Dear Dolli

Meeting the Babes: Lola

2012-01-30T13:20:00.000-07:00

Today I've been thinking about Lola's cheeks. Sasha is very proud of Lola's cheeks, and so am I.
I mean, look at this.

Absolutely a beautiful child.

Family Pictures

2012-01-28T08:32:00.000-07:00

Over Christmas break we had our family pictures taken. The experience was not wholly what it could have been, unfortunately, as I had been throwing up violently the day before. Standing outside in heels was extremely difficult for me-- but boy am I glad I did! I am perhaps even more pasty white than usual, but it's so fun to have new family pictures since we have seven- SEVEN!- new additions to the family.

I love my family so much. They're a pretty fun bunch.

Wednesday Winston: Cuppa

2012-01-25T08:36:00.000-07:00

He would if he could.

Wednesday Winston: He sleeps on a pillow. My pillow.

2012-01-18T22:52:00.001-07:00

Nearly every day I come home to this.

When will it stop?

Dream Cake

2012-01-18T13:53:00.001-07:00

I once had a dream that I was eating a piece of chocolate cake.

That's boring, you're probably thinking, why are you telling us this nonsense?

Because.
It's amazing how our brains can fabricate things; they pull from thin air experiences that we have never truly felt- flying, driving a motorcycle or salsa dancing- and manifest them in sensory experiences so intensely real that we can remember how they feel hours, days, or even years after we dream them.

In all other circumstances I would agree with you. Chocolate cake is not an exciting topic for a dream. Jason has dreams where he's running from the mafia or shooting machine guns. I dream about eating. But if you had tasted this dream cake, you too would be reflecting on it with greedy relish. It was cake that could never grace the mortal Earth, like ambrosia. It was cake that my brain had fabricated just for my taste buds-- rich, luxurious, fluffy as air, fresh as a spring morning and delightful to the very end.
I woke up in a pool of my own saliva.
Hmmm... chocolate cake! I thought as I manically searched our kitchen cupboards for the object that haunted my dreams. While the malaise of the flavor still clung to my tongue, my breakfast tasted like cardboard in my mouth and I could NOT GET OVER THAT CAKE! It reminded me of that time in eighth grade when I had a dream I kissed the object of my boy crush for the first time ever. Wow, what a kiss! I couldn't believe how blissful, how beautiful, how absolutely engrossing and utterly perfect that kiss was. When I woke, I had a brand new perspective on kissing-- I couldn't wait for it to happen. Later, when I kissed that person FOR REAL, my first thought was this is weird and then this is nothing like my dream! A disappointment? Perhaps. But in my heart I think I knew that the dream kiss was not a real kiss, just like my dream cake-- which felt and tasted so magically real-- was nothing but a figment of my mind.
How is it that my brain can take something simple and make it even better than the real thing?
Sometimes the human mind frightens me.
But then I think of the chocolate cake that I ate once in my dreams- the most delicious cake imaginable- and the swooping feeling in my stomach as I'm lifted off my feet and fly high into the sky, and I close my eyes, letting the wisdom of my dreaming mind take over.

Tootles.

2012-01-16T14:02:00.001-07:00

This is my nephew, Silas.
Isn't he beautiful?
When I am having a bad day, all I have to do is take a look at this,

Or this,

or this,

and everything is instantly better.

He really is that precious.

The Darker Side of Christmas: What Happened to Winston.

2012-01-05T09:27:00.002-07:00

I constantly fear for all things pertaining to Winston.
There have been late nights when I have stayed awake, bundled in my robe and slippers, calling shrilly and in vain for him to come inside. I toss and turn in the night, imagining the claws on his scratching post to be in fact claws on my couch, my throw pillows, or my duvet cover. I imagine every hiccup and every cough to be an inevitable sign that he will throw up on the kitchen floor-- or worse yet, the carpet. I imagine him being struck by a passing car and feebly dragging himself to the gutter where he cries piteously for help that won't come because I am too preoccupied with worrying about him to hear.
Once, in the middle of the night, our knife block fell from a shelf and created a stupendous crashing sound. Winston, who was sleeping next to my hand, jumped with fright at the noise. Jason awoke with a start. I sat bolt upright and screamed accusingly in my semiconscious and paranoid state, "WINSTON!!!! BAD CAT!" There were several confused moments when Jason looked at me like I was crazy, Winston looked at Jason with an expression that might have said "save me!" and I glowered at Winston, wondering how he could have jumped onto the high shelf in the kitchen, knocked the knife block over and returned to a relaxed sleeping position on our bed before it hit the ground.
This is my problem. My anxiety is completely unjustified. Winston is not a malicious animal. He's never had an accident. He rarely scratches anything he's not supposed to. He no longer is interested in his poop. He's just a lazy, laid back, easy going cat. My fear has never been warranted.
Until now.
Over the period of five days that we were visiting my parents last week, we left Winston outside with plenty of food and water and a very luxurious heated cat house (Thank you, Dad!). I was nervous but reassured. I mean.... he has a heated house. "He'll be fine," Jason said. "Yes," I would reply, unable to shake off the stories I'd heard of crazy people torturing lonely cats.
We returned from Christmas vacation to a missing Winston.The minute I stepped out of the car and there was no jingle jangle from a cat's collar to be heard, alarm bells went off in my head. Jason said, "He's fine. He's probably just wandering around. He'll come back." We unpacked our things. We contemplated dinner. Then a faint meowing came from behind the wall.
It was Winston all right. Scuffling around in there and sounding pretty desperate to get out.
I started to cry.
Here's what we think happened: Somehow, using his ridiculous climbing skills, Winston got into the apartment above us where our landlords sometimes stay when they're in town. Then he was trapped there for a day or two, possibly longer, with no food or water. The soot, however, was inexplicable. He was filthy. Completely gray. Did he try to crawl into the chimney (that is blocked off)? Or roll around on the roof? Or tunnel through the earth and then walk through extremely dense pollution? We may never know. All I know is that I was frantic, and have been terrified for him ever since.

Not the best Christmas for poor Winsty.

The Worst Best Christmas Ever

2012-01-04T09:49:00.000-07:00

Jason and I got sick over our vacation. Very sick.

This wasn't the casual sniffling of wintertime colds, but a particularly violent case of the flu including the things I fear most: throwing up and not being able to gorge myself on Christmas fare. Inexplicably, while tossing and turning in a fevered delirium, my mind would inevitably turn to food-- those chocolate milk runs where boys drink a gallon or so and then try to run a mile, or the red indian lentils simmering on the stove-- and I would beset myself again with a horrendous wave of nausea.

Jason was sick before me and was considerably worse off. His first day of illness was spent in the hospital, where he tried and failed several times to complete a coherent sentence under the influence of morphine. We were quarantined off from the rest of our family. They wore masks and gloves and refused to hug us. No, seriously. They really did. But it got better.

Much better.

There are happy and exciting things happening in Jason's family. There are happy and exciting things happening in mine.

The holidays can hold so many surprises. So many good things, so many bad.

Watching Jason puke his guts out in the Burley Emergency Room was so bad.

Seeing Si smile at me for the first time was so good. Dancing with my sisters with our pants hiked up, watching Mission Impossible from the very front row, laughing, talking late at night-- it was all so, so good.

It seems like I always forget how deeply I love my family until I see them again.

Can't wait for next time.

Wednesday Winston: Fat cat in a little coat.

2011-12-28T01:45:00.000-07:00

The holiday poundage is really starting to take its toll.

Wednesday Winston: Lambkins.

2011-12-21T13:57:00.000-07:00

Here is Winston posing as my cat-stole.

He loves to be serviceable in this way, but only to me.

He knows he looks prettier around my neck than Jason's.

Sorry, Jase.

He ain't no Mrs. Kringle

2011-12-14T14:36:00.000-07:00

He's Mr. Claws.

Wednesday Winston: Our Pipes are Frozen.

2011-12-07T12:40:00.000-07:00

It happened. Two days without water and an indoor temperature of roughly 85 degrees is taking its toll on us.

Who else is ready for this week to be over?

I've been reading...

2011-12-05T12:03:00.000-07:00

Jurassic Park and The Lost World by Michael Crichton.
I liked Jurassic Park. I've read it before and forgotten almost all of it and so decided to give it another try. It was exciting and a little graphic, a perfect expectation in a book filled with carnivorous dinosaurs. By the time I was 3/4 of the way through The Lost World, however, I had grown weary of the raptors slitting open various character's guts with their giant toenails. At times I would read a sentence, pause, and think, "Ew. That was disgusting."

Floating Island by Anne Parrish
This was a gift given to me by Koseli and I absolutely adored it. The story follows a family of dolls and their predicaments and adventures on "Floating Island" after an unfortunate shipwreck. First of all, the story is perfect. The dolls are hilarious (Mr. Doll especially!) and his various illustrations are so cute and ridiculous it made me giggle non-stop. Children, anyone? Read them this book.

Maus by Art Spiegelman
An amazing re-telling of a man's experience in the Holocaust in comic book form. It took me less than two hours to read it, and in that time I couldn't put it down. Absolutely stunning. Read it, if you haven't already.

Black Swan Green, Ghostwritten and Number9 Dream by David Mitchell.
David Mitchell is the master of character and plot switches. Black Swan Green was different than his other novels, though Mr. Mitchell incorporates some of his writing tricks into the plot (i.e. what on Earth is going on?) but successfully creates an astonishingly likable 13 year old boy as the protagonist. It's as embarrassing and heartbreaking as being a teenager again. Actually, more so, as this novel deals with coming of age, divorce, death, love, lust, bullying and integrity all in one smart little package.
Ghostwritten is an earlier novel and all the more astonishing for that. Each chapter is a different story, a different person, a different life, each intricately and surprisingly linked to one another. When I discovered yet another connection, I would think, "Oh my goodness! I can't believe she's her mother!!!!!" like the author had not been the one creating all these connections, but had stumbled across real people who just happened to know each other in the most unexpected ways possible. What's even more astonishing? There is a larger network of Mitchell characters linked from novel to novel. Simple idea? Perhaps. Genius? Absolutely.
Number9 Dream
This book explores the parallels of reality and unreality. It does this without further explanation to the reader, so be warned. The author tricks you often, and after a while, I felt my trust was diminishing. Was what just happened really happening? The first 4 chapters had me properly confused. And then the story fell together beautifully, and I was enchanted, as always.

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Lolita was all at once heartbreaking, hilarious, and entirely creepy. This fact was not helped by the fact that I am daily surrounded by children. Nabokov's writing is absolutely gorgeous, loquacious at times, scintillating and terribly funny. I took it in turns to be revolted by Humbert Humbert, and then understanding, and then completely sorry. It has been called one of the greatest love stories of all time, which seems strange considering its taboo relationship between a grown man and a thirteen year old nymphet. However, as far as Humbert is obsessive, truly devoted and absolutely pathetic when it comes to little Lo, I may make an amendment and say that this could be the greatest story of one-sided love of all time.

The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai
Because of this book, I wish I knew more about Indian-Nepali history. On the bright side, I learned a lot. Achingly beautiful, ceaselessly sad. I finished the book and frantically started rifling through the acknowledgments in the hope that it had not ended. Alienation, family ties, war, romance, the past delicately woven into the present and of course, the ever smiling Mutt, this book was everything that I hoped it would be and more.

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
I love this book. I've read it before, but Jason and I have been listening to the audio version read by Martin Jarvis. Usually when I think of Dickens, I think of his unforgettable characters-- Miss Havisham, the Artful Dodger, Lady Deadlock, Mr. Skimpole, Pickwick, Uriah Heap-- they are unforgettable, of course, because they were formed by Mr. Dickens (and their names!! Such fabulous names). I forget, however, that Great Expectations, while sad, surprising and slightly creepy, is laugh out loud funny. Pip's commentary had me giggling from the beginning, and by the time Wemmick, The Aged and the Pockets came around, I couldn't suppress my laughter.
On another note, Martin Jarvis is fantastic, second only to Jim Dale. And anyone who knows me knows how much I love Jim Dale (POTTAH!!)

