Eat Me .......................................................................................................


If anything worth doing is worth doing right, then why do people give Christmas baked goods that were made with the flair of an five-year-old? What kind of message does one mean to send when they gift gingerbread that breaks your teeth, unidentifiable blobs covered in shredded coconut, and fudge that never hardened properly?

Maybe I'm being too picky. It's possible that in this Martha-Stewart-crazed world I've come to expect nothing less than perfection--especially in presentation--from any homemade product. But I think Martha would agree that burnt cookies say "I don't have time for you. These cookies are as stale as our friendship."

Today I beheld one of those cookie platters that was wrong on so many levels. First, it was cleverly disguised beneath a sheild of colored saran-wrap. This served to spare the giver from the receiver's scrutinizing eye, because anyone can judge a cookie platter in an instant, and the results of that instant analysis are displayed facially almost as quickly. Beware the plastic wrapped cookie platter, it means the giver knows the cookies it contains are flawed.
Under the plastic (yes, I ventured to explore the platter's entrails), there were clusters of cookie subspecies. One grouping were balls rolled in coconut, which was burnt. Not being able to see what lay under the coconut layer, I counted this cookie unfit for consumption.
Next was a loaf of some sort, wrapped in an additional layer of plastic. The extra plastic may have been used to spare the other cookies from contamination. Loaf: inedible.
Nearby were cookies with Hershey's kisses in the center. Kissed cookies are often delightful treats, but the cookie portion of these were so flat and over-cooked that the sugar had undergone a transformation in the oven, producing a dark and bitter glaze so horrible it would prevent anyone unlucky enough to try and eat it from ever reaching the chocolate center.
And lastly, there was some fudge among this bunch. The fudge was also wrapped in plastic--stay away. I do suspect that if I had unwrapped the fudge, it would have had fingerprints all over it. Fudge is delicate, and should be handled properly.

Here are some tips for those who insist on bestowing their baked failures upon us.

• Spread the holiday cheer with skillful strokes of white frosting, not with gloopy improperly mixed frosting that looks like melted candle wax.
• If your baking is infamous, stick to one kind of cookie, avoiding a platter which only gives people the choice of what kind not to eat.
• Simplify, simplify, simplify. Don't hide bad baking under layers of coconut shreds, sprinkles, discolored frosting, red hots, gum drops, licorice, or colorful plastic wrap.
• And finally, everyone knows you keep the good cookies for yourself. Why not prove to us you really can cook, and that you really do care? Tis the season to share the tastiness.

Broken Hearted

I had planned on returning to this blog with some happier tales...

Oscar was hit by a car last week. He didn't make it.

He was my constant companion at home. It took me weeks to get used to having a dog-shaped shadow follow me around the house, but once I was, I couldn't have asked for a more loving friend. He fit perfectly into any crook around my body when I watched TV or lay in bed. He lovingly shared his toys, and he perfected the doggie hug--straddling his hind legs around my waist while resting his front paws and head on my shoulder. I can still remember exactly what it feels like to hold him, to imagine him just on the other side of the room watching me, and to see him toss his toy in the air and prance around after it.

Outside, Oscar was hardly matched for speed, and would run around whether there was another dog at the park or not. He was dog-curious, and could usually get most any dog to chase him around the park; he even adjusted his speed for those who weren't as nimble-pawed as he was. He did, however, have one of the most annoying barks imaginable: a high pitched bark/howl hybrid that could last up to five seconds, often with successive vocalizations and at nothing in particular. I grew used to it though, and just told people that he had a lot he needed to say.

He was not without his quirks. I think that many other owners would have given up on Oscar, and they would have missed out on one of the sweetest creatures around. He was afraid of brooms, vacuum cleaners, Christmas trees, people wearing hats, trash piles and shopping carts. Loud noises made him shake and claw at my leg to be held. His separation anxiety elicited deep feelings of guilt from me and David, and his high pitched yaps of protestation at being left behind got us in trouble with the neighbors more than once. His wide eyes belied all the anxiety he had pent up, whether it was from his rough start at the shelter and prior, or just his disposition. But all of this was wiped clean when we saw his dog-smile as he ran around the park, or when he sighed in contentment as he curled up with us at night.

Oscar was a part of our lives for such a short amount of time, and I'm amazed at how deeply attached we became during that time. He truly was a family member. We were proud of his characteristics, and took every opportunity to boast of him. He was a one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable mutt. I miss him so much.

No More Cheese Please

There was a dead mouse in the middle of the bathroom floor this morning. It lay on its side, legs and tail limply extending similarly to my dog’s mid afternoon nap position. I was startled when I saw it, even though I’ve been expecting it for days; the traps have been set since last Tuesday. I jumped and shrieked like the good housewife I am, and quickly closed the door. I left it there for David to take care of tomorrow. Disposing of dead mice was not something I wrote into my wedding vows, and since David said something about supporting me in all I do when he wrote his, I’ll defer to his words now.

It’s the first dead mice I’ve seen in nearly ten years. For a while, I was convinced that mice didn’t live in houses anymore. But ever since we've moved in to the new house, I've heard them scurrying around every night, eating Oscar's dog food, scratching the floor with their little claws, and running around in the walls doing who knows what to the insulation. I was annoyed, and afraid (in my teenaged years, I woke up to a mouse digging through my hair on my pillow--eww). We set the traps and I thought that was the end of it. I wouldn't have to think about mice again.

There is currently a dead mouse downstairs in the bathroom. It's laying on its side similar to how Oscar lays on his side now. I'm feeling guilty for the little mouse (and perhaps the five or so others that chose to die in more private quarters). The thing was basically harmless. In my childhood years, my brothers and I found baby mice in a drawer once. We kept them for a day and constructed obstacle courses for them and made them race until, well, until they died (probably from overhandling, lack of proper food, or something...God I'm a horrible mouse murderer).

Now should I expect a Blaura-sized mouse trap to be set for me somewhere? Should I forget the whole thing and except it? Should I make a shrine to all the mice ever killed with poison/traps/young children? A little of all three, I suppose. Are these the small things that really matter in life?

I Live in My House

Finally, we are living in our house. We have searched, found, closed, and started to paint. Here it is:


The inside is not pretty. We've been painting the upstairs so that we can move all our belongings up there. Then we'll gut the kitchen and open up the spaces on the first level. The house sits back on the property so that there isn't really a backyard, but there is lots of privacy from the street. The patio area (pictured here) is situated between the garage and the house, and has lots of potential to become the fairy-garden I've always wanted.

The work we've put in has been very rewarding so far. I can't wait to have everything put in order, to walk through it all and think "I can do whatever I want here."

And, finally, I'll be constructing my writing room over the next year. It will need a new desk, some inspirational colors and textures, and some cozy sitting places. The ultimate goal is to create a sanctuary that neither television nor general laziness can penitrate. I'm convinced that once I have the writing room I'm thinking of, the room will do half of my writing for me. In fact, I'm blogging in the room right now, and I'm pretty sure the view from the window urged me to write some words, anything at all. "Don't argue," it said, "just write."

Where Does Time Go?

I don't mean to get philosophical, but time is complex. Think about this time and that time, and time to come. Time on a speeding train. Time capsules.

And all the time I waste on the weekends.

It's a strange phenomenon. Time speeds up on the weekends. It slows down to a halt when I'm having a bad day. And since it's easy to talk about time in terms of speed, someone needs to invent a time brake and a time gas pedal.

