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Pre-Coffee Philosophical. Because I’m Crazy Like That.

You know how sometimes you can be in a place — a weird place inside your head — and you’re sitting there wondering whether you’re doing the right thing? Whether you took the right exit. Whether you’re following the right path. Because everyone else seems to think that it’s wrong. That you’re falling. That you’ve lost your ever-loving mind.

And then something happens. Some little thing — a well-timed news story, a word of encouragement, a tiny sign of camaraderie from Life — its way of letting you know that while others might not “get it,” the two of you are still on the same team.

Maybe it’s because we look for signs when we need encouragement, and these nudges would mean something completely different had we chosen another road.

Maybe.

But sometimes, something speaks to you, and it’s too loud to ignore.

I no longer remember what series of internet rabbit holes led me to this article or why, instead of depressing me, it made me feel encouraged. It’s written by Bronnie Ware, author of a book called The Top 5 Regrets of the Dying.

Okay, let’s just get the uncomfortable part out-of-the-way first. Yes, dying sucks. I hate it. You hate it. It makes all sad when someone does it. Mostly because we don’t understand it, and that makes it scary. That, and the sense of permanence.

That said, it’s important — so, so important — that we learn in this life the lessons people are willing to teach.

You know, so we don’t have to learn the hard way.

Okay. How many times, since you were a child, has someone tried to save you from learning something the hard way?

Eight hundred seventy-nine million?

And how many times has that stopped you from trying something yourself?

Once? Never?

That’s what I thought.

As a species, we’re relatively hard-headed. Especially when we’re young, when we’re so thirsty for not just knowledge but experience that it matters not that our parents told us not to drink too much. We’re still going to go out, take too many shots from a bottle of peppermint schnapps, become far too honest with too many people, empty our stomach contents all over the bathroom floor, and forever after suffer from an aversion to toothpaste flavored anything.

What? That’s just me?

Well. The irony is, we just become more stubborn when we get older. Only instead of it being about experience and going our own way, it somehow turns into going the right way — the way everyone else is going. We think decisions are no longer an option — that we’re too far caught up in whatever stage we find ourselves (marriage, children, retirement) to think about straying now. We’re flabbergasted and inspired by those who fall from the assembly line way of living and yet, somehow, we think it’s not an option for us. That those people have something special.

But they don’t.

And according to Bronnie Ware, dying people know this all too well. They know they could have done something different, but they simply didn’t. Fear of the Unknown kept them on the straight and narrow, and it wasn’t until they were faced with death that they realized, really, that there was nothing to be afraid of. It’s just Life. So the regrets, apparently, are fairly universal:

1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

2. I wish I didn’t work so hard.

3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

The article offers really nice explanations of each, so I won’t expand. But I think, maybe, that they speak for themselves.

We’re so worried all of the time that people will judge us. That we can’t be loud and silly at a party. That we can’t make hot sauce in Costa Rica. That we can’t talk about vaginas at the dinner table.

But it looks like, in the end, that you only have one judge to worry about — the one sitting at the bench inside of your head.

The one who’s been toughest on you from the start.

Regrets, I think, are unavoidable. There’s always something more you could have done.

But tell me.

Isn’t the biggest always that you waited to start?

Look. It’s Not Like I Wore It Playing Football or Cut It Up and Turned It Into Curtains. But That Would’ve Been Okay, Too.

I must apologize to the guys out there for a minute, because I’m going to talk about something a little girly.

Nope.  A lot girly.

See, Stephanie over at My One Precious Life got me thinking about wedding dresses.  Obviously not about buying wedding dresses since I’m already married, but about selling them.  (Not for a living.  Trust me, I have not done all of this soul-searching for the past 2 years only to discover that my one true calling is to sell wedding gowns to blushing brides and their overextended pocket books.  Blech.

No offense to anyone who sells wedding gowns.)

She, like me, decided to sell her dress post-wedding.  I mean, why not?  This way you make a little cash, and some other lucky girl scores a gown at a bargain basement price.

Seems like a win-win situation, if you ask me.  If you ask anyone else, however, you might run into some contention.

What?  You SOLD your wedding dress??  But it’s your WEDDING dress!  You know, the one you wore to your WEDDING!

Yep.  I know the one.

Bu-but… don’t you MISS it?

Look.  I only wore it the one time.  And it served its purpose well.  But, if we did this thing right, I’ll never need a wedding dress again.  Missing it is kind of irrelevant.  And keeping it, at least for me, is impractical.

Well what about the memories?  You have all kinds of memories in that dress!

Yes, and that’s what photos are for.  I find them to be more compact.  And less poofy.

And your daughter!  What if you have a daughter and she wants to wear that dress??

Okay… so I’m supposed to keep this dress hanging around on the chance that I produce a daughter or a slim cross-dressing son or even have a kid at all.  Then, I’m supposed to push all of these expectations on her:  She needs to be exactly the same size I was when I got married at 23; she better like the not-exactly-traditional style I picked 3-4 decades earlier and it better be  a formal wedding, since this is a formal dress; oh, and she has to get married.  Has to.  That’s her only option in life.  Because I’ll be damned if I paid to have this dress preserved and hanging around this 1,600 square foot house for over a quarter of a century just so my nonexistent daughter can go do something crazy like ignore my inadvertent wedding gown guilt trips and live her life the way she wants.

