on reading

Curtis made a resolution to start reading more. So I've been trying to throw books at him that I think he might like. The trouble is, I can't let him alone once he starts reading. I'm so excited to see how he'll react to certain sentences, paragraphs and chapters that I eventually end up prying the book from his hands and reading it aloud to him. True, I'm ruining it.

So now, once he's at work, I steal the book and read it on my own.

It might have been a mistake to pull out Ray Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" in the dead of winter. Its pages ooze warmth and sunshine with lists of summer rites of passage like walking barefoot and mowing the lawn and eating Eskimo Pies on a screened-in front porch. If there was ever a book that made you want to be a kid again, and roll down a big hill covered in green grass, this is the one. It's big on both imagination and sentiment.

Last night, at about 2:30 a.m., I was still awake. Couldn't sleep. So I pulled out "Dandelion Wine," and the next thing I know, tears are streaming down my face, unexpectedly. I have a special place in my heart for old people--I love their stories, that they are, in fact, time capsules on legs, their resources waiting/wanting to be tapped .

The book explores the relationship between the very young and very old. Both vulnerable, here's what happens when the very innocent and very experienced go head to head, and for some reason or another, it wrenched at my heart:

Mrs. Bentley was a saver. She saved tickets, old theatre programs, bits of lace, scarves, rail transfers; all the tags and tokens of existence.
"I've a stack of records," she often said. "Here's Caruso. That was in 1916, in New York; I was sixty and John was still alive. Here's June Moon, 1924, I think, right after John died."
That was the huge regret of her life, in a way. The one thing she had most enjoyed touching and listening to and looking at she hadn't saved. John was far out in the meadow country, dated and boxed and hidden under grasses, and nothing remained of him but his high silk hat and his cane and his good suit in the closet. So much of the rest of him had been devoured by moths.
But what she could keep she had kept. Her pink-flowered dresses crushed among moth balls in vast black trucks, and cut-glass dishes from her childhood--she had brought them all when she moved to this town five years ago....
The thing about the children happened in the middle of summer. Mrs. Bentley, coming out to water the ivy upon the front porch, saw two cool-colored sprawling girls and a small boy laying on her lawn, enjoying the immense prickling of the grass....

(Then they introduce themselves. Mrs. Bentley says she used to be called "Helen" and the children don't believe her because they don't believe that old ladies have first names, that they were ever children at all. One little girl, Jane, calls Mrs. Bentley a "fibber." She can't wrap her head around the concept that someone so ancient could have once been just like her. Mrs. Bentley shows a picture of a blonde little girl with curls and perfect lips. They don't believe that it's her, it must be some other little girl. She says she can show a marriage certificate; her husband thought she was amazing at age 22. That won't do either, the children say. She must get someone to vouch for her, someone who saw her as a little girl. But Mrs. Bentley can't, all the witnesses are already dead. The trio depart and leave Mrs. Bentley a little crushed. She then recalls this conversation with her husband:)

"My dear, you will never understand time, will you? You're always trying to be the things you were, instead of the person you are tonight. Why do you save those ticket stubs and theater programs? They'll only hurt you later. Throw them away, my dear."
But Mrs. Bentley had stubbornly kept them.
"It won't work," Mr. Bentley continued. "No matter how hard you try to be what you once were, you can only be what you are here and now. Time hypnotizes. When you're nine, you'll think you've always been nine years old and will always be. When you're thirty, it seems you've alway been balanced there on that bright rim of middle life. And then when you turn seventy, you are always and forever seventy.You're in the present, you're trapped in a young now or an old now, but there is no other now to be seen."

(And later....)