Then again, what would I do with my manipulated weekend time? This weekend, I had to nurse a hangover and avoid my neighbor (long story). I didn't have the energy to take Oscar to the dog park. So is my real problem time management, or an energy deficiency? That said, I probably don't deserve a time manipulation device. I like to think I'd use it to get more writing done, and to accomplish very important tasks, but let's face it--I'd just take more naps.

Doin' the 78-mile Shuffle


The time has come to recap my biking adventure of August 4th, 2007.



There were three goal levels for this event, chosen in hopes of completing at least one of them:



Primary: to finish

Secondary: to avoid injury

Tertiary: to not die



Goals accomplished: all



I had not been very positive about the event leading up to it. I was envisioning a rather large trailer hauled by a black-smoke chucking tractor piled high with dead bodies and mangled bikes, with my poor bones draped right on top. However, the day before the race I read some advice in a biking magazine (I guess they are good for something). The advice said to be positive. How generic, yet so true. I decided no harm in trying. This trick came in handy for the last thirty miles, half of which were pure uphill-hell (Vail Pass, not recommended if you are looking for a good time). Whoever wrote "The Little Engine that Could" never knew how many people they would save.



Fun facts about Blaura the Biker this past week:



1. The Monday prior to the race I went out for Thai food and received the following fortune cookie after dinner: The climb up the mountain is worth the view at the top. Seriously, I have a knack for acquiring fortunes that really mean something.



2. Floyd Landis (the guy who one Le Tour last year and is now under investigation for doping) participated in the very same ride as yours truly. Apparently he began his trek after I did, meaning at some point he passed me by. We could have rubbed elbows.



3. I cried like a baby when I finished the race. A part of me really believed I couldn't do it. It was pure shock to reach the end--intact!

4. Time to complete: 7h 34 m, Average speed: 10.3 mph, High speed: 40.8 mph, Average speed on uphills: 4.2 mph

The Summer of Harry

I am a mediocre Harry Potter fan. I read all the books and see all the movies and am entertained by them, but am not willing to wear Hogwarts robes or memorize what spells each witch and wizard specializes in. I paid the extra bucks to see the new Potter movie in 3-D (only the last 20 minutes are presented in this format), and I had the new book delivered to my door on the release date. Currently, I am in the middle of chapter 12, but am still able to tear myself away to do laundry, check the housing market, and, apparently, blog.

Reading this book, I wonder how one person could concoct this whole new world and set of characters and captivate the entire planet. I try to get my own wheels turning, wondering what the next craze could be, and if I might be able to create it. It's exciting and yet very depressing to think about. Exciting because it all sounds like so much fun, and depressing because every other writer out there would love to do the same thing, but obviously can't.

Either way, I have to admit I'm still inspired. That is why I deem this the Summer of Harry. It's the last time he'll be so omnipresent, and who knows when "the next Harry Potter" will arrive.

My Life is a Cycle



pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal



That is what my life is all about right now. I wake up and walk Oscar (walking motion is very similar to pedaling), and then I eat breakfast while watching the Tour de France (lots of men pedaling), and then I go pedal my bike. I practice efficient pedaling. It is my weakness right now, because I have just discovered how to use all my leg muscles to pedal and now I have to train myself not to pedal the way I have been pedaling my whole life. Ultimately, it will help me climb up all those mountain passes on August 4th, the day that is looming ahead, and the one that worries me on a daily basis.


Thank you, "Pigs Eat Corn," for calling me The Man, because it is a male dominated sport, and maybe if I think more like a man, I'll get through all this just fine. However, I have included a picture of one man who didn't know when to quit. May I never wind up like him (although my rear is way cuter).



I rode 20 miles today, I thought of it as my warm-up ride. Tomorrow I'll kick it up a notch and aim for 30, and this weekend I'm doing a 50 mile ride. This is all good, except that those of you who have been to Denver might have noticed how flat it is. I need some mountain training. Someone, please, call me King of the Mountains? I think I can trick myself into believing it, especially since I look good in polka dots.

It's Been Ages

This is the first week I feel somewhat settled in Denver. The first week was a flurry of unpacking and decision making about what I could live without for the next two to three months. Then I took a trip to Dallas to visit my friend Kristin, and due to heavy holiday travel, wound up spending an extra day in the airport trying to get home. When I did get home, I was looking forward to some stability, which would have helped when I fell off my bike and hurt my wrist. Along with the wrist injury came an annoying head cold, and finally, this week, I am on the mend.

I suppose I owe an update in other areas as well. We're still looking for a house. We viewed a gorgeous bungalow with the highest ceilings, and I was getting that I-really-want-it feeling in my stomach until we walked to the backyard and saw the most atrocious carriage house backing the property. Half of the backyard is taken up by a giant, red, adobe-looking square thing with windows that is apparently a residence. And owned by someone else. Grrr. I really was hoping for a two-car garage. Why does every home have its compromise?

And the only other update is that I'm training for a 78-mile bike ride in the lovely Colorado Rockies on August 4. The ride goes over the Copper Triangle, and as of right now I am not in any sort of shape to do this thing. This has made my little wrist injury and head cold especially annoying. But, with some heavy training over the next three weeks, lots of goo and water, I will hopefully make a decent showing (and by decent I mean I'll finish).

That's all from Colorado Land for now. I'll be on the computer all week, perhaps with something interesting to say.

Without Email for a Bit...

I'm in Denver, I've moved into a dwelling place where I will be warm and dry. A little too warm, maybe, but after all my complaining about the chilly temps in the Bay Area, I'm going to forgo complaining about the weather until I either lose my windshield in a freak hail storm or am swept away in a tornado.

There's no cable or internet until next Friday. This saddens me on a few levels:

• Blogging will be difficult
• I will be missing an episode of my new favorite show: Flight of the Conchords
• Life without email feels...empty

But hey, I've managed to both blog and pre-order the next Harry Potter, so my internet life is not all that bleak. No need to take pity on me.

Until the internet graces me with its presence once again...

Obstacles in the Road

A while back I had said that when I heard on the traffic report that an object is in the road and slowing traffic I would blog about it and relate it to marriage. It's been a long time coming, but there was a large piece of sheet metal in the road yesterday afternoon. So, here it goes...

At first, I had to think about what a piece of sheet metal in the road means. Isn't it flat? Couldn't you presumably drive over it and be fine? Yes and yes. But sometimes an obstacle arises that we are afraid of. After all, an obstacle is an obstacle. It's out of the ordinary. We'd prefer to drive on the smooth part of the road where we know what to expect, and so we avoid obstacles, even ones we can drive over, whenever possible. We figure the consequences (slow traffic) are worth it as long as we stay secure.

Same as in any relationship. Sometimes there are little things that come up along the way that we would rather avoid than confront (or...drive over?). Keep on ignoring those little things and they eventually accumulate (think traffic jam). Maneuvering through the relationship and feeling as free as a speedster on the open road becomes too difficult for us...sheet metal-like obstacles pop up everywhere and close us in. We all know how it feels to be in a traffic jam--we get tense and frustrated. The same happens in a relationship where you are avoiding problems. Even though you think you are avoiding the problems, they surface in other ways. The relationship can become tense and frustrating.

To me, the lesson is clear. In a relationship, driving over the sheet metal is a matter of communicating. Take the little things as they come. Deal with them before they get frustrating. You might need to slow down a bit, but once you're on the other side, it's smooth sailing...I mean driving.

