You Should Know...

Day 6: Find a product you love and rave about it.

Initially, I just wanted a good excuse to go to the store and spend a bunch of frivolous money on products I never allow myself to buy in the name of happiness.

I placed this on my “happy list” the first night I was in bed with my mind racing through this 30 day thing over and over again.

One of the most impactful things I learned from a human behavior class regarding happiness has long since stuck with me. Your happiness at any given time depends on your ability to define yourself. Strengths. Weaknesses. Likes. Dislikes. Clinically we call it self-actualization.

Often times in the throes of marital or personal dissatisfaction, we frequently hear, “I just don’t know who I am anymore,” or any derivative of that concept (who he is anymore, he/she’s not who I married, I feel lost, etc…)

There is even an entire movie built around this premise. Runaway Bride. Essentially a happy person is a person who at the end of the day can not only tell you how they like their eggs but do so easily and quickly.

You will see this theme frequently from the heroes of historical narratives and most powerfully, the Savior of the universe nearly always introduces Himself by defining who He is.

“I am the Alpha and Omega. I am the beginning and the end. I am the light and the life, I am holy,” etc… and perhaps His most authoritative self declaration, “I am the Lord your God.”

Nevertheless, I’m not here to preach a sermon and this is not a collegiate course.

Finding a product was to be a process in which I found happiness through finding me. But I didn’t have to spend frivolous money after all.

Tonight I sat in front of the TV with friends and I began a process I have easily done one hundred times in the past year.

I took off and put on nail polish. I LOVE THIS HABIT.

I love painting my nails. I have been dedicated to the practice at least once every three days for the past year plus. I enjoy the clean finished look. I enjoy the feminine touch it adds to an outfit or my own personal confidence.

I am an OPI freak and can tell you the names of every single color I own. I can delineate between the collections. I love painting my nails.

Honestly, in all of the entries I’ve posted so far, I like this one the most. It makes me the happiest.

I am H and N’s daughter. I am one of many siblings. I love the sun and the ocean. Loyalty is the most important character trail to me.

I love linens especially high thread count sheets and big bright beach towels. I try to laugh often and to get others to laugh with me. I love seeing movies on opening night.

I am lactose intolerant but can’t resist oreos and milk. I am a naturally cheerful person. I love long hugs when you can feel the adoration of the other towards you. I am a night person.

And I LOVE painting my nails.

Eating Ebelskivers Emotionally - Who? Me?

Day 5: Try a brand new recipe.

My intention for slipping a toe into the world of domesticity was to widen my experience in being a “jack of all trades.”

I enjoy people. My business, my livelihood, my very keep depends on me relating to people. The reason I excel at it is because I genuinely enjoy people.

Yet to relate to many different types of people is to find a common interest to build a relationship on. I enjoy and seek opportunities to be a “jack of all trades.” Trust me. I’m aware I’m the master of none.

So for this task, I put feelers out to my friends. It went like this.

E: I need a recipe I’ve never made before.
S: Ooohh, aebelskivers.
E: What?
S: Aebelskivers. They’re Scandinavian and delicious and you’re going to love them.
E: Say it again.
S: Aebelskivers.
E: Are you kidding me?
S: Aebelskivers. They’re Scandinavian and delicious and you’re going to love them.
E: What the heck. (Her enthusiasm alone sold me.)

Aebelskivers. If you search them online, you’ll want to search for ebelskivers because they’re “Scandinavian and delicious” but unless you can find the little symbol which will run the A and the E into each other, you might as well submit to our Americanized spelling of it.

You’re searching for them online because you’re going to need a special pan to make them.

I started by making the dinner appointment for after work. I sadly moseyed into my friend’s house, and immediately laid face down into the carpet on the living room floor.

Then I had a meltdown.

As actively as anyone is in finding joy in life, every now and then a rough day is going to creep in and I suppose it’s my fault for peeing in the pool.

Upon returning to my mission, my blonde haired, blue eyed friend asked if I remembered the buttermilk. The only ingredient she asked me to bring.

Enter expletive. Back into the car and off to the store we went. (We both drink soy milk, so before you offer up the vinegar/cow milk trick, it was off the table in this instance.)

I basically forsook my Irish heritage on this St. Patrick’s Day for a Danish indulgence which obviously reminded me of the Chronicle of Narnia’s Turkish Delight.

I'm Peter (clearly) in the white witch's sleigh (the grips of boy) trading my birthright (a proper Irish adult beverage) for temporary relief (aebelskivers.)

The result is a pan fried ball scone crepe crispy smooshy spongy pastry pancake piece of goodness. How to eat it includes but is not limited to butter, powdered sugar, jam, chocolate fudge, cream cheese spread, syrup, or any combination if not a combination of all of the above (which I did.)

These aebelskivers were EXACTLY the perfectly fit recipe, from the perfectly matched company, to remedy the perfectly sour disposition, combating the perfectly rotten four o’clock, of an otherwise perfectly decent holiday.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!!

5 Chords and the Half-Truth?

Day 4: Spend an hour practicing a forsaken talent.

Forget about taking time to wow people. Wow yourself. Fine, go ahead and wow others as well.

When my mom was in town a week or so ago, we spent one cold dark evening hibernating in my bedroom. It was the first time in my life I ever, for two fleeting seconds, saw what my mom could look like as a friend instead of a parent. She oddly resembled a roommate as she was chilling on my bed and I was on the floor folding laundry.

She gazed around my room and though clothes and a coat draped over it, she noticed my guitar stashed in a corner. She asked how frequently I played. I hmm and uh huh’d around the issue a little.

Still when your mama asks you to play that song you played for her four years earlier, in a moment when you know you wowed her, no matter how obliging or un-obliging you are, you pick the clothes off piece by piece and reveal the instrument you know you should be better at than you are.

I have to confess initially I started a bit gun shy. My voice is rough and raspy. My fingers have gotten so clumsy on both a piano and guitar. To tell you the truth, it has been quite awhile since I’ve considered music a talent of mine. I’ve been rusty for way too long and I feel acutely the loss of something I once had quite developed.

Yet somewhere in between the first “hallelujah” and the last “baby, I’m falling away,” it had become fun for me. As I finished, I opened my eyes.

I became so wrapped up in the music, I went into auto mode. My world. A world where I’m not onstage and I could care less about work, boys, or anything else.

