I had no idea you'd be so important to me.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
If These Walls Could Talk
If These Walls Could Talk... what would they say?
Dan and I have lived in numerous places since getting married. Every move brings with it the exciting sense of change, the strain of transition, the yearning for feeling settled, and the joy of feeling we're home.
Looking back at the places we've lived I've pondered the lessons learned, the tears shed, the leaps of faith made -- and the walls, the silent observers that have watched our triumphs and struggles.
Our first place brings a sense of nostalgia. It was a small, charming place. An old Victorian home broken up and reassembled into five awkwardly shaped apartments. Ours included the bay window at the front of the house, the built in bookshelves that must have belonged to the wall of the original living room, and the original creaky floorboards. We didn't own a vacuum yet, so cleaning the floors meant sweeping debris from on top of the floorboards in the grooves that separated them. Those walls saw our first feeble steps into the roles of marriage. We knew so little, were very scared, and this little space kept us together when I sometimes felt myself falling apart. I loved the winter light that streamed into our bedroom through the bay window. Loved the teeny hallway-of-a-kitchen with it's strange black and white large-checkered linoleum floor. Loved that the residential treatment center for troubled youth that I interned at was just a 5 minute drive down the street. Hated the shower that turned cold after 7 minutes! But it was ours, and we did the best we could there. I think those walls would say we were very new at the marriage thing, and we had a lot to learn. And they'd also thank us for painting them buttery-yellow and cerulean blue.
Our first place: the bedroom
Our experience in our next place was as bleak as the space we were living in: Puyallup, Washington. We packed light, taking with us only that which we could fit into our two cars. No decorations. No keepsakes. Just dull beige carpets, off-white walls. And sad to say, that empty hole of a space was much a reflection of my inner struggles. I couldn't put my finger on what was so off, I just knew I was very sad, and on edge. That place was quite dingy, fittingly so, because it embodied a very dark time in my mind and heart. In truth, unbeknown to Dan and myself, we were simply experiencing our lack of knowing how to be married, and how to be married well. We grew up with strong single mothers who did the best they could, yet still our broken childhoods left us at a loss as to how to create a whole home. Into marriage we brought with us the sharp edges of jagged fragments of broken homes, not meaning to hurt each other with them, but trying so hard to force the rough pieces to fit together that we couldn't avoid it.
If those walls could talk they would scream at us for getting the most darling puppy and using that box of an apartment as a basis for potty training. It would scream at me for screaming at it in times of confusion. I saw that place, and see it still, as an enemy. It held no warmth on account of that hard time in life. The austerity of the colorless walls never held us together as we worked through our trials -- they boxed us in.
Six months of living there and we were on to a refreshing change -- our newly built home in Utah. The smell of new paint. Every light bulb in working order. Shiny black granite countertops and picture windows in every room. Oatmeal-white carpet and warm rustic-looking hardwood floors. It was a welcome reminder that even when stuck in a bland existence for what seems an endless amount of time, there are always new beginnings. We lived in our beautiful home for 6 months. I worked part-time again at the residential treatment center as an artistic director, choreographing shows, coaching the kids of musical numbers, and performing alongside them when they asked. It was simple, fulfilling. Dan recruited for the following summer sales team. We didn't have the gumption or the funds to fully furnish the place, but less furniture meant we could fit more guests! We had a Noteworthy reunion for old and new members, housed family for the holidays, had a group of friends from CA over for a night of dinner and games, and had a number of visitors from other states for numerous occasions.
If these walls could talk they'd soothingly remind us it's okay to cry. They’d encourage our use of them as a place for gatherings. They would let us know we were moving in the right direction, with hard lessons ahead. But while there our house would be a respite in between storms.
Oh the next place. Murrieta, CA. A new apartment complex. Beautiful. Faux-wood floors, three bedrooms, 2 baths, never lived in. A grand pool. A gym 5 minutes away. My mom and fellow-Burbankians a couple of hours away. These walls were holding their breath for things to fall apart. Their perfect, seamless walls must have sensed the cracks in our marital exterior. Dan and I, still new to marriage and fighting to get our footing. Things were brewing beneath the surface, out of sight, where even we couldn't see them.
We had a decent month in Murrieta before told by the company we were there with that we had to move to Corona.
Off we went. The first sign of trouble was just that, a sign. A note on our apartment door, and everyone else's, stating that the serial rapist that had attacked several tenants was still at large. Dan and I were on the bottom floor. He was gone at work all day. I was home alone and in darkness because I kept all the blinds shut and tried to make it look like no one lived there, especially not a girl alone with a cat for a dog. That kind of tension will break open things that are hardly being held together as it is. The pressure and strain was too much. Dan and I had no choice but to break down our ragged puzzle we had forced together, look at each rough piece, see it for what it really was, and assess if we could, and if we were willing, to do the hard work required to re-shape each piece. I am not even embarrassed to write about how hard marriage was for us up until that point, because I am so deeply grateful for and proud of what followed. We were, in a sense, reborn. We learned what festering lies, false beliefs, ugly habits, hard-heartedness, and weaknesses we had involuntarily brought into our marriage, and we slowly broke the chains, one link at a time.
It was hard. It took nearly a year of working everyday. Every day. With the help of God, wise mentors, and sometimes professionals, the support and understanding of family and a few trusted friends, and complete honesty and vulnerability and risk required of ourselves. Those walls, should they speak, would say we shocked them -- we made some bold moves and they held their breath as they wondered if we would hold it together. The walls of Corona would never learn the answer, because it wouldn't come until 2 more moves, the final one landing us in Glendale, CA, in a beautiful apartment in a safe part of town, 10 minutes away from family and friends, from my hometown.
Glendale got to see the new pieces of the puzzle, carefully-crafted and gently laid down, not in a harried fashion, but with caution, tenderness, and prudence, one at a time, day after day, none before they were ready, until our first whole home was created. We had lived in numerous places, yet it took 2 years before we finally learned how to create a home. It had nothing to do with the paint, the decor, the roles we originally felt pressured into or misunderstood we were to play in order to be married. It had everything to do with honesty, humility, service, hard-work, risk, faith, assertiveness, learning, changing, and emotional health. In that place in Glendale began the greatest love story of my life.
Here's where it all finally came together...