From the Dog's Mouth
an excerpt from Oscar's diary

Can someone please tell me about cats? I am very curious about them, and they seem to reciprocate, yet when I get near them their tail flairs out like a feather duster and they make this high pitched hissy breathing sound, which also displays their pathetically small yet sharp teeth. I can only imagine what would happen if I tried to initiate play.

In the past month no less than four cats have moved in. They are everywhere, and they must have some sort of cat communication system set up because every time I see one, another soon follows. They use this communication system regularly. It's gotten to the point where I can't go outside without seeing them. I can't take a poo without looking over my should only to find them peeking out from the underbrush. Occasionally they creep closer to me, sensing my weak moment. It's vicious, and I won't stand for it.

I'm not saying that I'm afraid of cats. The reason I ran away this morning was because I still had a lot of landmarks to pee on. And if I appeared to be nervous or jumpy it was actually because the temperature had dropped significantly overnight, and as we all know, my fur isn't sufficiently thick enough to keep me warm. Coupled with being put face to face with a species of animal I just don't understand (and before breakfast, no less), it's evident why I couldn't stay and chit chat with the local cat gang.

And this is the one thing I don't understand: why are cats allowed to roam free? Isn't it evident they are a vicious type and a menace to dogs everywhere? Beyond that, it's not fair that they walk the streets at will while I must remain at the end of a tether. Me, sweet, innocent me, who has never thought of stalking another animal this way (what? birds are animals too? and squirrels? since when?). It's an outrage. I'm tired of their mind games, and as soon as I figure out a way, those cats will be sorry they ever interrupted my business.

No More Talk About Houses

I'm pretty sure I jinxed this one too. We're not getting the cute house on the end of the cul-de-sac. It's turned into an awful situation that could possibly drag on for some time. I'm not even going to speak about houses until I'm living in one.

Skeptical Surveyor

A few weeks ago, I read about a college student who pays for all his partying by filling out online surveys. At the time, I didn't think much of it, just wondered what he would do when the day came to get a real job.

Now I'm wondering just how much he could have been making. I suppose it depends on if he is under-aged or not, because clearly you spend more money if it's actually legal for you to drink. Let's say he is of age and spends $400 a month on booze for himself and the ladies.

If I could make an extra $400 a month, I would be happy. It's not enough to support myself or my husband, but it is enough to help ease the pressure in other financial areas. So today, as I was cruising around Craigslist in search of my dream job (sleeping, reading and writing), I stumbled on one of these survey ads. I signed up. I made $26 in a half an hour.

All of the "surveys" had me take a look at similar websites (asking for people to sign up to take surveys, or trying to find people to find people to take surveys) and giving a two-three sentence response to what I thought of the site. Easy enough. I began realizing, though, that this process could be dangerous to the beginning survey-taker. It's clear that the surveyors themselves are the targets of all this marketing and this survey business. A few sites even asked for a one-time fee. I don't like the idea of giving money to make money. It can't always work out that way.

In order to cash out on my $26, I have to earn a total of $75 first. We'll see how long that takes, since there were only six surveys available today, and there might be none tomorrow. And $400 a month? If I only worked half the month, and did six surveys a day, I could do it. That is, if it isn't a scam too.

Bust out the Boxes!

Having moved every year since graduating high school (sometimes more), I consider myself to be somewhat of a moving expert. Perhaps this is also why I feel completely at ease with the progress I've made packing up the apartment so far. Number of boxes I've packed = Zero. I'm fine with it. Not a bit nervous.

It is true I'm cutting it close, especially with the one-woman team I have to work with (that would be myself, but hopefully not my organism self). Therefore, it is imperitive I begin packing tonight. The best place to start is with books. Now, lest I completely ruin today's blog with boring packing tips, I feel it necessary to end here.

I will, however, make a goal for packing boxes, and that is to pack 6 boxes tonight. That should cover the books and then some.

Yeah, I know, still boring.

I'm going.

Wish me luck...

I'm Not Serious

I fritter away my time worrying about why I can't motivate to take care of little things. If I were an alien scientist observing how this organism I refer to as my self behaves compared to other organisms, I would note that this self organism lays around frequently staring at blank walls or that squalid television set (is this the proper time to reveal I'm not doing so well with the TV ban?). When hooked up to a brain scanning machine, the brain activity produces meatball shapes in neon colors, indicating mismatched synopsis, or, in layman's terms, a lack of a serious hobby or interest.

I would perform simple experiments on my organism self. One would involve a broom, a toothbrush, a drum, and a slightly dirty floor. I would observe how my organism self is drawn to the drum, but because the floor is dirty, refuses to sit down and play the drum. My organism self would stare at the wall just to the left of the broom, allowing the broom's sillouhette to burn its image into my organism self's periferal vision. My organism self would develop a resentment not only to the broom, but also to the floor and the drum. My organism self would brush its teeth to pass the time.

Studies would eventually be conducted to see how my organism self would react to stimulants like book readings, concerts, and political rallies. These studies would be performed only after the organism self had proven its ability to align similar thoughts, problems, and activities. The studies could span years, and might be interrupted by other daily happenings such as marriage, geographical relocation, and family members (these interruptions may also induce a regression to the original state). Overall, the studies would prove to be inconclusive, and the organism self would be declared a dull member of society who only slightly contributes.

But I'm not an alien scientist. And this exercise was an effort to jolt myself back into existence.

Oh Money! Oh Job! Oh No Thank You..................................

If I could still get away with stomping my foot, clenching my fists, and wringing my face up into an unattractive pout (lower lip turned way down, eyebrows plunging toward the ground), I would throw a temper tantrum right now.

"But I don't want to get a job," I'd screech.

That's how I feel inside. My inner child is scraping at me under my skin, urging me to find any way out of this horrible, horrible thing Responsibility is making me do. "Surely there must be some way out of it?" the little child asks, "Please don't say we have to work. I'd rather play all day."

My eye has been caught by various entrepreneurs and speakers. By jobs that claim not to be jobs. By schemes promising me I'll never have to leave my house for work again. Work as a personal shopper or a mystery shopper or someone's grocery shopper. Learn how to get paid to travel around the world. Make up to $75 per hour on your computer.

But I have yet to find the one I am looking for: Sleep in for big bucks. Bonus checks for staying up late reading and writing.

Please keep your eye out for this job listing. I'm sure I'd be perfect for it.

How to Take Over the World

We've all had our stomach take over, driving us around the office, on the prowl for anything, anything to satiate its little growlings. While some people may claim to be in control of their snacking habits, the vending machine tells another tale...

Standing in front of that dratted machine this morning, with no desire other than to appease the pitiful pangs of my belly, I wondered who would be coerced into purchasing a "Smooshed Apple Flat" or the "Cococo Chocolate Organic Crackers." Only the deepest craving could force one to press the corresponding number and retrieve these scary sounding treats (if they can even be called treats). With so little options to vend today, and with such a pressing ache under my belt, I realized I was at the mercy of the machine. I suddenly saw the possibilities: by basing vending operations on a barter system, tasty snacks could be traded for small deeds. Imagine the possibilities. In the wrong hands, it could be dangerous.

While I would not take over the world with this plan (it could be done, by no means is this the most efficient way), I'm thinking of installing one in my house to barter for small chores. You may have a cookie if you mop the floor. You may have a granola bar if you empty the dishwasher, and so on. The beauty of it all is that I won't have to feed my guests anything significant and they'll never notice because the junk food compensation will outweigh their expectations. Believe me, it will work!