No way.

Well.  You don’t have to be all snarky about it.  I just don’t think that I would have the heart to do it.  That’s all.  I’m not cold and calloused and heartless as you.

Really?  Because you’re the one keeping it locked away in a dark closet somewhere, and I’m the one who loved it and let it go — set it free to dance another night.

ewww! Kissy photo!

Okay.  So a dress is an inanimate object, obviously, so don’t start feeling guilty if it’s locked in your closet.  Especially if you’re super sentimental about it.  There’s nothing wrong with that.

But that’s just it — I’m not the sentimental type.  At least not when it comes to stuff.

I’m a purger.  We do a massive gutting of our closets at least once per year, and with the exception of a few choice childhood mementos and reasonably sized wedding trinkets (like the Air Force garter hand-made by my mother-in-law), anything that sits untouched for a lengthy period of time that I know the chances of me needing again are slim to none, is a goner.

It just feels good.

Keeps me sane.

Like clearing out the junk from my closets is akin to chucking the mushy contents of my mind with an ice cream scoop and starting fresh.  With a clean bowl.

And clearly my sanity is more important than a gown.  A gown that, while I loved it, just as easily could have been a flowy white linen dress I wore standing on a beach at our destination wedding, had I gotten my way.

And you know what?

I probably wouldn’t have kept that one, either.

*All photos taken by Jeff Pope of Iconic Photography.

To Stress or Not to Stress: A Tryst with the Unknown.

Itchy.

That’s how I feel.

No, not in a 3-days-post-bikini-wax kind of way.

No, not in an I-went-to-Hawaii-and-forgot-to-wear-sunscreen-and-all-I-got-were-these-billions-of-dead-peeling-skin-cells kind of way.

And no, not in an I-slept-in-a-questionable-motel-last-night-and-neglected-to-check-the-mattress kind of way.

Twitchy.

Maybe that’s a better word to describe it.

And while last week I rambled on about the camaraderie of backpacks, I’m realizing more and more that I don’t really care how I travel, just as long as I get to travel.  It’s simply easier for me to romanticize backpacking when imagining or re-living exotic trips abroad — the implied gritty, grungy, down-in-the-dirt feeling that stems from steering clear of the relative comfort of plush hotels, room service cards, and pre-packaged experiences.  To leave the sanctity of the hotel restaurant and buy empanadas from a man behind a chicken wire screen, or better, to devour fried platanos from the tiny kitchen of a generous resident.  To experience that uncomfortable feeling of riding on a rickety bus with the locals, knowing I’m noticeably different.

A stranger.

A minority.

It’s humbling.  And probably something everyone should experience at least once in her life.  Like waiting tables.

And yet.

There’s something in this world about feeling pampered.  Or, if not pampered, at least safe.  Clean.  Looked after.  And that kind of travel can be equally wonderful.  Where my clothes emerge relatively wrinkle-free from a shallow suitcase and hang in a closet for the duration of a trip.  Where if one thing gets wet, everything else doesn’t smell like mildew for weeks on end.  Where my burden-free back is left free to stretch and bend and soak in the rays of the sun.

Nope.  That’s not so bad.  As long as I make it a true point to discover a place — to see more than what a single company or business would have me see — I feel like it’s a trip well-spent.

Take, for example, our honeymoon in St. Lucia back in 2006.  It was an excellent balance of hotel pampering mixed with our own adventures:

Ti-Kaye St. Lucia

Luxurious honeymoon suite.

St. Lucia Piton Mountains

Crazy and scenic cab rides to fancy, schmancy restaurants.

Ladera Restaurant

Make-you-wanna-cry views over frozen cocktails.

St. Lucia Restaurant

Tourist food — delicious!

St. Lucia Coconut
St. Lucia Woman Coconut

Tourist coconut — more delicious!

St. Lucia Street Food

Typical street food — MOST delicious.

Brits
St. Lucia street party

Travel friends whose names you soon forget.

Coffee

Locals you know you’ll never forget.

Vacation debauchery and shirts you wish you could forget.

I think the thing that burdens people the most about travel — why some return home feeling the need for a vacation when, in fact, that’s where they’ve been for the last 2 weeks, is because they spend their precious time pressuring it — twisting it and molding it and expecting it to be all of these things that, in reality, it might not want to be.

A tryst with the Unknown is, I imagine, like raising a child.  You can want it to grow up to be a doctor.  A lawyer.  Just like you.  Better than you.  But you’re setting yourself up for some serious disappointment if you think you can control another soul.  If you think you can arrange its life just-so, with the right upbringing, the right education, the perfect amount of discipline and fun time and family time.  Because there are always outside influences you can’t predict.  Things that will poke and prod and interfere with your project.  Things that will influence its way of thinking and growing.  Things that could even make it better, if you’d only let them.

So in the end, you have a choice:  You can drive yourself crazy trying to steer and constrain, or you can simply set the gears in motion, nurture as best you can, and see what happens.

A trip is like that.  It’s not a crafty DIY project you assemble in your garage — it’s a life experience intended simply to be experienced.