A decent performer finds this place. The place where nerves disappear and it’s about you and the instrument.

So when I came to, I was shocked to see my mom just looking at me. I saw her mouth open to say something and shamefully I thought, “oh dear. Here it comes.”

I was just as shocked when she declared, “Elizabeth, you should try out for American Idol,” matter of factly.

I laughed for many reasons. I’m too old for one. And somehow in the moment, I thought, I’m one of those crappy singers whose parents tell them they’re actually good. Oh shoot.

Aside from all of my insecurities, this was huge for two reasons. My mother is someone who I very much look up to musically. She’s older now and her voice has lost the unblemished, much practiced, control of days past. But I know her ear is still relatively good. (Mary, stop giggling.)

It was by falling asleep to her playing the piano or listening to my dad and her play their guitars outside on the back patio on summer evenings I know she is more than qualified to comment.

Secondly, my mother spent a lifetime withholding compliments. I have to believe there were times she was not in competition with us and genuinely felt proud of our mediocre accomplishments. Still sitting on my bed that night, I swear I heard my mom allude to my being good at something more than scouring a toilet.

She doesn’t know it. But I have picked up that guitar nearly every day since that night, if only for ten minutes. And right now I’m smiling.

Last Saturday I decided my repertoire could use some dusting off and updating. I sat for nearly four hours and practiced until my fingers were dirty from oxidizing against the steel strings. I picked out two songs from my library and put in the hours to learn them both.

I once had a college professor announce if we would go home every night and merely re-read the notes we had taken in class that day, every day we had class, we would learn the material and more than sufficiently pass his class or any class.

So taking his advice, if only one run through a day, I have picked up this guitar under that notion. Still today I set aside time to practice for one hour.

I feel good. I’m actually decent at this and have more than enough natural talent to be great at this. So I reiterate. Forget about taking time to wow people. Take time to WOW yourself. I promise it’ll make you feel good.

Late To Bed, Late to Wake, & Late to Bloom

Day 3: Wake up early and do something.

I’ve spent the better part of my life missing life before 8AM. I imagine my theory behind this was to see what exactly I am missing.

I set my alarm for 5:30 in the newly daylight savings morning.

With bleary eyes and a dazed mind, I dismissed this notion for another day. Moving on.

Revised Day 3: Give someone flowers.

Although I didn’t know what my objective would be exactly, upon discovering my approach, I suppose I just wanted to see someone unexpected, unexpectedly see me and smile.

I sat in a dark movie theater in the middle of the day. I wasn’t thinking about missing work to catch a flick with some friends. I was pondering how to get flowers out and who to get them out to.

Even though the obvious seemed to phone in an order to send someone some flowers, I just couldn't relive yesterday’s debacle of chasing down an address. I finally understand the never-ending bin of floral covered address books in Target’s one dollar section.

I contemplated purchasing a bouquet at the local flower shop, yet as the credits rolled I stumbled onto a concept I had given little thought to previously.

Why don’t I just buy the flowers, procure a vase, and arrange them myself? I mean, flowers are such happy things and I wasn’t going to keep them, so I might as well arrange away while basking in the scent and sight of one of nature’s better rainbows.

There she was. A beautifully stuffed, medium sized, glass vase erupting in white and plum garden flowers.

The kitchen appeared to be the workshop of some mad botanist. There were fraying amethyst ribbon scraps scattered among a sea of green leaves, stems, and stalks blanketing the table, floor, and sink.

I loved it. I didn’t want to give up such a cheery creation. Eleanore Roosevelt once geniusly stated, "where flowers bloom, so does hope."

Nonetheless, the project had already satisfied its merry purpose in my life and was meant to do the same for another.

After deciding against having a friend act as the delivery man or doorbell ditching anonymously, all I was left to do was decide upon a recipient. This was the hard part.

What did I want? What did I expect?

Someone unforeseen. Someone unexpecting me. And in that moment, the most unpredicted name popped into my head.

To know me is to know my best thoughts are the foreign thoughts of my mind. I can only describe it as an uploaded outsider in a carefully catalogued domain. One of these things is not like the others. It’s as glaring as a Picasso in a sea of Monets.

Delivery proved more difficult than I anticipated. Having been two years since I had visited my beneficiary, finding the home was arduous. Squinted eyes, small street markers, signed, sealed, and delivered the way I wanted them to be... I was glowing.

Still do you know what the happiest part of the rest of the day was? An hour more of sunny daylight and every time my fingers brushed my face, the smell of freshly cut flora reminded me spring is just around the corner.

Dear Loved-One...

Day 2: Compose and mail 10 cards.

The goal of this one is to simply get my mind off my selfish self and onto anyone else in this world.

Yeah. You heard me. Mail.

So I imagine I’ve already cheated at my game. Because today’s story started before today.

I mean, I’ve compiled a flexible list of 15 tasks for my modest experiment. I wanted to be sure I never missed a day because I was lacking an idea for a happy task. As today is Sunday and the post office is closed, I purchased stamps earlier.

I meandered into the archaic establishment we call the United States Post Office. Middle of the day. End of the week. How could this possibly be? A line? For mail?

Sure it’s cold outside but not Christmas. It’s a month, no two, no three past. Saint Patrick himself is the patron saint of alcohol. Saint Valentine, the patron saint of hallmark cards, has already moved along. Then why is everyone here right now?

In a desperate plot, I struggled for a plan to personally send a gmail invite to all of these woman. But the task to digitally educate seemed overwhelming. What next for them? Should I tell them about cameras on phones, photos on computers, and portable music on players as big as a stick of gum. No. I would not today. I could not today.

I left the line and walked over to a machine in the wall resembling an ATM. Sure this was to be my time saver and as big as my photo on this page was a touch button clear as day labeled “Purchase Stamps.”

Did these women know about this machine. Focus, E. You have work.

I purchased the stamps. The Liberty Bell stamp made my stomach ache for home. Focus, E. This is for a happy task. Not sad.

With stamps in hand, I felt that euphoric sensation rush my body. I walked to the car with the same feeling you get upon completing your taxes. “Sigh. Glad I don’t have to do that again for another year.”

I love pens. So with my favorite pen in hand, I penned 10 cards. It took an hour and a half. And I do feel happy.

Running In Circles

Day 1: Exercise until you think you will die.

