My Travel Wish List

Clockwise from top left

Rwinkwavu, Rwanda / Monteverde, Costa Rica, / Tikal, Mexico / The Grand Canyon

I'm not one of those people who starts to get antsy if they've been at home three weekends in a row. I love the familiarity and comfort of the place that's mine. But I do also enjoy seeing new places - appreciating the change in landscape, marveling at the different cultures, and being challenged to expand my view of the world and of humanity. Many of my most treasured experiences have been while traveling.

I move through my list slowly because it's not always our biggest financial priority, and we seem to have put our backpacking, hostel-staying days behind us (at least for now). We're not taking big trips overseas every year. But I hope we'll have a lifetime to get to all these lovely spots.

The Galápagos Islands

I have wanted to go to the Galapagos Islands since I learned all about Charles Darwin my freshman year of high school. While I truly do not have a mind for science, I do have an innate love for the natural world (minus spiders). One of my favorite things to do on any trip that involves the potential for flora and fauna sightings is to carry a little guidebook or guide sheet (like the laminated folding ones they sell at national parks) so that every time I see something interesting, I can whip out my little sheet and identify it. There's probably some sociological or psychological message in there, but it brings me an enormous amount of satisfaction. The notion of all these unique animals in a space that is simultaneously their natural habitat and protected and available for viewing just delights me. And my inner amateur photographer is just dying to come home with photos of a blue-footed booby.

York, England

I'm cheating a bit on this one since I've already been to York. Twice, actually. But they were short day trips, and each of them simply solidified my desire to visit for a longer period of time. During my first visit to York, with my family at age 15, we had afternoon tea at Bettys, and it was enchanting. I have always been (and will likely always be) completely smitten with all things that quaint and romantic. Sitting there, dining on scones and little sandwiches from a beautiful tiered tea stand, I felt as if I had entered a different era. Years later, I've had tea several other times at restaurants and cafes looking to create that same feeling, but no one does it for me like Bettys. I even convinced several of my friends to travel there with me for an afternoon tea while I was studying abroad in college. Of course, a tea room seems a silly reason to travel all the way to England. But it's more than that. The whole city endeared itself to me in one short afternoon, with a little stroll down its narrow streets lined with shops and a stop in a large square where a small marching band was entertaining the crowd. I want more. 

Serengeti National Park, Tanzania

While she was working in Rwanda, my sister took a trip to Tanzania for a safari. Her pictures afterwards were all I needed to see to confirm that I absolutely, definitely, without a doubt want to go on a safari there. She woke up in the morning with an elephant just a few feet from her tent! She watched a mama lion with her cubs. In real life. Not on the discovery channel, and not in a zoo. I had the incredible opportunity to go on a gorilla trek in Rwanda, and the short time I spent in the presence of those animals remains one of my favorite life experiences. And the animals were not the only stars of the show. The landscape is simply spectacular. Once again, my camera is trying to bust out of its bag just because I'm writing this. But even if I couldn't take pictures, I want to spend a few days in a place that beautiful and unique.

The Aran Islands, Ireland

I have wanted to go to Ireland for as long as I can remember. My desire is largely based on romantic notions about the Irish brogue, rousing pub music, and the misty view from a craggy cliff. The combination of old world life and the natural beauty of the Aran Islands drew me in. I love historical sites with archaeological remains, and I adore the fact that the stone wall running throughout the entire group of islands acts like a reminder of the passage of time. Aside from learning about the history of the area, a trip here would be all about taking in the gorgeous scenes and wandering through the little towns. And the knitter in me definitely wouldn't leave without an Aran sweater. 

India

I know. This is a little...broad. I can't make up my mind about something specific. India's a big place, and as one would expect, it seems that different parts of the country have really different cultures. Ideally, I'd love to spend a month or more traveling to many areas - the beaches that my wife has talked so much about, the mountains, the cities that will overwhelm me. I want to eat so much delicious Indian food that it's almost ruined for me once I return home. And I want to actually experience a place that is so connected with particular ideas in our rhetoric and in our movies - the yogi, the slums, the bins of brightly colored spices, the cows in the streets, the children shouting and banging on the car windows. I'm not starting with a huge knowledge base on this one, but perhaps that's better - I'll be more open to learning and experiencing when I do have the opportunity to go.

What is on your travel list?


p.s. This was one of my most incredible travel experiences.

You're Just Not That Good At It

I'm awful at sports. I have been for as long as I can remember. The thought of a "friendly" game of anything - softball, kickball, frisbee - can send me into a middle school angst I don't enjoy reliving. In my younger years, that was hard. I felt deficient.

But now it's just a part of me - something I can laugh about and honor. I love cheering people on from the sidelines. I'm excellent at shouting, "Woo-hoo! Keep it up guys!!"