New Advice Column

In this vast technological world, us bloggers have to stick together. That is why I am plugging my friend's new advice column, The Cure for the Common Question. Andie, the expert advice-giver, has long dreamed of becoming an advice columnist, and let me tell you, she gives really good advice. She's thoughtful, has great life experience, and is always spot on. I've gone to her many-a-time for words of wisdom, and have never been disappointed.

She's looking for serious questions about the problems you're having trouble wrapping your head around. To submit a question, email her at andieeast@gmail.com. If you have trouble locating this address, I've linked to her blog on this page, which has instructions for getting your question through to her.

Happy Internet therapy-ing!

Happy National Women's Confidence Day

What a great idea. I heard about this on the radio last night exactly while I was reading Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own. Woolf was talking about how women (in the 20s) were overcoming the expectations set upon them over the centuries, how the day to day life of a middle class woman was virtually a mystery up until the 1800s, and how even through the 1800s a gifted woman had to hide her work behind a male pseudonym. I started thinking about the obstacles women face in the 21st century, and hearing about National Women's Confidence Day (NWCD) helped to clear things up.

Women are still trying to prove themselves, yet maintain their identity as women. Any year now I'm going to face the decision to continue working or to stay at home raising kids. I have to seriously consider how my priorities will have to adjust when I have a family. And all along the way, I have to have the confidence to make it all work: to maintain whatever work schedule I'm on, to sell my passion as a viable living, and to be the kind of parent I hope to be. Getting much more into the detail than this begins to make my head spin, and my heartrate quickens. Luckily, because I know millions of women carry this off every day, I feel so much better.

And that's what this day of recognition is all about. Here are the goals of NWCD:

• To remind women everywhere to empower themselves with self confidence every day.
• To create an opportunity for women to help other women live more confident and fulfilling lives via educational programs, fundraising, self-empowerment and volunteer work.
• To tribute women who contribute, via education, fundraising, self-empowerment and volunteer work, to other women helping them to gain more confidence and self esteem.

I'm curious to know how Woolf would update her essay 80 years after she wrote it, and especially to see what criticisms of society she would have now. Surely the volume would triple in length with all that's happened to women since Woolf died. But my question is, would Woolf's tune change from having a room of one's own to having self confidence? Well, as far as fiction is concerned, having a room full of self confidence can't hurt.

Some Sort of Rut?

I just realized that I'm in another rut. A blogging rut, at least. All the blogs I've written since getting out of school fall into one of three categories:

• About buying a house
• About my lack of imagination lately
• Cover topics that begin with the letter B

Ok, so maybe the last on is a stretch, because "Bowling Bummer" and "The Banana Bread Blog" cover completely different subjects. But this is also the Blaura Blog, so it's obvious I have some subconscious alliteration thing going on.

So, does this blog count as thinking outside of the blogging rut box? Unfortunately not; it falls into all three categories. Sheesh, I need to try harder.

The Banana Bread Blog

Everyone who has ever baked a banana bread believes that theirs is the best in the world. This is unfortunate, because they are living a lie. Mine is the best.

Ok, I'm willing to share this title with my mother, since I use her recipe. I would extend to her the same right--to bestow the same honor on whomever shared the recipe with her--but I honestly can't speak for their baking method.

I wish that I had a secret to share about the banana bread, but I don't. Perhaps the secret is that I don't try to make it flashy and fancy. It's banana bread, people, not a sparkly bejewelled sweatshirt.

Now the question of quality and perception of quality comes to everyone's mind. The perfect banana bread must not be too dry (I think we can all agree on that, at least). It should maintain the same density throughout (we've all had that bread that gets harder to chew the farther your teeth get from the top). And the top...well, that's where the magic happens. The very top of the banana bread should open like a seam, it spreads just so, naturally, and in tasty goodness. The top isn't crusty, but a moist squishy layer that will stick to your teeth and cling to your taste buds. It's the epitome of the art of baking, where flour and banana and sugar and egg and whatever else the recipe calls for cease to exist as ingredients and come together in harmony.

If only we could each live our lives through the metaphor of the banana bread top. We'd all be pretty special.

It's Safe to Look Now

Well, maybe not, but I feel really good about this house. The last one I blogged about was indeed jinxed, perhaps by my premature public declaration of love, but we are past the first hurdle on this one, so I show it to you without fear.

Ok, it's not anything like what I imagined what we'd end up in, but that's the beauty of being flexible, right? In this case, while the house is very well done, it lacks the charm of the house I had my eye on before. This house overcomes that with it's location: near a pool, tennis courts, park, public golf course (yes readers, I have been known to swing a club), and the Cherry Creek bike trail.

Additionally, this house has the biggest yard we'd seen to date (yay for Oscar!), a finished basement including wet bar (party at my place!), and room to grow when I finally allow my motherly desires to take over. Oh, and did I mention the convection oven? Be prepared for some future food blogs!

So, cross your fingers. This house in under contract, and we hope to close by the end of June. We'll all be lounging on the back deck sipping margaritas and BBQing in no time (like it's never been done before)!

Fasting for Imagination

Last night I began a fast...of television. I will allow myself a very limited amount of viewing. I have deemed that only weather reports, and certain HBO programs will be worthy of my attention from here on out. And if you're saying to yourself "hmm, this fast conveniently coincides with the finale of American Idol, The Office, Scrubs, and 30 Rock," well, you might be on to something. I can only imagine what I'll do once Project Runway comes back on.

So what did I do with my first night of freedom from the evils of television? Perhaps I worked on a writing project for a few hours, cleaned up the kitchen, vacuumed my car, or caught up with family members I have been out of touch with? No. Perhaps I went for a long walk, cooked myself a fabulous dinner, or finished reading the novel I've been neglecting for the past two weeks? No. I read a magazine and fell asleep. Not even the ring of my cell phone with David beckoning on the other end could rouse me. And every few hours I opened my eye just a
crack to see my partner in crime, Oscar aka Mr. Blackpants, basking in the new freedom of being so recently released from the shackels of worthless programming.

Tonight I am going to lay a shroud over the television, to symbolize its death in my living room. Not too big of a shroud, though, I might need to watch something, just a short little something, when there's nothing else to do.

Bowling Bummer


I went bowling last night. Perhaps I should begin this rant by explaining my relationship to bowling, as well as my competitive spirit. Then I will summarize it all for you in a somewhat inconclusive manner that will leave you wondering about your own bowling drive, and, ultimately, how it connects to life overall.

I've been bowling for most of my life. My parents, recognizing that bowling was a great family activity, would occasionally take us all down to the bowling alley, tie up our toes in those delightfully distasteful shoes, and help us select the proper weight ball. One thing they never gave us, however, were the gutter bumpers. We were going to learn how to bowl properly. Fear the gutter, aim for the highest pin in the formation.

In high school I took an individual sports class, where I learned and was tested on bowling etiquette, scoring, and terminology. I already knew most of what we learned, since I'd been tallying score cards for a few years. However, I don't want to make myself sound like a big ol' bowling expert, or like I'm even a good bowler. The most I learned in the bowling class was how to approach certain shots. I throw the ball very straight down the lane. There's no fancy spin, and I'm not even particularly graceful . Frequently, I find myself lining up a perfect roll, only to have all but one pin fall down. To pick up a spare on the 7 or 10 pin in the back, you shouldn't bowl along the gutter. Try coming across from a different angle.