The morning was bright and green, and there at her door, bumping softly on the screen, were the two girls ... She led them down the hall to the library.
"Take this." She gave Jane the dress in which she had played the mandarin's daughter at fifteen. "And this, and this." A kaleidoscope, a magnifying glass. "Pick anything you want," said Mrs. Bentley, "Books, skates, dolls, everything--they're yours."
"Ours?"
"Only yours."
At last they were good friends....
"How old are you Mrs. Bentley?"
"Seventy-two."
"How old were you fifty years ago?"
"Seventy-two."
"You weren't ever young, were you, and never wore ribbons or dresses like these?"
"No."
"Have you got a first name?"
"My name is Mrs. Bentley."
"And never were pretty?"
"Never."
"Never in a million trillion years?" The two girls would bend toward the old lady, and wait in the pressed silence of four o'clock on a summer afternoon.
"Never," said Mrs. Bentley, "in a million trillion years."

I don't quite know what I'm supposed to make of Mrs. Bentley's shift in mindset, or what I'm supposed to take from Mr. Bentley's advice. He has a point, sure, but aren't all the things we're living out and experiencing shaping who we are at 26, 40 and 70? I can't really imagine my parents at my age, but I can sure as hell recall what it was like to be in the fourth grade.

I'm no saver of tactile things, but my head is littered with memories that I think make me who I am. I don't know if Mrs. Bentley's actions were intended to indulge the children, or if it's her way of beginning to let go--some sort of release, but it pained me.

Though the children meant no harm, it doesn't seem right for anybody, especially somebody old, to have to voluntarily erase their history, their legacy--especially their childhood. If there is one thing every human should be entitled to, it's to live a vibrant and adventure-filled adolescence and then memorialize those golden, sun-spotted days by telling everyone about it. If they want to.

100 things about me

1. I used to be ashamed of my freckles; now I love them. 2. I dance alone in my house.
3. I get frustrated easily. 4. I judge too quickly and hate myself for it.
5. I can't fall asleep without one foot touching my husband.
6. I love to shop for furniture that I don't need.
7. I blog when I truly don't have time to and it causes problems.
8. I like Mt. Dew, preferably in a Gulp-sized cup, not Big Gulp
9. I only wash my hair twice a week.
10. I bite my fingernails and it really embarrasses me.
11. I embarrass very easily; I blush at the drop of a hat.
12. I have more sets of dishes than can fit in my cupboards.
13. I second guess myself a lot. 14. I used to collect pencils as a kid.
15. I teach primary and it's hard for me. 16. I am the youngest of four girls.
17. My sisters are my best friends. 18. I'm very attached to my family.
19. I feel most alive when I think of childhood. 20. I want to live on a ranch.
21. I like to listen to music alone. 22. I am faithful.
23. I'm a clotheshorse on a budget, and pretty OK at it.
24. I wish I lived in London. 25. I'm very prone to feeling inferior.
26. I'm five feet tall (small).
27. My feet are a size five too. 28. I love watching "Raising Arizona" with my family.
29. I love our condo: I have a design-conscious husband.
30. I like my butt. 31. I love vinegar. 32. I hate sushi. 33. I lived in Hawaii.
34. I lived in London. 35. I lived in D.C. 36. I am very indecisive.
37. I am the worst procrastinator. 38. I'm protective.
39. I am the ultimate night owl; I don't remember the last time I went to bed before midnight.
40. I don't like how young I look. 41. I like my raspy voice. 42. I make a mean pork loin.
43. I like to watch my husband sleep.
44. Sleeping in is heaven. 45. I am scared but love challenges.
46. I love being a first-time aunt. 47. I'm honest, most of the time.
48. I really love "The OC." It's not a joke or exaggeration.
49. I cry too easily, but never in public. 50. Friends are very important to me.
51. I always read a little, though not as much as I would like.
52. I'm sad that I don't journal anymore. 53. Summer nights make me happy.
54. I never feel good enough. 55. I like cake out of the box. 56. I love having a garage.
57. I like plants and flowers and living things.
58. I love spending time with my friends without their husbands.
59. I am impatient, but late.
60. I carry three bags with me almost all of the time.
61. I am worse at crocheting than my husband. 62. I love roadtrips.
63. I get my feelings hurt a little easily, but never let on.
64. I'm really good at Dr. Mario; I won second place in a "championship."
65. I was on drill team. 66. I hate doing my hair. 67. I like babies.
68. I love to cuddle with my dog, Miss Famous. 69. I judge books by their covers.
70. Art museums make me feel good. 71. I am often paralyzed by inspiration.
72. I really like Brussels sprouts. 73. I think I have an OK singing voice.
74. I wish I could read music. 75. I love to travel more than anything. With Curtis.
76. I wouldn't mind being just a little famous. 77. I have a hard time saying what I mean.
78. I like zombies.
79. I've reverted to buying singles instead of albums and am not proud of it.
80. I love prints and patterns and textiles.
81. I like convenient stores.
82. I check my e-mail really, really frequently.
83. My laptop is attached to my hip.
84. I love sample sales (or the idea of them). 85. I prefer color to black-and-white.
86. I love the way I feel when I'm in a small town.
87. I like how I look best when I'm blonde. 88. My middle name is Brighton.
89. I'm jealous of Jamie's brain. 90. I have a soft spot for Curtis.
91. I like to feel important in and a part of other people's lives.
92. I prefer Blimpie to Subway.
93. I order Happy Meals at McDonalds about once every two months. With a cheeseburger.
94. I want to work for a glossy-papered magazine.
95. I'm always taking to new projects that I never finish.
96. I love to shop.
97. I never stop counting my blessings. 98. I love to give gifts, but not wrap them.
99. I prefer cinnamon bears to chocolate.
100. I love to talk to my grandparents about their lives.