I've accepted that rowdy games of touch football are not in my future. But there are these other things - things that I'm supposed to be good at, that the Me that I imagine myself to be is good at.

But, the thing is, I'm not actually good at them.

My wife gives me this particular look every time I come home with a plan for a home improvement project. Her eyes plead with me, Are you sure you want to do this? And my response every time is one of two things: dismissal or anger.

No matter how many times I have sat cursing or crying on the floor surrounded by a pile of screws and power tools, I refuse to believe that when it comes to carpentry projects, I'm just not that good at it. My picture of myself is as someone who is crafty and resourceful, who grew up with crafty and resourceful parents, who learned a little something from them, and who can drive a flipping screw into the wall without stripping it.

And yet.

Every time. Every. single. time. I strip a screw (or twelve). The anchors won't go in. I misjudge where the stud is (even though I'm using a stud finder). The shelf is crooked. The curtain rod is wiggly on one side. I ruin the board. The project that was supposed to take fifteen minutes is still unfinished two days later because I had to walk away after an hour and a half of struggling so I didn't throw my drill across the room.

The problem is not that all of these things happen. It's that every time, I refuse to accept that they're going to happen. Each time I pick up a screw or a hammer, I think this is the time that my natural handy abilities are going to kick in. This is the time that the fifteen minute project is going to take fifteen minutes. And each time, I battle against the realization that my perception of myself is flawed - at least in this regard.

So while it's frustrating to strip a screw or ruin a piece of wood, the real temper tantrum is about something more - it's about who I think I am and who I am repeatedly forced to realize I am not.

I'm not saying that I can't do carpentry projects, that I can't learn how to hang my own shelves and put up curtains. But I am saying that I am finally beginning to realize that I do have to ask for help. I do have to expect that the project will take me ten times longer than it's "supposed" to. I do have to plan to mess up.

Because while I want to be someone who is self-sufficient and can just pick up a hammer or a screwdriver and take care of anything in my house, I'm not that person. At least not yet.

I'm just not that good at it.

But I'm also beginning to realize that's okay. Because once you accept that you're just not that good at it, that's when you can be honest about how to get good at it. That's when you can stop battling and start learning.

So, help me out here and fess up. Are there things you think you're supposed to be good at, but you're just not?



p.s. I have completed one awesome carpentry project!

Vermont Fashion: Go Bulky or Go Home

I love fashion blogs - they're art with clothes. But I crack up (or cry) every winter when I see photos of my favorite fashion bloggers either out with bare legs (damn those Texas winters) or, even in the slightly colder places, sporting a dress coat and no hat.

Winter fashion in Vermont?

I haven't seen my legs - not even indoors - in months! Those babies are covered with fleece-lined leggings from morning until night. And then again until morning.

I never go outside with fewer than four layers on, and the very notion that I would bop out there without a hat is sheer lunacy.

In February, Vermont fashion is all about bulk. The more bulk, the better.

Here's your clothing recipe for a successful outdoor outing in this frigid winter wonderland.

1: The North Face / Similar

2: City Sports 

3: Eddie Bauer / Similar

4: Hi-Tec / Similar

5: Petco / Similar

6: Self-made / Pattern

7: Self-made / Pattern / Yarn

Yes, it was 5 degrees out and snowing.

And yes, I was wearing fleece-lined leggings under my flannel-lined jeans. Perhaps it's a little more challenging for me since I'm a Georgia girl, but folks, I make no apologies for the fact that I have a working internal thermostat.

It's flipping cold here.

Bulk up.


Also, here's my favorite outtake from our "photo shoot."

p.s.  This was right after I'd moved up here, just a couple weeks before I broke down and bought the puffy coat, three years ago. 

Crafting Mistakes (Baby sweater for a friend)

MISTAKE

transitive verb

1: to blunder in the choice of

2a: to misunderstand the meaning or intention of

  b: to make a wrong judgment of the character or ability of 

3: to identify wrongly, confuse with another 

Merriam-Webster 

None of us wants to make mistakes. I mean, we might give some lip service to the notice of a mistake as a learning experience, but none of us goes into a project thinking, "Boy, I hope I blunder in the choices I make on this one!"

In fact, most of us begin every day of our lives with the desire to get it right across the board - to make the correct judgments, to understand completely, to be infallible. Whether we recognize that as a real possibility is beside the point. We want to be mistake-free. 

And it is, of course, worse for some of us than for others. We perfectionists have a more difficult time. Disorganized, impatient perfectionists like me have it particularly bad. 

Did you know there were disorganized, impatient perfectionists out there? 

We're the folks who never follow the advice "measure twice, cut once" because that takes too freaking long. Yet we expect our projects to turn our perfectly anyway, with no incorrect cuts, no mistakes. 

