent paying company only to receive a rejection letter.
It's not like this is my first rejection letter. When I was in High school I sent out copies of my manuscript and got a nice handful of the things, but I was aware that they were all unsolicited, and had been expecting rejection. But to have a company try to say nicely that I might have been told in the past that I could write, but it's highly competitive and I just don't have what it takes picked me up and threw me headlong over the edge. The thing is, I know I can do just about anything. Tell me what you want me to do, give me and idea of how to do it, and I'll manage. That's one of the reasons I've always been so irritated when job hunting. I know I can do these jobs, and all my previous employers will gush over me, but that doesn't mean I can manage to get an interview.
The whole episode brought me back to the day when I got a rejection letter from the Simpson acting group. The truth is, I probably would have been irritated by the sort of acting they did. It was all overly theatrical religious skits for chapel, but when I got the letter saying they felt like "God was calling me in a different direction" I was beyond crushed. I was down right angry. So angry that I wrote a letter to the club captain and informed her that she should seriously consider rewording her rejection letters because she had no right to represent herself as being equal with God when deciding what a person should do in life. The sad thing is, I haven't acted since then. Realistic or not, the entire thing put me off, and there really haven't been options since then. And I suppose you could say the rejections in high school put me off trying to publish anything, because I certainly haven't offered up a manuscript to a publisher since then.
It was just a black mark on the day. The sort of thing that's hard to shake. Mark and my parents were fabulous in trying to make me feel better and encouraging me to try again, but the truth is, a letter like that makes me lose the desire completely. Sure, there's another company that I can work for, but they pay an tiny fraction of the price and require three versions of every article. I'm the girl who didn't ever write drafts in college. They were a waste of time. Why write something over and over when you can do a great job the first time? Utterly pointless in my book. I know I should probably make myself do it, but it's really tough to force the issue.
After that it was hard to motivate myself to go and pick up the Foosball table. I wanted to sit in my chair and cry at my computer for the rest of the day. But we'd already given them the money. So we hopped in the truck and headed out. Unfortunately, the gas tank was empty so we had to put in a few gallons. I had the brilliant plan that I'd just add $10. It would be plenty to get us to Pullman and back. I asked Mark to pump for me, and I went inside to prepay. Nice idea, right? I mean, what station out there actually lets you pump before you pay without putting in your credit card first? I can't remember the last time I had that happen. Well, apparently the Moscow Chevron is a different sort of place. The trusting type you could say.
After waiting several minutes for the attendant to show up behind the counter, and then waiting a bit longer while she served the man in front of me, I was blown away when I told her to put $10 on 5 and she informed me that it was already more than that. Come again? Apparently, she'd been feeling extra helpful and just started it up without waiting to see if I was going to prepay. I rushed right out and shouted for Mark to stop the gas, but it was already up to $30. I. Was. So. Angry. I could scarcely contain myself. It was like adding expensive insult to crushed dream injury. I wanted to shout at the girl and ask her what she was going to do if all I had was $10. I mean, seriously. I was shaking and trying my best to talk politely, and assure her that I realize it wasn't her fault, nor was it Mark's fault. Most likely the whole mess was my fault. But I REALLY didn't want to throw away that much money at that moment. Not cool.
All this led to me just being a mess for the rest of the day. We got the Foosball table home, and after an immense amount of effort managed to get it into the basement. We won't talk about when it slipped out of my hands while we had it on its side to get through the door, or how my back is still not too pleased with how heavy the whole ordeal was. We just have to be happy that we have the beast. Not to mention how we had enough gas in the truck to drive up Moscow Mountain and have a romantic walk on our 7 month anniversary. (okay, so I didn't actually realize Monday was our anniversary until the next day. It also happened to be inventory day at work, meaning I was up at 4:15 AM in order to count a bunch of stuff. Not my favorite time of day.) Some days really are better to just put in the past and move on. Sadly, not everything is as easy to walk away from. I'd really been hoping the writing job could help us when we're living in Czech for three months with no jobs, and then returning to the US after, still with no jobs. Don't really have the life savings to fall back on that I had when we came back last time.
In his eloquent way, Mark reminded me that maybe this was all just God trying to wake me up from my every day life so I can start "REALLY" writing. Hard to say. For now I'm just going to do the best I can to keep on going through these days with the hope that some day it'll all come together for us, one way or another. And every day that isn't such a miserable, horrible, no good very bad day needs to be seen as a blessing. And I guess I even need to look for blessings in those icky days too. God does like to play like that every now and again, especially with me it would seem. So it goes.