Now it's your turn.

greener grass

I'm crazy about this so blue/green roadside image from a favorite artist who "uses lack of training as [her] guide." I like the idea--that formal training can form boundaries, while raw inhibition can become the perfect "skill" in finding/exposing undiscovered beauty.

I believe in her philosophy, not only because it gives an unseasoned wannabe photographer like me some needed confidence, but also because I've seen so many friends prove their writing prowess sans English or Journalism degrees. There's something to be said for simple, amateurish passion and the ability to capture the tone and wit of the everyday person.

I also like that she, like me, takes images from the road. Collecting speeding-by car-trip images has become one of my favorite pastimes, and I often find myself wanting to go on a drive ... anywhere ... just so I can create colorful frames. I'm especially nuts about farms and sprinklers-on-wheels, as many of you know.

In 2007, I hope to shoot many a green field, and maybe even some white ones. Now if I could just find some fog in Utah ... I don't think inversion counts.

sounds like christmas

Let the holidays begin! Am finally ready, as evidenced by my prematurely posted December soundtrack. I couldn't talk Curtis into getting our Christmas tree tonight; he just wasn't up for it. I could, however, enjoy a pleasant mix of my favorite December-ish tunes (a list that will undoubtedly grow as the season matures), and draw a plan for where that soon-to-be-purchased, pleasant-smelling pine can makes its home, and in turn, turn our house into a home.

Some songs I like because the light, airy quality seems appropriate for an early-winter snowstorm--the kind of quiet night where you look out the window into your courtyard, streetway, or parking lot (me, alas) and see flakes gathering lazily beneath the beam of a lightpost. (Imogen Heap: Just For Now.)

Others make we want to live, even in dreaded winter--pull on my Sorels, carve snow angels, dip my tongue in a handful of powder--when my body and its unpleasant temperature tell me I'd be better off trading in for a four-month hibernation. (Feist: Mushaboom. First heard in December 2005. Funny how a song can help connect the dots in the unorganized pattern of experiences that shape our lives.)