This turns out to be a major issue for me - this desire to never make a mistake combined with a shortcut work ethic for my hobbies and home projects. The result is often tears or cursing after putting a great deal of work into something that turns out not to be quite right - like this skirt I made a few years ago with not enough fabric (resulting in - shocker! - a too-short skirt).

But then sometimes, on that rarest of occasions, I make a mistake on a project that actually turns out to be in that genre of fairytale mistakes, where I can say it's truly better the mistake was made because the result, surprisingly, is superior to what might have been. 

And this tiny sweater for my friend's new, precious little baby boy is exactly one of those mistakes. 

I spent many hours knitting this cute cardigan (called Felix's Cardigan on Ravelry) only to find myself with one and a half sleeves and no more yarn. No big deal, I thought to myself, as I drove to Creative Habitat, our local craft store, for another skein. Except it had taken me so long to knit the sweater that the store had run out of that particular yarn color since I'd first purchased it. No big deal, I thought to myself, as I drove home to purchase a skein of it online. 

Except that when I got home, I couldn't find the tag that had been wrapped around the yarn, so I didn't know exactly what color it was. I went online and perused all the different possible colors and chose one that looked correct. Of course, when it arrived it was entirely wrong - you can't trust the colors on the screen.

So I put the little sweater aside, frustrated and angry with myself once again for not being more careful when I bought the yarn in the first place (either by buying enough or by at least keeping the tag). And it languished for a month or more.

But then! Glory of glories! My wife randomly found the tag while she was cleaning, and I hopped straight to the web and bought a new skein and wrote the dye lot number into the comments and waited impatiently for the mail. 

When it came, I headed straight for the couch and knitted up that second sleeve. 

Except something wasn't quite right. The color, to be exact, was not quite right. Of course I hadn't checked when the new skein arrived that it did actually have the same dye lot as the old skein (for non yarn crafters, having the same dye lot number ensures that your color will match when you're using multiple skeins of yarn for a project). And they didn't. So the sleeve was partially one color and partially a very similar but slightly different color. My wife swore she couldn't really tell (unless she looked very closely), but I could tell. 

So I angrily set it aside again until my mom came to visit and made the brilliant suggestion that I add some embellishments to the sweater to distract from the slight color variations. I spent some time online figuring out how to add embroidery to my knitting, picked a color, and began embellishing my little heart out. 

And folks, it's a winner. 

Blunder after blunder, and in the end, it might be the cutest thing I've ever made. 

Yep. I fairytaled the sh*t out of that mistake. 

p.s. If you'd like to see other ways I'm a total mess, check out this oldie but goodie from a couple years ago. 

Emoji Fiction Friday (Extreme Tardiness Edition)

You guys. I totally dropped the ball on Emoji Fiction Friday about 75 weeks ago. I got caught up with work and life and just didn't write a word. But I cannot handle an unclosed loop. Drives me bonkers. So I had to finish things out. 

We only had one entry that week - from Abbadabba, but it was seriously awesome.

She strode confidently through the revolving door of her office building, without a halted step. The subzero air greeted her face with a harsh slap, but today it felt refreshing instead of cruel. She looked to her right and saw the entrance to the subway a block away. On any other day she would head straight to it, as if on autopilot, descend the steps, crush with the masses onto the next car and re-read all the Facebook statuses she’d already read while wasting her life for a paycheck. 

But not today. 

After making the decision the night before, she had the best night’s sleep she’d had in years. She arrived at the office late that morning because she stopped to buy the gorgeous red pumps she’d been admiring for weeks. She didn’t need the extra boost of confidence to make this choice, but it didn’t hurt to be wearing some Billy Badass heels while doing it. 
She quit. 

She didn’t bother with two weeks’ notice – she was resolved to never need his reference to succeed. 

Stepping to the curb she raised her arm to treat herself to a cab ride and slid inside its warm luxury. She felt her coat pocket vibrate and instinctively pulled her work Blackberry out to see what inane request he was making today, the cost of which could easily cure hunger in a third world country. A familiar flicker of fury and loathing filled her gut before she realized she never needed to feel that way again. She paused to contemplate the implication of that truth, but was pulled from her reverie by the driver clearing his throat and indicating a “no cellphones” decal on his window. 

Pulling the phone to her chest, the smallest of smiles flirted across her lips. She knew she’d be made to pay for it and felt a twinge of guilt for littering, but it wasn’t every day she got to make completely irresponsible decisions in the name of her own happiness. And in an instant, the window was down and with a cheerful flick of her wrist, the phone (and a significant chunk of her final paycheck) flew to its own freedom/tragic demise. 