The gist of this is to physically produce serotonin which is a proven hormone contributing to the feeling of euphoria.

I have “a friend” right now who was just enlightened by his doctor of his decreased levels of serotonin in his body. He exercises regularly but is the world’s largest stress case. (Stress which, of course, consumes incredible amounts of serotonin.)

So a few days ago, when asking his help for something, he thought he was the world’s cleverest man in declaring, “you’re gobbling up my serotonin.”

I laughed. I hereby declare one of life’s tricky little goals is to surround ourselves with people who gobble less serotonin than one is making. I have two options. Make more serotonin. Eliminate gobblers. (Check & check.)

This morning with grey milky clouds coating the sky, it was looking like rain. I tied on my asics. “Hey they’re grey like the sky and my heart,” I amused myself. Then I charged the ipod shuffle. I love the shuffle. You load this tiny mp3 player and everything after that is a gamble.

I drove to the park where I love to run. I’ve easily calculated 3 laps to equal a mile many times before.

Hmph. I didn’t like pulling up to see the field filled with college boys playing football. That last thing I wanted was an audience on “exercise until you think you will die” day. I mean, on another Saturday where I’m in it for a mile or two, fine.

Yet my plan was until I puked or as close as I could get.

I started slow. The first lap, I would walk. I hit play. The song was Miley Cyrus. Am I embarrassed by this? Of course not. Do you know me at all? The problem was trying to move my feet beyond the pace of a casual lumber. Skip to next song.

Jay Sean. Perfect and I’m indeed ‘Down’. Still I was surprised how nervous I was with this audience. "Run already."

I thought I could bust this out like a bull ride. Out of the gate as explosive as possible. 8 seconds later I would throw up and call the task completed. What the hell was I thinking?

I finished lap two and supposed it was time to ante up. What happened next was perfect. It was the heavens smiling upon me. Coldplay’s “Viva La Vida” first beat dropped just as I lunged into my first real stride. “Hark! What force beckons me towards accomplishment?”

Well it took me about one minute to realize the summoner was Satan. The author of human suffereing and pain. Because this pace was way too fast for me and I was convinced I would get my bull riding moment after all.

“I can’t stop. These boys will see that I’m a third of the way through one lap and I need to walk. Oxygen. I need oxygen. What hurts more? My ego or my lungs? Oxygennnnnnn.”

I willed my fingers up to the shuffle. Skip. “Chris Brown. Too fast.” Skip. “Jason Derulo. Better but still too fast”. Skip. “David Archuleta ballad. Hell yes. This is my new running pace.”

If you want to know how long I made it in the battle of me versus my pituitary gland, the answer is I have no idea. I know I usually have a 2 mile wall and I know I went further than that.

I know upon my completion, my lungs burned and I could taste metallic blood in the back of my throat. I’m sure this was more from running in the dry 35 degree weather than the sheer distance. I know my face always gets red but today is was a peculiar shade of purple.

So here I sit. Day one completed. In both task and blog. But please, don’t make me laugh. Taking any sort of deep breath will rattle the phlegm I loosened in the depths of my lungs and spin me into a coughing fit as though I’ve come down with the bubonic plague.

I think I feel happier though?

I See MY True Colors

Last night, I reviewed almost every piece of writing I have ever written which I've digitalized. I went through stories, essays, and blogs. In the spirit of honesty, I’ve been writing more and more on the side which means the 8 people who read my blog are seeing less and less.

Where are all of these other writings? Well a few have been submitted for publication and even fewer have actually made it. But it’s a side gig I’m playing very close to my heart so don’t expect me to point you towards print.

So this week when I was asked to pull a few samples together to submit for my very first, big girl, grown up writing portfolio, I was terrified. I feel there is very little worth showing another which I have written.

However, the most horrifying part came when reviewing all of my recent pieces. I shamefully confess I’ve gone emo.

When?

In the true character of being a girl, I blame boy. But with boy gone, I’m resolved once more to be the cheerful, bubbly girl I remember myself to be (before he robbed me of my yellow energy.)

This morning, I woke up and walked from my third floor bedroom to my third floor bathroom. In my third floor hallway floated a helium heart balloon still proclaiming my roommate’s boyfriend’s love for her… from Valentine’s day. And I smiled.

“Today I will be a happy girl,” I declared and luckily the sun has been on my side. Today I have been a very happy girl.

So embarking on one of the greatest challenges I can heap upon myself, and knowing that I am awful at committing to a daily accountability on this blog, I hereby start a 30 Days of Happiness experiment.

Every day for 30 days I will actively participate in one thing which makes me happy. And I will return and report. I don’t feel locked into feeling happy everyday as much as I feel compelled to proactively reign in my emotions.

Stay tuned.

I'm Just Saying: Oscar Edition

No need to rehash how the Oscars have been lackluster the past few years with comparison to what they once were. Sure they have taken a step forward but I’m expecting so much more from both the Academy and the production company if they intend to keep my viewership.

However, I present my top 5 moments of the evening.

5. “Telling a great story, entertaining the audience, that’s what’s gonna win you an Oscar.” John Lasseter The best words uttered of the evening came from this director’s mouth. Academy, take note.

I don’t care about your political statements, your behind the scenes politicking (how is Al Gore in the Academy), or your desire to culture me by making me relive life’s cruel and unfortunate dealing of cards in a graphically gratuitous manner.

Keep your blood, abuse, and emotional monstrosities to an artistic depiction rather than a blatant display of brutality under the guise of “authenticity.”

4. Jeff Bridges is sexy. I don’t know why. I don’t make the rules to attraction. I’m not saying he’s so good looking (however his wife is a doll.) But he is sexy. In the immortal words of she who must not be named, “I’m just saying.”

3. John Hughes practically raised me. Oh I feel saddened for this generation of tweener movies. It was never supposed to be Disney pushing Selena Gomez, and the likes in your face. Oh how I wish you were familiar with a directing god in the form of Mr. Hughes.

B/C of him, I thought: I wanted to name my first daughter Sloane, Jake Ryan was about as hot as you could get, I wanted hair like Watts, and “I’m gonna give you to the count of ten, before I pump your guts full of lead.”

2. My real heroes are Kate Winslet, Merryl Streep, and Sandra Bullock. Britney Spears, Vanessa Hudgens, and dare I say it, Kristen Stewart (gasp!) take note. I reject your ridiculousness.