And then there's the holiday songs, melodies without which the season just wouldn't be complete: They display the universal comfort that accompanies each of us throughout December and keeps us warm and willing to endure hour-long shopping lines, too many uncomfortable office parties and traffic jams brought on by white-outs. They hold the stuff we can't quite put our mittened fingers on--you know, that really good Christmas Eve feeling that we carry in our pockets throughout the month, the kind of feelings that would make us better people if we could tuck them into bed with us every night throughout the year. (Low: Just Like Christmas, and The Raveonettes: The Christmas Song)

Here's to Christmas, and an onslaught of holiday soundtracks, the undying popularity of which has been proven and re-proven with albums by Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond. Bless their hearts.

so tired, so excited

Finally, my much-needed vacation has arrived. I've been scrambling to carry out all those things you have to carry out prior to departure ... killing myself to get five-days' worth of work done in two, meeting deadlines that will expire while I'm out, finding a substitute for my class (someone will call me back, right?), setting up appointments that will follow my return, wrapping up monthly HOA duties and attending last-minute meetings, all the while praying, fasting, and figuring out how in the world I want to respond to an out-of-the-blue job offer. And that's just the beginning.

There's the household chores/goals: leave house clean, get laundry done, locate suitcases (where have they wandered off to?--a sure sign that we haven't used them in far too long), print itineraries, check-in online, set up DVR to record The Office, OC, and Gray's (a must), take out garbage, charge camera battery, send birthday cards, use all veggies in fridge for dinner tonight ... what am I forgetting? I'm already overwhelmed and I haven't even started the hassle that is packing your suitcases. I'm destined to forget something, everything. Am I the only wife that is responsible for remembering her husband's toothbrush?

Somehow, in the whirlwind of it all, I find time to blog. It's one hundred percent true that you make time for the things you want to do. My blog is one hundred percent fun (for me): it's just me being me, and for that reason, because there are no expectations, it alleviates the stress that builds up like a load of bricks on my weakling of a back. Maybe I don't even have reason to be stressed. Curtis tells me I get stressed too easily for my age. I think Mom and sisters would agree.

This time, it's not a massage I'm after. I'm living for visions of Max's round, five-month-old cheeks; my reunion with Jamie who I miss so much it hurts; me trying to like the buttery taste of Lobster (again); baking a pumpkin pie in a Boston condo on a rainy day with all four sisters and brothers-in-law and Mom and Dad; in true little-sister fashion, Lane reading a scary short story to me before bed like she did during our last Thanksgiving sleepover in New York, and me rampaging H&M and whatever little boutiques I happen upon--all in the company of Curtis, the best traveling companion.

There's also the Revolutionary War historical sites (The Red Coats are coming! Which coat should I bring?); the cemeteries (weird but true: I've got a thing for old cemeteries; the print impressions on an antiquated headstone excite/ignite me); the opportunity to rub shoulders with smarties from MIT and Harvard in Faneuil Hall, and the rare chance to forget for FIVE WHOLE DAYS about the matters at home needing attention.

There are the things you regrettably let slide--crocheted beanie with cute owl applique for Max remains unfinished, shoepeg corn for Ashley remains unpurchased, new set of contacts remain un-ordered and un-picked up. It might be glasses for me. Oh well. We're off. I can't wait to see this aerial view of Boston tomorrow. Hoping one of us gets a window seat.

the chic thing to do

I love designer David Netto's words in this month's issue of Domino; aside from cheap-chic finds, the essays are always my favorite part of a magazine. I liked this one in particular: the style guru credits his super savvy design sense to his fashion-indifferent mother, and has such a nice way of putting it.

"But ultimately the world I've found has everything to do with her, because without great character, style is nothing. Without a sense of humor, style is an empty gesture. And without kindness, style is not a gift. These are the things she taught me, and these are the reasons, as much as any instinct I was born with, that I am happy ... because the chic thing is to not care too much."

loving voc

When Lane was home for Christmas last year, she, Jamie, Curtis and I went hogwild on "Voc."