As the taxi glided onto Lake Shore Drive, she turned to look out the back window and watch as the skyline grew and loomed, and then began to shrink from view becoming nothing but a beautiful display of lights. Her love affair with the city was over, replaced by a fond, comforting nostalgia; the kind you feel for your first childhood love. The Windy City had helped her discover who she really was, but they had grown apart. It wasn’t the city, it was her. 

She turned back to face front again and fished around in her purse for a moment. Her fingers found the familiar soft pages of her composition book from senior year of college. She’d found it the night before while giving her closet a good deep reorganizing. She’d expected to find its pages filled with angst ridden love poems and shallow musings on everyone from Nietzsche to Nirvana. Instead, cracking its well-worn spine released a side of her she had locked away long ago. Several glasses of wine, more than a few tears, and a couple of Broadway showtunes sung at the top her lungs later… she knew what she had to do.

How did she ever manage to get so lost? She lifted the book of her writing to her lips, gave the cover a big smooch of gratitude and directed the cabbie to get off at the next exit. She had no idea where she was heading now, but at least, for the first time in years, she was actually moving. 

I'm guessing you want to comment on this post and ask her to please please write more! Tell us where she's going! This felt like the first scene in a novel to me, and I want to read the rest!

And here's mine:

Anne - 

I'm sorry it's been so long since I've written, and I know I owe you like eight emails, but oh my god - you have to hear what happened to me today. 

So I was walking home from work, and you know that little market where they sell those amazing Italian sodas? Well, I walked by, and I just instantly had a craving for one of those, which is kind of weird because it was like 4 degrees outside and I walk by there every single day without buying a soda. But I just felt like I had to have one, so I went inside, and I grabbed a soda - cherry vanilla - and brought it to the counter and I reached into my purse - no wallet. Seriously? I had no idea where it was, if someone had stolen it or if it was on my dresser at home. I put the soda back, but on the way out, this guy was rushing in and he just slammed into me. I caught myself before I fell down, but the heel of my shoe - you know those amazing red ones that we bought at that outlet mall last year? - got caught in the grate thing by the door and just ripped right off. And the guy didn't even apologize. WTF?

Well at that point I had to take a cab, obviously, but I didn't have my wallet. I knew Mark was home, so I just figured I'd have him meet the taxi and pay when I got there. So I get in a taxi, and I call Mark to ask him to come out in a few minutes, and the cab driver tells me that I can't talk on the phone in his cab. And I'm like what? And he points at this sign in the front with a picture of a cell phone with a line through it - you know what I'm talking about, right? And I tell him that I think that means HE can't talk on the phone while he's driving. And he starts screaming at me to hang up the phone. And it was actually kind of scary, so I did. But then Mark tried to call me back, so it was ringing and the guy started screaming again. I turned off the volume and texted Mark instead - all secretly since the cab guy was watching me in the rearview mirror. Creepy, right?

So when we got to the apartment, Mark was standing outside - he didn't even put a coat on. Guys are so weird. Anyway, he was there with the money, and as I started to get out of the cab, he opened the front passenger door to give the cab driver the money, and the cab driver started freaking out again. He took the money and he threw it at Mark! And it was so windy that the money was just flying around, and landing on the gross sidewalks, and I was trying to run after it with my one good shoe and Mark was screaming at the cab driver what the hell is wrong with you, man? I couldn't tell what the cab driver was saying, but eventually he pulled out this little notebook - like those composition books from elementary school? You know what I'm talking about, right? And it had all these entries in it, like every place he'd driven that day and what the people paid. 

And there was an entry with my address on it and it said paid and then it said MY NAME. Abby Pike. Like, as if he already knew he was going to be taking me to my address! As if he knew my name. And I wasn't even planning to take a cab! Mark and I were pretty wigged out, and I was like, hey, why is my name in there? But the cab driver was still screaming and all agitated and we couldn't figure out what was going on. Mark said we should just go and leave the cab driver there, but I wanted to know how my name got there. 

So I put on my calmest voice and I walked over to him and I said Sir, why did you write this here? And he quit screaming and stared at me for a minute, and then he said "I didn't write it. He did." And he pointed behind me, and I turned around and Mark was there, down on one knee with an ENGAGEMENT RING. 

Yes, that's what I said. Can you believe it? I couldn't either. And also, what a weird way to do it, right? He is so weird. It took me forever to figure it out because it just didn't make sense, but apparently he got that guy to run into me and break my shoe, which when I asked him how he knew that would happen, he was like "those shoes are ridiculous." As if that means anything. But the weirdest thing was the whole Italian soda thing - and I was like, there was no way you could have known I was going to go in there for an Italian soda, but apparently he had mentioned it to me that morning before I left, to try to get it into my head (right after he slipped my wallet out of my purse). How crazy is that? And the whole cab driver thing was just crazy - he said that went way overboard. The guy was actually just a little nuts. 