Halfway point

September is halfway done. Seems like only a moment ago that it just started. I remember when I was a kid thinking people were crazy when they would talk about time flying. Christmas was always forever away. Sure, I was able to make my Halloween candy last until I had to throw the last few crusty lollipops and tootsie rolls away for the fresh haul, but waiting for it to be dark enough to go trick-or-treating took AGES.
Now I find myself suddenly one of "those" people. The type that blink and find that a decade has gone by. Not even joking. College was like five seconds ago, right? How is it possible that April marked ten years since graduation. It just doesn't seem possible. But when I think about it, I know it has to be true. There was the mill, then Hong Kong, then Albany, then Hong Kong again...you get the picture.
I suppose living life by the year has something to do with this. There is such a strange balance in my life sometimes. I love to be organized, to have things under control, to know what's going to happen next. But I live on the edge. I make a life plan for a year. Then it tends to get all thrown out of whack as I make the next plan. And that's how time just freakishly evaporates.
Right now it's been the non-stop work thing that's had my days all in a tizzy. Despite still being counted as part-time, I worked so close to 40 hours (over the course of 6 days) last week, that they sent me home earlier than scheduled. Heaven forbid they'd have to be me time and a half on my paltry $7.30 an hour. This week the SRL (stock room lead) has been out sick. That means I've had to step up and fill in her role. It wouldn't be so bad if there wasn't this silly mathematical equation I'm supposed to figure out to calculate how fast everyone is working and if we're up to company standards. In a word: LAME. But otherwise it's kept me ultra busy. Then I get home and another round of demands are made on my time so that suddenly it's bedtime, due to the fact that I've been getting up at 5:40 most mornings in order to ride "the bike" to work.
I like being busy. Don't get me wrong on that point at all. When I lived in Hong Kong I thrived on sleeping as little as possible. Every moment of every day was some how taken up with people and sights and activity and the joy of life. I actually had to block out times to go to Starbucks where I could be alone (amazing how well that works out in a cafe so crowded I generally shared a table with one or two complete strangers) and get my thoughts out.
The real problem when life gets all hectic like this is that I disconnect from things. I get all caught up in a daze and have to fight to focus on anything. And I have so much trouble getting anything actually done because there is so much to do that I can't even get started on anything. (sigh) I know, whine and complain a little more already.
I'm hoping this weekend that I'll have a little time to curl up with myself and reboot. There has been a lot of sickness going around at work, and I can't deny that there are moments when I think it would be a little bit blessed to fall ill and have an excuse to just do nothing. But I know that, in the end, being sick is miserable. I don't want to be sick. I want to have a job, and to do all things well. I just also need to keep that whole balancing act in check. Like those things I wrote a few weeks ago that I'd like to be doing. They're still there, wanting me to get them done.
Perhaps in a couple of months when we head to Czech I'll manage to find a little time to pull myself together, to figure out how we're going to work things out for the next year or so. Since I won't be working, and haven't exactly been able to save anything since we've been here, it's likely that there will be plenty of down time. I guess I just have to work to keep myself all in one piece for now, and wait and see how it's all going to work out. That's the great adventure of life after all. Just take it as it comes.