So, last night, with all this bowling history behind me, I want to bowl well, like I always do. I can usually expect to break 100 (I told you I wasn't very good), and on a good bowling night I break 120. My best score is 142, and that was very exciting. I'm always salivating for that next high score, I'm always out there to beat myself. Of course, it doesn't hurt to have competition on the team. It keeps me modest, mostly, and forces me to realize that even though knocking down nine pins seems quite good, it does nothing toward launching my score to the unatainable (at least for me) 300.

I had a horrible bowling night. The first score was 102, the second 82. There was some beer drinking involved, but I really can't blame that. And each time I let the ball slip off my fingers at 14 mph, I thought If I practiced, I could be better.

But in this case, I don't think it's true. I took bowling for an entire semester, and my score virtually remained in the 120s the entire time. Maybe bowling is the one thing I can't be better at. Maybe we just have to accept that we'll never be able to do everything. I have to accept that I'm never going to be a good bowler.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

Awww, it's enough to make you feel cozy, thinking of a charming house with the little panes in the windows and the breakfast nook and the veranda and the porch swing that you're going to put up so you can sip lemonade and watch the sunset behind the mountains. That's what we're going after. Yep, we're packing up and heading back to Colorado.

Looking for houses hasn't been awful. Luckily, it's a buyer's market, so it feels like we've been able to walk among houses and raise our nose in disgust at all the bad apples. But we've also been able to locate the house I described above for a reasonable price. (No, it's not this house pictured...if I publicize the house we want too much, it might go away.)

But it doesn't feel like the house search has just been about finding the house of our dreams. I'm sure we don't have enough money for that. I've resisted falling in love with any house, especially ones out of our price range, or this house that we are about to put a bid on. If I fall in love with it, my heart might get broken, and that's not a positive way to settle back into my home state. So what I'm going for here is finding a good place to start. The current house on our radar has a lot of good things going for it, but there are certainly some traits we're willing to overlook. I know I'm not going to be attached to any house until I can sit on the grass in the front lawn and listen to the wind rustling through the trees overhead, and know that the sound will always calm me down.

Until then, we're still searching for home.

Where Has My Imagination Gone?

I keep trying to think of things to write. I keep trying to let myself be swept away by a thought. I keep trying, but apparently you can't force it. I'm stuck in an
imagination rut. Perhaps it's because I've just finished school and my mind has decided to turn itself off for a while.

On Wikipedia, imagination is defined as: the innate ability and process to invent partial or complete personal realms within the mind from elements derived from sense perceptions of the shared world.

I'm feeling abnormal because I'm not able to access my ability to invent realms. I try to access the creative part of my brain, the part that seemed like a floodgate every time I had a deadline. Now it's my job to learn how to imagine things because I want to, not becuase I have to.

But it's not like I haven't been trying. I've been at my computer several times since my last day of class, trying to work out this character I've had in my mind, but my mind feels stopped up. At first I thought I was just tired, but now I feel like there might actually be a clog somewhere in my brain.

I need a brain plunger. Or a brain plumber. Or a brain vacuum. Or maybe I need to just settle down.

The Day Has Come

I finally get a weekend where I don' thave to worry about getting my homework done. After dreaming of the possibilities (there was hope for a camping trip), I've decided my time would be best spent at home, cleaning up after myself.

Let me explain the significance of this: I hate cleaning. My house has gotten so bad that I am unhappy when I come home. Seeing clothes strewn over every possible chair arm and back possible does not make me happy. Not being able to sit in the loveseat by the computer does not make me (or Oscar) happy. Not being able to navigate my way through the bedroom because there are so many pairs of shoes, dirty clothes, bags, mismatched jewelry, etc. does not make me happy.

So I'll be folding laundry with a spring in my step, doing the vacuum cleaner cha-cha, and dusting away all the accumulation of the past few months--the stress, the late nights, the work I was forced to do. It's spring cleaning, and this will be a great way for me to step into my new freedom. A Clean Home is a Happy Home, and the People Who Live in a Clean Home are Happy Too.

So Close, Yet...

Tomorrow is my last day of class ever. I've already blogged about this. But I still have one more paper left to write, and that's really wearing me down.

I was supposed to get started on this paper two weeks ago. I was supposed to work on it all last week. I was supposed to research it and begin writing it Saturday. I was supposed to finish writing it yesterday. Did any of those happen? No. Of course not. In the true spirit of procrastination, I am doing this final paper correctly--at the last minute.

Tonight, I am supposed to finish my paper. I do believe this will happen, since I am not one to turn in late assignments. However, I also have two other assignments due, and those are currently taking a back seat (as if there is another back seat left on this procrastination bus).

So here's to old habits, excuses, and plain ol' not wanting to do homework. Wish me luck, I have a long night ahead of me (all nighters are sooo undergrad).

A Little Late for Resolutions...

When the New Year rolled around, who knows what I was doing (actually, I was probably shoveling snow off my mom's car in Colorado), but I was too busy to think about improving myself. Realistically, I knew it wasn't going to happen in coordination with the start of 2007. But now, with my thesis behind me, and what feels like a new life ahead, I am going to start a list of things to accomplish.

• Read all the books I've been ordering on Amazon but haven't had time to read yet. This should carry me through June.
• Learn French. I've already started this, but with the thesis and end-of-the-semester papers, this pursuit has taken a backseat. I've discovered podcasts and websites to help me learn, and hopefully I'll be able to say something other than "What date is your birthday" soon.
• Garden. Not only are my house plants suffering from neglect, but my green thumb has been ignored so long it's faded to a wan-pea-soup color. Ewww. I hear sunlight is the cure.
• Travel. This list is long, and always the most difficult to fulfill. I have plans for a trip to Buenos Aires in October (and I'm looking for a travel partner). Smaller trips include (but are not limited to) road trip up or down the California coast, British Columbia, Texas, Minnesota, and Hawaii.
• Keep my house clean. Oh wait, this list should be inspiring. Dare I bog myself down with chores? The answer is yes. Having a bedroom as messy as mine is embarrassing and distracting.
• Train Oscar. Despite being the world's best dog, Oscar needs some work. He pulls on the leash, barks at dogs, and growls at anyone wearing a hat. Oh boy.
• Ride my bike more. I love going fast on my road bike, and I could use the exercise.
  

Well there it is. I hope you weren't expecting things like bungee jump, or space travel, or swim the English Channel. Those things are for people who like big rubber bands, have lots of money, or know how to swim. I am none of those, and I apologize if I disappointed you.

My Life Continues

I just turned in my thesis. The weight of the past two years has finally been unchained, and I can move and flex and walk and...oh, what should I do with myself?

I've been looking forward to some feeling of freedom. Like, what will it be like to come home from work and not have to pull out my laptop and write a paper? What will it be like to travel on the weekend with a book I chose to read myself? What excuse will I think of to get out of keeping the house clean (because really, that is my biggest concern)?

But I also hope that the weight of the past two years continues to exert itself from time to time. I don't want to forget what it's like to work on my writing. I don't want to forget how good it feels to finish a story and think that someone else might like to read it. That, more than obtaining an official looking degree, is what I went to school for. I needed discipline, and I really hope that part of that lesson sunk in and became a part of me.

The celebrations have not yet begun. David offered to throw a party, but my inclination is not to have one. My first big deadline has come and gone. There will be many more. This is my new life, and I hope it's a hardworking one.