It would all start in the kitchen, where we'd construct a tower of "super nachos"--featuring Jamie's tasty salsa, medium cheddar cheese, hint-of-lime tortilla chips, diced chilis, and more medium cheddar cheese--or in the basement, where the coffee table quickly filled with other junk like chocolate cinni bears and Coca-Cola: all in preparation for a night (typically four hours, at least) of "Voc."

During prep time, substantial topics of conversation included Summer's unrealistic (or wasn't it?) transition from ditsy cheerleader-type to edgy fashionista with immaculate vocab; wishing Seth could come over and hang out with us (we never wanted a little brother ... until now; actually, until Jer); or Marissa's inability to finish a conversation like a normal human being: "If she storms out one more time..."

It was during one of these thought-provoking discussions that Dad inquired, "What's 'Voc' anyway?"

"What's what?" we asked.

"Voc."

Funny how a vowel sound changes depending on whether it's followed by a consonant or fellow vowel. You can't say, "The OC." Instead, without realizing it, you say, "Thee OC." Or is it just us?

Dad, in classic hard-of-hearing fashion, mistook "Thee" for "V" and brought the "O" and "C" together like an acronym: Voc. An endearing miscommunication, it sort of stuck.

Here are the top ten reasons I still pine for "Voc," even after Marissa's tragic parting:

10. Summer, Taylor and Kaitlin combined wear less eyeliner than one “Laguna Beach” babe, and that same combination could never concoct the heartlessness of a single Laguna meanie.
9. As Immi said, “They’re beautiful people living in a beautiful place who happen to have moral problems.”
8. I can’t get too annoyed by it: “The OC” doesn’t take itself to seriously, so I can't either.
7. I get to live in dreamy Orange County for at least one hour every week, be 16 again and have Sandy Cohen as my father figure ... and all the clothes I can handle.
6. Classic one-liners, like this: “I'll see your fugitive former flame and raise you a lesbian daughter.”
5. Soap-opera-only one-liners, like this: “The Siegfried’s donated a pool and a field and their son only smoked pot. Our daughter shot someone. We have to at least give them a hundred grand.”
4. Self-conscious one-liners, like this: “How much vomit is that? Like the little girl in the Sixth Sense or the big fat guy in Monty Pithon?”
3. Cutest clothes on TV, hands down. I even find myself coveting some of Summer's now-hippie attire.
2. No other show uses music like “The OC” does. Not one. I was crushed when I heard Deathcab on Season Two (when I first started watching) but soon discovered that my meager music knowledge could never compare to the prowess of "OC" soundscapers, so I was like, “If you can’t beat them, join them,” or however that saying goes.
1. I can relate to just about every character on the show--even JuJu--which means I can cry with just about every character. And that makes it all just a little bit real.

please, be kind

I've noticed as of late that a few friends have made direct links to my blog from theirs. The first sighting of my linked name caused immediate panic and a resulting upset stomach: "Oh no, I've gone public."

One word describes my initial feeling on the matter: Yikes. It's flattering and fun, though isn't it just a bit terrifying? I mean, someone I don't even know, or someone who doesn't like me, or someone who broke my heart or someone who fired me could be reading this entry right now, as we speak ... err, I mean, as I write, or really, as you read.

Blogging. It's scary and addictive and sort of makes you sound totally self-obsessed. But what Gen X/Yer isn't a little? I successfully avoided MySpace like the plague; I'm not out to get a friends list with numbers in the zillions, hook up with indie musicians or become the latest eye candy a web predator. Rather, I just wanted to stay in touch--sound off a little, here and there.

I'm finally getting over the "publicity scare," thanks to those same friends. Duh, Ali, this is what a blog is about. Welcome to 2006. You've got to admit, though, that looking at someone's blog is a little like peeping in their windows or finding their journal--without having to ever risk being caught. And it's perfectly cool for me to do that to someone else, but for my privacy to be in violation? That's another story.

For someone who's used to the occasional byline, I'm still incredibly self conscious. I'm hard on myself. So if you're here as a visitor, please be kind. Take it all with a grain of salt ... or at least with a smile. And leave a comment, if you will. I like to know you're there.

counting my victories

On Wednesday, I decided to treat myself to a cheap and delicious veggie burrito at Taco Time (substitute black beans, hold the sour cream). As I took my first bite into the dry, wheat tortilla and glanced around at my mall rat surroundings, I felt myself squeezed in the arms of unwelcome familiarity.

Nearly three years ago, Gateway's Taco Time was my go-to break haven when I was stuck in the middle of an eight-hour shift, cash-strapped and doing my best to get other people to buy all the things I wanted so badly at Anthropologie but personally couldn't afford. Here I was again. I take two step forward; I take two steps back.

Earlier that day, I had come to the office, only to find that my first-ever story was published in the Tribune--even teased on the home page. Victory at last! This is what I had been waiting (and doing grunt work) for. Right?

Well, the irony of it all came down to a three-dollar meal with hard rice and bad salsa: Shouldn't I have upgraded to Z Tejas or The Dodo by now? There I was, three years after my sartorial selling career: degree under belt, internships carried out, full-time editor position completed, bylines in five local publications --a dream come true!--but still pulling down the same can-only-afford Taco Time wages. And Anthropologie? Let's not even go there. I had even given up my killer discount. The getting-there cycle of a would-be writer is vicious. Talk about some mean deja vu.

It is in times like these that one fully gives in to dwelling on "cons"--also called counting your losses. It took some serious effort to turn my attention to the forward-moving strides I've made. Like I said, I have, in fact, graduated, secured a position in a practically impossible field, and found that some local editors think I'm pretty OK at what I do. Yes, I am patting myself on the back but that's what I need right now.

As such, the pros and cons have weighed in, and here is the loss/win report for the week of Oct. 30-Nov. 3, 2006:

Losses:

• Made one batch of terrible pumpkin cookies, after going back to the store to get crucial pumpkin ingredient only to upset stressed-out, tired, starving husband when hadn't even started making dinner and wouldn't go out.
• House is (still) under construction.
• Beloved free wireless connection became security-enabled, thus making it difficult to complete work, respond to e-mails and update blog which....
• After opening on Mom's computer, discovered was PEACH-themed rather than the cute, '80s-inspired, PINK-on-gray look desired; actually more suited to Nan Sibbett.
• Discovered two favorite bad shows, "The OC" and "Grey's Anatomy," play on the same night at the same time.

Wins:

• Made one batch of really good pumpkin cookies. (Mom helped with the frosting, this time, but they came from the same batter. Go figure.)
• Took broken iPod in only to have it replaced with a brand-new one.
• As aformentioned, had first story printed in pretty big newspaper.
• Am gaining ground with other bylines in said newspaper.
• Made perfect white chicken chili on Halloween and enjoyed watching "Halloween Resurrection."
• Zack just called to say he hooked us up with a sweet wireless connection.
• Discovered two favorite bad shows, "The OC" and "Grey's Anatomy" play on the same night, and DVR allows you to record two shows at once.

The outcome: The victories always win. They have to.

'ali' starring kirsten dunst

Let's get things straight: I don't mean "Ali" as in Muhammad--didn't Jamie Foxx or Will Smith already do that? I'm talking "Ali Smith"--no, not the famous writer; we're just dealing with little ol' me. If I ever get around to writing that million-dollar screenplay, starting up that gone-global scrub business or launching my own boutique that somehow goes online, then international, and proceeds to the level of world domination, perhaps a movie will be made about me. Indeed, it's likely that none of the above will happen. It would be more interesting to make (another) movie about a normal girl. And that's what I am.

My sister once asked me what actress I would like to play me in my very own movie. I said, "Me." She said that was breaking the rules. When I asked her who she would choose, she said Rachel Weisz, and I immediately remarked that she couldn't do that because Rachel Weisz would already be playing me in my movie. To be fair, she dibsed Rachel first ... and after much thought and deliberation, I think I've made my own pick.

I love Kirsten. Look how cute she is. After I saw these photos in Teen Vogue--which I buy because I think the featured clothing will be cheaper; it isn't--I was ready to go blonde and get extensions. Seriously! In reality, I'm already on my way: I'm into the month's-long process of chemically lightening my chemically dyed hair and I've reached the past-my-shoulders length landmark. As a side note, isn't that blue Chloe frock to die for?

All said, should that blockbuster ever be produced after I've died a premature death or when something else happens of equally epic or tragic proportions, now you all know who I think would best honor me. Actually, not all said. I know she smokes, is a little dingy ("g" sound as in "girl") and has the annoying habit of name-dropping the latest music artist in every public interview she has. But, she's still appealing ... and one heck of an actress. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I heart Kirsten. (And no, I haven't seen "Marie Antoinette" yet and no, I will not let it change my opinion of her.)

What I'm listening to: My Love/Justin Timberlake (Kirsten would so disapprove.)

red balloon, memory, imagination

Remember this? Mmm ... I love this movie. It so perfectly and completely reflects the huge imagination and innocence that most of us can't quite hold onto as we "fall over the edge," as Holden Caulfield would say, into adulthood.

It's a film that transports me to the days of watching Sesame Street on oversized, orange-checked pillows and dancing to Michael Jackson in the living room of our old house--the "ooows!" and "he-hees" of which flowed from a wallfull of then-high tech audio equipment that lit-up green and had levers that, like our round, nimble bodies, bounced with each rhythmic change in treble.

Lamorisse's "Le Ballon Rouge" has become a memory all my own and it floats (no pun intended) in some synaptic vescicle in my brain among early recollections of stealing bananas from the island in Mom's country kitchen and spinning lettuce on the deck at Grandma's house, my knees worn by the oudoor carpet with its yellow-and-orange striping (wasn't it orange and yellow, and does it matter?).

In an art imitating reality moment, or reality imitating art memory, I liken myself to young Amelie Poulain, taking snapshots of cotton rabbits in the sky. Only rather than watching the news to see what harm I had caused in the world that day, I'm camped-out in Mom's walk-in closet, rummaging through her "treasure box"--a chest of colorful beads, feathers and weaved jewelry she collected while teaching English on a reservation in New Mexico before she met Dad. I've forgotten why I'm there--that I'm in danger of her discovering what I have done to Lane and Ashley--and completely transfixed by the wonders I hold in my chubby hands.

Funny how one memory can unleash another. Like tracing the chain of a long conversation, I had figure out why I was in the closet in the first place--because I had "lashed" out on my two eldest sisters: when they made fun, I grabbed Barbie, my best friend, and gripped her flowing, blonde hair to whip her long legs against my sisters' biceps and forearms, leaving long, parallel welts on their pink skin.

People always say there is something childish about me. Maybe it's the round face, the freckles, the small stature. Though it has plagued my attempt at a professional life, I have to admit that the likeness might not be limited to something physical. It's there inside me--that desire to live like a kid: to imagine, to play, to live in color (my childhood was a colorful one--marked by green, Utah grass; big, blue Montana skies; orange Tang; and a mint-green scooter). My resistance to grow up was evidenced early on by another resistance to training bras.

I find myself completely jealous of Joel and Clementine in "Eternal Sunshine" who get to revisit their childhoods together. My life with Curtis is my dream come true, but as I write this, I think that if I could be anywere, it would be in my old, Laura Ashley bedroom atop the garage where Jamie and I scooted our twin beds together so I could hold her hand while I fell asleep.

thea and me

I read a passage from Willa Cather's "The Song of The Lark" a couple days ago and found complete affinity--a true romance--with Thea Kronborg, a young Swedish girl whose family settled in the Colorado countryside. She is a character whose feelings mirror my own so completely, that I wonder if Cather had some foreknowledge of my arrival on this earth nearly one hundred years later, and if she wrote this passage just for me.

Fortunately, I find my own real-life Thea in my sister Lane who loves the stories lost and found in the western landscape as much as I do. I had my own plains experience with her this summer, as we forged through a beautiful-but-no-longer-wild stretch of road (if you don't count some scary gas n' sips) in southern Wyoming. The above picture of Martin's Cove was taken from our more modern wagon.

This is Cather's account of Thea's visit to Wyoming, near Laramie, where "the wagon-trails of the Forty-niners and the Mormons were still visible." Every once in a while, I read a passage so fitting and accurate, it both paralyzes and inspires me. This is one of those that simultatnouesly reminds me why I write and makes me question why I even try. So goes the constant ebb and flow of self-doubt and passion that lie at the crux of trying to translate one's feelings into words. Cather's work explains clearly and plainly my own thoughts, and does it so much better than I could ever hope to.

"The road they followed was a wild and beautiful one. It led up and up, by granite rocks and stunted pines, around deep ravines and echoing gorges. The top of the ridge, when they reached it, was a great flat plain, strewn with white boulders, with the winds howling over it. There was not one trail, as Thea had expected; there were a score; deep furrows, cut in the earth by heavy wagon wheels, and now grown over with dry, whitish grass. The furrows ran side by side; when one trail had been worn too deep, the next party abandoned it and made a new trail to the right or left. They were, indeed, only old wagon ruts, running east and west, and grown over with grass. But as Thea ran about among the white stones, her skirts blowing this way and that, the wind brought to her eyes tears that might have come anyway. The old rancher picked up an iron ox-shoe from one of the furrows and gave it to her for a keepsake. To the west one could see range after range of blue mountains, and at last the snowy range, with its white, windy peaks, the clouds caught here and there on their spurs. Again and again, Thea had to hide her face from the cold for a moment. The wind never slept on this plain, the old man said. Every little while eagles flew over.

"Coming up from Laramie, the old man had told them that he was in Brownsville, Nebraska, when the first telegraph wires were put across the Missouri River, and that the first message that ever crossed the river was "Westward the course of Empire takes its way" ... Thea remembered that message when she sighted down the wagon tracks toward the blue mountains. She told herself that she would never, never forget it. The spirit of human courage seemed to live up there with the eagles."

longing to stray

Recognize these? Of course you do. I wear them all the time. They've been my go-to gals for nearly a year and a half. I picked these up on a whim at the Kenneth Cole outlet store in Austin, but soon found that they were just the shoe I was in need of: great with jeans, shorts, slacks, pencil skirts ... you name it. After being offered a new job (albeit a low-paying one) I talked Curtis into letting me buy some new kicks. He agreed, but only on the condition that the new pair adequately fill the same niche these do--something flat, slightly pointy, and preferably suede leather in a fun color.

So, on Saturday we headed to the mall and visited every shoe store and shoe department: Nordstrom, Macy's, Dillard's, JMR, Lolabella, Aldo, Bakers, Journeys ... what am I forgetting? It seems as though once you finally get to buy something new, there's nothing to be bought. Maybe it's the pressure. Either way, my "glass slipper" hasn't emerged. If anyone has any leads for me--something in the $40 to $70 range, let me know? Let's face it, you'd all be doing yourselves a favor.

Together, we can say sayonara to these vagabonds! And this time, for good.

okay, okay

Requests have been made and I finally, painfully oblige.

Click on the following links and enjoy (dare I say?) some of my stories on fashion, shopping, home decor, etc. Sorry they’re mostly sans artwork or coupled with really bad artwork--not my doing. Nevertheless, I give you:

Belt It Up.
Hello, Sunshine.
Easy on the Eyes.
Get Well-Linked.
The Skinny on Skinny Jeans.
Design on a Dorm.
I Tote, Therefore I Am.