Something New

The truth is, I'm lazy. Not in everything mind you. I'm one of the hardest little workers you'll find in some things. Granted, when my assistant manager at work would come and ask how long it would take me to finish hanging the ten boxes of apparel on the line I'd reply in my offhand laid back manner, "I'll do what I can." At The Maids they were always going on and on about how we had to clean both faster and better at the same time. Can't really be done you see. They have to take one or the other. And while people are paying them 80 something an hour, being paid minimum wage doesn't exactly inspire a girl to go all out. But my work ethic in Italy at the age of 17 inspired my leaders to imply that I might not have been honest about my age. I take work seriously, and do my best to get the job done right. It might not move as quickly as some superhero magic number that they arbitrarily come up with, but as everyone who went to high school can attest, I don't walk slowly. It's all about hustle and get it done.
So, yeah, I can make a fast sandwich, clean a room in a flash, and hang apparel like there's no tomorrow. I even got to the point where lesson planning didn't take every spare minute of my time, but could be completed on the fly when necessary (although this is a practice I do not condone for all the first year teachers out there!)
I wouldn't exactly say that my lack of art in the kitchen is due to laziness, however. I move pretty slowly there, but it's more due to ineptitude and insecurity than laziness. Of course there's also that, not really wanting to do it bit as well...
The real heart of my laziness, the prompting for this post, however, is focused on my appearance. I wouldn't call myself a sloppy dresser. While I've often dreamed of being signed up for What Not to Wear in order to have a new high quality wardrobe become accessible to my less than worthy budget, I try to make the best of what I have. For those in the know, I was more than happy to shop at Bossini and Giordano (HK) or Kenvelo (CZ). Stateside Ross and Old Navy work out pretty well. Steps above markets and thrift stores, but a far cry from Gucci and Prada.
Slowly we arrive more to the point. Where my laziness really stands out is when it comes to...my hair. As a kid I had long stick straight hair that my mother painstakingly (mostly due to my incessant whining) brushed and braided and made gorgeous. I sat a lot better when my older sister got a hold of me I was more than happy to sit patiently for her to make me "beautiful." Makeup, hair, the whole shebang.
If I knew where they all were, I could plague you with my hair transformations throughout my growing up years. I was a child of the 80's and had my fair share of side pony tales, straight bangs, and perms, as well as waterfall bangs ratted patiently by classmates during morning recess in the Jr. High era. After a particularly heinous perm a week before the wedding of the very sister who used to care for my hair so well, I declared that I was done with them, and let my hair grow back long and with a surprising amount of actual wave. (That last add in is just for Jessie if she happens to read this...) But throughout it all, I was happy if I spent five minutes or less to get my hair, and in high school the minimalistic makeup, all in order. Five minutes is really a stretch if I must be totally honest.
My friends were always happy to perform a make over, knowing it would last that afternoon and then, the end. It wasn't that I didn't like the way they were able to make me look, it was that the time it took to figure out how to get it done for myself was always...well, just too much. So I stuck with wash and go.
In college, I took it all to new extremes. First I cut it within an inch of it's life, then later started the dying process. Red, pink, green, and four months of blue, not to mention the tropic burgundy that became the color of choice for years to come. The hair grew back, it shrunk again, kind of like yo-yo dieting.
Besides the fact that I'm lazy about doing anything to my hair, I also hate having to pay money to get it done. The maintenance on the really short cut needed to be done every 6 weeks to prevent the formation of mushroom puffs around my ears, and that was far too much for a college student to deal with, let alone an ESI teacher. So in the end I gave up and let it grow long again. Actually, in Czech I could get a cut and color for about $15 USD, which is pretty incredible, but I still only managed to get there once a year. Click here, or here for visions of my Czech hair experiences. I'm sure there are actually a few posts that deal exclusively with the topic, but I don't want to spend all day searching for them. My boss in Czech always freaked out a little bit because Regina, the hairstylist, would make my hair all beautiful, and then I would wash my hair the next morning, and that would be the end of it. She thought I should go at least a few days without washing to keep the shape. But then it gets all greasy... And several hairstylists have bemoaned the fact that, besides down, the only other way I wear my hair is in a ponytail, leaving a tragic line in my already less than exciting hair.
Yeah, I'd call my attempts with hair pretty lazy. Today, however, I went out of my way to make sure I came back with something a little different from the salon. I was in desperate need of something fresh and new. Naturally, this also led to a little unashamed photo shootage. Haven't let the poser out to play for awhile, so it was good to have an excuse :)



So it probably won't look quite the same tomorrow after I wash it and then have to put it up since I've picked up an extra double long shift smack dab in the middle of my three day weekend, but at least it's different enough from the normal shapelessness that it should be pleasant for a while.

To Write: To Breathe...