But I think the fact that it actually worked - I mean, it was the stupidest engagement plan ever, right? - anyway, I think the fact that it actually worked is a sign that we're meant to be together. So I kissed him and said yes. I'm engaged. :)

Love, 

Abby

Pretty random and ridiculous, but the whole point of Emoji Fiction Friday is just to have fun and go with it! 

p.s. Click here for more emoji fiction posts. 

My Five Fantasy Lunch Dates

You know that ubiquitous and yet rarely asked first-date / party-small-talk question - If you could have lunch with anyone, real or fictional, dead or alive, who would it be? For reasons that are entirely unclear to me, I've been thinking about that question lately. Perhaps it first came up after watching an episode of Murder She Wrote and wishing I were sitting down for a piece of apple pie at Jessica Fletcher's kitchen table.

So I put together a list of the five people I'd love to grab a sandwich with - my fantasy lunch dates. And since J.B. got me started, let's begin with her.

J.B. Fletcher

If you know me well at all, you know that I am a devoted Murder She Wrote fan. I have watched every single episode of all twelve seasons, and many of them, twice (or more). I imagine I might have been Jessica in a different life - one where I was straight, from Maine, a high school English teacher, and unnaturally gifted at observing seemingly unimportant details. At lunch, we would discuss her latest mystery and my latest short story. She'd pat me on the hand and encourage me to keep on writing, and when I got up from the table to find myself being arrested for a murder I didn't commit, J.B. would postpone her upcoming book tour and devote herself day and night to my release. She would visit me in the little Cabot Cove holding cell and convince Mort to let her slip me some apple pie. Once the real killer was caught (It was her brother! He confessed everything through his tears!), we would laugh about how fun it all had been, and she'd invite me back for another visit before she rode away on her bike. She would promise that next time would be calmer, but I'd know that I wouldn't visit again because next time I would definitely be the murder victim.

Mindy Kaling

I was not actually a big Kelly Kapoor fan on The Office. I found her annoying, and not in a Wow! That actress plays annoying so well! kind of way. Just in a She annoys me kind of way. So I wasn't jumping onto Hulu to watch The Mindy Project when it premiered a couple years ago. But thank heavens for my sister and her obsession with sit-coms. After much badgering, I finally started watching the show and, with thousands of other cult-like fans, became a Mindy Kaling devotee. Besides being funny, the woman is a force. Sure, she has natural talent, but it's obvious she worked very hard to end up writing, producing, directing, and starring in her own successful television show before she turned 33. We'd meet up at McDonald's and order Big Macs and Diet Cokes, and Mindy would recount some of the ridiculous things happening in the writers room and give me the inside scoop on her and BJ Novak. I would almost shoot my drink out my nose while laughing not twice, but three times. And while beforehand, I'd been afraid that her success and killer wit would be intimidating, we'd end up chatting like besties and extend the lunch to a shopping trip on Madison Avenue where Mindy would tell me I was only allowed to purchase things with sequins on them.

Cheryl Strayed

Sometimes I write letters to Dear Sugar (aka Cheryl Strayed) in my head when I'm struggling. And then I play back to myself what I think she'd say, what kind of firm but compassionate nudge she'd give me in the right direction. I imagine reading her response telling me that I'd known what to do already, that the answer was in the question, and nodding in realization. In person? Our lunch would begin tentatively, me afraid of being less than my most honest, true self, and her, watching and perceiving everything. And then I would tell her that I really wanted to just order the cheesiest thing on the menu, and she would tell the waiter "Two of your most cheese-filled items," and I would then share all my sadnesses and my fears and my jealousies and my hang-ups, and she would furrow her brow and speak impossibly eloquently about my human-ness. She would lift me up and admonish me, and both would feel like love. After I finished my second dessert, we would hug and I would be healed. And when I turned to thank her, she would be gone.

Anne Shirley

I've wanted red hair and freckles my whole life, and it is one hundred percent because of Anne (with an e) Shirley. I was convinced for quite a few years that if I had been born with freckles and red hair, I would have been feisty. And oh, how I wanted to be feisty. Alas, you can only be who you are. But I have definitely surrounded myself with feisty friends (freckled if possible), and Anne would be no exception. Of course, from the moment we clasped hands and greeted each other on the front porch of Green Gables, we would know we were kindred spirits. There would be no question about that. We would eat tea cakes and drink raspberry cordial, and Ms. Shirley would fill my mind with such fantastical and whimsical whirligigs of thoughts that I would practically float out of the room if there weren't a roof. Before I left, Anne would press me to her bosom and promise to write. I would wonder for a brief moment if she meant something...different...when she called me her bosom friend, but I would reject the thought even as she vowed to love me forever. And monthly for the rest of my life, I would receive letters, sometimes six, eight pages long filled with stories and fantasies and ramblings about life on Prince Edward Island. For a few days after each letter, I would walk around with my head in the clouds and say exactly what was on my mind but in a delightfully endearing way so that even the grouchiest person couldn't help but love me.