1. All girls just want to be a princess. I am no exception. Ergo, the dresses. I watch for the colorful rainbow of evening gowns paraded before me in a sparkling cocktail of hair, make-up, and jewelry to be entertained as much as the awards which follow.

Demons On My Sleeve

There are a lot of things I hate in this world. Before you shoot off on a tirade about the severity of the word “hate”, I mean it.

But of all the things I hate, I hate the expiration of a dear relationship the most.

The obvious and definitely simple retort is then, why the expiration? Yet as we all know, matters of the heart (relationships are absolutely matters of the heart if not the only matters of the heart) are nearly always the most complicated entities we shall ever endeavor.

When I was a young girl, we used to “burn papers.” Simply explained, my household delineated between paper trash and garbage trash. The garbage was put out once a week and collected by men on dump trucks. But the paper stuff, tissues, boxes, and other packaging, was collected and burnt in a burn barrel by us kids.

When this chore was mine to do, I didn’t care for walking around the house and emptying bedroom and bathroom trashcans into a master bag. Mostly because the master bag was usually 6 master bags.

I hated making multiple trips from the back door to burn barrel. But if I tried my best to take them all in one trip, I nearly always left a trail of debris behind me.

Yet when the collection was done and the papers placed accordingly in the barrel (there is an art form to this, or else you can prevent a fire by packing the trash too tightly before it ever begins), the fun began.

There were different strokes for different folks. Usually though, you struck the match and best as you could, reached into the core of the pile and started lighting the corners of separate pieces working your way to the outside of the pile.

My favorite part… watching a spark turn into a blazing flame. I always loved this part. It was an accomplishment.

Some days, it was as simple as striking the match.

However, more often than not, you needed to shield the spark from the gusty wind. You would contort your body around the barrel to safeguard the flame from the element which would destroy its fragile existence until the fire could grow sufficiently. On blustery days, you would strike, protect, watch it grow, watch it extinguish, 'rinse and repeat.'

Or the rain would barrage against the barely ignited scraps and then you were met with the finite equation between using your body as an umbrella and getting out of the way in time to not get scorched. Soon it became a game. Could you get this fire going in under three matches? The equation changed according to the intensity of the downpour.

Occasionally, the equation for fire was just plain against you. The paper was all boxes and not enough “kindling.” You hoped there were dried leaves around to gather. You hoped for anything to make it work.

Still again, my favorite part… watching a spark turn into a blazing flame. I always loved this part. It was an accomplishment.

Thus a relationship is born and evolves. I love meeting someone new and feeling the first magical ember ignite. I love cultivating the combustion into a smoldering glow then eventually into a blazing affinity.

Some relationships come as easy as striking a match, though I daresay most require a tempered, persistent fortifying.

We had to mind the fire through its apex but usually could leave shortly thereafter. I didn’t realize I was turning my back on one of life’s greatest lessons. It’s what happened next which breaks my heart.

I spent many a day making fires and have given little thought to what my hard work yielded. I’m nearly three decades into this thing and have struck the match more times than I can count both metaphysically and metaphorically.

But I know this.

Without going into detail, when the wind or the rain prevails and I have started the fire multiple times only to see it extinguished right in front of my eyes, when there is nothing I can do to prevent the suffocation, or when my tears have only added to its extinguishment… well there is nothing I HATE more in this world than watching the flames die out.

My heart will forever break for each and every time at the expiration of a dear relationship. And I hate feeling like I'm out of matches.

When Are You the King of the World?

MIA. For months.

So with wet hair, here in my bed, I’m making a revival of a blog long since neglected in all my holiday busyness, personal assessments, and business engagements.

You may be expecting to hear the full version of narratives which have trickled out from the mouths of those lucky or perhaps unlucky enough to be around me in the moments shortly following the tales.

Sure, there was that incident in the orange grove over Christmas. Yes, I’ve added to my list of celebrity run-ins and it’s awkward to find out you’re seated behind his parents when you’ve just told your friend in detail how you would seduce him if the six seats which separate you both weren’t there. Go Sundance Film Festival. Or how the four hours in customs resulted with a permanently flagged passport. Furthermore, if you don’t know about HIM, you are way out of MY loop.

But to compose any of those would mean we would be here until I had dry hair and with work first thing tomorrow morning, I’m not ready to commit.

So instead, I wanted to pen a Valentine’s Day musing I experienced. With the buildup of the holiday thrust upon me from both the physical location I reside in and the weighty expectations of the culture of which I’m apart, I decided to change the definitive focus from a spotlight on lovers to my concentration on love.

And the most surprising thing happened. Of all the ruminating on love I’ve ever been exposed to, I considered one cliché to absolutely be poignant for me at this point in my life.

Last night with company, I closed the evening by watching Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet. I’ve concluded three things.

First, Shakespeare is the most beautiful and masterful manipulator of the English language I have ever been exposed to. He is my hero.

Second, both the male and female protagonist are the most tragically flawed, ridiculous characters lacking in even the most fundamental possession of reason ever. Still I love this play.

Finally, Romeo had it all figured out. And he is my hero. (Which is really just another shout out for my previous hero, the author.)

Love is the only thing still desperately sought after in this world. This speaks volumes to the undying most visceral desire of humanity from the beginning of time as probably the one of few elements to have survived a plethora of places, people, and time.

So when TMC’s countdown to the Oscars scheduled James Cameron’s Titanic, we were totally on board for the next 3 and a half hours (where I re-fell in lust with Leo.)

Ring of Fire

Even though my left cheek was smashed against my left hand, it was my left eye which hurt and I hadn’t even opened it yet.

I awoke, lumbered to the bathroom, sluggishly approached the sink to wash my hands, and gazed into the mirror.

My left eye was a fiery red and I immediately was confused. I leaned across the counter pulling apart my lids to get a better look at the plethora of spidery flames engulfing my eye.

I pulled on my clothes and conceded to glasses instead of contacts. I traveled to work thinking about my sore eye. I didn’t think it was pink eye. I had not woken with it pasted closed.

So after the urging from a coworker to at least clean out my eye with a flushing kit from any grocery store, I journeyed out in search of the magic liquid solution which would rinse the Houdini particle scratching my cornea out of my eye.

Five dollars later and rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat…

The smoldering ember blazed into a raging inferno of hot and after the cold wash I became instantaneously aware of how much pain I was feeling.