Then we moved. Again. To Minnesota! More refinement. Every move seemed to be telling us something. Stripping us of our bearings as it stripped us of our weaknesses and pretenses. Confusion always brings change. In Minnesota I read "The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands" by Dr Laura. I realized, for the first time, how much even someone like myself, who desired above all things to be a good wife, had been subconsciously influenced by the ultra-feminist culture I grew up in in this country. I got better at marriage. Dan did too. We lived there for one month before learning that the business we were working for was a crock -- something they hadn't been honest about before confidently convincing us to uproot ourselves and work for them. We arrived in Minnesota the same way we arrived in Washington -- with only that which we could fit into our cars. No furniture. One dog. The company assured us they'd pay for rented furniture as we worked there temporarily. Promised they'd pay us out weekly. Promised operations were ready to support the sales we were going to make them. Promised us we were covered by new health insurance, so we cancelled our previous policy. All turned out to be a lie. We arrived at the apartments. No furniture. For a month! I have a bad hip and scoliosis, so sleeping on the floor was about as fun as getting killed by Dexter (new favorite show, btw). No table to eat on. No paycheck coming in (that was about as thrilling as seeing Santa come in from the chimney, walk over to your stocking, and puke in it. So wrong). Dan flew back to CA to make sales for another company just to make enough money for us to move back to the West Coast and get us through the month. But a blessing was to be had -- Dave Ramsey gave us a Total Money makeover! What a blessing. Dan and I had lived, comfortably we thought, with a hefty amount of debt throughout our marriage. He made such great money that we were never noticeably burdened by it. But when we lived in MN for a sham company that wasn't paying us, we realized how easily our debt was going to eat us alive. It was a scary time. A shameful time. Our eyes were opened to the grossness of buying on loan, of being imprudent and placing too much value of wants before earning them. We had a complete philosophy and lifestyle upheaval of our financial life, which taught us a lot about other things in life -- responsibility, stewardship, patience, security, spirituality. I remember being alone in that apartment, my husband on the other side of the country, not able to afford groceries and eating canned beans 3 meals a day for several days in a row. Never been so scared. Perfect time to learn something great :).
So we got it together. Those walls saw us pour over Dave Ramsey's advice, start to budget every penny, and cancel dozens of bills for "perks" we didn't need. It saw us say "screw off" to a dishonest business relationship, and pack up to leave.
We moved to a temporary place in Provo. The cheapest place we could find. Walls made out of cylinder blocks covered in plaster. A boys’ dorm when school was in session. Plaid couches. Those walls saw me set the kitchen on fire (not figuratively speaking!), move things from 2 storage units into it to sell, begin our on and off again relationship with P90X, discover Stevia, and again, continue to preserve, protect, and refine our love.
A couple of months later we were in a lovely basement apartment. Yes, full of hobo spiders, but also full of love. Within one year living there we paid off dozens of thousands of dollars of debt, got disability and life insurance, a Medical Savings Account (form of health insurance), made plans for an IRA that will leave us and our posterity with over 5 million dollars upon retirement, make plans for future investments, and overall take action to be responsible with our earnings. WHAT A BLESSING! I tell ya, when I think about repentance I don't think about saying I'm sorry so much as making a change. We made a lot of changes in the safety of that sweet little basement.
So now we are in our motel, waiting for our next place to finish being built. These walls saw us through our 5 year anniversary, where we celebrated with hearts full of gratitude that we stuck it out. That we held on with faith to the hope that we could make our marriage better. Looking into each other’s tear-filled eyes and smiling in wonder and joy that we didn’t give up on what has become the best thing we have ever known in life—our marriage. We’ve seen the insides of many places, and each has brought on challenges that seemed to bring out the needful thing in our lives. I think the walls of our next place, the one we plan on staying in for several years, will say that they held a couple that holds onto to each other, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in good times and hard times, and is committed to and understands, has earned a glimpse into what it means, to be married and married well.
Dan and I have lived in numerous places since getting married. Every move brings with it the exciting sense of change, the strain of transition, the yearning for feeling settled, and the joy of feeling we're home.
Looking back at the places we've lived I've pondered the lessons learned, the tears shed, the leaps of faith made -- and the walls, the silent observers that have watched our triumphs and struggles.
Our first place brings a sense of nostalgia. It was a small, charming place. An old Victorian home broken up and reassembled into five awkwardly shaped apartments. Ours included the bay window at the front of the house, the built in bookshelves that must have belonged to the wall of the original living room, and the original creaky floorboards. We didn't own a vacuum yet, so cleaning the floors meant sweeping debris from on top of the floorboards in the grooves that separated them. Those walls saw our first feeble steps into the roles of marriage. We knew so little, were very scared, and this little space kept us together when I sometimes felt myself falling apart. I loved the winter light that streamed into our bedroom through the bay window. Loved the teeny hallway-of-a-kitchen with it's strange black and white large-checkered linoleum floor. Loved that the residential treatment center for troubled youth that I interned at was just a 5 minute drive down the street. Hated the shower that turned cold after 7 minutes! But it was ours, and we did the best we could there. I think those walls would say we were very new at the marriage thing, and we had a lot to learn. And they'd also thank us for painting them buttery-yellow and cerulean blue.
Our first place: the bedroom
Our experience in our next place was as bleak as the space we were living in: Puyallup, Washington. We packed light, taking with us only that which we could fit into our two cars. No decorations. No keepsakes. Just dull beige carpets, off-white walls. And sad to say, that empty hole of a space was much a reflection of my inner struggles. I couldn't put my finger on what was so off, I just knew I was very sad, and on edge. That place was quite dingy, fittingly so, because it embodied a very dark time in my mind and heart. In truth, unbeknown to Dan and myself, we were simply experiencing our lack of knowing how to be married, and how to be married well. We grew up with strong single mothers who did the best they could, yet still our broken childhoods left us at a loss as to how to create a whole home. Into marriage we brought with us the sharp edges of jagged fragments of broken homes, not meaning to hurt each other with them, but trying so hard to force the rough pieces to fit together that we couldn't avoid it.
If those walls could talk they would scream at us for getting the most darling puppy and using that box of an apartment as a basis for potty training. It would scream at me for screaming at it in times of confusion. I saw that place, and see it still, as an enemy. It held no warmth on account of that hard time in life. The austerity of the colorless walls never held us together as we worked through our trials -- they boxed us in.