Jesus

Well, that's a change. My relationship with Jesus is too long for this post. It's too long for another post. It's probably too long for this blog. But I'll give a quick summary by saying that regardless of whatever shameful (in my opinion) things that his name has been used for, I have generally positive feelings about the man himself. And, however I feel about him, I don't think anyone can argue that he hasn't left a serious mark on history. I'd host Jesus for a simple Kosher meal (he was Jewish) and spend just a few minutes basking in his warm and loving glow before I got down to business, aka question-asking time. I would probably have index cards just to keep things straight, and I'd ask about how it felt to be him, whether he wanted all the attention, what made him afraid, what made him angry, what he never got to say. I'd ask him what he thought of a bunch of things now - cloning and gay marriage and birth control and poverty and feminism and war and so many other things. The lunch would run long, but he would assure me it was okay. I'd spend a few more minutes basking in that warm and loving glow before he left. Afterwards, I would write a tell-all book about our meeting and get my own talk show. It would involve a lot of hugging.

***

As I was falling asleep after reading a draft of this post to my wife a few nights ago, I popped up.

"Oh my god," I said.

She mumbled in response.

"Okay, besides Jesus, what do all my other fantasy lunch dates have in common?"

"They're women."

"And???"

She thought for a second.

"They're writers?"

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "They're all women writers! I didn't even realize!"

***

I have determined that it's actually an excellent first date question. If you want to know what's really in a person's heart of hearts, ask them to name five people they'd like to join for lunch.

So who would your five people be? I promise I won't psychoanalyze you too much.


p.s. Just in case you wanted to know how many times I've talked about Murder She Wrote on this blog, it's three: here, here, and here. 

Cherry Chocolate (Green) Smoothie

I keep waiting for the day that I suddenly wake up before my alarm goes off, spry and ready for the day, or at least suffering from early-morning insomnia. It seems ridiculous that at thirty-four years old, I can still sleep until 10:30 on the weekends. (And I'm sure I could do it on the weekdays if it weren't for that pesky alarm.) Haven't I reached an age where I'm supposed to wake up naturally at 6 am? 

I'd be so much more productive if I had. Think of all the things I could get done during the 45 minutes that I repeatedly press the snooze button. I could do a little pre-work cleaning, read the news, go for a run, make a delicious breakfast and sit down to eat it at our dining room table. 

But alas. I'm a snoozer. The day has not yet come where I choose cleaning or running or even a calmly enjoyed breakfast over another 9 minute snippet of sleep. 

Smoothies are our go-to breakfast for those mornings that it seems we might not actually make it out the door. They're quick to make, and we pour them into two mason jars and throw the lids on as we run for our cars. Thank goodness they're actually tasty. 

This is our regular, and I'll admit that chocolate first thing in the morning does put a little pep in my step. 

Cherry Chocolate (Green) Smoothie
2 servings

2 cups unsweetened almond milk (or other milk or non-dairy product)
2 leaves kale, without ribs (or 1 cup spinach)
1 tablespoon chia seeds
1 tablespoon almond butter
2 tablespoons cocoa powder
2 cups frozen cherries 

Blend the almond milk and kale together first, especially if you don't have a high-powered blender like a Vitamix or Blendtec (which I don't).
Blend in the rest of the ingredients, pour into 2 jars or glasses and serve. 



p.s. If you're looking for something to channel Summer, try this green tea mango smoothie or a pineapple mint smoothie. 

Valentine's Cards That Won't Make You Barf

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I remember standing in the card aisle at Publix (a grocery store in the South) when I was in high school picking out card after card and just cracking up. I'm not sure whether it's my humor or the card industry that has changed, but nowadays I have a hard time finding good cards. They're either not funny or so sappy that they seem almost insincere.

Now, no one who knows my wife and I can claim that we don't have a sappy side, but it's a quirky sappy side. It's a sappy side that says "Hey, I'm a bit of a wack job, but you are too. Let's make out."

So I've turned to Etsy for my card-buying needs. It never disappoints. There's always a card on there that says exactly what I've been wanting to say, like this.

My wife and I tend to be pretty low-key on Valentine's Day. No fancy dinners out for us. But I do like to use the opportunity for a little reminder of how much I love her - definitely more than blogs (by a hair).

How about you? Is Valentine's Day a big one?