Upcoming reviews: People of the Book, Catch-22, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, In Cold Blood, Everything is Illuminated, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Hard Times.

Hem, hem!!

2011-12-03T10:27:00.001-07:00

Dolores Umbridge does approve.

Wenesday Winston: Home again, home again.

2011-11-30T12:44:00.002-07:00

We have recently returned from a fabulous Thanksgiving in Nevada.

And beautiful Lake Tahoe.

And my lovely little niece, Lola.

And Bear, whose every song includes at least one person being run over by a dump truck.

We had so much fun with Sasha and her family, but after the long drive, we were happy to be home. Winston was positively frantic when we arrived, and hasn't stopped squeaking since. He has insisted on sleeping with his cheek pressed against mine, which would be cute if it wasn't so annoying.
Even so, it's nice to know you're missed.

How did you celebrate your Thanksgiving?

Happy First.

2011-11-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

Jason and I celebrated our first anniversary on Sunday.
Since we have been married, it feels like time has been sped up, the days melting into one another imperceptibly. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall-- the seasons have flashed past us. Our accomplishments and achievements, our worry and fear, have all been fed into this growing and strengthening bond. Being married has changed both Jason and me, and both for the better. Together we can learn more, teach more, love more and achieve anything. In the blink of an eye, here we are; together a relatively short time perhaps, but still achieving milestones.

Wednesday Winston: Comfortable.

2011-11-16T13:06:00.001-07:00

No matter where he is or what he is doing, Jason is Winston's seat of choice. In times when the lap is unavailable, his shoulder, chest, or even just a part of the arm or leg will do. I have witnessed Winston sleeping, half his body hanging off the couch, his top half nestled safely between Jason's knees, slumbering peacefully. I have seen the cat stealthily maneuver through piles of homework, mountains of books and mounds of blankets to ultimately curl up, purring, on some part of Jason, and promptly fall asleep. Just last night Winston cuddled up to Jason and wrapped his front legs around Jason's arm, his claws slightly protracted, as if holding him hostage. Whether this is relaxing to Jason or just uncomfortable I don't know. Nevertheless, day after day there they are, the unlikely coupling: the man holding abnormally still for the comfort of the little gray cat nestled by his side.

A Late Wednesday Winston.

2011-11-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, Winsty.

2011-11-07T15:49:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I get nostalgic for baby Winston. He was cute. And evil. But mostly just cute.

He's a lot fatter than he was, but he's still the same kitty, one year later.

Wednesday Winston: Feeling Scholarly

2011-11-02T13:27:00.000-06:00

It's the new side of Wednesday Winston.

Return of Alien Kitty

2011-10-31T12:00:00.000-06:00

Arriving just in time for Halloween.

The Little Russian

2011-10-27T13:37:00.001-06:00

I have always loved Abravenel Hall. The glitter! The gold! The fancy old ladies in black silk dresses! The home of the Utah Symphony!

Jason took me to the symphony on our second date. This pleased me very much, but not as much as it pleased my mother. Never having been particularly partial to "piano banging," (her reference to long-winded instrumental concertos) she was delighted on my behalf that I had finally found someone who would escort me to these concerts, and perhaps appreciate them as much. "How romantic!" she exclaimed over the phone when I told her of my upcoming date, "he must be very sophisticated!" and I knew she was imagining Jason in a suit with a bunch of roses, talking animatedly of the dead classical languages and Pericles.

I love classical music, and my years playing in an orchestra have allowed me a slight familiarity with pieces and composers. I don't pretend to be at the height of musical sophistication. I have only shallowly skimmed the surface of musical depth. When Jason and I attended the symphony last Saturday, (Tchaikovsky's Little Russian) I couldn't even pretend to know the pieces that were played, mostly because none of them are in my Meditation library and I never played them in the Cache Valley Orchestra. And I am one who has, for years, deliberated between Dvorak and Tchaikovsky as my favorite composers. My favorites! And I haven't even heard, let alone know, all their pieces! Pure conceit.
The Little Russian was amazing. And when I say Little Russian, I mean the little Russian man with a short, blonde ponytail who played an astounding concerto on a shiny grand piano in the forefront of the Utah Symphony. There was a good deal of banging that my mother would not appreciate, but his light, airy fingers danced across the keys and my heart swelled, the way it always does when I hear beautiful music. He returned for an encore two.... three... four times. As my dad reflected humorously afterword, "maybe that's how it's done in Russia."
Then that is where they do things right.

Bravo, little Russian pianist! Bravo!

The Great Pumpkin

2011-10-27T11:39:00.000-06:00

Jason and I carved pumpkins last night.
It was my first time ever. And that includes kindergarten through sixth grade and countless single adult activities.
I find that with artistic endeavors I tend to get extremely impatient. In the end, my work inevitably turns into a sloppy mess-- a jumbled tangle of threads, colors spilling out from the lines of my picture. I had Winston in mind before carving this particular pumpkin--a Halloween cat, hissing and spitting with glowing orange eyes-- but when I actually had the thing in hand, I realized with mounting trepidation that it was to be more complicated than I had visualized.
Thus, this.

Which of these do you think is mine? I don't think it's hard to guess. Yes, a child is capable of doing what I have done to this pumpkin, but I was satisfied nevertheless. Satisfied to watch Jason carefully chisel away at his pumpkin for 45 minutes after I had finished mine. Satisfied to see how meticulously he cleared it entirely of debris, and carved out his drawn-on pattern. The result?

A very hard to see but good looking pumpkin.

Frightful Freaks: The Creature from the Black Lagoon

2011-10-26T12:11:00.001-06:00

Scary things are waiting here.

I made another pillow.

2011-10-20T08:20:00.000-06:00

This one has small winged creatures pouring tea into bright floral cups.
It's sloppier than my last pillow. I may have to re-do some stitches.
However...

It has this detailing.

Perfect.

Frightful Freaks: Dexter?

2011-10-19T12:51:00.002-06:00

Born killer.

At last.

2011-10-17T10:17:00.001-06:00

Finally! The moment you've been waiting for (Koseli)... or I have, at least.
A tour of my house.
So fabulous.
I apologize in advance for the poor lighting. These pictures were taken with my phone, so they're not the best.

The Living Room

The red (polygamist??) door.

I wanted to capture the (swinging!) door into the kitchen, but the wood is so dark it is basically nonexistent in these pictures.

Winston knows how to use it. When we try to lock him out of the rest of the house, he always manages to escape through this door.

This mirror would not fit in our car when we drove it home, so I had to sit underneath it and steady the open door with my hands as we drove. It was worth it, I think. Only $40!

Currently our home is a nesting place for fake birds. I'm trying to curb and tame my obsession but I don't know if it's working.

Birds are here, here, here, here and here.

These little pottery barn jars retail at $40 each, and I got them for $10.

The Kitchen

Jason loves Williams and Sonoma's Cooking at Home. He's actually quite a good cook.

Winston loves sitting on the floor and looking melancholy.

My Parisian dessert plates.

We got our champagne glasses from DI (we have yet to use them) and my new favorite? Stemless goblets.

Bedroom #1

My assortment of children's classic literature that is much too dark to see.

My assortment of books facing the wrong way. Jason hates this. I love it.

Our very fluffy bed.

Another exciting DI find! The blue vase. $1.

My fighting bunnies.

We bought this little trunk from the DI for $25 and painted it.

I don't know what will go in here yet, but doubtless it will be something fabulous.

There are french doors going into our bedroom.

Trust me, this picture is prettier in real life.

Bedroom #2

The TV room.

This was supposed to be a "man cave."

It is not even close to being a man cave. See the colors? Sorry Jase.

There are many domed doorways throughout the apartment.

We got this couch from our neighbors. Stole it, in the middle of the night with a dolly.

My little sewing corner.

And all you need to know about the bathroom is this:

The floor! The glorious floor.

And maybe the towels.

You don't want to wake up to this.

2011-10-14T13:55:00.001-06:00

By the end of the week, Winston gets grumpy.

It's time for a break.

Happy weekend, everybody!

Frightful Freaks part II

2011-10-13T09:14:00.000-06:00

In time for Halloween we give you......

VAMPIRE KITTY

He doesn't sparkle in the sunlight, and he certainly isn't beautiful, but he does have some serious-looking teeth.

I've been on the receiving end, I know.

Runaway bunnies

2011-10-11T13:25:00.000-06:00

These pretty little boxwood bunnies are from the jewelry store at which Jason purchased my beautiful ring.

A gift.

He knows how much I love rabbits. All rabbits, of all shapes, sizes and plant life.

They are precious.

I do love them.

Wednesday Winston: So Happy Together.

2011-10-05T12:49:00.002-06:00

Despite everything, we are.

I've been sewing.

2011-10-03T10:54:00.000-06:00

Since I have obtained a sewing machine, I have been practicing my novice 4-H skills from fifth and sixth grade. I'm still a complete amateur, but I am having fun.

I sewed a ruffle on this formerly slightly-too-short skirt.

I finally, finally, finally made my bird pillow officially a pillow. (I have another in the works. Pictures to come indefinitely.)

I even used fancy stitches.

And I didn't sew these but I did order them from anthropologie.com.

Lovely little swans.

Wednesday Winston: See no evil.

2011-09-28T14:44:00.002-06:00

If you're feeling low....

2011-09-21T14:53:00.001-06:00

Just think about this.

My sisters and I have been doing this for as long as I can remember--dressing up, pretending to be someone else--usually our characters morphing into someone a good deal uglier and more decrepit than any of us really are.
I used to own some extremely tight, long underwear-type, red pajama pants with tiny penguins on them that made me look exactly like Tweedledum when I stuffed a pillow down the front. I had long skinny legs and was substantially awkward looking, and Koseli would force me to wear these almost on a daily basis and perform a routine for which I became quite famous in my family. My audience would watch as I would hobble slowly into the dimly lit room, hunched and dejected, with an old blanket thrown like a cape over my back and a purple parasol that I used as a cane in my hand. Sad music would be playing, Then, on cue, Koseli would turn up the music and flash the lights as the song took a sudden an unexpectedly raucous turn. I would swing my blanket-cape over my head and dance-- still hunchbacked-- until Koseli almost peed her pants from laughing. We called it 'the hunchy dance,' or something to that effect.
I know for a fact that it was disturbing for our poor mother to see her daughters acting in this way-- constantly stuffing up our bellies and drawing uni-brows on one another. Most girls wish to be princesses or fairies. My sisters had these wishes too, but at the same time we didn't mind dressing up like goblins or elves or very fat men, talking in ridiculous voices, or using our mother's makeup to draw well outside our lip lines. She would stand at the edge of the room, shaking her head and suppressing a smile. She seemed less entertained by our silliness than by how much fun we had together--shrieking with laughter and forgetting any of our real insecurities in the warmth and happiness that only true friends can share.

Wednesday Winston: Misery Loves Company

2011-09-20T19:09:00.000-06:00

This week I have been very sick.

Vomit. A pounding head. A string of terrifying dreams, all involving monkeys. (Planet of the Apes?) These are things for which I pity myself greatly.

However, when it comes to being miserable there is always one thing that can cheer me up: Winston. This is a video of a very sick and congested Winston. He had a difficult time breathing and nothing we did (nasal spray, q-tips, etc.) could clear up the snorting.

And so, if you, too, are having a bad week go ahead; sit back, relax, and watch. I guarantee it will make you feel better.

But you'll want to turn up the volume.