Six months of living there and we were on to a refreshing change -- our newly built home in Utah. The smell of new paint. Every light bulb in working order. Shiny black granite countertops and picture windows in every room. Oatmeal-white carpet and warm rustic-looking hardwood floors. It was a welcome reminder that even when stuck in a bland existence for what seems an endless amount of time, there are always new beginnings. We lived in our beautiful home for 6 months. I worked part-time again at the residential treatment center as an artistic director, choreographing shows, coaching the kids of musical numbers, and performing alongside them when they asked. It was simple, fulfilling. Dan recruited for the following summer sales team. We didn't have the gumption or the funds to fully furnish the place, but less furniture meant we could fit more guests! We had a Noteworthy reunion for old and new members, housed family for the holidays, had a group of friends from CA over for a night of dinner and games, and had a number of visitors from other states for numerous occasions.
If these walls could talk they'd soothingly remind us it's okay to cry. They’d encourage our use of them as a place for gatherings. They would let us know we were moving in the right direction, with hard lessons ahead. But while there our house would be a respite in between storms.
Oh the next place. Murrieta, CA. A new apartment complex. Beautiful. Faux-wood floors, three bedrooms, 2 baths, never lived in. A grand pool. A gym 5 minutes away. My mom and fellow-Burbankians a couple of hours away. These walls were holding their breath for things to fall apart. Their perfect, seamless walls must have sensed the cracks in our marital exterior. Dan and I, still new to marriage and fighting to get our footing. Things were brewing beneath the surface, out of sight, where even we couldn't see them.
We had a decent month in Murrieta before told by the company we were there with that we had to move to Corona.
Off we went. The first sign of trouble was just that, a sign. A note on our apartment door, and everyone else's, stating that the serial rapist that had attacked several tenants was still at large. Dan and I were on the bottom floor. He was gone at work all day. I was home alone and in darkness because I kept all the blinds shut and tried to make it look like no one lived there, especially not a girl alone with a cat for a dog. That kind of tension will break open things that are hardly being held together as it is. The pressure and strain was too much. Dan and I had no choice but to break down our ragged puzzle we had forced together, look at each rough piece, see it for what it really was, and assess if we could, and if we were willing, to do the hard work required to re-shape each piece. I am not even embarrassed to write about how hard marriage was for us up until that point, because I am so deeply grateful for and proud of what followed. We were, in a sense, reborn. We learned what festering lies, false beliefs, ugly habits, hard-heartedness, and weaknesses we had involuntarily brought into our marriage, and we slowly broke the chains, one link at a time.
It was hard. It took nearly a year of working everyday. Every day. With the help of God, wise mentors, and sometimes professionals, the support and understanding of family and a few trusted friends, and complete honesty and vulnerability and risk required of ourselves. Those walls, should they speak, would say we shocked them -- we made some bold moves and they held their breath as they wondered if we would hold it together. The walls of Corona would never learn the answer, because it wouldn't come until 2 more moves, the final one landing us in Glendale, CA, in a beautiful apartment in a safe part of town, 10 minutes away from family and friends, from my hometown.
Glendale got to see the new pieces of the puzzle, carefully-crafted and gently laid down, not in a harried fashion, but with caution, tenderness, and prudence, one at a time, day after day, none before they were ready, until our first whole home was created. We had lived in numerous places, yet it took 2 years before we finally learned how to create a home. It had nothing to do with the paint, the decor, the roles we originally felt pressured into or misunderstood we were to play in order to be married. It had everything to do with honesty, humility, service, hard-work, risk, faith, assertiveness, learning, changing, and emotional health. In that place in Glendale began the greatest love story of my life.
Here's where it all finally came together...
Then we moved. Again. To Minnesota! More refinement. Every move seemed to be telling us something. Stripping us of our bearings as it stripped us of our weaknesses and pretenses. Confusion always brings change. In Minnesota I read "The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands" by Dr Laura. I realized, for the first time, how much even someone like myself, who desired above all things to be a good wife, had been subconsciously influenced by the ultra-feminist culture I grew up in in this country. I got better at marriage. Dan did too. We lived there for one month before learning that the business we were working for was a crock -- something they hadn't been honest about before confidently convincing us to uproot ourselves and work for them. We arrived in Minnesota the same way we arrived in Washington -- with only that which we could fit into our cars. No furniture. One dog. The company assured us they'd pay for rented furniture as we worked there temporarily. Promised they'd pay us out weekly. Promised operations were ready to support the sales we were going to make them. Promised us we were covered by new health insurance, so we cancelled our previous policy. All turned out to be a lie. We arrived at the apartments. No furniture. For a month! I have a bad hip and scoliosis, so sleeping on the floor was about as fun as getting killed by Dexter (new favorite show, btw). No table to eat on. No paycheck coming in (that was about as thrilling as seeing Santa come in from the chimney, walk over to your stocking, and puke in it. So wrong). Dan flew back to CA to make sales for another company just to make enough money for us to move back to the West Coast and get us through the month. But a blessing was to be had -- Dave Ramsey gave us a Total Money makeover! What a blessing. Dan and I had lived, comfortably we thought, with a hefty amount of debt throughout our marriage. He made such great money that we were never noticeably burdened by it. But when we lived in MN for a sham company that wasn't paying us, we realized how easily our debt was going to eat us alive. It was a scary time. A shameful time. Our eyes were opened to the grossness of buying on loan, of being imprudent and placing too much value of wants before earning them. We had a complete philosophy and lifestyle upheaval of our financial life, which taught us a lot about other things in life -- responsibility, stewardship, patience, security, spirituality. I remember being alone in that apartment, my husband on the other side of the country, not able to afford groceries and eating canned beans 3 meals a day for several days in a row. Never been so scared. Perfect time to learn something great :).
So we got it together. Those walls saw us pour over Dave Ramsey's advice, start to budget every penny, and cancel dozens of bills for "perks" we didn't need. It saw us say "screw off" to a dishonest business relationship, and pack up to leave.
We moved to a temporary place in Provo. The cheapest place we could find. Walls made out of cylinder blocks covered in plaster. A boys’ dorm when school was in session. Plaid couches. Those walls saw me set the kitchen on fire (not figuratively speaking!), move things from 2 storage units into it to sell, begin our on and off again relationship with P90X, discover Stevia, and again, continue to preserve, protect, and refine our love.