Oh, and don't forget the non-romantic loves in your life. Everyone is happy about mail - send a Valentine to your mom, your dad, your best friend, that kid you never asked out in middle school (okay, maybe not that one).


p.s. Just in case you are looking for a little something sappy, here you go.

Meal Planning for the Disorganized Cook

Be honest. Has this ever happened to you?

You go to the grocery store, You spend $100 and walk out with three full bags of groceries. You put the groceries away when you get home, and two hours later you walk into the kitchen to make dinner.

And there's no food for dinner. Sure, there's food. There are two different types of hummus, a new container of raisins, tortilla chips, baby carrots, some apples, an enormous bag of roasted chickpeas with sea salt. But there's nothing that you can put together to make an actual meal.

And you JUST went to the grocery store!?

It's been a disturbingly frequent occurrence in our house.

I (perhaps like you) have read about meal planning, talked to people about meal planning, pinned a thousand posts about meal planning. I've wanted the money savings everyone talks about. I've wanted to stop going to the grocery store 3 (or four, or five) times a week. I've wanted to eat better and waste less food.

I've really wanted to get my sh#t together in the kitchen.

But no matter how many things I read, I never did it. And then one day I realized I was going about it all wrong. I was trying to meal plan like an organized person. And that was my big mistake. Because I'm not an organized person. And if you're not either, then here's the easy-peasy meal planning plan for you.

Here are the ground rules:

Keep it simple. 

I know. You saw that post about the woman who put 30 meals and their recipes on little laminated index cards with magnets and attached them to the calendar on her refrigerator and did all her shopping in two-week intervals.

You know your coworker who has no paper on her desk? Ever? Whose pens are color-coded? That post was for her. It's not for you.

But a woman at the gym was talking about how she has a month's worth of crockpot dinners in ziploc bags in her freezer!? Shouldn't I be doing that??? No. She can talk to her therapist about that. It's not for you.

Your meal planning is about simple. Doable. Manageable. There will be no laminating. There will be no therapy (at least not related to meal planning).

Step away from Pinterest. 

Pinterest is awesome. I've said so before. It's great for inspirational quotes, home decor projects, creating a long list of clothing items you'd like to buy, and yes, for recipes. But now is not the time. If you want a surefire way to ensure that you get overwhelmed and quit the idea of meal planning altogether, log onto Pinterest and start looking up recipes.

Scrolling through Pinterest can easily find you racking up a hundred new recipes - it's difficult (sometimes impossible) to decisively choose a few easy meals for your next week.

Those are the two rules. Very basic.

Now you're ready for the method.

It's simple. Grab three pieces of paper and a pen.

1. On the first piece of paper, write down your go-to, easy-peasy, I-just-got-home-from-work-and-don't-really-want-to-cook meals. From your memory. If you're disorganized in the kitchen, meal planning is not the time to start looking up recipes or pulling out cookbooks. That will overwhelm you. There will be opportunities for trying new recipes and adding in more vegetables and all those things you want to do after you have a few weeks of meal planning under your belt. Hold your horses.

Here's what I wrote down:

There's nothing super inspiring, but your first go-round with meal planning is not the time to try to be a dinner hero. The point here is to develop the process. Once you have the process down, you can get fancier. But the process comes first.

2. Okay, so once you have your list, move on to your second sheet of paper. Here, you'll write down six of those meals that you'd like to prepare next week. Why six and not seven? As we know, for the disorganized cook, planning can be a struggle. Give yourself one night to blow it all off. Maybe you've ended up with a ton of leftovers. Maybe all you can think about is ordering a pizza. Accept that you're not going to be perfect at this and allow yourself a little leeway.

Here are the six meals I wrote on my second sheet of paper:

polenta pizza
breakfast for dinner
hearty salad
grilled cheese with soup
veggie burritos
crockpot chicken and salsa

Under each meal, you're going to write down the necessary ingredients.

Here's what mine looked like after that:

3. Now hop up and check out your refrigerator and your pantry. Do you have any of these ingredients already? Put a check mark next to any ingredients that you already have.

You may notice that I put a check mark next to "cheese" in the first two recipes where it shows up, but not in the last recipe. I realized that I didn't have enough for that final recipe. (And perhaps there's too much cheese on this meal plan, but remember, it's the process that counts right now.)

4. On your third sheet of paper, write down every item that you need to purchase for the six meals. If you come across an item twice, just put a "x 2" next to it.

There's you're grocery list.

Here's mine.

5. Final step. Perhaps the hardest one. Next to each meal on your second sheet of paper, write the day that you'll prepare it. This step is so that when you get home on Tuesday night, you don't spend any time trying to decide which meal you'll make. BUT if you get home on Tuesday night and just have an enormous hankering for the meal you picked for Wednesday, relax and let yourself switch things up.