Wednesday Winston: The Evening Stalker

2011-09-15T14:38:00.001-06:00

You may not see him, but he most certainly sees you.

A spot of tea?

2011-09-09T13:21:00.000-06:00

I got this tea set when I was seven years old.

As you can see, it features a multitude of very happy bunnies. Some are hanging out by the pond. Some are simply wearing top hats and bonnets. Others are stringing together flower garlands and staring up from their tea saucers with anatomically impossible smiles.

I love it.

The colors! The details! And my goodness-- the bunnies! As a child I longed to be one of those bunnies, frolicking in a world of painted pastels. Perhaps my taste is simultaneously old fashioned and decidedly childish for my age. After all, I have a fetish for lace, anything white with ruffles and big flowered prints. I spent three quarters of my free time in elementary school making my bed, reflecting on books and arranging flowers. But looking at this tea set makes me feel young again.

Really young.

When I first got it, Cecily and I had a grand old time with the bunny tea set. We had "tea pohtties," which were really just the bunny-head teacups filled with Ovaltine and tiny toasted Melba crackers which were our cakes. We wore white gloves, long gauzy dresses and my mom's old lipstick and I think it was the most sophisticated I have ever felt-- then or now. By the time I was 11 I had packed my tea set away, on account of it being too babyish. I remember peeking into the packaging later and spying a shriveled spider at the bottom of one of the cups. I gave myself a ten year hiatus from the tea set then. If there is one thing I cannot abide, it's a spider in my teacup.

When I unpacked it last week the spider was still there.

The bunny tea set now sits in my home-- all shiny and clean and spider free. Perhaps it's a decoration best used for a six year old girl's bedroom and not for a married lady. But then again, so are most of the things that I love most. I don't think Jason minds too much. After all, he knows that the bunny tea set is just the most prominent parts of me-- the old woman and the little girl-- mixed into a motley of brightly colored and happy pieces of porcelain.

I don't know about you, but I'm glad it's Friday.

2011-09-09T11:55:00.000-06:00

Because I get to spend my entire weekend with this wonderful boy.

What is your favorite part about the end of the week?

Wednesday Winston: A losing battle.

2011-09-07T09:35:00.000-06:00

Like any living, breathing, thinking creature Winston has his faults.
The primary of these is that he enjoys sleeping next to my face.
Next to, pressed up against, or on top of my face.
After he has placed himself in front of my nose making breathing difficult, he winds himself over the back of my head like a furry snake and proceeds to knead my hair with his paws. Sometimes he'll lick my face, which, if anything, is even more unpleasant. I've tried everything to get him to stop. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, piling blankets over his head and pinning him to the mattress or simply tossing him high up in the air and far away from the bed. Despite everything, he comes creeping back, slowly inching from the end of the bed, working his way up to my face; unearthing his nose from the blankets that have buried him and stealthily winding himself around my neck like a hot hairy scarf. In my tired state, all I have left in me is a menacing whisper, "Curse you, Winston!" as his rough itchy tongue begins its long sojourn over my tired skin.

Wednesday Winston: Belly-up.

2011-08-31T08:45:00.001-06:00

This is how we found Winston sleeping yesterday-- face smashed against the couch, legs in the air, belly-up.

As I have evidenced before, he sleeps in these positions on a regular basis.

He just might be the weirdest cat ever.

Wednesday Winston: I spy with my little eye...

2011-08-24T10:50:00.001-06:00

A small, white paw.

It's Winsty! Sleeping with his legs in the air.

And you thought I was out of control...

2011-08-23T16:47:00.002-06:00

For the avid stylist that knows no limits to creativity.

B-A-R-T-O-N

2011-08-19T16:31:00.001-06:00

You gain a lot of things when you get married.
A new sense of purpose. Growing responsibility. A greater appreciation for your spouse. A few extra pounds and, most importantly, a new family.
Before I was married, the idea of in-laws always daunted me. How could one reconcile oneself to people with which there is no history? What if your backgrounds are too different, and you become the person in the family that everyone rolls their eyes at or ignores? The crazy aunt. The weird sister-in-law, perpetually out of place, creeping into corners and scaring all the children at family parties. My fears, of course, were completely unwarranted. Every single one of my siblings have married incredible men and women-- people that, though I have no direct relation, I feel I could be bound to by blood-ties.
When I met Jason's parents for the first time I was deeply impressed by their kindness. I saw their newborn grandson in the hospital at the same time I met Jason's sister in-law, Michelle. I was touched by this willingness to include me, a complete stranger, in something that was so exciting and precious. I watched Rod tease Jason and was, in turn, teased myself. I lost a MarioKart race to a four year-old. I wiped snot from the noses of nieces and nephews. I held Tarrin's beautiful baby. This was something that I quickly learned about the Bartons--once you're in, you're all in. I loved this most about Jason. This is what shaped him into the person I had grown to adore. I saw his face reflected sometimes in the faces of his siblings-- a passing shadow across the eyes, a facial expression, a laugh. I saw how at home he was with his family and knew that this was important. If I wanted to be a part of his life I had to know more.
I went to Oregon with the whole family for a week the summer before Jason and I became engaged. How different the Bartons were from my own family! And how good it was to be different. My family revolves around food and loud, interrupted conversations. The Bartons revolve around activity-- there is always an agenda, a new sight to see, an interesting experience. While it was different, it was good, but there was something missing. I was separating myself from these people, from Jason. I'm not a part of the family, I would think sadly to myself and painfully pride myself on letting Jason have moments alone without me to savor with his relatives. This untrue and silly thought was remedied while I stood by myself on the beach watching the waves roll and foam over the sand. The Oregon coast was profoundly beautiful. The Barton family had so much history in this cold, misty place that I had never seen before. I felt alone. Was I going to marry Jason or was I not? Was I in the family or was I out? I felt like every moment I was not myself made my uncertain future even more foggy. Rod came to stand next to me. We didn't say much, we just watched the waves, silently contemplating our own thoughts. I felt such comfort and peace--such sincerity in the silence that it could have been my own father standing next to me. My emotions had been rocked like the waves in a terrible storm-- and then, suddenly, the sun came out. I knew what my future held. This was my family.
I was in.
You gain so many good things when you get married.
I'm just grateful that I got the Bartons.

Wednesday Winston: A slight scare.

2011-08-17T08:32:00.000-06:00

My scream probably scared Winston more than being flipped upside down.
It was the spiders that did it.
They were terrifyingly huge, with abdomens the size of a penny and long, thick, hairy legs protruding from their sides. After Jason slammed on the brakes, Winston and his carrier did a silly little flip in mid-air and landed wrong side-up in the backseat. The spiders scuttled heavily over the bottom of the cat-carrier while Winston struggled to right himself and I screamed and screamed "Jason! Jason! Pull over!! Pull over!!"
He did.
After the spiders had been disposed of and Winston righted in his carrier, we continued on our way. Winston was shaking. I pulled him out of his carrier and felt his little heart pounding through his small chest. His whole body was overcome by violent tremors. I couldn't bear to put him back in his carrier.
This is how we rode to Salt Lake.

He was so happy.

Tootles.

2011-08-12T10:11:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago I encountered the most amazing person.
This person was extremely small. He had sandy brown hair, chubby pink cheeks and brightly gleaming round glasses. He was cute enough to break your heart.
He stood before me, shaking.
"Give her the book," his mother told him sternly.
He placed a thick board book with brightly colored pictures on the counter. Tootles the Train, it was called.
"Tell her you're sorry," said the mother.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice a whisper.
Looking at his small worried face, my mind flashed back to another child who wore glasses. A shy child who wished and dreamed for many things, but never could muster up the courage to ask. A child who was surpassingly crafty-- not because she liked stealing, but because she loved pretty and shiny things--like a crow. But more than anything she loved books, and it was books that she often....borrowed. Without asking.
"He's just fine," I told the mother, smiling at Tootles. I would have loved to give him the book, but of course I couldn't. I watched him walk away and experienced a fleeting impression that he was a person full of enormous potential, thief or no.
After all, I think I turned out just fine.

Wednesday Winston: The Stinky Blanket

2011-08-10T13:49:00.000-06:00

Sometimes Winston is dirty.
My bed is white.
In order to prevent these two things from mixing, we have given Winston his own blanket, which he can lick himself on, shed, knead, and do other, undesirable cat-like things.
This particular duvet cover is from eigth grade. I ordered it from a Delia's magazine. It was a bribe from my mother: I would get the duvet cover and pillow cases if I allowed her to teach me about the birds and the bees.
Ahem.
I had to have it.
And now Winston has to have it.

He really must have it.

Wednesday Winston: Sweet dreams

2011-08-03T15:15:00.001-06:00

I was in a cold sweat, my hands shaking, my head heavy.
I slumped over the side of the bed, my mind fighting against the aching memory of a disturbing dream. Phantoms drifted in and out of my consciousness, the malaise hanging over me like a dark cloud. "Stop thinking about it!" I commanded myself, willing my heart to cease its frantic palpitations, my mind to halt the fear. Something in the old house creaked, and I froze under my blanket. This was it. The terrors of my imagination were becoming real! Just as I decided to wake up Jason, I turned over and there, stretched out to his full length with his small face hidden under an arm, was Winston-- a furry, fluffy, warm, magically alive Winston. I pulled him toward me by his back feet. His whiskers twitched. He opened one eye. I wrapped an arm around him and, very slowly, he laid his head down, his face pointed towards mine, the pointed caps of his fangs slightly protruding. As he exhaled I could feel the warm, steady puff of his stale breath on my cheek and I held him close to me, like a teddy bear, until I fell asleep again-- my dreams permeated with softer things.

Wednesday Winston: What Lies Beneath

2011-07-27T08:14:00.001-06:00

Don't look under the bed.

The Best Nest

2011-07-26T13:49:00.002-06:00

After weeks and weeks we are finally starting to get settled into our home.
When my parents came to visit, my mother described the place as a "dollhouse." With all its nooks, crannies and eccentricities, I think she summed it up just right. Everything in the house is small-- the doorways, the hall, the closets, the cupboards. Jason and I spent a good 30 minutes cramming our sofa into this miniature reading nook.

To this day I'm not exactly sure how we managed it. Needless to say, I won't be moving it again any time soon.

To accompany my dollhouse, I acquired some doll furniture. We bought this desk from D.I. for $25. I painted it mint green and attached a truly spectacular drawer pull to it and this was the result:

I also borrowed a leaf out of my sister's, Sasha;s, book and made a flower wreath for our dining nook.

And then of course there are the various tiny china cabinets throughout the house which I quickly filled with all my treasures...

The bedroom is by far the largest room in the house, and the one in which Winston likes best to respose.

Welcome to the dollhouse.

Better pictures to come soon.

Wednesday Winston: Pioneer Day Edition

2011-07-20T08:17:00.000-06:00

Wednesday Winston: Stuck in repose

2011-07-13T09:45:00.001-06:00

Happy is the home with at least one cat.

A good man is hard to find.