A couple of months later we were in a lovely basement apartment. Yes, full of hobo spiders, but also full of love. Within one year living there we paid off dozens of thousands of dollars of debt, got disability and life insurance, a Medical Savings Account (form of health insurance), made plans for an IRA that will leave us and our posterity with over 5 million dollars upon retirement, make plans for future investments, and overall take action to be responsible with our earnings. WHAT A BLESSING! I tell ya, when I think about repentance I don't think about saying I'm sorry so much as making a change. We made a lot of changes in the safety of that sweet little basement.
So now we are in our motel, waiting for our next place to finish being built. These walls saw us through our 5 year anniversary, where we celebrated with hearts full of gratitude that we stuck it out. That we held on with faith to the hope that we could make our marriage better. Looking into each other’s tear-filled eyes and smiling in wonder and joy that we didn’t give up on what has become the best thing we have ever known in life—our marriage. We’ve seen the insides of many places, and each has brought on challenges that seemed to bring out the needful thing in our lives. I think the walls of our next place, the one we plan on staying in for several years, will say that they held a couple that holds onto to each other, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, in good times and hard times, and is committed to and understands, has earned a glimpse into what it means, to be married and married well.
Monday, November 8, 2010
And I Thought I Was Eating Healthy Cuz I Buy Turkey Dogs...
I got accepted into my number one pick for Grad School!!! I am so excited/nervous/ready to get started!
To counteract this fantastic news, and to keep the yin and yang of the universe in check, I received some craptastic news as well. I am allergic to just about any food you can think of. Me, Mrs. never had an allergy/let me hoard my supreme immune system over your pollen-sensitive sissy of a nose, your little "wait, I need my inhaler" whine, your "I'm sad my eyes water around pets because all I ever wanted to be since I was three years old was a veterinarian" crying. Okay okay, I'm not really that heartless. But I am gonna be one bitter woman cuz get this -- I can't eat anything with milk! Well, I can, but only if I want to experience extreme discomfort and an acne breakout. That means no cheese, no chocolate, no cookies, crackers, cereals, butter-saturated veggies, yogurt, and that my favorite drink in the entire world, milk, has become my personal sword in the stone, my forbidden apple. I want it!!!! I want mac and cheese and I want to eat cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with a healthy dose of butterfingers to snack on in between.
The idea that God turns our weaknesses into strengths may be more literal than I thought, cuz it ain't like I cook much as it is. And from what I described above it's clear my eating habits are like I'm trying to place first in a race towards a heart attack. But with my lack of motivation to cook often, if I don't learn how to become the next Kobe Bryant of the Kitchen, I may just starve for lack of edible options. Definitely time to put this Achilles heel of a weakness in physical therapy.
My livelihood... the only reason my husband and I have not been eaten alive by our fast metabolisms, is because I can whip up a good package of Stouffers pre-made lasagna like a savant. Staples in our home are turkey hot dogs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and anything with cheese -- cheese tortillas, tacos, burritos, etc. But you take those faux-cooked meals away from me and I'm gonna have to learn to cook for real. Not just cook -- create. Improvise. Finally learn what it is people do with an oven. My key lifeline in the kitchen -- simple recipes, will never be simple again. That word won't even be allowed in my Kitchenaid's presence.
Here's what I mean. Let's say I want something to eat that requires cheese. Grating a big yellow block is a thing of the past. Instead of just "add cheese" it's gonna be like "make cheese substitute by combining nutritional yeast, flour and vegetable broth powder in a small saucepan, mixing together until combined then add soymilk, water and tahini, and turn on heat to medium-low, mixing until all the powder is dissolved and the sauce is smooth then heat until just thickened and warm, about 2-3 minutes". I'm gonna have to cook an entire meal just to create an ingredient for an actual meal. This may prove more challenging than Grad School.
I'm sure this blessing in disguise will help my home be healthier. And although I do more cooking than I let on above, it IS going to be quite the challenge, hopefully one that I will grow to love. I can eat things I am allergic to here and there, and in small doses, and I may never actually become as extreme as learning how to use yeast to make a cheese substitute (or maybe I will), but one thing is for sure -- our eating lifestyle is in need of a major overhaul. One that forces me to look up "tahini" in the dictionary.
To counteract this fantastic news, and to keep the yin and yang of the universe in check, I received some craptastic news as well. I am allergic to just about any food you can think of. Me, Mrs. never had an allergy/let me hoard my supreme immune system over your pollen-sensitive sissy of a nose, your little "wait, I need my inhaler" whine, your "I'm sad my eyes water around pets because all I ever wanted to be since I was three years old was a veterinarian" crying. Okay okay, I'm not really that heartless. But I am gonna be one bitter woman cuz get this -- I can't eat anything with milk! Well, I can, but only if I want to experience extreme discomfort and an acne breakout. That means no cheese, no chocolate, no cookies, crackers, cereals, butter-saturated veggies, yogurt, and that my favorite drink in the entire world, milk, has become my personal sword in the stone, my forbidden apple. I want it!!!! I want mac and cheese and I want to eat cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with a healthy dose of butterfingers to snack on in between.
The idea that God turns our weaknesses into strengths may be more literal than I thought, cuz it ain't like I cook much as it is. And from what I described above it's clear my eating habits are like I'm trying to place first in a race towards a heart attack. But with my lack of motivation to cook often, if I don't learn how to become the next Kobe Bryant of the Kitchen, I may just starve for lack of edible options. Definitely time to put this Achilles heel of a weakness in physical therapy.
My livelihood... the only reason my husband and I have not been eaten alive by our fast metabolisms, is because I can whip up a good package of Stouffers pre-made lasagna like a savant. Staples in our home are turkey hot dogs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and anything with cheese -- cheese tortillas, tacos, burritos, etc. But you take those faux-cooked meals away from me and I'm gonna have to learn to cook for real. Not just cook -- create. Improvise. Finally learn what it is people do with an oven. My key lifeline in the kitchen -- simple recipes, will never be simple again. That word won't even be allowed in my Kitchenaid's presence.