It was downhill from there. I immediately became weepy from the constant throbbing in my eye. I didn’t know what to do. Should I wait to see if the wash would relieve the source of this madness? Did I have to bring a professional into the picture?

Again at the urging from a coworker, I jumped into my car headed for the optometrist. After all, a Friday doctor’s office co-pay is a lot cheaper than a weekend ER visit.

After a co-pay, $100 prescription antibiotic eye drops, two follow up visits, and nearly two weeks of glasses later, I’m happy to report I have a cold.

Emerge

And when I’m stressed, I disappear.

I could blame it on anything but the truth is it’s to be blamed on many things many of us are juggling.

Work. Love. Life.

So leaving behind the stresses of the moment to enjoy THIS moment, I continue with my love for experiences of late.

I love painting my nails. I have been dedicated to the practice at least once every three days for the past year plus. I enjoy the clean finished look. I enjoy the feminine touch it adds to an outfit or my own personal confidence. I am an OPI freak and can tell you the names of every single color I own. I can delineate between the collections. I love painting my nails.

I love eating cupcakes and talking in a still car in the middle of a parking lot as night falls upon us. I love sharing in the human condition with one another even and especially when it involves shedding a tear or two. I love trying to start the car and discovering the battery is dead and you’re stuck in the moment. Life’s message revealed: Enjoy the moment!

I love a good song. Nothing can be so powerful as a great song to raise spirits, rally the mind, and physically liven your body. I use music more now than I ever have in my life. There is no better escape than one song, three and a half minutes, one inspiring lyric, and a kick butt musical thread. I love a good song.

I hate being sick. I hate having to get out and trudge through work sick or worse, being confined to my bed. I hate missing out on all the fun I know is going on in the outside world without me. I hate the sleep you need but lose because you’re coughing or can’t inhale. I hate sore throats from draining sinuses and open mouth breathing. But I LOVE getting better. I love the moments when good health rests upon you once more.

I love my journal. Though I have left the digital world, I remain diligent in journal writing. Lately I have taken to re-reading my entries and I can see growth over an arc of chaotic, freak-out entries. Please keep a stinking journal, if only to amuse yourself later. I love my journal.

Life is extremely, incredibly, awfully, exceptionally, exceedingly, especially, dreadfully, enormously, vastly and fantastically hard. But I do love it.

Ephemeral

Four years ago I drove my car across the large expanse of our country which divides the east coast from the mountain west. Many have heard me say if I ever do it again, it will be too soon.

Well fancy this. There is no place I'd rather be than in my car eastward bound finishing up Nebraska with the star sprinkled night sky over my head singing to Deliliah picks right now.

Crash Into Me

I just got hit by a car... for the second time in my life. WTF?

Follow up for Mindee: Not my vehicle. ME. I just got hit by a car!

There Were Never Such Devoted...

I love her to death.

She’s a pain in my side if I tell her this. Actually, she’s a pain in my side when I disclose most anything of a personal nature to her.

She’ll act like she doesn’t care. And half the time she doesn’t. However, the other half of the time I know she’s hanging onto my every word, waiting to condemn me for the drama but secretly happy I’ve given her something to gnaw on.

She’s the first person I want to phone when I find out a girl at church will be on the next season of the Bachelor. She’s the first person I call when someone makes a gigantic fool of themselves because I know she’ll laugh as hard at the story as I did in real life.

She's the girl I’ll late night email back and forth with crazy pictures. She’s the girl I’ll email the Mamma Mia soundtrack at two songs an email until the 18 track disc has completely been shared. She’s the girl I forward THE email to from my phone the moment I get it. And we'll laugh as we dissect it over and over again.

I teach her the things she needs to know because that’s what I’m supposed to do. When the ridiculous Garmin has taken us into New Jersey, I tell her to stay in the car at the gas station. They pump it for you.

I'm the lifeline she uses when she needs pop culture trivia and I believe to date I've only failed her once. (I can't possibly know the names of people in commercials.) But sometimes I wonder if I’m not doing my job because she teaches me more.

I've seen her change into mini skirts in the passenger seat of a plymouth voyager and I have admired her for it. Because she dares to do what she wants. If a girl were to hypothetically get picked up for shoplifting, she's the person I'd want right beside me, openly mocking the officer.

If there were a play where there was a prince and a princess, she might be the only person I could relinquish the princess part to with no hard feelings. I would be her queen. I would be her supporting role anytime.

I love to french braid her hair. I love to climb into bed with her on my lunch break and take a nap. I love to watch TV with her namely reality television because really how funny is two people hooking up in the dark if it were any other person telling you about it? I love to rejoice in her skinny arms.

I love her family. Her husband. Her children. I love to watch her parent. She's not perfect. But she's pretty amazing in action. I love her.

I love her to death.

Happy Birthday!

No Bluffing

This has no throw back to love.

Have you ever had someone look you so deeply in the eyes, the gaze became uncomfortable enough you felt the need to break it immediately?

A stare sharp though not possessing malice rather intensity penetrating into depths you, yourself, have slightly probed?

To which I question, have you ever looked at your face in the mirror? Not to gaze upon blemishes or assess your features rather to examine yourself as others look upon you? To look yourself in the eyes and to discover what’s behind them?

I once had a conversation with a friend about a theory I have regarding people internally reflecting and evaluating themselves. My metaphor seems simple enough to me.

I picture most people in a square room 15 x 15 feet. It is white and empty, except for one thing. A full body sized mirror in one of the corners mounted on the wall.

I don’t care how people get into the room nor am I particular about age and appearance as I believe the metaphor has everything to do with an emotional and mental maturity.

We spend whatever amount of time in this room sitting in a corner, doing nothing, seeing nothing, being nothing, and most certainly noticing nothing… until we do. We notice it. The mirror.

And once we notice it, we can’t seem to figure out how we never noticed it before. Am I allowed to get up and walk over to it? Am I supposed to look in it? Will I be able to confront what I might find in it?

In this moment, the masses become easily divided by groups who dare not look and groups who dare to look.

Upon catching our reflection, many of us turn immediately from the mirror, not wanting to see anything more, uncertain of what we have already seen, mostly possessed by some sort of fear of what we might see.

And so we turn back to any other corner to hide out once more. That is, until curiosity gets the best of us.