2011-07-12T17:41:00.002-06:00

Plunger in hand, I watched in horror as the murky water steadily rose to the tip of the bowl. I screamed once-- a strangled, desperate cry-- "No-no-no-no-no-no!" but there was no stopping it. With a gut-wrenching sloosh it came in a great dirty wave over the sides of the toilet and onto the formerly sparkling bathroom floor. I groaned and would have fallen to my knees and cried, but, as the floor was swimming in toilet water, I danced instead upon my tiptoes while fat tears rolled down my cheeks and gagged as the water continued to gush out of the toilet and onto the floor.
A flooding toilet. A dripping faucet. A broken outlet. These aren't just the joys of home ownership-- they're the joys of home rental. In our old apartment we went two whole days without running water. We brushed our teeth with distilled water and filled Winston's bowl with a jug we kept in the fridge. We nearly suffocated when the weather turned hot as we'd painted our windows shut. The kitchen faucet leaked every time the shower turned on and our front room window had a large crack in it, but, as evidenced by all my former blog posts, it was the best and sweetest of homes to us.
Where we live has always been a big deal to Jason and me. It doesn't take much to please us; we both-yes both- get excited about a well-designed home, an ivy covered wall, some decorative trim, a large window. "That's a nice house," Jason will say to me excitedly, pointing at a modest, slightly run-down one bedroom home. And then I'll see that it has a curved hobbit door. And then I'll notice the huge tree in the front yard, and the beautiful flowers growing in the garden. And then I'll turn to Jason and tell him everything I'd do to improve it inside and out while he chimes in with the easiest and most practical method of carrying out my plans. On a trip from Powell, Wyoming to Salt Lake City we spent over six hours mentally designing our dream home. Six hours. We planned everything. And we only stopped because our voices became hoarse. There was more to imagine, more to improve, more to build.
There always is when I'm with Jason.
When we toured our current residence for the first time I wanted to cry. To perhaps a more experienced eye our apartment probably looks pretty mediocre at best-- the chipped wooden floors. The aging wallpaper. The unflushable toilet.
But I don't see it.
When I stepped over the threshold I felt all my dreams coming true-- china cabinets in every room! Black and white tile in the bathroom! Wainscoating in the kitchen! Jason held my hand as we walked through and I desperately refrained from squealing and touching everything-- two of my most unfortunate habits. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watching me closely, observing my reaction to the cabinets, the lights, the porch, absorbing wave after wave of each new delight-- a hidden cupboard. A living room and dining nook. A dressing room. I squeezed his hand and whispered in his ear "I love this house!" to which he just smiled, because he already knew I would.
That night I tossed in bed, my heart aching. I don't think I've ever coveted anything as much as this apartment. I turned to see Jason looking at me, the feverish glow in my eyes reflected in his.

As I stood in the middle of my water-logged bathroom I realized that this, the apartment of my dreams, was imperfect, just as any 100 year old home is prone to be. I heard the squeak of the door as Jason stepped into the room beside me, and, following my fretful explanation, enveloped me in a kindly, slightly damp hug. As we finished mopping up the water our minds began to fall into the mists of dreaming and scheming--once again imagining the endless possibilities that our imaginations can yield.

Limbo time!

2011-07-07T09:45:00.000-06:00

Excuse the lack of blogging, pictures and Wednesday Winstons. We have recently moved from our old apartment and are currently trying to get everything in order.

Lots of juicy posts to come!

Love.

Wednesday Winston: Bright eyes

2011-06-23T15:54:00.000-06:00

I turn around and see this:

It starts off slightly creepy, and then begins to grow brighter and brighter until it looks like this

before becoming a terrifying, perpetural blur

Alien kitty returns.

June birf-days.

2011-06-15T11:22:00.000-06:00

Because I have been a negligent blogger and have recently discovered that I have missed out on the birthday ode trend here and here, I feel I must make up for my lack and pay tribute to those who came into this world in the month of June.

First, Koseli.

This picture pretty much sums up the way I feel about Koseli. She's cute, unbelievably sweet and looks great in a knitted poncho. She loves doll clothes, finger puppets, tiny tea sets and really fantastic music. When I call her and she answers the phone she starts laughing. When she calls me and I answer the phone she laughs even harder. The best thing you can do when you're around Koseli is to get her to laugh. When she laughs really hard she closes her eyes, throws her head back, and cackles. I think Koseli has always been a relief to those of us who don't tell the best jokes. I spent much of my childhood playing with Koseli. When we shared a room, her things were always organized and neatly folded; in my mind I can hear the radio playing some music from the 1950's as I watch Koseli carefully smooth out the sheets on the top bunkbed and place her beloved doll, Kirsten, carefully next to her pillow. When Koseli was in high school I used to sit on her bed and talk. Koseli always listened. She was always quick to laugh and willing to play a game of Uno. And most important of all, Koseli was nice, even when I was not. We had our fights. She said that she swore never to talk to me again at least one hundred times during our childhood. Nevertheless, here we are today. And I can safely say that she is one of the most influential people in my life.

Now Shirsti.

This is not a picture of Shirsti.
Shirsti is a human. But she didn't used to be.
She used to be a cat.
Perhaps the most wonderful thing about growing up with Shirsti is that she has the most enormous imagination I have ever beheld. Anything she imagines- any story she tells, any character she makes up- is real. When we were little I spent days with Shirsti as a Flying Lemur attempting to escape the notorious Billy Bob. On others we were geese flying to Canada and narrowly escaping resounding gunshots. In the fall she would make Koseli and me close our eyes as she took us through the Haunted Wood, a figment of all our imaginations that was simply terrifying.
Shirsti is my fellow comrade in loving all things fluffy and soft. When we were younger, Shirsti made up the most fantastic stories about our cat, Sam. According to Shirsti, Sam wasn't just any ordinary cat. She had a boyfriend (an imaginary guitar-playing Tomcat with a Spanish accent named Lufer, who was really just the August picture on one of my many cat calendars), a multitude of diseases (stinky eye, crisp ear, flat twazz) and the most ridiculous voice you've ever heard. Yes, she gave our cat a voice, and now whenever I think of Sam I think of her in that completely, utterly ridiculous and hilarious voice.
Shirsti astonishes everyone she meets. She's gorgeous, and seems rather intimidating. And then you talk to her and realize she's incredibly nice. And then you get to know her, possibly see her dance and realize she's crazy-- but only in the best way possible.

So here's to Shirsti and Koseli. I can't imagine better sisters than you.

I've Been Reading Part II

2011-06-08T12:58:00.004-06:00

The Fountainhead
Ayn Rand has been on my to-read list for years. As I read, I found myself frustrated by the fact that none of the characters appealed to me; Howard Roark, Dominique Francon, Ellsworth-- they are all really truly horrible people. The heartless philosophy! The endless politics! Well, it was a little overbearing. And then, one day, I understood it (finally!). The Fountainhead is a beautiful book. It's terrible in certain ways-- powerful and intimidating and incredibly frustrating. But about halfway into it, it literally changed the way I saw the world, and any book that can do that is worth reading.

The Hobbit
This too is a book I've always meant to read. I've read The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and I must say I prefer those books over the Hobbit. However, it was a fast read and it was actually extremely funny. Bilbo is often in cold places, and he is also very often wet. I couldn't stop shivering! I recommend reading it in bed, in the bath, next to a fire, or somewhere very warm.

Arden of Faversham
This is an extremely interesting play about a woman in the early 15th century who murders her own husband. Though definitely not as eloquent as Shakespeare, it was well-written. I also delighted in the characters Shakebag and Black Will, who made me laugh out loud. This play didn't take more than three hours to read, and it was surprisingly graphic. It's a story violent enough for an episode of CSI, so it's morbid enough even for me.

The Book Thief
I was fortunate enough to finish this jewel of a book at home where I could cry my eyes out in privacy. An interesting story with an unlikely narrator. Slightly predictable outcome but profoundly beautiful nonetheless.

The Merry Wives of Windsor
All I can say is this: I love Shakespeare. This play had me laughing out loud. If Queen Elizabeth loved Falstaff enough to request his presence in another play, I think anyone would be hard-pressed not to want more. It made me wish my days consisted of scheming up pranks to play on fat old knights too.

The Hunger Games
I only allow myself a narrow taste of popular fiction because
1. I go through them way too fast and
2. If I read too much I'll start thinking like a lovesick teenager.
Despite this, I ate this book up just like I knew I would. It's as mesmerizing as Twilight without the vampires. I haven't read the entire trilogy, but am eagerly anticipating borrowing them and allowing my time at work to fly by while I read them.

The Jew of Malta
I am of the firm conviction that, if he had lived, Christopher Marlowe would have given Shakespeare a run for his money. I mean... with a play like Dr. Faustus under his belt, how he could he not? This play is decidedly anti-Semetic and simultaneously anti-Christian. Marlowe seems to be against religion period, especially in his formation of Barabas, the unbelievably evil Jewish protagonist. I love this quote, look at this:

As for myself, I walk abroad o' nights,

And kill sick people groaning under walls:

Sometimes I go about and poison wells;

And now and then, to cherish Christian thieves,

I am content to lose some of my crowns,

That I may, walking in my gallery,

See 'em go pinion'd along by my door.

Being young, I studied physic, and began

To practice first upon the Italian;

There I enrich'd the priests with burials,

And always kept the sexton's arms in ure 80

With digging graves and ringing dead men's knells:

And, after that, was I an engineer,

And in the wars 'twixt France and Germany,

Under pretence of helping Charles the Fifth,

Slew friend and enemy with my stratagems:

Then, after that, was I an usurer,

And with extorting, cozening, forfeiting,

And tricks belonging unto brokery,

I fill'd the gaols with bankrupts in a year,

And with young orphans planted hospitals;

And every moon made some or other mad,

And now and then one hang himself for grief,

Pinning upon his breast a long great scroll

How I with interest tormented him.

But mark how I am blest for plaguing them;—

I have as much coin as will buy the town.

But tell me now, how hast thou spent thy time?

I mean, really? Kill sick people groaning under walls?
Despite his preposterous badness, Barabas is fascinating, and the language in the play is profoundly beautiful. Truly ingenious.

Cloud Atlas
Wow. Wow!! I don't know how he does it, but David Mitchell somehow manages to flawlessly genre jump from history, to mystery, to philosophy, to romance, and back again. This book was nothing less than fascinating. The language is a little on the scandalous side of things, but if you're willing to take a risk I promise you it's worth it. I have never been more amazed with an author's versatility of voice either: how he manages to procure six completely believable characters (some with accents?!?) and keep them consistent is beyond my own reckoning. A gem of a read.

The House of Mirth
I love Edith Wharton. She is absolutely hilarious, and her characters are warm and memorable. But The House of Mirth is a book that you need to be in the right kind of mood to read. If you are not prepared to read about Lily Bart's lovely complexion next to the tea-house roses in the garden for ten pages, you are not quite ready to take on Edith Wharton. Nevertheless, the social scope and character complexity of the novel was never lost on me. When it comes to understanding Old New York and the nouveau riche, a properly decorated apartment, an appropriate dinner-party dress, and the crushing social norms of the early 19th century, Edith Wharton is key.

Frankenstein
I have recently re-read this book, and there's just no getting around it: it's good. Surprisingly good. Probably one of my favorite books of all time. A good social study and delightfully depressing.

Currently in progress last three months and counting: War and Peace.

Wednesday Winston: Pretty in Pink

2011-06-08T10:25:00.000-06:00

Wednesday Winston: The Club Foot.

2011-06-01T08:03:00.001-06:00

Sometimes when Winston is naughty and gets litter on his paw we soak it in water.
Then he looks like this:

Winston: the club footed cat.

Apartment update

2011-05-27T17:03:00.000-06:00

A week ago I went on a painting rampage. As usual, the paint was white. I don't know why, but I just love white, and nothing else seems to make me happy.

For instance, this white slipcover. Considering that it's supposed to protect the couch, it probably doesn't stand much of a chance. One week into its job and it already has chocolate and hair all over it. Oh well.

All whiteness in the living room is countered by the extremely colorful kitchen. Note the peacock picture: I am obsessed. We saw some male peacocks at the Willow Park Zoo and I was completely mesmerized. I've seen them before but I find it spectacular that nature created something with such magnificent color. I was drinking them in and trying to figure out how I could replicate Peacock blue and emerald green in my home, but unfortunately I have not yet found a way.

Everything is still white.

Someday.

A Beautiful Bed

2011-05-26T16:07:00.000-06:00

Lisa, who is extremely handy with power tools and crafting alike helped us build a headboard for our bed.

Here is the finished product:

A cozy bed for all.

Wednesday Winston: Joining the 3-D craze

2011-05-25T12:07:00.000-06:00

He just doesn't know what he's missing.

Fun and Games. Really.

2011-05-24T17:58:00.002-06:00

Growing up I always loved games.
I remember wandering around my house, begging someone-- anyone-- to play Bernstein Bear's Nature Walk with me, or Sorry! or 13 Dead End Drive. "No, no...not now," my mom would say to me, shooing me out of the kitchen as she prepared dinner. I often played Uno with Koseli, but she always won every game, and would grin wickedly at me from across the table. My constant losses instilled in me a sense of deepening shame-- play? No. Win? I must!
In sixth grade I went through a small obsession with the game of chess, of which both my father and my best friend Kathy indulged me. My dad was good, but because Kathy and my skills were identically poor, neither of us were able to put the other's king in checkmate. Foolishly, we once embarked on a game played solely by our kings, the futility of which took us much longer than it should have to realize.
Because of my limited experience with games, they began to evolve into a hated thing-- the dreaded culmination to a single's ward party. An interminable evening spent in misery and boredom at the bottom of the food chain in Scum. The cheerily shouted words, "Let's play a game!" were inevitably followed by a sinking feeling in my stomach. Though I immediately liked Jason's family, it frightened me when I realized they are connoisseurs of games. My family simply never played them. I had no practice, and I absolutely refuse to try anything I'm bad at.

My first time playing a card game with Jason's family was with his grandparents. I was on a team with Jason's grandma, and it didn't take long for me to realize how unmatched I was with my partner. My cards were flopping around every which way. My shuffling was a catastrophe. Without her whispered instructions, I would have been utterly lost. She insisted that I use a card holder-- a little plastic contraption designed for small children or very inexperienced players to keep their cards straight-- because I wasn't holding mine right. Nevertheless, both Jason and his grandparents were incredibly kind, and I found myself laughing while we played. The allure of games began to unveil itself to me.

Jason loves seeing his brothers because they understand worlds more about games than I do-- worlds, that is, that are crawling with ninjas, assassins, orcs and super-soldiers. While I don't mind watching a video game in progress, I have never had enough guts to actually play one. When Jason bought the game Oblivion I spent an hour carefully crafting my character to look as much like me as possible. By the time I was finished choosing her eyebrow width and outfit I was so emotionally invested in the thing I could barely stand to play the game. A giant rat attacked me in the first five minutes and instead of punching the thing in the face, which is what you're supposed to do, I sat on the couch and screamed, my hands clutching my cheeks in horror as the rat bit out great chunks of my character's flesh. While in the past I have frowned darkly on video games, I realize that these, like all hobbies, require a certain amount of talent that I do not posses. Jason has honed his talent into a fine art, on top of which is some kind of deep and unbreakable connection shared by his brothers. No matter where their lives may take them, they will buy Mass Effect 3 when it comes out this year, and it will give them something else to discuss in short sentences over text. Perhaps it's not a deep connection, but when I think on it, it isn't any different than my sisters' shared interest in decorative pillows and small animals, which I consider at times to be quite profound.
During our last couple visits to Jason's parents', we have played only one game, Ticket to Ride. I'm not sure if it's the company, the game itself, or both, but since my sixth grade experimentation with Chess this is the first game I have truly enjoyed. I always come in last, though after a few games my point values have gone from the weight of an incredibly large cat to a baby tiger. I still have a hard time controlling my competitiveness-- swift kicks under the table are evidence to this-- but overall I like to believe that maybe I've grown up. It is only the beginning, but I am starting to understand the subtle harmony between competitiveness and having fun-- the very heart of the reason why people play games. And I'm beginning to suspect it has less to do with winning than I imagined.

Litterbox Coup

2011-05-18T16:00:00.000-06:00

The smell of stinky cats filled our kitchen. I sniffed suspiciously. Catching Winston roughly up in my arms I began to inspect his fluffy-cotton paws for remnants of his litterbox. Horrible images drifted in and out of my mind's eye, the paramount vision involving my white couch, rug, and bed splattered in poopy pawprints. As helpless as an un-diapered baby, Winston twisted in my hands and squeaked for freedom. There was nothing. Puzzling over the mysterious stench, I looked up to see Jason raising a shaking finger past my left arm, his face filled with horror. There, plastered to the bottom of the oven was a whole, unsmeared and perfectly intact poop. It levitated several inches above the ground, perched ominously and disgustingly in plain view.
Mouth gaping, the questions in my mind switched lightning quick from how? to why???
Winston officially had his first real accident. But was it an accident? Revenge? Surge of evilness? A plot to undermine my authority? We'll never know.
All I know is that it didn't work.

The whole kitchen got a bath, and so did Winston.

Springy state of mind

2011-04-29T11:33:00.001-06:00

As spring begins to slowly unearth itself, I find myself wanting to deep clean-- to delve into closets, take out the garbage, and scrub the bathtub and windows until they sparkle. Unfortunately for me, twenty year's worth of filmy, gray residue has permeated the porcelain of our bathroom, rendering the work not only back-breaking, but also extremely unsatisfying. However, there are a few bright spots in my home that can still usher in the spring.
First, this fabulous dish towel from Anthropologie, that I since have converted into a pillow cover.

It is simply too pretty to dry dishes with.

Another spark of brightness comes from these adorable tuxedo ruffle pillows that are now adorning the couch.

There isn't much room to sit, but it's the softest spot in the house.

On the subject of dishtowels, I've also fallen in love with this sweet little cake design slung over the door of my china cabinet.

I have always adored mint green, and so I am also deeply obsessed with this white vintage-style lamp coupled with a mint green shade.

Meanwhile, I am also embarking on a failing quest to grow my own lavender.

So far, nothing.

Anyone else itching for spring?

What do you do to get your home ready for the changing seasons?

Wednesday Winston: Sleeping in weird positions/ Date-confusion syndrome.

2011-04-28T12:29:00.002-06:00

About once every year I have a severe memory lapse and experience spurts of great confusion concerning the days of the week. Last year I begged Jason to take me to Taco Tuesday, took all the wrong pills, and nearly overslept my Wednesday classes. I was convinced-- absolutely certain-- that it was Tuesday.
Wednesdays always somehow manage to allude me.
For instance, yesterday.
As the alarm went off I rolled over in bed thinking, Boy, am I glad it's Thursday! Because Thursday is the day I get to sleep in. Unfortunately for me, the chaos only worsened. After learning that his almost-finished essay was due on Friday I told the student I was tutoring, "Oh wow! So you only have one day to work on it?" and I bestowed on the undeserving boy my most stony and disapproving frown. At the hospital, too, I seemed to be all out of sorts, cheerily confirming all of Friday's appointments and calling out to a woman who had scheduled her appointment on Saturday morning, "See you tomorrow!"
The worst part about date-confusion is that no one seems to understand. With my pronouncement that I was relieved Friday was the next day, my fellow-student looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. I checked the mirror to see if I had food in my teeth or anything, and realized later that she had reacted rather negatively to my date-confusion syndrome. I don't know if anyone else experiences these temporary bouts of madness, but today Wednesday Winston has a new twist: it's appearing for the first time on a Thursday.
Cheers. Here's to the end of another week!

Wednesday Winston: One of these things is not like the others.

2011-04-20T07:32:00.001-06:00

Winston is unfailingly curious at all times.

Even for a cat.

He does stupid things, and then we take pictures of him.

Like this.

Wednesday Winston: Biting to Survive

2011-04-13T09:50:00.000-06:00

Winston fell asleep biting my finger.

Here's to never going down without a fight!

Petticoats for Chairs

2011-04-12T18:13:00.002-06:00

Recently I've been looking for slipcovers. I hadn't found anything that was substantial for my distinctly girly taste until I stumbled across this Texas interior designer's home.

All I can say is this: I wish I could sew. Really sew. It's probably a good thing I can't-- I would put ruffles on EVERYTHING.
Sorry, Jason.

I've always loved slipcovers, but these pictures have opened up a whole new world in my heart and mind. Why should furniture not have the right to be dressed up? Why can't the bed, the chairs and the sofa sport tufted flounces and layers of petticoat?
Furniture need not be naked anymore! Don't get me wrong-- I like clean lines. But there's nothing that tugs at my heart strings like a well-crafted ruffle.
Sigh.

Let there be light...

2011-04-07T12:30:00.000-06:00

...In the form of this fabulous $25 chandelier I bought at the local Hobby Lobby.

I have always loved--adored--chandeliers, and so I was delighted to find one so enchantingly cheap. The ceiling in our living room is a little too high in proportion to this little light, so I decided to hang it in what can easily be seen as the least glamorous room in the house-- the kitchen.
At the same time as this, I was getting a little tired of my yellow slipcover, so I fashioned this one out of curtains.

I mean, you can probably tell it's a curtain. But the pattern is cute.

And so, here is to illumination, creativity, and conference weekend!

Wednesday Winston: A close-up of cuteness

2011-04-05T08:00:00.001-06:00

Wednesday Winston: frightful freaks

2011-03-30T09:26:00.000-06:00

In honor of the living dead, I give you...

ZOMBIE KITTY

Wednesday Winston: The ultimate threat

2011-03-23T07:54:00.000-06:00

This is something Winston does often but has been almost impossible to catch on film. We think it's his way of showing his dominance-- a pose that, seemingly to him, threatens immediate danger. I don't love it because he looks scary, however.

I love it because he just looks stupid.

Enjoy!

Up!

2011-03-21T19:34:00.001-06:00

I saw this on Design Mom and was instantly filled with joy.

Apparently, just this past week National Geographic created a real floating house with 300 brightly colored weather balloons. It flew 10,000 feet high for about an hour.
Incredible!

I have never soared through the sky in a small yellow house, but I imagine I would not be anywhere near a window.
I would be on my knees, begging for a safe landing.

It cheers me to think that the most scientific minds can also be the most fantastical.
It also cheers me that my house stays on the ground.

Mondegreen Madness

2011-03-16T15:01:00.000-06:00

It was close to midnight.
I sat in the back seat of my parent's car, my head leaning against the window. The bright lights of Salt Lake City whizzed past- a perpetual blur of reds and distant yellows. The stately capital building. The luxurious Grande America Hotel. The darkness closed in around me and I felt a little sleepy. Softly, from the radio I heard Elton John sing,
...Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand...
Across the seat was Koseli. She was wide awake, tapping her fingers on the door and humming the tune.
I smiled.
Koseli has an incredible disregard for lyrics. We're not sure how it happens, but she can listen to a song hundreds of times and still never know what the artist is saying. When she sings, it comes out as an indistinguishable mesh of words, in which she usually catches the tail-end of the syllable.
"hmm...hmmm----ina.....hmmmmmm..... ahhnnnnd."
This is something for which I have always ruthlessly teased Koseli. How? How could she NOT know the lyrics to a song we've both heard so many times? I have always prided myself on my supreme ability to memorize all things, worthwhile or not. When I was young, I memorized an audio tape my family owned recounting the tales of Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves and Sinbad the Sailor. My mom would tell any stranger who sat still long enough that I was great at memorizing words, and, unlike the stranger, I was always deeply impressed with myself.
I laughed. She scowled.
""Well, at least I'm not getting the words wrong," she said. "I knew someone who thought Elton John was saying Tony Danza!"
This delighted me incredibly, and we rejoined for the chorus, changing the words to

"Hold me closer Tony Danza... and count the headlights on the highway..."
Chuckling to myself and feeling infinitely superior to the fool who had thought Elton John was feeling romantic inclinations toward the star of Taxi, I settled back into my seat. But it wasn't long before I began to think of my own lyrical shortcomings.
With a tinge of embarrassment, I pictured myself, several years earlier, watching Mrs. Doubtfire at a friend's house. There's a scene in this movie that features Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady." For years, I thought the song said "do it like a lady."
An honest mistake, I thought.
Then my mind quickly jumped to the misheard songs from my newly acquired Beatles craze. There was "Get Back," in which I thought the first line was "Jo Jo was a man before he was a woman" when in fact the proper lyric is "who thought he was a loner." Once again, I was lucky not to be caught singing this before I had looked the lyrics up on the internet. Unfortunately, this Beatle's song brought up another mondegreen in my mind. "When I'm Sixty-Four" begins, "When I get older, losing my hair" but for almost a full year I sang this "head." My friend corrected me, but then admitted that she had a similar problem distinguishing these two words. In the end, we decided both lyrics made sense, and so were basically interchangeable. Even from this experience, I still have no idea what is being said in "Michelle" and "Sun King" and the worst part is that I have looked up the lyrics multiple times. I just sing them as they sound, hoping that if anyone happens to be present they won't notice. "Michelle, my belle, someday monkeys four trays bean on song, trays bean on song!" I sing joyfully in the shower. Or, "Here comes the sun….. Scoobie-doobie..." Or even worse, "I get high" in the chorus of "I Want to Hold Your Hand." I would interchange this with the real lyric, "I can't hide" but for years I was honestly unsure which one was correct, considering the reputation of the '60's.
As I thought, I quickly began to realize that perhaps my memorization skills weren't so fantastic. Maybe I just memorize sounds instead of actual logical thought. I suppose I just always assume that if it's music, it doesn't have to make sense.
In middle school, if someone had walked into my lonely room while I listened to Sarah McLaughlan, they might have heard me say, "You are pulled from the pillage by your silent referee..." Or to Radiohead's "Creep," "When you're on the phone... I can look you in the eye." Most of the misheard and wrongly-memorized song lyrics in my repertoire aren't even identifiable in English. They consist, like Koseli, of muttering vowels and consonants that sound like words but really aren't. I might consider these embarrassing confessions, but everybody has some. These were the most comforting to me.

"'Scuse me while I kiss this guy" (from a lyric in the song "Purple Haze", by Jimi Hendrix: "'Scuse me while I kiss the sky").
"Oh Mandy, well you came and you're gay and that's faking" (from Barry Manilow's "Mandy": "Well you came and you gave without taking").
"My Cherie Amour, pretty little wombat I adore, you're the only one my heart beats for..."(Stevie Wonder's My Cherie Amour-- an absolute classic. The real lyrics read "My Cherie Amour, pretty little one that I adore, you're the only girl my heart beats for...").

There's something beautiful about misheard song lyrics. I like to imagine that the singers and song writers have a greater sense of humor than they probably actually have. With my cheek pressed against the window, I pictured Jimi Hendrix, his guitar raised high above his head, ready to smash it-- and then turning to give the drummer a quick peck on the cheek. Then I distinctly saw a train of monkeys carrying bean-laden trays to a stately woman. As I felt myself drifting into sleep, my last and most wonderful vision of all featured Stevie Wonder, singing passionately to a small furry rodent wearing a red beret, stationed on the top of his black piano.

Wednesday Winston: Natural Stockin's

2011-03-16T08:54:00.000-06:00

Winston's legs are my favorite.
Here's why.

He is always wearing socks and stockings.
He's fashion forward-- the natural way.

Spring break wrap-up

2011-03-15T15:43:00.002-06:00

I drove to school today under a light, misty rain.

Yesterday was glorious.

Spring is coming. I can feel it. Smell it. Taste it.

I can't wait.

My weeklong break has brought me many things, some good and some bad.
I had time to arrange things.

I had time to make glorious cake plates and felt crafty for the first time in my life.

I had time to spend with Jason.

Time to read The Book Thief. Time to take Winston on a walk, and paint the mirror in my bedroom. Time to fix a roast. Time to visit my parents.
Time, time time.

But I also had time to get a cold-- a terrible cold-- the kind that wracks your body with violent coughing in the middle of the night, makes the outside of your nostrils bleed from incessant nose blowing, and forces the victim to carry toilet paper around everywhere. For the last four and a half days, I've been appalling strangers with my mind-blowing sneezes and the subsequent honking noise that comes from my nose. No one seems too keen on getting close to me these days, but it's okay. Thanks to spring break, I slept when my head hurt. And if I didn't want to be seen in my red nose and paint-splattered pajamas, I could stay in because I had nowhere to go and no obligations.
Most significantly, I ate a whole pot of soup all by myself.
Conversely, Winston's recent surgery didn't seem to slow him down too much. In fact, though still loopy and unable to maintain his balance, he was nearly bouncing off the walls only an hour or so after we brought him home.
I was sorely disappointed.
Despite this, Winston is an excellent napping buddy. Once we get him to settle down (usually by putting him in what Jason lovingly refers to as "the cave"-- which consists of one or both of us piling blankets on his head and then lying on top of him) he can sleep soundly for hours on end. It begins as a struggle; a mad tangle of hands holding him down and loud purring. It ends with the entirely limp body of a cat occassionally punctuated with twitches-- a sure sign that he is sleeping and not smothered to death.
After spring break it might be appropriate for most people to say that they are returning to the grindstone of school, but, as my one class can hardly constitute as such, I will say "dang it!" to the end of the break in traditional form, but not really. The curse is only halfhearted. I may not be quite as lazy this week as I was last, but Winston and I will continue to take naps when my head hurts; after the struggle, our arms interlocked in an eternal embrace.

Spring Break Heartbreak.

2011-03-14T10:20:00.001-06:00

News and photos of spring break will be coming soon, but in the meantime I am sad, sad sad for Japan.
It is devastating. Even with technology so many lives are lost.
Who are we against mother nature?

This is just one way we can help.

Winston's big day

2011-03-04T13:17:00.001-07:00

The shriek of the alarm pierced the early morning with incessant savagery.
I rolled out of bed and proceeded to haphazardly dress myself. Winston was awake and alert, inquiring with his bright green eyes and a chirping meow if he would soon be receiving his breakfast. With a slight heaviness of heart, I picked him up and put him in his carrier.
My day of glory was liquefying before my eyes; through a mist of tears, I patted Winston on the head.
I was betraying him.
"It's okay little kitty," I told him.
Jason and I got in the car and drove silently to the Cache Humane Society. The enormous woman at the front desk continued to refer to him as "Quantos." His homeless name.
"And Quantos is male, needing a neuter?" she asked.
"Yes!" Jason and I said together, with equal exuberance and guilt.
"Winston needs a neutering," I quickly corrected myself, feeling slightly protective.
As we filled out the necessary paperwork, I reflected on the past few months. In my mind's eye, I saw Winston, claws out, ears back, swinging from the curtains. Winston, trailing through the soil of my newly potted plants. Winston on his back legs, body tensed, scratching ruthlessly at the couch. Winston, perched precariously on the edge of the toilet, drinking. Winston, with dilated pupils, fangs bared, ready to strike at my outstretched hand. I eyed the scratches on Jason's arms and then looked at my own. I could just barely perceive the faintest pale pink markings of scars.
My melting heart hardened.
The woman lifted Winston's small cage in her large, doughy hands and placed it on the top of a towering pile of identical containers; it was a mountain, an endless plethora of meowing cats. I only caught a flashing glimpse of green eyes from within the cage before Jason and I left the building, got into the car, and drove away, laughing.

Spring Break: Uncensored

2011-03-03T14:26:00.002-07:00

Spring break is next week. Though the cold wind still blows through Logan with a bitterness I feel I do not deserve, I was comforted last night to hear the sound of rain softly pattering against my window. It is the time of renewal, freshness and clean hope. And the best part?
It wasn't cold enough to snow.
Spring break, here we come! It's time to party, Barton style.
We are not going to Cancun, nor are we going anywhere that will be warmer than roughly 33 degrees. This is agreeable to me, however, as I have never done anything especially extraordinary during spring breaks past; I have almost always been too preoccupied in March by my desperate desire to deep-clean my oven and arrange flowers. Because of this, I am proud to say that I have married a person who has similar spring break ambitions. This year we are staying in Logan, and it is going to be fabulous.
When Jason and I have a "party," our festivities usually include just the two of us, either an enormous bowl of homemade seven-layer dip or ice cream, and an electric sander. Since our marriage, it seems we enjoy immersing ourselves in projects-- usually ones that involve a good deal of semi-gloss paint and back breaking labor. I feel certain that I have inherited my insatiable work ethic from my parents, who are infamous for trimming bushes and staining decks while on vacation. Oh, I do know how to relax. I know the value of a good nap. But there's something about hard work that is extremely fun, or maybe it's just the fact that I'm in love. Either way, work is always reconciled by Harry Potter, and I always make sure I have plenty of Jim Dale on hand to entertain us as we drudge away.

This Spring break we have big party plans.

After being inspired by Koseli, I decided to paper my china cabinet, perhaps a chic neutral like this.

Or mint green, like this:

A nice floral print is always acceptable in my book as well.

Or maybe something a bit brighter and bolder, like this:

Or this.

What I truly love is this avarian cabinet from Anthropologie...

...but I've already overwhelmed our apartment with songbirds and gaudy plumage, so for the time being I'll shy away.

Even if my papering dreams don't come true, I do plan on definitely making these adorable cakestands and displaying them everywhere.

Read the tutorial here if you would like to join me.

Happy spring to you! It may look cold and gray outside, but I can feel the flowers and birds just waiting to make their glorious debut very soon. In the meantime, I am going to make my home as cheery as any day in spring.

Party up!

I've been reading...

2011-03-02T12:44:00.000-07:00

"I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself."

Last night I finished one of the most intriguing books I have ever had the delight to read: The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. This is a book that I have always had the intention of reading, but never got around to. When Jason presented me with this gorgeous Penguin Clothbound Classic version of the story, however, I could not resist.
I mean, could you?

While I quickly tired of Lord Henry Wotton's indulgent hedonism, I was captivated by the story itself. I was astonished by the lightning fast wit of his characters' conversations. Actually, I'll be the first to admit that I often had to go back to make sure I understood everything they said. The book is fresh without being offensive, mystical without being unreal. Oscar Wilde is a fascinating man. Next to Jane Austen and Ghandi, he would be my first choice for a posthumous lunch. As his brilliant life culminated in an ultimately tragic demise, we can only speculate what other fantastic work he could have given the world had he only lived a little longer.

Before I started to learn of Dorian's infamous portrait, I read another well-intended and long awaited novel-- Tess of the D'urbervilles. This book was capital. Capital! Given, Thomas Hardy can be a bit ridiculous (melodramatic, verbose, unrealistic) but all I can say is this: !!
What a fantastic book.
It had enough power over me to make me mad at Jason for things he has never done, nor would ever do. Alec D'urberville's lechery and Angel's treachery had a most profound effect on me. As a newly married person, I felt Tess's pain quite acutely, and hugged my husband extra tight each time I finished a chapter. Thank goodness for good books, and thank heaven for even better men.

The last item on my book review is Julia Alvarez's Something to Declare. I love young adult literature. I love Latin culture. Therefore, I love Julia Alvarez. After reading Yo! and How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents I was hooked. She expresses the idiosyncrasies, beauties, and trials of the latin-American culture so poignantly it feels real; after I read her experiences I feel like I know enough to pass as an emigrant from the Dominican Republic (or, as I lovingly refer to it in my mind, the DR), I think in English punctuated with italicized words in Espanol and my palest of white skin seems to reflect a deep summer tan. Never has the confusion of biculturalism been so captivating. Now, in Something to Declare, not only do we get Julia Alvarez's personal experiences (without exaggeration?) as a Latina teenager in America, but we receive a steady stream of encouragement for young writers. Considering all Ms. Alvarez had to go through to finally receive recognition for her writing, I feel like even I could publish a book-- if I worked hard enough.
Inspiration for us all.

Wednesday Winston: A proper scare

2011-03-02T09:03:00.000-07:00

When our boredom is almost unbearable, Jason and I both know scaring Winston is infallibly entertaining.

Where Children Sleep

2011-03-01T10:20:00.000-07:00

If you're like me and find yourself with a great deal of free time, take a look at this book by James Mollison that you can read online here. The author takes pictures of children's bedrooms all over the world and tells their stories. Simultaneously fascinating and, at times, heartbreaking, I was captivated by the photographs-- especially of the children. Truly a work of art.

Taste of the South

2011-02-28T11:06:00.003-07:00

Ever since Jason and I took a spring break trip to visit Gavin and Lindsay we've had a desperate craving for chile of all kinds. We are addicted to the green Anaheim chile pepper. Commonly grown in New Mexico, it has a fresh green vegetable taste with mild temperature (comparatively speaking of course. For my sensitive taste buds, these little things can set a tongue on fire!). Almost as good as the taste are the nutrition facts. I am delighted to say that Chiles are rich in vitamins, especially vitamin A, and have twice as much vitamin C as a single orange. They also give the body good amounts of vitamin B, vitamin E, iron, magnesium, and potassium. The bright color of a green chile signifies a great amount of antioxidant beta-carotene that can help keep a healthy heart, beautiful skin, keen eyesight, and a strong immune system.
So, in quest for green chile goodness, Jason and I made this delicious recipe. Cheers!

Chicken Enchiladas with Black Beans and Creamy Green Chile Sauce

If you're lazy like me, you can buy canned black beans and just add a couple teaspoons of cumin to give them extra flavor. Also, green chile sauce at the store makes this meal a cinch. To make this recipe less meat and cheese oriented, I also like to garnish with shredded lettuce and diced tomatoes.

Ingredients

12 corn tortillas
vegetable oil for pan-frying
3 cooked boneless skinless chicken breast halves, shredded
10 ounces shredded Monterey Jack cheese
3/4 cup minced onion
1 can seasoned black beans
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 cups chicken broth
1 cup sour cream
1 (4 ounce) can chopped green chiles, drained
2 ounces shredded Monterey Jack cheese
1/2 cup chopped green onions
1 cup sliced olives
1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro

Directions

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C).
Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Fry tortillas (one at a time) for 5 seconds on each side to soften and make them pliable. Add more oil to pan as needed. Drain between layers of paper towel and keep warm.
Divide chicken, 10 ounces of Monterey Jack cheese, black beans and onion among the 12 tortillas. Roll up each tortilla and place seam side down in a greased baking pan.
Melt the butter in a saucepan over medium heat. Add the flour and whisk until mixture begins to boil. Slowly add the broth, stirring with a whisk until thickened. Mix in the sour cream and chiles, heat thoroughly but do not boil, stirring occasionally. Pour mixture over the enchiladas.
Bake in pre-heated oven for 20 minutes or until heated through. Top with remaining Monterey Jack cheese and bake for 5 more minutes. Garnish with chopped green onions, ripe olives and cilantro.

Return of Space Kitty

2011-02-28T09:19:00.000-07:00

We're not sure why it happens, we just wish it would stop.

A rose by any other...

2011-02-25T13:24:00.001-07:00

I once knew a person with the most extraordinarily unfortunate name.
Barfuss.
Its literal German translation is barefoot which in itself actually seems quite romantic and nice. However, neither this boy nor any other English-speaking person could possibly delude themselves into believing that a dancing foot is the first image to come into one's mind upon hearing this name.
Perhaps in Germany the image is different.

I always considered my last name to be one of my greatest attributes. Certainly, it gets mistaken with the dozens of other Scandinavian derived names that are similar to it, "Christianson" or "Christopherson." And the saved assignments from my kindergarten and even first grade classes prove it is almost impossible to spell-- my name, scrawled C-H-R-U-N-T-E-N-S-O-N in sloppy, childish writing at the top. But neither of these minor drawbacks has ever been enough to cow my immense pride in the fact that there is very little in my name open for mockery. It doesn't rhyme with any obscene words. It doesn't have any tainted similitude with inglorious or infamous stars, like Simpson or Manson. And, most importantly, it certainly does not bring forth any unwanted images of things that elementary-aged children glory in: toilets. Poop. Bums.
It is because of my name that I was able to slip through my childhood unscathed. Being shy and rather timid, I was neither confronted nor bullied. Certainly, I had large glasses that sat too low upon my nose and a secret love of Jane Austen novels, but my name allowed me to avoid the clutches of stereotypes quite beautifully. With a torment-free name, I was able to be myself without attracting any unwanted attention. Free to read my novels in peace, I silently gloried in my name, and dreaded the day when it would change. I was sure that, if ever I did marry, my good fortune would certainly turn on me. I would marry the most handsome man in the world, who would in turn make me the very happy Mrs. Duckworth, or Vasilyevech. I was doomed. Being a girl and very young, I was quick to actualize the thoughts of marriage without understanding what marriage itself entailed. I was under the strange impression that after one married, if the last name was unsuitable to both the husband and wife, these two could commune together to choose and lawfully change their last name. At this point in time, I already had my name picked, and I would not marry any man who disapproved. My last name was to be cat, C-A-T. Plain, yes. Reproachable, perhaps. But for my undying love of the creature, there was no shame in it. So Joslynn Cat it was to be.

So after Jason married me I was a little disappointed when I realized my lifelong dream could never be. I am, thoroughly and completely now, Joslynn Barton. Looking through my mailbox, however, someone might contest this, thinking there were several Joslynns (Christensen, Christianson, and Barton) living in my home, as well as a Jocelyn and a Jason Barker. Even so, besides being greatly endeared to the Barton family, I am grateful that I have scraped through yet again. I am greatly relieved to know that, like my own dear family's surname, Jason's legacy has as little to do with toilets as mine.

To the unlucky Barfusses of the world, I salute you.

Wednesday Winston

2011-02-23T09:58:00.000-07:00

Space Kitty

A day to share with all

2011-02-17T10:00:00.000-07:00

Wednesday Winston: a lesson in relaxation

2011-02-16T09:07:00.001-07:00

As you sit in the lap of luxury...

.... stretch

To the lowest of the low

2011-02-15T12:31:00.004-07:00

Jason is the only person on the planet who likes my feet.

I don't even like my feet.

The foot is probably the most universally despised of all human body parts-- right up there with the armpit and the inner-nostril. Overworked and undermined, I have seen several girls in my lifetime scream when a boy takes off his shoes to reveal large, unkempt sweaty feet. "Ew your feet! They're so disgusting!"

It's not that my feet are deformed or that they smell bad-- I hope. It's that I have terrible circulation, and all it takes to make them bright red and incredibly unhappy is an hour or so of standing on them. My feet have always been a concern for my mother. Upon seeing me bundled in a bathrobe after a hot shower, she can be heard to exclaim in horror, "Your feet! Your poor purple feet! Oh the podiatrist! I'll call Dr. Royall!" Conversely, Kathy, my stand-partner and best friend, was delighted with my poor circulation. While Mr. Thompson droned on and on about quarter notes and fermatas she would casually reach down with her violin bow and poke the top of my foot, counting how many seconds it would take for the white spot to turn flesh-colored again. "1, 2, 3, 4..." No human foot should refuse to return normal again as long as mine does.

Now venturing down even lower.

I am in the rug business. Well, not really, because the combined effort of both Jason and my employment at the on-campus writing center couldn't pay for any decent rug. Nevertheless, I dream that I am in the rug business. Despite their poor quality and the apparent horror they cause passersby, I value my feet and am extremely defensive about them. This feeling is intensified given the fact that in the past two weeks they have been entangled in a folding chair, scratched numerous times by Winston and had an iron bed frame dropped on them. As I look down on them in their swollen, painful loneliness, I can't help but think they might like something luxurious to walk on for a change. Rugs are a grossly overlooked source of inspiration-- the intricate patterns, the bold lines, the dyed wool-- it's art! All art! My feet may often be sweaty, or bright red, with chipped toenail polish and nails-- but by golly! They deserve a soft carpet to tread on and a feather pillow to prop them up at night.

I am by no means a lover of feet. I could never be Dr. Royall and help cut off the corns on the crooked toes of old ladies and trim the yellow toenails of decrepit old men. However, I believe that lovely things should be embraced by every part of our bodies-- even the inglorious foot.

Happy Heart Day

2011-02-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

In honor of this day, I would like to introduce my new favorite thing: the paradigm revel. I can't say I love having diabetes, but I do love my pump. It primes my cannula, tells me how much active insulin is inside of me, and formulates amazing graphs. Oh, and did I mention? It's PINK.

And.... as it is Valentine's Day... I should also mention the other things I love that are related to this wonderful holiday.

For warmth, I love this bow-tie bedding from Anthropologie.

From cold February I love Cambria's snownimal.

For a Valentine's Day treat I love these pretty ice cream bon bons.

Ice Cream Bonbons

Makes 25
1 pint ice cream, any flavor
25 plain vanilla cookies, such as Nilla Wafers
1 pound chocolate, chopped
½ cup chopped nuts
Place the cookies flat side down on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Top each cookie with one small scoop of ice cream. Freeze until hardened, about 30 minutes.
Meanwhile, in a double boiler, heat the chocolate. Once melted, dunk each of the bonbons into the chocolate to coat and return to the baking sheet. Immediately sprinkle nuts on top. Freeze until firm. Keep stored in the freezer.

And for love and love itself, I love Jason.

And Winston too.

Gluttons unite!

2011-02-11T12:01:00.015-07:00

I made up a recipe last night. Well, not really, but I made up the seasonings.

This is what it looked like.

And here is how I did it.

Herbs de Provence Salmon Fillet with dad's famous rosemary potatoes and steamed asparagus.

2 four-ounce boneless salmon fillets

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

1 1/2 teaspoons herbs de Provence

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon white pepper

Brush salmon with olive oil. Cook on grill. Season with herbs de Provence, salt and white pepper. Squeeze half the lemon juice over the salmon while grilling and the other half after the grilling is done.

Meanwhile you will need...

6 small red potatoes, quartered
2 tablespoons chopped rosemary

1 tablespoon chopped garlic
Salt to taste
1/2 tablespoon cracked black pepper
1/4 cup olive oil

In a large pot of boiling water cook potatoes until just tender, drain well. In a large bowl toss potatoes with remaining ingredients. Transfer to a baking sheet and roast at 375 degrees for 25 minutes until browned and fragrant. Enjoy!

Steamed Asparagus

This is basically self explanatory. No need to elaborate much.

Do try, and tell me what you think!

It's in the details.

2011-02-09T11:55:00.005-07:00

If I've learned anything from my experiences in decorating, it's that the smallest details matter. A ruffle here, a well-placed flower arrangement there, the right color of paint-- the smallest decorative fringes can make a world of difference.

The sheer hanging canopy over the bed distracts from the lumpiness of the walls. Also, a large painting covers the DOORWAY behind the bed. Yes, there is a doorway behind the bed. It was sealed off when the house in which we live became three separate apartments. However, this does not detract from the fact that we can hear our neighbor's blow-dryer as clearly as if she was in the room.

It is my strong conviction that nothing pretties up a bed better than a crisp, ruffled sheet.

Mirrored boxes, lamps, trays and tables can make a small room look bigger.

I painted and antiqued this ugly, old, beat-up dresser. Glass knobs are chic and antiquey. If they're your style, they'll add elegance to old furniture.

These rosy shower curtain hangers can pretty up any bathroom...

Along with these ruffled towels....

And this floaty shower curtain.

If you love something, embrace it. For instance, birds.

And flowers.

This china cabinet has undergone a mighty transformation. A fresh coat of bright white paint and some new hardware have completely changed it. I stuck the lamp inside because, not blessed with interior lighting, the pretty things inside deserved to be illuminated.

These white picture frames used to be an odd-pinkish gray. I got them on sale at Michael's. Once again, a coat of soft-white paint makes them seem a good deal less bleak.

This yellow couch cover (wrinkled though it may be from Winston playing underneath it) is by far the cutest I have ever seen. A bold yellow print, accented by the embroidered tea cups of my throw pillow-- !! Too exciting for words.

Wednesday Winston

2011-02-09T08:58:00.000-07:00

A little bit of Winston helps get us through the hardest part of the week.

Sweet Dreams

2011-02-08T14:03:00.001-07:00

How much better would our dreams be if they originated in these beds?

Bonne nuit!

Home Improvement

2011-02-08T12:22:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has seen this painting in the past will understand.
It sat for a long time in my parents' storage room. Unused, dusty, neglected. I took it home with me (we actually had a hard time fitting it in the car) and gave it a little love and care-- that is, I painted over the dusty old purplish blue mat with a fresh coat of soft white paint and voila! Just like new.

Also, my beloved kitchen table.

Bring on the projects! Bring on the spring cleaning!

I'm ready.

Whiner's Bio

2011-02-07T12:20:00.000-07:00

Embarrassing moments happen. When they do, my only comfort is to remind myself that I'm not the only person who has, say, run into a tree or slipped on ice before. I know I'm not, but that still doesn't take the embarrassment completely out of a really stupid situation.
A reallllllly stupid situation.
For instance.
On Saturday I attended an Aggie basketball game with my husband and his family. After the game finished, I began stepping lightly down the rows of fold-up chairs. Oh, my years of ballet have taught me grace. I was careful to point each toe; I extended my arms to maintain a delicate balance and, as I did so, mentally noted to myself how humiliating it would be to take a tumble in front of so many people. Unfortunately, my next step was far too close to the inside of the chair. The seat flipped up, and with a painful burning sensation in the middle of my foot I realized I was stuck. Really stuck. With tears in my eyes and a valiant effort to keep the hysteria in my voice at a minimum, I called to Jason,
"Honey, I (grunt)....can't (grunt).... move."
He tried to pull my foot out but it wouldn't budge. I was stuck in a silly balancing act, trying to free my throbbing foot and maintain the dwindling remnants of my shattered dignity.
While this was happening, a group of girls sitting behind the culprit chair sat staring at me with dumb stupefaction, as if I was nothing more than a rather boring halftime show.
Just wait, I thought malevolently to myself, just wait until it happens to you!
And with that angry burst my foot finally came free. It was white in the place where it had been squeezed by the chair. I privately repressed an urge to kick something and instead smiled benevolently at the row of people behind us that had been unfortunate enough to witness the ridiculous spectacle. They stared at me with looks that obviously stated, I can't believe you just did that. Defeated, I limped pathetically away, leaning heavily on Jason's arm. I took it upon myself to whisper maliciously every few minutes in his ear of the terrible pain I had undergone recently-- just in case he had forgotten.
Fortunately for everyone, my humility came back to me later in the evening. Wheeling around wildly on the floor, trying to seize Winston's tail as they chased each other, Jason's forehead sharply met the corner of the kitchen counter. He fell backward with a deep moan and lay motionless. After several minutes of groaning and writhing on the floor, I left off my commands for him to get up and stop complaining and took my cue for wifely concern. I hobbled to his side. There, on the forehead of my dearly beloved, was a small purplish gash and a growing goose ache. Gingerly sneaking a peak at my still sore but entirely physically unscathed foot, I felt a flood of guilt. How could I be so selfish? I peppered his face with kisses.
"Ow, careful!" Jason said.
No matter. With a few comforting words and a smoothing of his hair, Jason lay quite still. I felt completely sad for my friend. How terrible that he should be hurt! But then... a little creeping thought pronounced itself unbidden into my consciousness. He did stupid things too! We were, I realized with glowing warmth, perfect for each other. After all, misery loves company.

Ends become beginnings

2011-02-03T10:14:00.000-07:00

I know it's a little lame to talk about the weather, but it's on my mind.
Petty small talk could not be more unbearable than when the weather is mentioned-- that is, anywhere but in Logan, Utah. In Cache Valley, nestled between Sardine Canyon and the wild frontier of Idaho, the citizens of Logan have a fierce delight in discussing- and berating- the weather, as if it had done them an extremely personal injustice.
When I first moved to Logan I was annoyed by the weather-- not the weather itself, you see, but by the great fuss it caused among the residents of Cache Valley.
"Hope you got some snow boots," cackled a wrinkled old man at the bus stop when I told him I had not yet endured a famous Logan winter. Rolling my eyes, I stepped onto the bus. It was only fall, and so far the weather here was not even worth mentioning. Even before the weather turned chilly, Logan inhabitants were already mourning the loss of vegetation, of warmth, of the sun. I was sick of everyone telling me how horrible my life would be after November. Like most teenagers, I believed my contentment was infallible; the cold wouldn't touch me.
How wrong I was.
Looking out the window at 8:20 in the morning on a winter's day in Logan, Utah is deceiving. The sun shines brightly. The sky is a lovely peacock blue-- not a wisp of cloud in sight. The naked branches of the weeping willow in our front yard are as still as statues. Feeling cheered by this semblance of good weather, I leave my coat unbuttoned and turn the handle of the door. The moment it opens, the biting cold comes. This isn't the ordinary chill that causes shivering and a desperate longing for warmth. This is biting iciness, stinging, painful, angry-- so cold it burns. Any exposed skin will immediately turn to goose flesh. Nose hairs freeze solid. Deep breaths cannot be taken without a fit of violent coughing. And then, without even a whisper of warning, the wind picks up, and even what's covered by a winter coat quakes with fear as the numbness sets in. The sidewalk is covered with ice and the windshields of cars sport a stubborn frost. The sun continues to shine, but the cold kills.
Oh, I knew Logan was colder than Salt Lake City when I moved here. But that doesn't make the winters more bearable. I'm on my fourth winter here, but even now I feel a bitter animosity toward the snow and ice that refuses to melt until April. I want to shake my fist at the frigid winds that blow from the Northeast. It is here only, in the subzero climate, that discussion of the weather is not reserved for new acquaintances or strangers, but for the most intimate of friends. I need only walk through the steamy glass doors of the restaurant where I am meeting my friend for lunch, point to my frozen jaw and too-pink cheeks to generate the mutual understanding for my lateness. The weather. Oh, she understands. It is everyone's worst enemy here. We could spend the entire afternoon cursing winter and dreaming lazily of summer evenings, when the warmth of the sun still lingers on the pavement and the mornings are alive with the music of songbirds. Our only hope is that the end of winter signals the beginning of spring.
Yes indeed. Perhaps it is wrong of me to talk so much about the weather. But it is on my mind.

A little cheer for bleak days

2011-01-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a sad day.

Jason was sick.
It snowed.
I read an essay about the inhumanity of Nigerian orphanages.

I was feeling pretty down. And so, in order to make myself feel better, I decided to punish someone else.
Poor Winston.

This is the result.

There is nothing funnier than a cat in clothes.

Laughing Boy, Crying Girl

2011-01-21T10:06:00.003-07:00

In the past I prided myself in being the kind of person who doesn't cry in movies. I could sit, stalwart, through Life is Beautiful and never shed a single tear. Then something happened to me; something very unnerving.
I think it began with Finding Neverland, a movie that I have seen at least eight times and in which I have never once been able to refrain from weeping. This is not normal crying either; it's sobbing, complete with snot, hiccups, and the inability to stop. I remember when I watched it for the first time. Kate Winslet waltzed through Neverland, and I felt myself losing control. I sat, stunned, as the credits started rolling in. It was over? But she was dead! There was no happiness with death at the end of a story! How treacherous! I quietly climbed the stairs, slowly, went to my room and shut the door. I elevated the intensity of my sadness by turning on the soundtrack to that movie, which brought back that burning feeling. The characters were fictional alright, but oh how it hurt! And yet, it felt so good to cry.
The second time was even worse. I was with Koseli. She likes a pathetic story just as much as me, if not more. There were the credits again. This time I was sobbing uncontrollably right there in front of everybody, struggling to maintain regular breathing. To my left Koseli was also crying and loudly blowing her nose into a roll of toilet paper. The harder I cried, the harder she cried, and so the harder I cried and so on. We both agreed: it was disgusting, yet incredibly satisfying.
Several years later when I watched this movie with Jason, I made a promise to myself that I would not cry. We were in the infancy of our dating relationship and I knew, rightly, that there is nothing attractive about a red nose and squinty eyes. I tried very hard to control myself. I actually made it with only a few tears shed by the time we turned off the DVD player. At first I thought to myself, "Yes! I did it! I didn't cry!" but then I started getting a tight feeling in my chest. Jason probably noticed the stricken look on my face and encouraged me to go ahead and cry since I needed to. Oh no, he was right! It had become a need. I HAD to cry. Unbidden, the tears started pouring out. I sneaked a glance at Jason and saw that he had a small smile on his lips. Okay. So that's how it is. If it gave him satisfaction to see me cry in order to have an excuse to hug me, I would never disappoint him with a lack of tears. He patted my head and said, "It's alright, it's alright." But his kindness and understanding only made me cry harder.
It is my belief that this problem doesn't completely stem from the sadness of the story itself, though a well-written or acted tragedy definitely does help. No. My belief is that the real root of the tears is my desperate need for romance, and nothing breaks my heart like lost love, father to son, mother to child, sister to sister-- it is all heart-wrenching in the most wonderful way possible. Black Beauty, Joan of Arc, The Road-- I have become a connoisseur of sad literature and film. Making someone laugh is easy enough, but the real mastery comes with making people cry. Sob. Convulse. It is pure art.
Last night I finished the Pulitzer Prize winning book Laughing Boy by Oliver La Farge. The novel's main concern is the clash between Navajo culture and the newfound Americanism in the Southwest. But when it comes to emotions, the most important aspect of the novel is the beautiful and resounding romance between the chief characters. Oh, how I'm a sucker for a good romance! I read the last word on the last page and felt that old familiar burning in my chest, felt my eyes fill up with tears. Jason was sitting on the floor next to me-- innocent, peaceful. Oh but he was at risk! His life! His life! I knew that, like Laughing Boy I couldn't live without him. To his astonishment I locked onto him, blubbering incoherent pleas that he would never allow himself to be killed by an arrow or a gun. "I promise you," he said to me, quite sincerely, "that will never happen." Well I knew that, but even so, I needed to imagine the worst-- Jason, slumped on his pony, blood gushing from an arrow wound in his chest, or Jason, sick with scarlet fever, his forehead bathed in sweat, or any member of my family, my cat, my parents, Jason! Jason! in mortal peril, begging for their lives-- to summon up that overwhelming burning sensation, to cry, and to relieve the pain.
As Koseli says, it hurts so good.

Genius

2011-01-20T10:11:00.003-07:00

On Saturday I had a stroke of genius and Jason and I did something crazy: we moved the dresser into the kitchen and the table into the living room. Magically, the dresser matches the china cabinet perfectly. I will have a hard time tearing myself away from that cabinet when we move.

Prior to this point, I hung a canopy over the bed. Jason was not pleased, but allowed me this one little luxury. My creativity was starting to come out.

I used my needle and thread and fashioned this pillow for the couch.
But when Winston sneaked into the picture, I realized he could use a little touch-up as well.

To improve his appearance, Winston got a bow.

In the midst of all this hubub, decorating and rearranging, Jason and Winston are still best friends.

Winston is my best friend too. Sometimes.

Besides Jason, of course.

Love this house. Love that cat. Love, love, love this boy.