Here's what I mean. Let's say I want something to eat that requires cheese. Grating a big yellow block is a thing of the past. Instead of just "add cheese" it's gonna be like "make cheese substitute by combining nutritional yeast, flour and vegetable broth powder in a small saucepan, mixing together until combined then add soymilk, water and tahini, and turn on heat to medium-low, mixing until all the powder is dissolved and the sauce is smooth then heat until just thickened and warm, about 2-3 minutes". I'm gonna have to cook an entire meal just to create an ingredient for an actual meal. This may prove more challenging than Grad School.
I'm sure this blessing in disguise will help my home be healthier. And although I do more cooking than I let on above, it IS going to be quite the challenge, hopefully one that I will grow to love. I can eat things I am allergic to here and there, and in small doses, and I may never actually become as extreme as learning how to use yeast to make a cheese substitute (or maybe I will), but one thing is for sure -- our eating lifestyle is in need of a major overhaul. One that forces me to look up "tahini" in the dictionary.
Friday, October 22, 2010
5 year Anniversary (i.e.- best day of my LIFE!)
More to come on our 5 Year Anniversary Celebration. It was, very possibly, the best day of my life. Thank you for your generous love Dan.
Here's one of the things he did for me to celebrate our marriage...
He wrote and recorded the song just for the occasion.
Here's one of the things he did for me to celebrate our marriage...
He wrote and recorded the song just for the occasion.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Motels Are Swell
It has been nearly 2 months since my last post. What have we been doing? Well, living in a motel, naturally! Actually, living in a motel is one of the most un-natural things to do, right long with beekeeping and drinking the water above the toilet in an emergency.
We have been living in a motel temporarily until our next place is finished being built. We were given some nudges to move by family and friends who suspected this particular motel might not be totally kosher, but it wasn't until the Police Forensics team showed up with an ambulance and a stretcher that we were like, "Oh, this is pig we're eating?" Prior to that nothing was obvious enough to warn us -- not the daily calls to the cops because people outside our door were screaming that they were gonna Eff each other up or kill someone, nor the smell of marijuana, nor the fact that I had seen a man arrested, and an 8 inch knife confiscated from his person. It took a confidential crime scene, one with a stretcher, before we got the hint. Hey, I don't live in denial, but sometimes I visit.
And that knife I saw confiscated? I don't mean the kind you buy at Target that looks like this:
I mean the kind that is more terror-inducing than David Hasselhoff on Dancing With the Stars, the kind that looks like this:
Like, no one should have a knife that looks like that except John Locke or Indiana Jones!
Still, even that knife wasn't enough to get us to admit that we were in a shady place. We were like, "But they have free Showtime! And the way the guy living below us always stares at us through his open window as we walk by makes us feel so safe. And that other guy who was kind enough to run after my car as I drove through the parking lot to escort me to my parking space, what a gent!"
Now we are nestled safely in a different motel. A much safer one (I promise Mom!). And hey, no Showtime, but hello HBO! And way faster internet, which is another reason why I am resuming blogging.
And that guy below us who always looked at us through his window, like a watchful guard keeping an eye on our cars among other things? Well I saw his face looking at me again from my computer today as I researched known sex offenders in the motel. Sah-weet!
We have been living in a motel temporarily until our next place is finished being built. We were given some nudges to move by family and friends who suspected this particular motel might not be totally kosher, but it wasn't until the Police Forensics team showed up with an ambulance and a stretcher that we were like, "Oh, this is pig we're eating?" Prior to that nothing was obvious enough to warn us -- not the daily calls to the cops because people outside our door were screaming that they were gonna Eff each other up or kill someone, nor the smell of marijuana, nor the fact that I had seen a man arrested, and an 8 inch knife confiscated from his person. It took a confidential crime scene, one with a stretcher, before we got the hint. Hey, I don't live in denial, but sometimes I visit.
And that knife I saw confiscated? I don't mean the kind you buy at Target that looks like this:
I mean the kind that is more terror-inducing than David Hasselhoff on Dancing With the Stars, the kind that looks like this:
Like, no one should have a knife that looks like that except John Locke or Indiana Jones!
Still, even that knife wasn't enough to get us to admit that we were in a shady place. We were like, "But they have free Showtime! And the way the guy living below us always stares at us through his open window as we walk by makes us feel so safe. And that other guy who was kind enough to run after my car as I drove through the parking lot to escort me to my parking space, what a gent!"
Now we are nestled safely in a different motel. A much safer one (I promise Mom!). And hey, no Showtime, but hello HBO! And way faster internet, which is another reason why I am resuming blogging.
And that guy below us who always looked at us through his window, like a watchful guard keeping an eye on our cars among other things? Well I saw his face looking at me again from my computer today as I researched known sex offenders in the motel. Sah-weet!
Friday, August 6, 2010
My Life Was a Gleeful, High School Musical
People from my High School Class of 2001 have often asked me if we are having a 10 year reunion. My first thought is, "How the heck should I know? I might have been popular in Middle School, but let's not kid ourselves -- in terms of HS popularity I peaked in 10th grade. Shouldn't planning the 10 year reunion be the lot of those Seniors who went out on a high note, say, the Prom Court, the Valedictorian who said 'sexpectations' instead of 'expectations' in his commencement speech, or maybe one of those fun kids who discovered an eternal love of alcohol at the tender age of 15, cuz, you know, their parents would rather it be under their roof since their kids were going to do it anyway? Those kids know how to plan a partayy Holla!"
Well, let me just come clean here before I accuse every student in my graduating class: My name is Stephanie Dunn, Stephanie Call for those of you who knew me in 2001, and I harbor unadulterated hostility, the kind that makes me hiss and spit, at the thought of my High School years. So do you. I don't care if you were popular, unpopular, pock-faced or Brad Pitt, scratch that, he's old... I don't care if you looked like freakin' Zac Efron and was the star of your High School Musical-like experience, the world of High School is institutionalized, legal torture. You know it, I know it. Even if there were some great memories and fantastic friendships and inspiring teachers or programs, High School maimed us all. If this is coming from the girl who was voted "Friendliest" in her graduating class, you can bet your bulldog blvd sauntering butts that somewhere in your mind, a little 15 year old child is whimpering in a dark corner saying, "yes, yes I know EXACTLY what you're referring to. Make it STOOOPPPPP!" Yep, High School was not anyone's best years. Ok, that's not true. But we'll leave those poor fools out of this. High School was not most people's best years' in life, and a reunion is like bringing back the dead -- it's stinky, demoralizing, and downright evil, but you can't help but check out the circus.