Sure there are a rare few who will never return again to the mirror. They have their reasons and though I don’t understand, it is not a right or wrong situation.

Still many of us will want to investigate another time. What hopefully follows is an increased frequency and intensity with which we return to the mirror to gaze.

The allegory is simple. It’s quite literally self-reflection while more metaphorically finding self acceptance. Changing what you dislike and admiring what you do like. But that’s the easy part.

The hard part is jumping back up from the corner to visit the mirror regularly. To not be afraid of what you see. To not be discouraged by the task at hand. Most importantly, to not be dishonest in the undertaking.

If you abide by those rules, you’ll come out a better person every time.

On a personal level, I’ve noticed recently I’ve taken to a habit I’ve long since performed. I have caught myself on many occasions studying the faces, even the eyes, of those whom I associate. I’ve been similar to a baby fixated upon the face of its guardian in my exchanges with others.

I’ve examined the smile wrinkles, a furrowed brow, the strokes of eye liner, the dilation of pupils, and the teeth involved in a grin.

It makes any conversation, any relationship much more intimate. And I treasure it.

Why have I lacked the inclination to do so previously? Then I realize to stare into another’s eyes is to know they can stare into yours. And the vulnerability is acute. A vulnerability not for the weak hearted.

When I arise and walk myself over to the mirror, when I find the confidence to shift my scrutinizing from my outward and move inward, I’m easily scared off. I suppose to have any sense of self awareness means you’ll find yourself in the position to avoid the deep searching peek.

How can I allow another access into a sphere I rarely travel myself? Easy, I can’t.

Nevertheless, I think I’ve uncovered an excellent measuring stick for where you personally stand with yourself. How well can you look into the eyes of others?

For the first time in a long time, I’m taking the chance. I won’t look away.

The Old Man Is Snoring

As my mind was coming out of the daze which is sleep this morning, I glanced at the clock. 8:25am which meant it was… hmmm… 9:25am in Texas. I hadn’t even been home for 12 hours yet.

This was impressive for two reasons. I hadn’t slept past 6am for the past few days in either UT or TX. It was an extra 2 hours of sleep-in banked no matter how you looked at it.

Secondly, my bedroom sits on the east side of the house. My body is usually awakened, if only briefly, around 6:30 when the sun, despite my blinds, is blazing through my windows interrupting any restful slumber I intend to secure in the morning hours.

Why?

With both windows opened as far as they go, I felt a chill in the air. Was this because Utah was chilly this morning or because Utah was chillier than Texas’ 90 degree weather this morning?

As groggy minds usually are, I sluggishly searched for some explanations to my disoriented questions and then I heard an answer. Was that rain outside?

I lifted myself up just high enough to get a good look outside. It was beautiful. I fell back into bed and did the undisciplined. I decided to ditch church and fall back asleep. My bed owned me for another hour.

When I awoke this time, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I had been doing nothing but eating the past few days and my body was feeling it.

I pulled on some running clothes and out into the rain I jogged.

For a little more than two miles, I enjoyed an empty nearby park to myself. There were no people, dogs, or frisbees. There was nothing but a cloudy, drizzly, open space for me. It took me awhile to get my stride going but after awhile my feet were keeping time to my iPod and little else mattered.

My toes were soggy, my socks were soaked, and my sneakers were drenched. Puddles were inevitable. As I ran, my ponytail fell out and my hair tumbled around my face. The smell of hotel shampoo filled my nose and my damp hair soon became dripping.

Mostly, I appreciated the mental time off. If you ask a boy what he is thinking, chances are he’ll say nothing and he’ll more than likely be telling the truth. Me, I’m always thinking.

If you ask me what I’m thinking, I’ll tell you about work, about friends, about places I’ve been and places I want to go. I’ll tell you about my family. I’ll tell you about my hometown. I’m thinking about things which are stressing me and I’m thinking about boys. I’m thinking about changing my nail polish, my lease being up in two months, and a thank you card I’ve been needing to write for over a week.

But not when I’m running. I’m thinking about breathing and maybe a phrase or two from the playing song. So I appreciated the mental time off. A psychological vacation.

I returned home a little after 10 and I can’t think of a better morning in the past couple of months for me than this one.

I'm a gLeek!

Last time I wrote in small font. This time it deserves at least a typical sized font for an atypical little message.

I am hard pressed to strongly recommend any specific piece of pop culture. I am easily entertained, easily suspend my disbelief, and easily satisfied.

I hereby declare myself the world's worst pop culture critic. (Okay, definitely not the worst as my sheer knowledge base alone establishes me as one of the elite few. WHAT?!? Yeah , I said that.)

Friends, family, and meandering strangers... please take the time at some point this summer to watch the pilot to the new show "gLee".

To all of you living room American Idol crooners, to the shower singers and the road rockers, to any high school choir has been, please, you'll at least get a kick out of it.

I may not have mentioned anymore on the subject from a previous post until I noticed the final performance number by the glee club of an already beloved Journey song sitting number nine on iTunes top 10 this week. (That's most downloaded meaning I'm not the only one.)

Shocked? Yes. Deserved? Yes.

Guys will inevitably rather go to the dentist than watch it. Girls will rank it among their indulgent closet secret loves (cough "Twilight") where the rest of our true souls reside.

I'm plugging for this little show. You heard it here.

Worth A Thousand Words

If you’ve ever seen a Utah license plate, chances are you’ve seen a picture of our world renowned Delicate Arch.

This morning after camping out in sleeping bags under the clear desert sky which is southern Utah, my friends and I hit up Arches National Park so we could hike up to said arch.

Upon reaching the summit, we found ourselves in the mix of quite a few people wanting to get under the arch and snap off a picture. There is a sort of finesse required in getting this task accomplished.

We lingered as we watched some professional photographers get what they desired. The rest of us patiently waited after which we all considerately passed time until our turns to capture our pictures.

Since no one wanted to wait for you to take a picture with some of the group, switch off the camera, photograph another mix of the group, and so forth, groups made friends with someone in front or behind them and took each others’ pictures.

While my group of friends was in the arch, the couple behind us kept trying to take our picture. However, somewhere some parents were unaware of their rogue kid with a red baseball cap who kept dangerously running in and out of our picture.

The couple tried their best to snap a good picture yet I was growing ever frustrated at this menace who was rapidly killing my buzz from the hike. Neighboring onlookers were aggravated as well at the scenario.