There are people, unnamed of course, who would say that without publication, without national acclaim, it is unthinkable - or at the very least unrealistic - to call oneself a writer. But that only begs the point of what a writer actually is. No, I'm not a published novelist, a well paid journalist, or even a notable blogger. There are a scant few who "follow" my blog, and I get random hits that apparently come from some dentist site in Russia, but I can't claim a wide reader base. These accolades aside, I still believe that at the very heart of me a writer lives and breathes and dreams.
So what is it that makes a person a writer? Is it having a story to tell? Is it a desire to reach the masses? Is it knowing how to read the current market and figuring out how to manipulate words in order to make a profit?
There are a lot of people out there who have been granted the title of WRITER, novelist, poet, journalist, etc. I'm sure that in those categories you can find people who would answer yes to each of the above questions. But what about me?
When I was a kid I was always talking. Most of the time those "listening" to my words of wisdom or hilarity were present only in my own little head. I couldn't begin to remember what it was I felt was so important to tell them, but I was never a gifted story teller. That comes out sounding a bit off, but it's the truth. I could never just come up with an interesting story to tell when asked. Sure I can spice up tales from my own life of transience, but while my imagination soars on the page, I can't just speak it into existence. It's almost as though my fingers are an integral part of my story telling abilities, but I've never figured out how to talk with my hands except on paper.
There are plenty of things I'd like to tell the world. Sometimes it's as simple as: Grow up and figure out that life is not about you! I get sooooo fed up with this era of entitlement. It's as though people have come to the conclusion that because they were mommy's little angle, the entire world should cater to them. After all, we have it drilled into our individualistic developing minds that looking out for number one is not only critical, but also admirable. But as much as I like to talk the ear off of anyone willing to listen to my point of view, I'm not ready to start writing educational pamphlets to get the word out.
Then we come to the idea of a writing being a tool to amassing wealth. It is true that there are things to be researched when attempting to get into publication. Obviously, it's wise to write what the market wants if a person really wants to acquire the coveted "name in print." I wouldn't be so trite as to say that I'm above such things, or that I need to stick by my principles and write only what my heart desires. It's like saying I know better what people want to read than people do themselves. Sorta like on Design Star when Kelly decided that she knew better what the little boy should want his room to look like than what he said he wanted. Just because I have what I think is a stellar story idea, doesn't mean that there will be anyone else out there who wants to read it. At the same time, I can't just write to please a general populace. Just because "someone" was able to sell large quantities of sub-par books, doesn't mean that I'm going to stoop to that level just to make some quick cash.
When people ask me who I am, what I want to do or be, I still come back to the fact that I'm a writer, even though I can't answer yes to any of those questions. The truth is, for me, writing is like breathing. It's something I just do. Something I need to do. When I was several weeks behind in my journal I felt all tight in my head. My journals are not something anyone should, or even could, read. They are not literary master works, or even all that interesting if I'm being completely honest. But they have become an integral part of my life; how I manage my place in this world that so often doesn't measure up to my ideals or standards.
Likewise, my blogs are a place for me to express this world in a slightly more public forum. I don't guarantee that they'll be interesting to any person who passes through, but they're an attempt at both honesty and entertainment. A broader outlet for my light to shine so to speak.
Then there are those stories that still resonate inside my head. The snippets of ideas, the characters that haunt me, the ideas that seek to be revealed. If life was made of time, I would have more of it to spend on completing those stories. However, days evaporate before I even know what's happening. Today, for example, is just gone.
Perhaps, some day, I'll be able to add to my list of accomplishments a literary title. Perhaps I'll figure out how to get the word out and even make a buck or two. Perhaps not. Regardless, (yes, irregardless is still not a proper word despite the fact that spell check is currently registering it, and my boss uses it on a highly regular basis along with a handful of other nails on the chalkboard double negatives) I still call myself a writer. Lowercase is fully acceptable to me.

The Summer of Cousins Slideshow

One of the primary reasons I wanted to come back to the United States was to have a chance to see my family. I'm a family person. I love 'em. I've been an aunt since I was 11, and I positively adore being the "young fun Auntie." I've lived this strange and random life that has allowed me to live with or next door to, almost all of my nieces and nephews. I had six months after college graduation living with my sister and her boys in Medford, 9 months of substitute teaching insanity living with another sister family - this time the ultimate girly fam - in Alaska, and since returning to the US, I've been living next door to a third sister and her two kids. We're currently living in my parent's basement (yeah, I know, very glamorous to get married and move back in with your parents, but it is what has worked for us thus far) and that makes this house the ideal cousin gathering ground.
There's really nothing better than getting to see the cousins running around and having a fabulous time together. I was the youngest of five, and was not only five and a half years younger than my nearest sibling, but also about five years younger or older than my nearest cousins. I never really got to have the great bonding cousin experience, so it's so much fun to see them having the chance.
I still feel so thankful that they were all able to be present and a part of my wedding. There were moments when it looked like it wasn't going to happen, but thankfully it all worked out. This summer was just a continuation of those blessings.
In July, my Alaska nieces came down for two weeks. Well, the oldest and youngest were here for two weeks, while the Tekla got to visit a friend in Texas and only came the first week. Tyler got to stay for the second week as well, although his mom and little brother were only able to come for a weekend. What a great group of kids. I'm seriously so impressed by how great they're all turning out. You know, you dote on them and think they're the best things ever when they're little, but you just never know what kind of people they'll grow up into. All I can say is, so far, AMAZING!
We spent a lot of time at the pool. Can't say that my chlorine allergic skin was thrilled, but I did get a lovely tan, and some quality exercise, as well as great fun with the crew.

One of the funniest things ever was watching Naomi, who is super tiny, turning into the Michelin man in her swim top. We all just laughed and laughed and laughed. It was so funny that people who didn't even know us joined in.
Here are a smattering of pictures showing how adorable, and crazy, this little crew can be.







During the second week, I was able to get an extra day off from work in order to join everyone on a trip to Silverwood, the largest theme park in the Northwest, or so they say. It's not quite a Six Flags, but it had some decent roller coasters. Mark and I took the three oldest (Tyler, Haley, and Tekla) and hit up all the big rides. Having always LOOOOOVED amusement parks, I was thrilled to have this experience with them. Yeah for adrenaline in scientifically proven safe doses :)



After the girls went home Mark and I drove Tyler to Portland where Jack was competing in the Little League State finals. We had a great ride down with him, and stopped at Multnomah Falls to enjoy some of God's finest handiwork. Pretty impressive place.

The game was super exciting. It was Mark's first Little League, or really any kind of baseball, experience. Back when I lived with Janet and her family I went to a couple baseball games a week, so it was great to relive a portion of that experience with my husband.
In fact, we had so much fun that a week later when they were playing for the state championship we came back down with Mom and Dad to watch the big game. They were undefeated going into the game, so if they won it, they'd be the overall winners. Something about big game day jitters got the better of them, however, and they lost, which meant they had to play again. This time, it was all about victory. Jack was a bit disappointed that he wasn't one of the kids to hit a homer, but he did a great job, and it was so much fun to watch him play.


We had a couple of weeks off, and then my brother and his family passed through. They flew from Kansas, then borrowed my parents Pilot for a week to visit Canada, and spent another couple days with us before heading back home. During their little visit we were able to go out to Elk Creek Falls and enjoy a lovely time hiking. There was a little male bonding as well...

This is what Josh and Rowan did when I asked them to stand on the rock together and look like they loved each other. They were adorable when they got along, but most of the time they were competing over one thing or another. If one of them was successful in getting something it meant the other one didn't get it and was all upset and teary. Thankfully, big sister/cousin Emily worked wonders. So proud of how she's grown up from the little girl who would look in the mirror and practice all the different ways she could enunciate the word "NO!"




This was one of my favorite pictures from the hike. There's just something so sweet about seeing my Dad all relaxed in the grass, and Bekah sitting so nonchalant. Priceless.

Elk Creek is such a beautiful place. I just can't resist sharing a couple more shots from our hike.



It's been a bit strange just working all summer. Makes it a little hard to believe that it has really come and gone. Thankfully, we've still been having some lovely weather. I'll be sure to share some of the other things, and photos, from the past couple of months. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep a bit more up to date on things. After my heavy spring month posts, summer has been a bit of a bummer in blog land, but I do hope to make up for it.
Even as my mind wanders to distant shores and thoughts of what all I could do in foreign lands, I'm so thankful I got to make so many family memories this summer. I'm sure the kids will never forget the roller coasters, swimming trips, and ultimate Frisbee games. I know I sure won't.