So, naturally, I am already planning a year in advance to attend it. That's what masochists do. Masochists and kids who have lost 80 lbs or gotten lots of plastic surgery since HS.
I contacted the class president to ask if he was planning it because I was sick of not having an answer for all the people who kept asking me if it was going to happen. Also, I needed to make sure I could follow their statements of "You should do it" with "JOHNFAMISGOINGTODOIT!" John Fam, you are my scapegoat. Holla! 271 represent! Woot woot! Who let the dawgs out?!
Then John Fam invited me to help with the planning. I had a vision of what this next year of planning would look like -- spending everyday trying to contact people -- that one guy with the great calves who laughed at me when I fell flat on my stomach in my sequined choir dress while running down a crowded hallway, whom I looked up at from my sprawled position on the floor and into his snickering face and weakly said, "Sorry". Sorry? Yes, that's what I said -- sorry. But sorry for what? For falling? Sorry for not punching you in the face jackass!!
Yea, clearly I cannot handle planning this reunion. So I declined. Plus, I specifically didn't run for class president my senior year so that in 10 years I could say with complete legitimacy -- "Dude, that's so not my responsibility." Thank gawd. Someone WAY more mature than me can carry that burden (thank you John Fam).
Facebook has made a reunion somewhat of a moot event. We're all voyeuristic cyber-stalkers, very attuned to the happenings in each other's lives since HS. We've all signed up to participate in an elaborate charade since graduating -- one that depicts our lives as mostly a gaggle of fun over the last ten years. To me Facebook extends that phase of life we find ourselves in in high school -- the one we where we are frequently courting the public and trying to win at the popularity contest of life. Even those who have facebook and claim to refuse to participate in the charade are likely announcing how much they don't care about it on their status updates, clearly indicating that they care enough to make sure everybody knows how much they don't care, how above it or over it or underwhelmed by it they are. BS. The only people who really fall into that category don't have a FB account. Admit it! High School is still haunting you!
And now the class of 2001 can prepare to enter that House of Horror, the ultimate Haunted Mansion, in about 10 months. See you there little monsters!
Well, let me just come clean here before I accuse every student in my graduating class: My name is Stephanie Dunn, Stephanie Call for those of you who knew me in 2001, and I harbor unadulterated hostility, the kind that makes me hiss and spit, at the thought of my High School years. So do you. I don't care if you were popular, unpopular, pock-faced or Brad Pitt, scratch that, he's old... I don't care if you looked like freakin' Zac Efron and was the star of your High School Musical-like experience, the world of High School is institutionalized, legal torture. You know it, I know it. Even if there were some great memories and fantastic friendships and inspiring teachers or programs, High School maimed us all. If this is coming from the girl who was voted "Friendliest" in her graduating class, you can bet your bulldog blvd sauntering butts that somewhere in your mind, a little 15 year old child is whimpering in a dark corner saying, "yes, yes I know EXACTLY what you're referring to. Make it STOOOPPPPP!" Yep, High School was not anyone's best years. Ok, that's not true. But we'll leave those poor fools out of this. High School was not most people's best years' in life, and a reunion is like bringing back the dead -- it's stinky, demoralizing, and downright evil, but you can't help but check out the circus.
So, naturally, I am already planning a year in advance to attend it. That's what masochists do. Masochists and kids who have lost 80 lbs or gotten lots of plastic surgery since HS.
I contacted the class president to ask if he was planning it because I was sick of not having an answer for all the people who kept asking me if it was going to happen. Also, I needed to make sure I could follow their statements of "You should do it" with "JOHNFAMISGOINGTODOIT!" John Fam, you are my scapegoat. Holla! 271 represent! Woot woot! Who let the dawgs out?!
Then John Fam invited me to help with the planning. I had a vision of what this next year of planning would look like -- spending everyday trying to contact people -- that one guy with the great calves who laughed at me when I fell flat on my stomach in my sequined choir dress while running down a crowded hallway, whom I looked up at from my sprawled position on the floor and into his snickering face and weakly said, "Sorry". Sorry? Yes, that's what I said -- sorry. But sorry for what? For falling? Sorry for not punching you in the face jackass!!
Yea, clearly I cannot handle planning this reunion. So I declined. Plus, I specifically didn't run for class president my senior year so that in 10 years I could say with complete legitimacy -- "Dude, that's so not my responsibility." Thank gawd. Someone WAY more mature than me can carry that burden (thank you John Fam).
Facebook has made a reunion somewhat of a moot event. We're all voyeuristic cyber-stalkers, very attuned to the happenings in each other's lives since HS. We've all signed up to participate in an elaborate charade since graduating -- one that depicts our lives as mostly a gaggle of fun over the last ten years. To me Facebook extends that phase of life we find ourselves in in high school -- the one we where we are frequently courting the public and trying to win at the popularity contest of life. Even those who have facebook and claim to refuse to participate in the charade are likely announcing how much they don't care about it on their status updates, clearly indicating that they care enough to make sure everybody knows how much they don't care, how above it or over it or underwhelmed by it they are. BS. The only people who really fall into that category don't have a FB account. Admit it! High School is still haunting you!
And now the class of 2001 can prepare to enter that House of Horror, the ultimate Haunted Mansion, in about 10 months. See you there little monsters!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Music and Memories
It took me 27 years, but I have stumbled on a childhood secret.
When I was little, and my young mother and father were divorced, my mom and I traveled cross country in her car a lot.
We all have those cloudy memories of childhood moments, snippets that only last 2 seconds when we try to recall them. But certain things bring them, and the emotions of those moments, into sharper focus. For me these moments of clearer memory recollection have always unexpectedly occurred while shopping in a grocery store, flipping through radio stations while driving, or when pumping gas -- a song comes on, one of the cassette songs my mother would play over and over on those long drives cross deserts and plains, and I am three years old again, sitting in the passenger seat of her car, knowing on some mild level that my dad is gone, and that my mom is sad even though she smiles at me a lot, and I'd get wrapped up in those songs, get utterly lost in the emotions of those melodies. I LOVED those songs. They were full of yearning, and I loved feeling my heart-strings tugged in that exact way at that time. Those songs spoke for my mother and I as we drove in silence for hundreds of miles.