After they had shot our picture and we had shot theirs, we were all standing around talking and the dumbest joke via pun I ever made came out.

E: Hey you guys, thanks so much for taking our pictures. We really appreciate it.
Couple: Hey no problem. Anytime.
E: No seriously, you were good trail buddies. Not like that kid who was our nemesis.
C: (Laughing) Yeah seriously, what was that?
E: I know. I’m serious. He was our nemesis. (Then it hit me like a brick.) OUR ARCH
NEMESIS.

Everyone in listening distance was standing around laughing. If I hadn’t gotten a good laugh out of it, I could have pushed that kid over the cliff.

Quick Nothings

Have literally two minutes for catch up:

• Got the loan.
• Am looking for a car.
• Love the New Moon pictures.
• Am heading to Moab, right now.

Waiting For The Stars To Fall

My keys jingled against my fingers as I lumbered sluggishly to my car after work.

With my sunglasses on, I threw my head back to take a deep breath and in so doing noticed the moon directly above me imitating the midday sun as a younger sibling mimics his elder.

The white orb was barely detectable against the bright late afternoon sky. Yet she was there and as foolish as it sounds, I smiled an acknowledgment to her.

Exhausted, I navigated myself home surrounded by the after work traffic weaving through the crowded streets journeying towards any reprieve.

Unlocking the door and tossing my belongings onto the kitchen table, up the stairs I plodded into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I collapsed onto my bed in overwhelming fatigue.

My eyes fluttered shut and there I lay for the next hour.

I stirred awake and was immediately gripped with the guilt of a child having broken any household rule. Why did I feel this way?

The evening, lackluster in events, ended with a much needed drive. In an effort to just get out for a moment and breathe deeply this incredible nightfall, I leapt into my car and drove.

This time the moon was brilliantly shining and I felt a kinship to the cosmos once more.

Few things in this world can calm a stormy soul the way a night sky can.

The sound of a nearby creek. Gazing into a fire. Smelling a fresh baked dessert. Holding another’s hand.

Sign Of The Times??

Eight years ago, I bought the very first car I ever owned in my life. I was as fresh as a college graduate could be and had nearly $4300 to my name. I had a roommate at the time with a brother who was an auto dealer. I was prepared to look for a car in the $6000 range and commenced a search for something which fit my skeletal requirements.

As a last final acquiescence to my roommate, we went to check out her brother’s Lexus lot. And there She was.

A five year old Toyota Camry with 58,000 miles on her. She was a sleek, sexy black and very well maintained. As I was test driving her, the dealer so typically explained how she was an afternoon trade-in the day before and the older gentlemen loved Her but was treating himself to a new Lexus instead.

It went down velvety smooth. I knew She was to be mine.

We negotiated out $8500 (which I naively did not know meant $9500 out the door), and I was to be on my way shortly. After the finances were all in place, of course.

I knew nothing about securing a loan. I trusted the dealership to do their part to help me get into this car, which they do so well, and they did for me. The man assisting me came out after running a credit check on me and I’ll never forget what he told me next.

“Your credit score is so amazing, I would let you drive away with any car on this lot for no money down.” I was proud because my parents had been incredibly instrumental in teaching me how to be a good steward over my money.

(Ironically, my interest rate was astronomically high. I took care of that one week later under the tutelage of a more financially knowledgeable man. Don’t finance through a dealership if you can help it. I know you already know this.)

Four years ago, I bought the second car I ever owned in my life. The story, though containing interesting elements to me, is unimportant.

Except the time has come for me to buy the third car I will ever own in my life. I have loved my baby but She is no longer as reliable as I need. (And I’m feeling a long distance road trip in my very near future.)

So once more I traipsed to my local bank branch whom I bank with and applied for another auto loan. I applied for a liberal loan on behalf of generality’s sake in an effort to have my finances in order for when I located Her yet again.

This morning my loan officer called me with the outcome of my application and what follows is the craziest experience I’ve ever had. Truly a fiscal sign of the economic times.

Loan Officer: Elizabeth, we ran that paperwork, do you have a minute?
Elizabeth: Absolutely! What are we looking at?
LO: Well as is, we’re more than happy to loan this amount to you but we’re going to require a strong co-signer.
E: (Actually surprised quite a bit.) Wow this economy has really affected you guys, huh?
LO: (Silence.)
E: (Joke is not well received. Noted.) Umm… well then you’re not really going to loan ME that amount, are you? How much can I get without a co-signer?
LO: Well we’re not willing to loan to you without a strong co-signer?
E: (Frustrated now.) Can I ask what my credit score came up as?
LO: Mid 700s.*
E: That doesn’t sound right to me. It should be higher I believe.
LO: Well there is this $130 charge off….
E: (**OH MY GOSH, I EFFING HATE M&T BANK!!! This is a mistake I’ve been working on for FOUR years now.) You can’t get me a decent loan when my credit score is sitting in the mid 700s and I’ve got SIGNIFICANTLY more than my loan amount sitting in my savings account right now? (This fact felt relevant to me as I know you can take out a loan against your own savings, at the very least.)
LO: You do?
E: (Still can’t believe I’m even having this conversation.) What kind of loan officer are you? You work at my bank, processed my application, and haven’t taken a look at my current account balance?
LO: (Confused and fumbling for words.) Well, let me see here, uh, well this does change things, ummm, I can run the numbers again which should make a difference, uh…. Can I get back to you?
E: Please do.

I hung up the phone and called one of my best friends in the world (Holla!) and couldn’t help but talk to him, a financial consultant, about my experience. We laughed and although he wanted to help me complete a 15 year plan (stop doing that), the talk was all I needed.

I guess I’m still waiting to hear how this will go down. Strangely, I feel confident the numbers will come back reasonably, and without the need for a “strong co-signer.”

*I know Mary and Mom both have phenomenal credit scores. You win. I’m over it.
** My apologies for the strong language but I have a searing hatred for that bank.

Wish I Could Keep You Much Longer

On a lighter note, a week ago, my roommate went out of town leaving me the house all to myself. I was entirely excited in anticipation of this week. It has been everything I hoped it could be. It has been enjoyable.

On my first night alone, I came home from work, trudged up the stairs where my bathroom and bedroom are, took a good look around and opened every blind and window. I secured my laptop, plugged it into my stereo, pulled up my iTunes, clicked on an absolutely random album, and pressed play.