Here's my final meal plan:

I picked Sunday night for the grilled cheese and tomato/roasted red pepper soup because it takes a little longer and I knew I'd have time. I picked Tuesday night for breakfast for dinner because I have an event that night and breakfast for dinner is super fast to pull together.

I put my grocery list in my purse and stuck my meal plan to the refrigerator. The whole process took me about 30 minutes.

None of these meals is overwhelming to me. They're all things I make regularly and don't need a recipe for. They're great options for a first week of meal planning. In a few weeks, perhaps I'll throw in a new recipe or something that I like but haven't made in a while.

The whole point of meal planning is to make life easier, not to make it more overwhelming. The key is accepting that you (and I) are a little disorganized, that you (and I) are not going to be perfect at it, and that you (and I) can create some structure by starting with easy, simple steps.

Now log out of Pinterest, sit down with your paper, and get planning.

p.s. Here are the simple recipes for the roasted tomato and red pepper soup and the kale puttanesca.

The Best Books I Read in 2014

During law school I thought maybe I'd never want to read for pleasure again - my brain was so tired of consuming words on a page. I'm so glad I was wrong. It took a little while to get back into the habit, but I'm deep in now. And 2014 was a good year for it. Here were my favorite reads last year: 

Americanah*
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie 

Adichie's epic tale had me captivated from the very beginning. She weaves together the personal and the political and cultural masterfully, making this book touching, funny, and thought-provoking. When I finished, I felt like I was saying goodbye to a new and delightful friend. Goes into my top 10 books ever.


Beautiful Ruins
Jess Walters 

A beautiful set of interwoven stories about the power - and the limitations - of the human spirit. Walters has created a cast of touchingly real characters and sewn their lives together across time and space in such a moving way that finishing the book left me in tears at the gift of human connection.


The Signature of All Things*
Elizabeth Gilbert

A beautiful Jane Austen-esque journey through the life of brilliant and unconventional Alma Whitaker. The novel's scope could be described as epic - covering two generations, as well as topics ranging from women and sexuality to faith and science. Gilbert created likable characters and kept my interest. My single quibble with the book was in the ending, which I won't spoil. Even with my dissatisfaction in the final pages, I'd recommend the book to anyone looking for an engrossing, enjoyable read.


The Orphan Master's Son
Adam Johnson

A thought-provoking and captivating glimpse into a country that most of us know very little about. I rushed to read interviews with Adam Johnson after I finished so that I could understand how much of what I read was based in truth and how much in fiction. Simultaneously devastating and inspiring, Johnson created believable characters and kept me guessing to the end.

Tiny Beautiful Things* 
Cheryl Strayed 

There is much to cry over, laugh about, and connect with in the letters sent to Sugar through the years that she kept her column at The Rumpus. Strayed's compassion and insight into the human condition rival any self-help book out there. But she beats them all with her eloquence and wit. This is one to read over and over and over again.

I Know This Much is True
Wally Lamb 

I blame Mr. Lamb for many sink-fulls of dirty dishes, unswept floors, and dinners eaten directly from the pantry. I Know This Much Is True kept me firmly in its grip from the very beginning until the very end - and beyond. After turning that last page, Dominick and Ray and Lisa Sheffer and Ralph and all the others stayed in my head, acting as the lenses through which I viewed everything in my life for weeks afterward.

What were your favorite books in 2014? Please share - I always love adding good ones to the list!


p.s. Follow me on Goodreads!

*Listened to audiobook on Audible.

These Days: January

knitting two projects: this sweater and a colorful striped throw with leftover yarn
planning several shelving projects that will (hopefully) help me get better organized
cooking root vegetables for days to try to keep up with our winter CSA farm share
reading The Rosie Project
enjoying the glow from our pellet stove
watching Liz Lemon eat night cheese and hook up with Don Draper
listening to Elise Blaha Cripe's podcast Elise Gets Crafty
bundling up in eighteen layers every time I go outside
buying these shoes in nude for work
painting my studio / office space this color and this color (!!)
wanting this book to hurry up and come out already
missing the anticipation of the holidays

patting myself on the back for fixing a bad wall patch all by myself (thanks Ace Hardware)

loving Saturday afternoon movies on the couch with my wife



p.s. Make this pasta this weekend. It's perfect for these cold winter nights.

Prompt for This Week's Emoji Fiction Friday

I'm back for another week of Emoji Fiction Friday! We had one entry last week, but I heard from a number of folks who wanted to participate but hadn't gotten themselves together in time to do it. 

So here's your next chance! 

As a reminder: 

Here's how it works.

I "send" you a list of emojis. Since we're playing this over the interwebs, I'll post them here on Tuesday or Wednesday morning. