Sweet Dreams

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

Bonne nuit!

Home Improvement

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

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

 
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

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

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

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.

You wouldn't like this, Winston.

Here are some very unflattering pictures of Mr. Winston. At first, when I saw them, I was shocked that something so small and cuddly could catch so many bad moments on the camera. But it happens to the best of us. 

Enjoy! 

 

On closer inspection we can see that his mouth is wide open.

 

 After we found a trace of something dirty and gross on Winston's paw, I scrubbed his feet. This was the effect. How could we have known that Winston had mouse feet? I was so delighted with the result, I could not wait to see what an entirely wet Winston looked like.

This.

 And this.
He was not pleased.

Naughty, naughty.

We have cat problems. Major cat problems.

He bites.

He scratches.

He zooms out of closets and corners, wild and ready to attack anything that moves.

And yet, I am completely in love with him.

Introducing the newest member of the Cute and Fluffy club: Winston Wilkins Pickwick the First. With a little research we have discovered that he is a Norwegian Forest cat, that is, his genetics have faint memories of prowling through frozen woods, which probably explains his need to bite anything that moves and his undying love for Jason, who is constantly radiating body heat. His favorite pastimes include (in this order): biting (hair, fingers, toes, ankles, arms), dragging around his woolly mouse, searching for the squirmel we no longer allow him to play with because it makes him too crazy, watching Jason shake the food in his bowl before he eats it, attempting to climb into the refrigerator, and surprise sneak attacks. Completely uncharacteristic of his species and unfortunately for us, sleep comes last in this list.

Don't get me wrong-- he has his good moments too. He'll nap on my stomach while I read. He purrs. He sits on our laps while Jason and I watch a movie. I say "laps" because he has the uncanny ability to possess both our laps at the same time. He stretches his small body into what looks like an extremely uncomfortable position: belly-up in complete surrender, his tiny fangs poking out of his mouth and the hot pink of his lips showing in a stupid grin. I like to think that he cuddles between us because he adores us both equally, but the truth probably is that he wants to soak up the maximum amount of heat. His bottom is generally turned in my direction as he appears to enjoy staring dreamily at Jason with love and adoration.

This is just as well for me. His back end is not the biting end!

Pretty Treats

Pretty Scent

Pretty Rose

Pretty Parasol

Pretty Booties

Pretty Beds

Pretty Tea Service

Pretty Chandeliers

Pretty Pillow.

Sigh.