That’s not to say you shouldn’t plan.  You should always know ways you might get from point A to point B.  But you should also be flexible enough to change those plans should a new opportunity arise.  This simple shift in thought can mean the difference between a stressed-out, tension-inducing, jaw-clenching whirlwind of befuddlement and a carefree good time.

I’ve quoted them before, and I’ll quote them again:

If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.

-Gin Blossoms

The Unknown is scary.

But, if we’re really honest with ourselves, that’s what makes it so damn fun.

How Book Clubs Can Save You From Bar Fights.

A select item *cough*totallyawesomelight*cough* is supposed to be arriving for the bedroom today, and I’d be lying if it said I’m not a little bit excited.  I’m not, oh-wow-we-just-booked-a-trip-to-Bhutan excited, but a good, solid I-can’t-believe-I-only-hit-2-red-lights-on-the-way-to-work excited.

Also, last night I did something different.

In an effort to expand my network of friends and actually… I don’t know… meet people who live in my area, I attended my very first book club meeting ever.

No, I hadn’t read the book.

Fortunately for me, it was that particular club’s very first meeting as well, and I definitely wasn’t the only one who was lax in my book-reading duties.  In fact, a good portion of the time was spent teasing the girl who’d picked it (and, consequently, hadn’t even finished it herself due to its horrendousness).

If you’ve never been to a book club meeting — especially if you’re a guy and you’ve never been to a book club meeting — I’m sure there’s a tiny aire of mystery surrounding a small gathering of women coming together to over wine and hors d’oeuvres to discuss the merits of the latest Nicholas Sparks spewage and whether or not Hollywood should, in fact, turn it into a movie and cast Channing Gosling Pattinson as the lead.

Oh, there’s not?

Well, fine then.

But I’m happy to report anyway that this particular group of women was a fabulously diverse mix interested in all types of genres and levels of difficulty.  After much discussion and getting-to-know-each-other stories, I’m pretty confident we can come up with an interesting selection that will keep each of us involved and entertained.  And not in a fake, feigning-to-be-intellectual way, but in a wow-that-was-a-great-read-that-I’d-probably-want-to-talk-about-even-if-I-wasn’t-being-forced-to-right-now kind of way.  It was a relaxing evening, no pressure, no stress, and better than meeting for drinks in a rowdy bar.

Why aren’t there any men in our group? you ask.

Well.

It’s not because they aren’t welcome, but I’m pretty sure a group that initially started as all women will always have a tough time garnering male membership.

Because women are scary.

What?  We are.

We may as well just admit it.

As much as we’d like to think that we’re laid-back, calm, and collected, the right trigger will send us into a fiery blaze of passion.  Like, for example, the time when my neighbors, Erin, Justin and I decided it would be a good idea to take my sister to a hometown, backwoods, country funk bar called Drifters (I kid you not), then strip her down to her skivvies, wrap her in a promotional radio banner, and enter her in a homemade bikini contest.

What?

Like you’ve never done that before.

Erin acted as the unofficial contest promoter, running around it a hat she stole from the disk jockey and recruiting contestants from the crowd, while Kasey and I handled the making of the home bar-made bikini.  I’d like to say the competition was fierce, but in the nicest way possible, I will just say that the particular town we were visiting wasn’t exactly known as a national hot spot for the recruitment of Victoria’s Secret models.  But it was a hot-spot for spirited good sports, and one woman even strutted around in a costume she’d made ahead of time, entirely out of bottle caps.

But, let’s face it — You wrap a 5′ 8″ tanned, blonde Barbie look-alike up in a banner in a bar full of inebriated military men, and it no longer matters how much time you spent on your costume.

So, as my sister stepped onto the makeshift stage to collect her $100 grand prize winnings, someone — just one person — booed her.

Now.  Even bottle cap girl had been a gracious loser, knowing it was all in good fun, and even gave Kelly an awkward-’cause-we’re-half-naked-in-a-bar-beauty-pagent type of hug, but this person — this guy — thought it was it was the appropriate setting to boo.

Well.

My lion-like instinctual defense of my baby sister, plus the 3 Southern Comfort and Cokes I’d consumed, told me otherwise.

I don’t know what happened.  I didn’t know how to stop it.

At one moment I was this girl — this girl who’d never been in a fight and got straight A’s all through high school and took my balanced Libra status very seriously — and at the next moment I was this ugly, snapping beast — a 115-pound beast, but a beast, nonetheless — who can apparently move faster than a cheetah through a roomful of people with the intention of attacking my little sister’s offender.  My little sister’s very big offender.

I’m not sure what I would have done had I actually been able to reach him.

All I remember is a surprised look on his face — the look one might get when he’s about to get attacked by a yapping daschund or a feral kitten — and then I was being held back.

And I thought to myself in a fuzzy sort of way, Wow.  This is what it feels like to be held back.

Groovy.

Fortunately, Justin and Kasey’s husband were reflexive enough to keep me from reaching the guy.  I honestly don’t know what would’ve happened had I gotten there, and the peacekeeper in me is pretty damn happy about that.

I may not have been able to inflict bodily harm, but for a fraction of a second I sensed fear from the guy.