I can't remember ever hearing music before those songs. They were the songs of my childhood, played over and over while driving through the terrains of life.
I have never known the bands, singers, or titles of those songs, but when they pop into my world to say hello from some other sound system, I feel I have never known anything better. Even as a 27 year old, when one of them plays and I sing along, I wonder how I can know the words to a song that is so elusive to me -- I couldn't find it on iTunes if I tried.
Until today.
I was browsing through our iTunes Library to see what we had since of the hundreds of songs downloaded there, I can probably count 20 that I have downloaded -- the rest are Dan's doing. Under "Title" I saw the words "Making Love Out Of Nothing At All" and was alerted that it sounded like the lyrics to one of those nostalgic songs. I clicked on it and sure enough, it was one of several in our Library from a band called Air Supply. I clicked through them all and realized something I never knew--my mom was a big Air Supply fan twenty-something years ago. So was I.
When I was little, and my young mother and father were divorced, my mom and I traveled cross country in her car a lot.
We all have those cloudy memories of childhood moments, snippets that only last 2 seconds when we try to recall them. But certain things bring them, and the emotions of those moments, into sharper focus. For me these moments of clearer memory recollection have always unexpectedly occurred while shopping in a grocery store, flipping through radio stations while driving, or when pumping gas -- a song comes on, one of the cassette songs my mother would play over and over on those long drives cross deserts and plains, and I am three years old again, sitting in the passenger seat of her car, knowing on some mild level that my dad is gone, and that my mom is sad even though she smiles at me a lot, and I'd get wrapped up in those songs, get utterly lost in the emotions of those melodies. I LOVED those songs. They were full of yearning, and I loved feeling my heart-strings tugged in that exact way at that time. Those songs spoke for my mother and I as we drove in silence for hundreds of miles.
I can't remember ever hearing music before those songs. They were the songs of my childhood, played over and over while driving through the terrains of life.
I have never known the bands, singers, or titles of those songs, but when they pop into my world to say hello from some other sound system, I feel I have never known anything better. Even as a 27 year old, when one of them plays and I sing along, I wonder how I can know the words to a song that is so elusive to me -- I couldn't find it on iTunes if I tried.
Until today.
I was browsing through our iTunes Library to see what we had since of the hundreds of songs downloaded there, I can probably count 20 that I have downloaded -- the rest are Dan's doing. Under "Title" I saw the words "Making Love Out Of Nothing At All" and was alerted that it sounded like the lyrics to one of those nostalgic songs. I clicked on it and sure enough, it was one of several in our Library from a band called Air Supply. I clicked through them all and realized something I never knew--my mom was a big Air Supply fan twenty-something years ago. So was I.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Hobos-R-Us
By now most of you know that hobos are not just people; they are flesh-decomposing venomous Utah house spiders. Dan and I are very familiar with them. In fact, we've had to set up a type of treaty with them since they take up residency with us. It's kinda like vampires and werewolves (You really can explain all life's mysteries with one powerful book: Twilight): no one can prohibit creatures of the night from living close by, but we can at least set up a "Don't harm people" treaty. Since the hobos refuse to move out, we have rules that they must obey.
House Rule #18: "please do not kill us, cause us to wake up with a gaping hole where an eyeball used to be, make our legs look the the guy you got in the pic above, steal all the bedsheets or procreate in the bed you seemed determined to share with us."
That rule follows number 17, which is "If you come out where we can see you, you die," which follows rule 16: "If you come out where we can see you and we've had a bad day, we'll catch you in Tupperware, watch you slowly starve to death, and occasionally shake the container like a banjo." That follows rule #15: "If we see other, non-hobo spiders in the house we will not kill them in case they are feisty enough to kill you. Enter at your own risk."
Needless to say, our house is a spider-central. Just today 2 huge daddy long legs came in through the front door (didn't even knock) screaming "Sanctuary!!!" and all we could do was look at them, shrug our shoulders, and say, "Yep. And an all-you-can-eat hobo buffet." Cause if WE break House Rule number 15, then the hobos have the right to declare all out war and tomorrow I'd be missing an eye.
No joke the photographer of that picture happened to call it "Eyeless Hobo." How ironic!
We've lived like this for a year now. In the winter the hobos virtually disappear, but during the summer months it's hobo mating season and they are wandering around everywhere trying to find their soul mates (as if the little bastards had souls). We do what we can to combat them--set up V traps everywhere, leave certain lights on at night because they prefer to move in the dark, etc. But living with hobos has seriously traumatized me. Everywhere I go I see hobos:
Plus any other dark spot on our carpet that moves (usually ends up being a pillbug, which attracts these suckers):
Lucky us.
As I'm writing this I just glanced to my right and a hobo has broken rule #17. Time to lay down the law...
There :).
Anyway, we've managed. But luckily we are moving soon!!! First House Rule in our new house? "No hobos allowed!"
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Letter to 15 Year Old Stephanie
Dear 15 year old self,
I’ll go easy on you to start, because I know how hard you are on yourself. First off, blonde is NOT your color. I know everyone else is getting blonde highlights, but unless you keep that tan up year round (you know, the one responsible for the wrinkle lines I have now), blonde just washes you out.
Second, it’s important that you begin to understand that people-pleasing is not a mantra for life. Don’t worry, eventually you will understand this. Until then, don’t base your worth and identity on being whatever you perceive you are supposed to be for other people’s sakes. Be you. I know it’s hard to accept, but “you” is not so bad.
Stop it with the boyfriends already! Gah! You really don’t need to be in those dramatic, energy-sucking black-holes. In fact, you should probably just have fun dating without getting serious. What will really be your parachute when you get that daily feeling that you are falling off a cliff are your friends, not your boyfriends. In fact, Junior year of HS is going to be your favorite. You will be single, have stellar best friends, a rewarding and challenging academic curriculum, and a blast going to several different proms with several different, nice, fun, NON-boyfriends. But you will still have bad skin. Learn to roll with it.
