To the lowest of the low

 

 

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

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!

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.

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

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

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.