And it wasn’t an imposing frame or bulk of muscles that caused it.  It was the pure, unadulterated, plasmic fire that only women, I think, possess.

I’ve seen it sober, too.

And that can be a scary thing.

Even to me.

Huh.  Maybe I need more Nicholas Sparks books in my life, after all.

*Please excuse my excessive use of hyphens in this post.  I’m out of control.

I’m Pretty Sure Sloths Can Morph Into Turtles If They Save Enough Cash.

Yesterday I did not paint the trim in our bedroom.

Nor did I scrub the baseboards or putty the holes around the windows.

In fact, all I did was shop vac the popcorn remnants before hitting the showers so I could hang out with an old friend who’s back in town for a few days.  We sat at a wine bar for the afternoon and talked about girly things.

It was all kinds of wonderful.

Of course, after regaling her with harrowing tales of my adventures into the design world and my big plans for the master bedroom, the talk inevitably turned to travel, as it usually does with me, and we exchanged stories about places we’ve been and where we’d one day like to be.

And I realized.

It doesn’t matter how many light fixtures or curtains or duvet covers I buy — it will never be enough to keep me grounded.  To keep me from wanting to island hop through the South Pacific; to explore the Dalmatian coast of Croatia; to swim with the jellyfish in Palau.

So.

Since I’m not in a position to travel right now and I’d like to stall a little while longer before painting baseboards, I’m going to start with a travel basic for you — the backpack.

Those of you used to taking a grand vacation to a single destination without the slightest intention of removing your belongings from the comfort of your hotel room for the duration of your stay may not be aware of the benefits that come from backpack travel.  You probably think backpacks are for beatniks and bums — the aimless Dean Moriartys of the world and white people with dreadlocks.  Or maybe you think it’s more like an exclusive club — one where you have to know how to play acoustic guitar or roll a superior joint before you’re allowed to become a member.

Well that’s simply not true!  Backpacking is a club, but the pack itself is your membership card — your elite access to some of the most interesting, well-traveled, well-read, and well-rounded people in the world.  If you’re out in the Great Unknown and see that unmistakable sign of a fellow traveler, you know it’s likely a fleeting friendship can bloom over smiles, tip exchanges, and any number of language barriers.

A backpack means freedom — freedom from the hindrance of staying in one place, freedom from the worry that someone might scratch one of your Louis Vuittons, and freedom to navigate city streets and cramped public transportation without getting tiny wheels stuck in sidewalk cracks and bags tipped in gutters.  Two free hands.  Your life strapped to your back.

The turtles, I think, might be on to something here.

If I could, I’d take a refurbished 1920’s Craftsman Bungalow and strap it to my back.

But I can’t.

So when I went to Costa Rica, I took these 2 bags:

Travel Bags

Two months of my life packed snugly inside the homes I’d carefully selected for the trip.

Of course, a nomadic pro could probably condense to one, but I don’t think I did too shabby for a noobie.

The black pack, The Lowepro Primus Minimus (I know, like a Gladiator!) was my carry-on, and completely necessary because it safely held my giant bulk of a DSLR camera, 2 lenses, memory cards, cleaning supplies, and power cords in the base compartment; plane ride paraphernalia including novels, guidebooks, MP3 player, headphones, and spare underwear in the top compartment; and my minuscule Netbook in the outside compartment.  An entire office in a single bag.  What’s more, it served as an excellent weekend bag, with camera in the bottom and plenty of room for some rolled-up dresses, undergarments, swimsuits, and toiletries in the top.

The green pack, which I checked on the plane, required a bit more research since I knew nothing about travel packs and the difference between various structures, breathability, and designs intended for campers, photographers, hikers, mountaineers, or just general travel.  Not to mention the fact that some packs are built specifically for a woman’s frame, which can make all the difference in the world when you find yourself carrying, like the most cumbersome tortoise, all of the things you want with you at a moment’s notice.

Think about that for a second.

Because when you strap that puppy to your back, no matter how well the bag is designed to distribute the weight where it’s easiest for your body to carry it, heavy is heavy.  And there is no better shock therapy for trimming the fat from your life — or your luggage — than by shoving it all into a backpack.  Or two.  Then strapping one to your back and the other to your front, so now you don’t only look like a tortoise, but a pregnant tortoise, with visions of tipping headfirst with the weight of yourself and not caring a bit because you know you’ll just bounce — and that, I think, is unbridled freedom.

The one I ultimately settled on was a Gregory brand Jade 60, a woman’s pack designed to carry 60 Liters.  However, since I ordered the size small to fit my frame, I believe that took it down to 55 Liters.  Fifty-five Liters, it turns out, is enough room to carry a life.

A small life of materials, but one filled to capacity with experience.

Was that cheesy?

Yeah, that was cheesy.  Even for me.  But a girl can’t help but get mushy when it comes to talk of love.

And that’s what this is, albeit unrequited.  I feel like a horse at the starting gate — held back for some lame league rule decipherable only by those who make them up — just itching for my chance to run.

My pack is too clean.  Too new.  Too green.

But that’s okay.  For now.  We’re just biding our time for a second run.

Many people, especially families I hear, feel the need for a vacation after a vacation.  I think I know why that is and what we can do to fix it.