Birthday Dog Blog

I can't believe that Oscar's birthday has come and gone, and I didn't blog about it. I'm feeling very guilty, and if I had a tail, it would be between my legs. Sorry Oscar.

Oscar's birthday, April 15th, is an arbitrary date. We knew he was probably born in April, based on when he began losing his puppy teeth. I chose the 15th because it is smack dab in the middle of the month. Just because tax day also traditionally falls on this day does not mean we should think any less of Oscar.

On Oscar's big day we took him on a forbidden bike ride. Although Oscar is small in stature, he is the best for taking on a bike ride. He's not so big that his joints and size slow him down. He zips up and down the trail, and probably covers twice the ground his human companions bike. Seeing Oscar run would bring a smile to anyone's face. He lights up, opens his mouth and flops his tongue over his teeth, lays his ears back, and takes off, as though he were a windup car that has been waiting to be released. Running is his favorite thing to do, so of course, we were going to take him for a nice run for his birthday. The only problem is that most trails don't allow dogs, and if they do, they are supposed to be on leash. It is nearly impossible to successfully bike with your dog on leash.

But hey, you do what you can to make your loved ones happy. Oscar ran off leash. We were prepared to pay a fine. Thankfully, the day turned out well for everyone. No fine for us, and Oscar was so blissfully happy by trail's end that it made breaking the rules (dare I say the law?) very much worth it.

For dinner, Oscar dined on flank steak. He was a happy boy. He deserves it. He's a good dog.

Happy Birthday Oscar!

Sleepy Blogger

I had the most difficult time blogging yesterday. I want everyone to know that, in case you were wondering why I was not only talking about 6th grade, but writing like a 6th grader. The reason was because I had stayed up the entire night before putting together my final story for workshop. I kept falling asleep while writing my blog, and even though I started dreaming, I kept typing. That's right, I was typing my dream. It was such a fascinating idea that I decided to write a big long email to David and see what happened. Here are some exerpts from my dream email (copied exactly as they appeared in the email):

I can't believe I'm not sleeping yet. I don't know what the deal is, I'm really sorry to waste your time, maybe I'll erase all these and then I'll put ( I had a hard time finding his sweater here).

Can you imagive being a doctor? Whow, the email I am typing to you looked like a logo just now, and I was going to ask you where you were going. What country are you visiting? I want to go somewhere warm so that I can wear my shorts. You want to go somewhere where there aren't so many locals. we hate people. I would rather eat a sunflower.

Remember when you were speaking Spanish and the guidebook had been drawn on? Who brought the kid to dream about thigs. Not meDo you have to wear a diaper there? Because I don't have one for my family.

You souh read my sample outine with the double boiler
wow, I'm super tired. I just had a little dream about winning the Double Tree. Now I'm sleeping. I wonder if this will be hoof ro you. Does she have a lazy eye too? I can't tell. I can see the heat from the sun backthat side. There I went, drooling again.

Stapler Fear

My stapler ran out of staples today. It's such an infrequent ocurrance that I take it as an omen.

Nothing has happened yet (but the day isn't over). I'm worried this one will be a bad omen. In sixth grade, I put a fairly heavy-duty staple into my thumb. They had to use a long flat screwdriver to get it out. Then I got to sit at the receptionist's desk for the rest of the afternoon, which was a fun little job. I think I remember seeing the staple in 6th grade on the other side of my nail, and that image wouldn't shake from my mind.


So I'm not sure how to take the stapler omen...should I prepare for an evening of kicking my feet up and relaxing, or should I grab a box of band-aids and avoid sharp objects altogether? I hope not the second, because I nearly had an incident this morning. I put the wrong size staples into the stapler, and then the top kept springing back on my vulnerable hand. I was having serious flashbacks.
I am afraid of my stapler.

This Goes Out to My Grandma

It's Grandma's 80th birthday today. What I love most about the whole situation is that she's excited, and she still looks forward to her birthdays.

Weeks ago, she revealed to me that she had never had a birthday party. It was a big hint: throw me a party, or else. Just kidding. She's not like that. But seriously, I knew the party would be a big deal to her.

The invitations have been sent out, the location has been booked, and the menu written. There will be friends and family (minus one V.I.Son, but that's a whole other story and not blog material), a little booze, a game or two, and the best part of all--a Hollywood theme. I'm putting my photoshop skills to good use and transforming old photos of her into starlet movie posters. I've also ordered some party decorations to help set the mood. I plan on making her wear a boa throughout the whole event, and maybe even some kitschy costume jewelry, and long gloves. I can't wait to see it all turn out, and see her have a great time.

Happy Birthday Grandma! Love ya!

JEaNS

I've come to a sad realization. My jeans are out of shape. I know the old trick: wash them and they will be restored. But after a while, they are just too worn out. They hang from the hips without attitude. They make my butt look like a sunken pie.

And what makes it worse is that jeans are so difficult to shop for (unless you have that "certain" figure, the one even sweatpants look good on). So when the day rolls around when your jeans give you the "I just don't have the energy" look, and they begin to suck the life out of the rest of your outfit, it's only natural that you put off the search for a new pair. It's just too much work, and the jeans concur, "Nothing is worth making an effort for anymore."

Once you muster up the energy to go shopping, the word has spread. Your jeans have told every other pair of jeans in the entire world that you are coming. Therefore, every pair you try on skips straight to the hanging "I don't wanna make your ass look good" phase. The trick is to be impulsive. Grab a pair on your way to lunch. Don't take your old jeans with you. Better yet, don't even try them on.

I'm still waiting for the full bad-jean coma to sink in. Besides, I don't have time to shop for jeans (is that me or the pants talking?).

Vegas Virginity Revoked

I had always thought that if I went to Vegas I would get bored with it quickly. But once I got there -- and while I was suffering from excessive alcohol intake -- there was so much to see around me. I preferred to walk around. I didn't want to sleep.

I've had a tough time conceptualizing my Vegas blog. What can I say that hasn't already been said? I closed clubs, saw strippers, rode in a limo, gambled, was wooed by the bright lights. I didn't see a show or show girls, and only noted one Elvis. Still, even without those, I feel like I had the typical Vegas experience.

But what was fascinating was that people go there with expectations (allow me to generalize). Everyone expects you to leave your former life at the gate of the airport. You are expected to let loose and forget any decent upbringing you might have had. You are expected to engage. If you don't, you should go back to your hotel. And for that matter, you should go home. If you aren't there to get crazy, what are you there for?

I would like to reiterate that these were not my expectations going in.

Maybe that's why I was so taken with Vegas. I've never been to such a place. How does a place like that develop? Who thinks all that stuff up? Who wakes up one day and says "I'm going to rebuild the New York skyline" and not only that, but has the confidence that people will like it? At first, my head was swirling.

But I don't think it's the concept people like, it's the escape. Everyone is well aware it isn't real. And because of that, maybe people start to think that, while they are there, they aren't real either. Without reality, the other beliefs fall away.

It's Tough Living in Health Food Nation

Let's face it, we still like our junk food.

I am of the camp that believes if you are eating healthy most of the time, exercising, and drinking lots of water, that you can slack off every now and then. I give in to my little cravings, which don't come very often.

Like this afternoon, when I went to the vending machine to get a tasty snack. I wanted potato chips, or something salty, maybe a little greasy. I felt like being naughty. Naughty tastebuds. But standing in front of the vending machine, there was none of that. Dried fruit. Sunflower seeds. Trail mix. Oatmeal. Who puts oatmeal in the vending machine? And the sticker on the glass in the top right hand corner taunted me: Healthy Options Vending, Do What's Right For Your Body. Bah!

There was one empty row in that vending machine. I bet that's where the baked Lays were. Wake up Healthy Options Vending! You lost a sale because you failed to indulge my insatiable lust for junk food this afternoon. Forcing your supply on us will not increase our demand. I left the building and found a place that could give me what I needed.

And tomorrow, on my own terms, I might be ready for the trail mix.

A Few More Wedding Pictures...




And yes, it was very cold outside!

Obstacles in the Road

This will begin a series that I've been wanting to do for a while now. Occasionally, on the traffic report, there is the most interesting object obstructing traffic flow. Once it was a family of ducks. Another time was a kitchen sink. We can imagine how these items wound up on the road, but it's another trick to surmise their overall contribution to the flow of life. I've decided to report on these items as I hear about them and relate them to my new favorite subject--Marriage. Perhaps the topic I relate it to will change over time, but I don't see the well running dry on this one.

So, last night, around 11 pm I was listening to Coast to Coast AM. The traffic report came on. A washing machine was blocking traffic on the Bay Bridge.

Clearly, the washing machine relates to domestic duties. And why should I see it as an obstacle? Not only because I have quite a large pile of laundry that I ignored over the weekend, but because there will always be a pile of laundry. And if I am to follow my dream of avoiding the cubicle life-style, I must come to terms with the washing machine. If you are the one at home, you have to do the laundry. It's part of the territory, right? And since this blog comes on the heels of my "treat women equally" blog, I think I should mention that just because we want to be equal doesn't mean we can stop doing the laundry. Then we'd stink like the menfolk.

Actually, what I'm thinking when I envision a washing machine on the road is: Is it still there? I wonder if I could go pick it up. Washing machines are expensive.

Thoughts on the Awards

I've always wondered why the best actress award is given a few awards before the best actor award. What is the hierarchy here? Is it necessarily possible for a male actor to be better than a female actor. Maybe. I can't comment on the performances this year because I didn't see them all. What I'm driving at is: why don't they switch the order up? One year the men go first, and another year the women go first. That sounds fair. However, I don't know if this is an issue to anyone. So maybe we'll keep it the same. Except that the end of the Oscar's always seem so male dominant. The male best actors, the male directors, and the male producers. Too macho for me. I actually sat this year watching the entourage of The Departed settle into their seats, like the real part of the awards ceremony had begun. And where were the women? Clapping.

Also this past week, the people with the $$ at Wimbledon decided that women will be awarded the same prize money as men from here until forever. I think that's great. The men players? Mixed reaction, mostly thinking it's not fair. It's true that the men play up to five sets, while the women are only stretched to three. But the women are not given the option of playing five sets, and I bet that if they were, we would wonder what the fuss was all about. Remember when women weren't allowed to run marathons? Because they were told they didn't have the stamina, that they might not survive. Hogwash.

And now I might add that my opinions are highly effected by my attendance at a predominantly women's college. But it has been freeing. I highly recommend it to everyone, because women aren't so bad after all.

I Said "Husband," He He

It's been like a dirty word, whenever I go to say it, so instead I gesture and over-emphasize. "You know, my husband." The word is still foreign to me. And it's like people are waiting for me to say it, and point out that it's one of my first times saying it. "Ooooh! Your husband! You said it! Oh, look at you blush, you blushing bride, you!"

Then again, being married for only a week and a half, I haven't had many opportunities to use the word with strangers. Until this morning. I explained that my husband had been into the store the other day. The woman on the other side of the counter wasn't phased. Who knows if it even registered. They have married people come in all the time. But for me, it was a huge hurdle. I'm always being told that I look sixteen, or twenty-two. One of these times I'm going to say something about my husband, and someone is going to stop me and ask "You're married? Are you old enough?"

Yeah, people. I'm old enough. I'm married. Get used to it. I know I have to.

Alien Skin (or, the honeymoon episode)

First, consider the following circumstances:

• Lounging in the sun for at least two hours a day. The Aruban sun, near the equator, which, without the cooling trade winds of the Carribbean, would scorch any skin type to perfect medium-well-steak standards.
• Slathering on a palmful of sunscreen every morning. 45, which should protect even the fairest skin from the Aruban sun oven. And it's waterproof, so that not only will the wearer be able to enjoy the beach and the pool, but the water will bead up and glide off the skin oh-so pleasingly.
• After a few days of this routine, have a full body massage. It begins with a skin brush, which only feels good because the skin has been so carefully protected from sunburn. Then heated oil is gently rubbed all over, releasing any tension which may have resulted from the constant cooling trade winds + sticky sunscreen + long hair issue.

They all sound nice, right? Except that just hours after the massage, some tiny itchy bumps appeared on my feet. I couldn't sleep because I hadn't experienced such itching since I had the chicken pox in second grade. I thought I was either allergic to the oil, or that we had bedbugs in the bottom corner of my side of the bed. No bedbugs, I checked.

I took several showers, thinking if it was the oil, I could wash it away and I'd be fine. The bumps spread. I had them on the backs of my knees, the backs of my hands, on my forearms, my neck, and my thighs. They weren't red, just itchy. So damn itchy.

Well, I'm back from Aruba now. I still have the bumps. Was it the sun, or the sunscreen? If it was, shouldn't they have gone away by now?

And the thing is, I'm so far behind at work and in school that I don't have time to go see the dermatologist. And I can't take Sudafed because I can't risk losing even more time for homework to the ensuing sleep. What to do?

At least I don't look like a lizard. But if I end up looking like this guy here, I think I will find the time for a remedy.

The Blaura Wedding


Weddings go by too fast. Already I'm only recalling pieces in my mind. But to summarize, I think we threw a pretty good party.

I wish I had more pictures, but seeing as I just got back last night (at 1:30 am, and headed off to work this morning), I'll have to post more later on. Thanks to those who have already forwarded their pictures, Snapfish is going to be getting some money from me this month.


Since it's so hard to recap your own wedding (I'm sure the first words out of every bride's mouth are "It was so beautiful" -- well, it was). The setting was amazing, the food was delicious, the ambiance was special. So vague, but it you had been there, I think you would agree.


With the Oscar's coming up, and the Grammy's finished last night, I'm inspired and think the following is the right thing to do. Imagine me on a big stage in full gown glamor, holding an obnoxiously large statuette of linked wedding rings that has been inscribed with "Best Wedding of the Year."

I would like to thank David's family for being so supportive of our dream wedding, and for making the long trip out from New York, Long Island, and Boston. I'm glad we finally got our two families together.

I would like to thank my family for coming together for me. Having both of my parents near me once again meant so much. And my sister and brothers made for the best looking bridal party on record! Not to mention their willingness to put up with my frantic demands for last minute help, they helped iron out (literally and figuratively) some little kinks. Thanks Myra and Paul for making the trek to Colorado and representing the Minnesota crew. Thanks to Carolyn with the final touches.

To the decorating crew--Ilze and Mike, thanks for devoting your Saturday to my demands (the place would not have been transformed without you!), and Lance and Lance Jr. (even though there were some funny mistakes with the place cards, you helped me out tremendously!).

To the demolition crew--Gavin and Lauren for spearheading the chucking of the decor. I know there were others who helped with tear down, and thank you for making it so effecient. I especially liked the part where I got to leave and didn't have to help!

And to some VIPs--Robert, for a beautiful job of handling the ceremony; Candace, for your gorgeous handwriting and for creating the impetus to try Argentinian steak (yeah Beef Club); Yuan for photographing the wedding free of charge (can't wait to see how they turned out!); the readers, Erin, Chris, Stu, and Kiki; Mom, Debby, Jannean, and Ilze for working on decorations weeks in advance, and seeing through a crazy lady's vision; Sun, for handing out programs; Justin, for overcoming shyness to take everyone's picture for the guestbook...

[the background music is starting up, meaning, the speech has gone too long]

And finally, to my new husband David, without whose love none of this night would have been possible. I love you and can't wait for the next adventure!

What is the World Coming To?

Something has been bothering me for weeks. It's not constant; just when I see the advertisements drive by on a bus, or interrupt my valuable television viewing time. Each time these cross my path, I can't help but wonder why we need to see every possible version of a storyline. Book, movie, action figure, and don't forget the musical.

I would have never imagined that Edward Scissorhands and Legally Blonde would be candidates for musicals, let alone the winning candidates. Think of all the other movies that would have suited this genre better. I just can't imagine a man wearing scissor gloves night after night while singing about cutting hair and shrubbery. Even worse, I can't imagine that people want to pay to see this. Do they expect the experience to enrich their lives? Really?

And Legally Blonde: The Musical must have sprung from the choreographed scene "Bend and Snap." Bend me over and spank me, I think it's a terrible idea.

I like to think of the musical as the little sister of opera. I love opera, and I take it very seriously. I don't take lil' sis as seriously, but there is a soft place in my heart for it mostly because it encapsulates the word "music." Some very important work has come out of the musical stage, and it's one of those things that makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside just because it's so American. Well, not anymore. I don't want to associate with it. I don't see how music from either of these features will ever enter the repertoire of great music. In fact, this whole situation disconcerts me so much that I'm afraid no good music can ever be written again. All the good music has been written; that's the only excuse for this mess.

The hills aren't so alive with the sound of music anymore.

It's Not Easy Being Caffeine Free

When I was younger I thought all children grew up to get jobs and drink coffee in the morning. Coffee drinking seemed to be a right of passage into the "real" world. If you didn't drink coffee, you didn't know what was up. And since I was a youngster with a tender tongue and no taste for coffee, I used my taste buds as a guage for how far I had to go.

Well, the coffee never caught on at the party that is my mouth. When I do drink it, I must dowse it with sugar and cream, and can you really call that drinking coffee? I certainly don't, although Starbucks makes a killing off of it.

So, either I have still not grown up, or my whole theory about coffee drinking was a complete childhood misunderstanding. I wish to argue that my instincts were not as far off as you might think. I don't think non-coffee drinkers get the same respect as coffee drinkers do.

The first time I met my fiance's parents, they were so shocked I didn't drink coffee that I was afraid they were going to kick me out. While drinking a glass of orange juice, I read an article taped to their fridge about all the benefits a cup of coffee can give you. Funny, it didn't mention any of the bad. I still wonder if, every time I pass up a cup of coffee in front of them if they question my worth.

And just this morning, I went into the kitchen at work to get some hot water for some tea. The hot water dispenser at the cooler was only spewing out tepid water, and the hot water tap on the old coffee maker has been broken for months. I went to complain that there are no amenities for the non coffee drinkers (the coffee lovers in this office just got a brand new espresso machine, ooh la la)...tea drinkers have to work so much harder to get what they want. I should not have complained, and boy, was I put in my place. There's always the microwave, and some people do not have enough time to listen to every little tea drinker's complaint.

So, if you are a tea drinker, or perhaps you need some hot water for your insta-oatmeal, do what you can for now, and take comfort in the knowledge that one day we will be recognized!

Thanks for Sharing

It has been suggested that I blog about both boogers and Oscar. So now I will relate how this morning I wiped an eye booger from Oscar's eye.

He was sitting on the couch. I sat next to him. His black fur gleamed in the early morning light, and he opened his mouth in a wide yawn as if to take in as much of it as he could. Suddenly he thought he heard something behind me, and he stretched his head up to see over my shoulder. It was then that I saw it; a dull blob in the corner of his eye, a blackish Oscar eye booger.

He continued to be interested in some noise behind my back, as I reached up with my thumb to his eye. He jerked his head back, too concentrated on the scene behind me to allow his owner to perform doggie hygiene on him. But I just dug in, but not too hard. It doesn't take much to get an eye booger to stick to your finger. By now, Oscar knew what I was doing and he took interest. He likes to make sure I got it all out by sniffing my fingers and licking them. That's right--Oscar eats his eye boogers.

And what was behing my back that kept him so captivated while I did my best to release him from eye booger hell? David. That's all...I mean, David!, the very interesting man on the other side of the room who had 10 minutes earlier given Oscar a brand new squeaky toy. We love David. Maybe he has more toys up his sleeve.

Getting Bored

I'm so tired of coming to this blog and reading about my wedding. Other people must be getting sick of it too. So, unless something really major comes up (or if people genuinely seem interested in every little wedding detail), no more mention of the day I completely relinquish my single status.

What else is going on with me, though? School starts again next week and I'm eagerly looking forward to tax season. I should get lots of tax dollars back, thanks to my student status.

Sheesh, I am boring. This is why I've been avoiding this blogging place. I want you all to believe that if I had any interesting bit of knowledge, an epiphany of some sort, or just a plain ol' good story, that this is the first place I would put it. I've hit a dry spell. My apologies. I will return as soon as I can.

Backup Plan

In case of another freak snow storm the weekend of the wedding, it might be good to have a backup plan. I don't think most people will be willing to trek back out to Colorado for a postponement date, so maybe on the second try elopement will be best.

And since I can't imagine getting married in some stuffy judge's office, why not head to Vegas? They have lots of themed weddings to keep the event fun. Some of my favorite options are getting married at Paris, Las Vegas, 50 stories up in the air in a reconstructed Eiffel Tower; on a Venetian gondola on Lake Las Vegas, complete (I imagine) with a singing gondolier; in a helicopter over the Grand Canyon; or on a pirate ship. Doesn't that sound fun? I almost wish I had gone this route to begin with. Oh well, too late, unless the snow does come.

Have a Happy

Where to start?

Happy New Year: I haven't yet had the pleasure of writing 2006 and catching my mistake. This was much more common in the era of check writing. I might never catch on to 2007...

Happy Snow Storms: I love the snow, as I have written in this very blog. But this year (or was it last year?), the snow is testing my patience. I missed Christmas because of the mess in Denver. And once I got to Denver, more snow came, nearly ruining my chance to get my act together for the wedding. There is only so much you can do when all the stores are closed. But alas, the snow finally began to melt, and I spent a lovely afternoon at Hobby Lobby, buying wedding decoration supplies, and later, getting high off of paint fumes with my mom. Good times.

Happy One Month to Go: Until the wedding. I keep on wondering if I fit the part. Should I be freaking out about having so much to do? I actually feel calm. Things are magically falling into place. Which makes me wonder...when will it start to go wrong? I'm getting more worried about the weather, especially after the dowsing Denver got over Christmas. But then again, maybe that's all the snow they'll get. Maybe it will all be fine. Maybe maybe maybe it'll be the best combination of weather/planning/luck ever.

Happy Back to Work: Huh? I take it back. So sorry the holidays are over.