I’d been dying to try a new remedy which I heard could clean any tub. When you rent, any tenant knows toilets and tubs, though clean, may always appear as though you could pick up a jungle disease from using them.

A co-worker had told me a week earlier auto carburetor cleaner could scour down any tub. So with the warning to run the exhaust fan and make sure I had a proper air supply, I buckled down to the task at hand while the Immaculate Collection played. (Great album. Second half especially. I swear I hadn’t listened to it in over 10 years.) I took time to sing at the top of my lungs.

It was enjoyable.

The following night I decided I would cook for myself instead of the shameful yet honest social dining out I do almost every night. I desired a night in and a little solitude. Taking time to prepare a meal has become a daily practice since. I had forgotten I had this in me but I truly enjoy cooking.

My phone rang and although I heard it upstairs, I was caught up in the kitchen. When I finished cleaning up the last pan, I fetched my phone and saw I had a missed call and subsequent text from one of my best friends in Provo. The text: I need out of the house tonight. What are you doing?

I called her and was elated to offer my place knowing we could do nearly whatever we wanted. So we did. Oreos & milk and one movie later the laughter continued. She returned to her life and although I had planned on reading a particular book on my list of things to do this week, I was happy for the diversion.

It was enjoyable.

I arrived home the subsequent evening and intently stared at my bedroom floor. It was a battlefield and I’ve mentioned before I use the cleanliness of my room as a gauge to the busyness of my life.

I cast off my work garb and quickly rolled up my sleeves to dive into the piles. (After all, you have to maintain organized piles. Clean piles and dirty piles and piles of clothing worn just once.)

Most everything had been restored to its home and I stood sweating in my room with a huge department store bag in my hand. “What had I purchased which required a bag of this size?” Many times when the need to downsize had seized my being, I wished for a bag of this size.

Capturing the moment, I approached my closet and prayed for the strength to part with my things. My old things. My unemployed, unused, idle, and aged belongings. First the clothing. Next the shoes. The boxes which had yet to be opened since my move. Ditching anything from a computer printer or television cables to dated fashions, unutilized blankets and luggage, I filled my car trunk.

I immediately headed to the thrift store. Sitting on any item would have created unnecessary vehicle clutter and a desire to re-rumage through what charity had rightly earned.

It was enjoyable.

I spent the weekend following suit to the first few days. Laundry, culinary experiments, guitar playing, sleeping. Oh the sleep. And some holiday time off to do my soul good.

I bunkered down and read the Louis L’Amour book a guy friend had recommended in an attempt to see what guys who read, read. It was an action book for any individual wishing to escape to another time and place. Surprise, it was enjoyable.

This past week has been so pleasant. I’m excited for my roommate to get home tonight. But I cannot lie. I’ll miss the time off from my usual routine which I daresay simulates a vacation of sorts.

Mostly because it was enjoyable.

PS. Speaking of things enjoyable, I'm looking forward to the new fall series "gLee". Totally dug the pilot this week.

Caught Up In Circles...

It’s back. The fidgety feeling I sporadically experience is back.

It’s been coming on for awhile but has evolved into a full force tidal wave emotion. I’d like to say I’m sitting on day 2 of homesickness (Marysickness?). It’s realistically more like month 8.

Oh the plight of a single girl. It’s amusing really.

In the corporate world, it’s rumored how preferential treatment is bestowed upon the married and the settled. My mind tries to convince me surely this must be a fallacy. Yet in this moment, I’d gamble on said type in a heartbeat over someone like me if I were management.

I feel the spirit of Sam Cooke has rested upon me in the mantra of “a change is gonna come.”

And why shouldn’t it? In a conversation once with a married adult (versus me, what? A single non-adult?), I was made to feel foolish, immature almost for the lifestyle I’ve been living since college graduation.

I’ve seen my share of moves and job changes. I’ve grown easily impatient at any given time of my present circumstance enough to impulsively alter it. So when said adult commented on the obviousness of my lifestyle and alluded to the fact it may be time for me to grow up and settle down, I felt embarrassed and inadequate. Childish even, as though I were being reprimanded for doing something wrong.

With another five years under my belt since that occasion, I’m now smart enough to retort, “I’m not you. I know nothing of the life you refer to. And perhaps my greatest advantage FOR ME is that I am not tied down… to any person, job, or city.”

Telling an enormously unsettled person to settle down is antiquated.

Tonight I comfortably positioned myself in the living room of a split level home of a dear friend. I nestled into a restful chair reading the latest People magazine while my friend snuggled into the couch opposite me. The window behind my shoulder as well as the door to the back deck were opened creating a cross breeze through the house.

The left over smell of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs wafted from the kitchen. I was calm with a tumbler full of milk and a stack of Oreos sitting on the window sill beside me. Below in the family room, a group congregated around the television playing Rock Band and their strains drifted up the stairs.

I paused in the middle of reading about Bristol's teen pregnancy to think about the book I had completed earlier in the day. A book which took me to a different place in a different world. I pondered upon the job I’ll return to first thing tomorrow morning, yet again. I reflected upon my current relationships and my mind lingered on one in particular. I gazed out the window and the sky blushed the first hue of pink.

Then it was back.

I should have felt content and satisfied. Instead I felt the opposite. Restless, edgy, and impetuous. I'm begging it passes.

I’m just saying... I’ve been HERE before, time after time.

Remove the Veil

Few times in my life can compare to the frustration with this wicked case of writer’s block I’ve been experiencing of late.

I’m a record keeper. I’ve been a consistent writer in many forums ranging from notepads of thoughts, theories, & essays to journals and the more public blogosphere.

Is it because I have nothing to write about? Absolutely not.

Is it because I’ve become busy and am now overwhelmed with the sheer volume of things I want to write about? Absolutely.

Is it because my lack of consistent writing has made me rusty and thereby insecure? Absolutely.

Is it because I’ve taken to other creative outlets (to remain unnamed at this time)? Absolutely.

Then what happens?

It’s a lazy Sunday evening and as I sit by the opened window anticipating my holiday tomorrow, the drumming rain upon these side streets creates the most soothing ambiance and a gal finds herself with a robust case of homesickness.

And where there is a charged emotion, there is a girl wanting to write… saddened at the fact she’s so overwhelmed she can’t.