And the first step, my friends, is a decent backpack.

Would you consider traveling with a pack, or do you think you’ll always stick to basic luggage?  Do you like the comfort of sticking to one place when you travel, or do you like the freedom to explore.  I’m curious.  There’s no RIGHT way to travel.  What’s yours?

My Indecision is Final.

Last night I slept 35 inches off of the ground.

I know that doesn’t sound like a lot, so I’m going to give you a minute to go and grab your trusty tape measure (if you’re like me, you keep it in the laundry room because it makes perfect sense, according to people like me and not people like Justin, to keep oft-used tools in the laundry room) to see how high you sleep every night.

It’s okay — I’ll wait.

…..waiting……

………….waiting………….

…waiting……….

Okay, I’m bored.  If you didn’t go and measure, I’m happy to inform you that it’s likely you slept closer to 24 inches off of the ground than 35 inches.  Unless you sleep in one of those crazy expensive grown-up beds that you need a step stool to get into, in which case I’m not even sure why you’re reading this blog.

But I’m glad you’re here.  It makes me feel less alone.

Anyway.

If you still sleep in the second-hand bed frame you bought from friends who were moving to Hawaii and didn’t want to take their guest bedroom furniture overseas, and that bed frame happens to position you a comfortable 24 inches off the ground with a box spring, mattress, and cushy foam mattress pad, then that extra 11 inches feels like the difference between Base Camp and the summit of Everest.

Seriously.

I needed climbing ropes and a pick axe to get up there.

And once there, I was petrified of even moving because — well, we all know now that I’m prone to falling out.

Which really explains a lot, if you know me.

But the reason, my friends — the reason I was sleeping in thinner oxygen last night is intriguing because I’ve finally gotten over my fear of commitment when it comes to certain design and decor decisions around the house.  And no, it’s not because I bought a super tall bed.  But it is because we’re finally — finally — doing something with the one and only room in this 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom, 1 kitchen, 1 living room, 1 hallway home that has literally remained untouched since we moved in 4 1/2 years ago: Our Bedroom.

That’s right — we’ve completely remodeled the kitchen, gotten well on our way to finishing the living room, polished off the hallway bathroom, have a guest bedroom I’ve never told you about, and are slowly wading our way through office progress, but we’ve never done anything with the room where we spend probably the majority of our time at home.

How… sad.

So.  Even though the smart thing to do would be to let funds replenish and then… I don’t know… take a trip to the Philippines, instead we’re spending money on bedroom stuff.  Call me crazy, but it may be nice to create a bit of a sanctuary — albeit a thrifty one — before we move from this house.

And as you can see, a sanctuary it was not:

Hand-me-down furniture and thrifted, mismatched nightstands.

Decrepit vertical blinds and a television that was probably made in the early ’90’s just screams romance, does it not?

I seriously can’t believe I’m showing you this.

But despite the mild embarrassment, it has to be done.

Like shock therapy for the decorating-impaired.

Must. Look. Away.

Okay, had enough?  Yep, me too.  We’ve been sleeping in blandness for the past 4 1/2 years.

College dorm rooms have more character than this.

Andy Dufresne’s prison cell had more character than this.

So yesterday we cleared out the room.  Apparently the thing about decorating is you can’t just get right into the good stuff.  There’s a certain amount of prep work involved if you want it to look right in the end.  Since new carpeting isn’t really in the budget right now, we’re going to pretend the floors look fantastic and move right on up to the ceiling.  Yep.  Popcorn.  Just like every other room in this house, it had to come down.

But of course, there’s prep work for the prep work:

Trees!

I wasn’t sad to see these go.

Knowing this whole room decorating thing would be a bit of a process (c’mon, it’s us we’re talking about), we moved many of our worldly possessions — including the entire contents of our closet since that had popcorn too — to other locale’s around the house.  And the guest bed, which isn’t designed to hold a box spring, got topped with our big ol’ box spring, plus our mattress, plus the foam pad, to form a veritable throne of a bed.

Hey.  We live in 1,600 square feet.  Compromises need to be made, and I can only tolerate one mattress (the old guest mattress) resting on the living room wall at a time, thankyouverymuch.

Then Justin got to work.

It’s a messy job, but somebody has to do it.  Fortunately, that someone isn’t me.  And no, I don’t know why the builders only partially vaulted our ceiling.  Just one of our home’s many unintelligible quirks.

While Justin was on popcorn duty, I was assigned decor duty.  The good news is that I was able to stay relatively focused because I knew I had a limited amount of time since we don’t want to be living in our guest room for the next 2 years.

That’s right, apparently I need boundaries in order to be functional.

First, I finally committed to a paint color.  Sort-of.  See, I was tired of having 8-million paint chips collecting dust on my dresser, so I finally just picked one, threw some splotches of it up on the walls, and said f*-it.  Let’s get this puppy painted.

Of course, while Justin was off buying the full-size gallons the day before, I realized I didn’t care how my samples took on a taupey tone in the sunlight and would’ve switched something even more definitively gray, but the deed was already done and paint ain’t exactly cheap.  I mean, when people talk about “liquid assets,” I’m pretty sure they’re not referring to Valspar’s Mountain Smoke in an Eggshell finish.

So he bought the paint.

And we didn’t stop there.

Kids, I bought a light.

Like… I got online, did some research, kind of stayed on topic (with minute segues into the realms of  curtains and comforters), and bought a light.

That’s right — I committed to something.  Two things.  Talk about progress from the last time I tried to decorate.

And.  Well.  The fact is, I’m tired of purchasing everything for this house with resale in mind.  Sometimes, you just have to get what you like, you know?  And if there’s anywhere we’re doing that, it’s our bedroom.  So.  The light might not be everyone’s cup o’ tea, but it might just be the cup o’ Tanqueray and tonic with a splash of lime you’ve been looking for.

But it’s not here yet, so you’ll just have to wait and see.

Don’t you just loooove surprises?  If not, have yourself another gin ‘n juice and learn to like them.

Because baby, I’m pretty sure surprises are the key to longevity.

So this is where we are right now:

Exciting stuff, huh?  Today I will be painting the baseboards and trim, as well as puttying any holes in the walls to get ready for the Mountain Smoke.

At this rate, we should have a functioning bedroom again in… oh… 4-6 months.

Hah.

But the good news is that I’m making decisions.  Me.  The girl who takes a half hour to choose something from a restaurant menu.

Watch out, kids — this girl’s on a roll.

The First Step is Admitting You Have a Problem.

Lately, I’ve been playing a crapload of mental tug-of-war.

Seriously.  Both sides of my brain must be like… amazingly buff right now.  In fact, if I could figure out a way to box and market this game, I’d probably be a bajillionaire.  And if I were a bajillionaire, I wouldn’t be playing mental tug-of-war.  At least not this particular game.

The thing is, I’m sure I’m not unique when it comes to what, exactly, is gnawing on both sides of my mind.  It’s money.

There, I said it.

Do you feel dirty now?

For some reason it seems like talking about money (without offering up a this-is-the-plan-that-will-get-you-out-of-debt-for-GOOD solution) is a huge faux pas.  It makes people uncomfortable.  They feel inadequate if they have little and guilty if they have a lot.

There is no doubt in my mind that you need money to be happy.  Tiny Tim was a perfectly delightful, high-spirited little boy, but he would have died if it weren’t for Scrooge’s money, and then he definitely wouldn’t have been happy.  Not one little bit.

I’m not saying you need a lot of money — just enough to provide your basic needs, a sense of security, and possibly for indulging in a passion.  And it’s that passion in particular that brings the happiness.

And please.  Don’t confuse “passion” for “stuff.”

So this tug-of-war game I’ve been playing goes like this:  I know I’ve been wanting to make travel — regular travel — a major part of my life.  The problem is, even though nearly every dream and drive I’ve had since childhood has pointed me in that direction with everything short of flashing neon arrows, it didn’t even really occur to me to try to do something about it until 2 years ago.

So I did what any rational, level-headed, Type A person would do:  I quit my job and did a work exchange in Costa Rica for 2 months.

(Needless to say, I am not level-headed or Type A.  And rational?  Try rash.)

Okay, in retrospect I see the problem.  This type of highly emotional quarter-life crisis decision-making was not sustainable in the least.  And worse, it whet my wanderlust with a fierceness.  While I wouldn’t trade the experience or the friends I made for anything, it’s fair to say that I now wish I’d thought beyond the trip.  That I’d made a plan.  And, most important, that I’d taken the time to save a significant amount of cash from my previous job before kissing that paycheck goodbye.

The thing is, when you hear those amazing stories about people who make a dramatic life change and their lives suddenly turn out all joyous and magical and completely figured out, they don’t tell you how much planning and preparation were involved before the deed was done.  Or, how much money.  All I heard was, “Go for it!  Live your dream!  Everything will fall into place!”

Well.  Those people probably weren’t making $800 per month student loan payments.

And now my mind’s at it again.

There’s the dreamer side that says spread your wings and FLY.  OPTIMISM will carry you through.  Who needs food when you have NAIVETY on your side?

And of course, the practical side that says I should do boring things like plan and calculate and save money.

Hence, the tug-of-war.  Not to mention the fact that the quickest way for me to save money right now would be to get a second job, likely as a waitress once again, which would take me away from Justin and the pups.  Just so I can… travel away from Justin and the pups?  No, thank you.  I will have my cake and eat it too, if you please.

So.  Which do you think is right?

a) Hard work and discipline is the best and most effective way to get what you want in this world.  Stay strong, make a plan, have patience, and eventually you will reach your goals!

b) There are no guarantees when it comes to Tomorrow, and nothing can stop you when it comes to the Power of Positive Thinking. Send good vibes into the Universe and keep plowing ahead, and roadblocks will tumble as you go!

I know which one I want to believe.

But, in reality, I’m guessing we need a whole lot of both.

Lucias Art on Etsy (first saw on CentsationalGirl.com)

 

Top O’ The Muffin to You!

This weekend was dreary.  The kind of dreary that makes daily personal hygiene tasks like flossing my hair, combing my teeth, showering, and getting dressed seem entirely optional.  The kind of weekend where the sun doesn’t shine, not one little bit, and a certain amount of comfort food is required to get you through.

After all, would winter be winter without muffin tops?

Wait, not that kind.

I’m talking about the kind of muffin top you get in a bakery — the kind that inspired Elaine and her boss on Seinfeld to open a bakery that sells only the tops.  The kind with the glorious dome that spills out of the cups and spreads out across the surface of the pan, rising up with puffy, cake-like perfection, and comes fully adorned with a sugary dusting of streusel crumbles.

Okay, so maybe the first kind of muffin top still applies.

Damn.

But we can’t be good all of the time — that would be inhuman.  And if we have the secret to creating muffins with proper tops right at home, we can’t very well let that go to waste on a sunless weekend.

The secret, it turns out, is an extra thick batter.

I know.  That’s probably been keeping you up at nights.  I feel your pain.

But there’s no denying that there’s something about those tops.  Something delicious.  Decadent.  An added pouf of awesomeness that the muffin stump just can’t provide.

I know it.  Elaine knew it.  And now you’ll know it, too.

This recipe provides the key.  I did make some suggested changes based on the comments, particularly with the streusel topping, but I love how mine turned out.

To make them like I did, you will need:

  • 3 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 1/2 cups white sugar
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 4 teaspoons baking powder
  • 2/3 cups vegetable oil
  • 2 eggs
  • 1/3 cups milk (or less)
  • 2 cups fresh blueberries
For the topping, you will need:
  • 2/3 cup brown sugar
  • 1/4 cup flour
  • 2 Tablespoons butter
  • 1/4 tsp. cinnamon

*This makes 12 BIG muffins.  Seriously.  These muffins are BIG.  Cut this recipe in half if you know what’s good for you.  Of course, if you know what’s good for you, you won’t be making these at all.  So I’ll just stop talking now.

**Okay, I lied.  I’m still talking.  Because I also need to tell you to IGNORE the crappy photographs.  I haven’t been posting many recipes as of late because it’s too dark to get any decent pictures.  I thought, by making muffins in the morning, that I’d actually  have some light, but like I said.  Dreary weekend.  Total bummer.

Now.  This is a bit difficult, so pay attention.  (It’s really not difficult at all.)

1)  Preheat your oven to 400-degrees F and spray your muffin tin liberally with cooking spray.  Actually, go ahead and grease that puppy the old-fashioned way, because mine still stuck somewhat.  Even if you use those paper muffin cup thingies, still grease the top of the pan.

2)  Mix your dry ingredients — the flour, white sugar, salt, and baking powder, together in a bowl.

3)  Pour 1/3 cup of vegetable oil into a 1 cup measuring cup.  Add the egg to that same measuring cup (I beat mine slightly with a fork first), and then fill the cup to the top with milk.

4)  Pour the wet ingredients into your bowl of dry ingredients, and — this is EXTREMELY important — DO NOT OVER-MIX.

Yep.  Just mix it gently until the batter is barely moist. You might even have a few chunks of flour left, and that is okay.

Everything will be okay.

As long as you don’t over mix.

Then gently fold in your blueberries.

5)  Mix the streusel topping ingredients together with a fork.

You should get a crumbly topping.

6)  Fill each muffin cup to the brim with your batter.  There should be just enough.  Then, sprinkle with streusel topping (I had extra) and bake for 20-25 minutes until you can insert a toothpick in the center and it comes out clean.

I was going to take another photo of the finished product this morning, when it was hopefully going to be light, and bright, and sunny, but no.  It’s like yesterday.  Only… danker.

Because that’s a word, right?

Good thing I have bad photos of muffin tops to cheer me up.

Oh, and the actual muffin tops don’t hurt.

Yep. I Did That. And I’m Pretty Sure You Should Do It Too.

When I was a kid, my favorite thing in the world to do was to build forts.

Of course, “the world” consisted of my house, my neighborhood, and some woods behind my best friend’s house, so I didn’t know how many other non-fort related fun things there were to do in the world, the bigger world, the one beyond the realm of my own imagination.

So, forts it was.

Outside, the forts were limited to the selection of supplies the woods could provide and the ones my friend and I were brave enough to snake from our homes and stockpile among the branches and leaves and dirt.  We had no hammers or nails, so our structures often consisted of precariously leaning logs and bent branches held to the ground with rocks and sometimes, just a maze of pathways and rooms raked through the leaves with nothing but imaginary doorways and walls.  But it was enough.

Inside, we ran rampant.  Huge blankets and sheets draped across furniture and lamps, tied to curtain rods and doorknobs, pinched tight inside closed drawers, and weighed down with books — massive behemoths that would fill entire rooms and sometimes stairwells, completely filled with pillows and stuffed animals and toy dishes and secret passages and all of the things necessary for a play house or a restaurant or a barber shop.

My friends always liked to get the fort built and get on with the game, because the set-up was just set-up, after all –not the fun part.

But for me, the creation was the fun part.  I loved discovering that rubber bands could hold blankets to door knobs just fine and that curtains can actually be pulled away from the walls to create more coverage and that couch cushions made the sturdiest doorways.  I loved convincing parents who thought they couldn’t get up the stairs that they could, in fact, crawl through the fort and experience for themselves the sheer awesomeness that can come with self-imposed confined spaces.  I loved knowing which rooms were best for creating the most extensive structures, and I loved discovering new places to build and new ways to build them.

And sometimes now, as an adult, and even though I have an entire house to play with, I just want to grab a big blanket, drape it across my computer desk and office chair, and crawl inside.

Grown-up Fort

I’m pretty sure it would make a fantastic fort.  I could bring in a lamp and maybe some christmas lights, a glass of wine and a good book.

Inside Grown-up Fort

Then, when Justin comes into the room to tell me it’s time to do grown-up things like submit queries or pay bills, I’ll pretend he can’t find me because I’m inside my fort, and forts pretty much make you invisible.

fort for adults

Maybe a fort would stir my imagination again, like it did as a kid, and all of the stagnant bits that have drifted and settled at the base of my skull would float to the surface in a jostled frenzy of inspiration and creativity.

The pressure of time wouldn’t exist.

Just like when we were kids.

Is Life Not A Thousand Times Too Short For Us To Bore Ourselves (By Going On Strike)?

Nietzsche said that.  The fist part, about life and boring ourselves.  Not the second part, about going on strike.  I added that to make a point.

So I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I guess the internet is joining up in protest today to go on strike.

You heard me.

The internet is going on strike.

This would’ve been a great thing to know… I don’t know… yesterday, like before I got up at 6:30 this morning so I could write a blog post before heading off to my job that actually pays.  I mean, the sponsors aren’t exactly banging down my door over here.  I don’t know why companies wouldn’t want to attach their names to my drinkin’, swearin’, sex-obsessed self.  It’s mind-boggling, to say the least.

So.  I’m up.  I’m here.  And I won’t get paid for several hours.  In light of that fact and in the spirit of adventure capitalism, I think I’ll take advantage of all of the downed sites and hopefully benefit from the fact that apparently I’m the only site online right now.

That’s right.

You’re stuck with me.

It’s not that I don’t back the cause, ’cause I do.  It’s just that if I only have but a short time left to express my uncensored thoughts and opinions to the world, I kind of want to take advantage of them, you know?  Plus, I didn’t buy gas on that one day they said we shouldn’t buy gas a couple of years ago, and we all know how that turned out.  Oil companies still turned record profits, and I never bought that Prius.

Moving on.

Lately I’ve been distracted.  Like, crazy distracted, soaking up someone’s blog like it’s a Harry Potter novel, only even better because the adventures are real.  Her name is Brenna, and I’ve been working my way back from the very beginning of her blog, This Battered Suitcase, like some crazy internet stalker obsessed with setting up shop in someone else’s life.  Vicariously, of course.

For someone like me, it’s hard to not envy the nomadic life she’s made for herself, and she’s only in her mid-20’s.  Of course, on the flip-side, true wanderers occasionally get lonely and ache for the type of companionship and comfort that only comes with homesteading for a while, but if this is one of those “grass is always greener” situations, the other grass is the seasonal stuff that turns brown in winter climates, while her grass is like a golf course in southern California — that bitch (the golf course, not Brenna) ain’t ever gettin’ brown.  She’s alluded to as much in one of her short, photo-filled, thought-provoking posts — she wouldn’t trade the life she sometimes thinks she might envy a little on occasion for the world she knows she loves to experience.

I have to be careful here, because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  I love my husband.  I love my pups.  I love my friends, and my house, and the little niche we’ve created for ourselves in this place I’m far from calling home.

But.

Do any of you ever get the feeling that you’re still not doing what you’re supposed to be doing?  That, somehow, there’s more to be done, and you just need to figure out what it is and how to get there?  I’ve talked before about trying to live life in the moment and not wasting time looking for the next thing on the horizon that’s going to “complete” you, but this is different.  I’m talking about a sense of purpose.  Of making a difference.  At least to yourself, if no one else.

I read a quote by Mark Twain, who supposedly said,

Mark Twain Quote

Photo by Blunt Delivery.  I think.  At least, I found it on her Pinterest and it said it was uploaded by her, so it’s hers until I hear otherwise.

I don’t know how to make this travel bug blend with the life I’ve already created for myself.  But I also know that it’s not going away.  Once infected, the symptoms are life-long, my friends, and it’s a little bit torturous if you don’t give it the drug that it needs to subside.  Unfortunately, that drug can be expensive — not just monetarily, but also when it comes to time and relationships.  Current jobs and responsibilities.  This grind of debt and home ownership and 9-5’s we call The American Dream.  Some of those things I care about deeply.  But others, not so much.

If I’m going to be honest, and you know I’m never anything but, I have a current lack of stimulation that’s not filled from showing people houses or watching How I Met Your Mother.  And I know, if I have time to think on my bed of death, that I won’t be wondering who the mother really is or whether the writers of that show ever plan on telling us.  I will be wondering if I experienced enough — if I met enough people, heard enough stories, tasted enough food, read enough books, loved enough worlds.

Am I the only one who feels like this?

They tell us, as writers, to write what we know.  And all I know is, I need to know more.  What the food tastes like in Myanmar.  How the locals dress in Laos.  How difficult it is to buy camera batteries in Croatia.

I’m pretty sure I can make this happen, and that I can make it blend with what I already have.

Now.

Does anyone want to send me some money?