I know you think everyone keeps you around simply because you are “nice,” but there is a whole lot more to you than that. Nice is not bad, but as your dominant, one-dimensional personality trait, it is going to suffocate you. It is going to make you compromise on things that are important to you, and make you sacrifice developing your own voice. You are going to get swept up and lost in the out-going current by being strictly “nice”. Again, don’t worry, all is not lost. You’ll make a fight for your right to be something along with and other than just nice, like interesting, sometimes off-color, and IMPERFECT! I know, I know, I just said the ultimate swear word. But trust me, perfect is boring. It doesn’t have nearly as much to offer the world as the rainbow of personality where mistakes, sillyness, boldness, rebelliousness, integrity, and freedom dwell. You’ll find your way back to shore eventually. And yes, there are sharks in the water! Swim for the shore anyway! Make a big splash!
Keep it up with the morals. They really do matter, and they will help you avoid a lot of heartache in life. So will your mom, dad, granddad, and the Pentecost’s.
A couple of your best friends now will still be your best friends in 10 years. Even though you can’t see the future, you know which ones they are. It will be unspeakably gratifying to have people in your life who have known the you of years past. In fact, they will know the you in this letter, and when they read it they will probably say to me “You were too hard on yourself back then.” They still say that to you, btw. And they are right.
Keep those friends close. Be brave in a different way than you are trying to be brave now. Let your true self shine – and that INCLUDES your brunette hair for the love of all that is holy!
Sincerely,
27 year old you
Monday, May 31, 2010
Today
Today I danced with a hundred-year-old man in front of dozens of strangers. He asked me to promise that I'd never forget him. I won't.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tsss sss sss
I don't love to just stare at Dan while he's sleeping... I love to EXPLOIT him! And also to share with you the terror that is sharing a bed with a man who sleeps with his eyes partially open.
It's hard to see in these pics, but his eyes are open in all of them except for one. Look for the glint of the pupil!
It's hard to see in these pics, but his eyes are open in all of them except for one. Look for the glint of the pupil!
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Making any Place "Home Sweet Home"
Dan and I have moved 10 times in 4 years. We've lived in Washington State, several cities in California, Minnesota, and Utah, from luxery apartments to basement apartments to apartments whereupon our first day of moving in we found an official letter on our door that read, "The serial rapist terrorizing our apartment complex has not yet been caught..." and then detailing his description, the latest person he assaulted (an elderly woman), and warning us of ways to stay catious (which I translated into "stay indoors all day with the blinds drawn and the doors locked. If you must buy food, starve. If your dog has to urinate, TOO BAD. If you open your door you WILL be raped.") That's how I felt living there, at least.
Moving so much has been both an adventure and a pain in my hASSle! (That's not technically swearing, right? Points for me.) We've experienced the feel of different cities like the lush greenery of Washington, the pristine buzz of Minneapolis, the dry desert beauty of Murrieta, CA, and so on.
We own a home in Lehi, but as it is quite large for the 2 of us (do the math. 1 large house + 1 husband who works + 1 wife who takes care of the home = too much house for Stephanie to clean without plotting ways to hire young children for cheap labor) we are fortunate to rent it out. It's an investment property, not the home we want to have a family and a life in. Currently we are tackling the idea of either buying a condo, or finishing our basement in our Lehi home and turning it into a separate entrance apartment and living there rent free for a few years while we save up to build our custom dream home.
So. In the meantime we have gotten very good at figuring out CHEAP ways to make rental spaces our own. In many rentals you can't paint the walls, so I realized that if I wanted a warm, inviting, colorful space without painting, and even without putting holes in the walls, I could buy lightweight Styrofoam insulating sheets from Home Depot, buy several yards of fabric to wrap around and glue to the sheets, and then get that thick double-sided tape to tape it up on the walls. The result has been turning these ugly-ducklings of rental rooms into..., well, maybe not swans. But definitely geese. Geese are a worthy comparison. Here's the result:
We used to move so much because of Dan's work. However, as Dan has been promoted and chosen a better company to work for, we now have the option of staying in one place for good! No more moving!
Moving so much has been both an adventure and a pain in my hASSle! (That's not technically swearing, right? Points for me.) We've experienced the feel of different cities like the lush greenery of Washington, the pristine buzz of Minneapolis, the dry desert beauty of Murrieta, CA, and so on.
We own a home in Lehi, but as it is quite large for the 2 of us (do the math. 1 large house + 1 husband who works + 1 wife who takes care of the home = too much house for Stephanie to clean without plotting ways to hire young children for cheap labor) we are fortunate to rent it out. It's an investment property, not the home we want to have a family and a life in. Currently we are tackling the idea of either buying a condo, or finishing our basement in our Lehi home and turning it into a separate entrance apartment and living there rent free for a few years while we save up to build our custom dream home.
So. In the meantime we have gotten very good at figuring out CHEAP ways to make rental spaces our own. In many rentals you can't paint the walls, so I realized that if I wanted a warm, inviting, colorful space without painting, and even without putting holes in the walls, I could buy lightweight Styrofoam insulating sheets from Home Depot, buy several yards of fabric to wrap around and glue to the sheets, and then get that thick double-sided tape to tape it up on the walls. The result has been turning these ugly-ducklings of rental rooms into..., well, maybe not swans. But definitely geese. Geese are a worthy comparison. Here's the result:
We used to move so much because of Dan's work. However, as Dan has been promoted and chosen a better company to work for, we now have the option of staying in one place for good! No more moving!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Kaitlyn and Todd's Wedding
Few things make me happier than the marriage of a loved one to a well-chosen person. Close seconds are flan and Harry Potter.
Kaitlyn McGuire is now Mrs. Todd Whitcomb, and I couldn't be happier for her! My favorite moments of the day were when the newlyweds kissed (so every other second of the day was my favorite) and when the mother of the Bride, Amy, invited me to stand with her extended family for the formal McGuire family pictures.
Some of my favorite photos from Dan and my wedding are the ones where we are hugging loved ones right after the ceremony. So I took a lot of these for Kaity.
Kaitlyn McGuire is now Mrs. Todd Whitcomb, and I couldn't be happier for her! My favorite moments of the day were when the newlyweds kissed (so every other second of the day was my favorite) and when the mother of the Bride, Amy, invited me to stand with her extended family for the formal McGuire family pictures.
Some of my favorite photos from Dan and my wedding are the ones where we are hugging loved ones right after the ceremony. So I took a lot of these for Kaity.
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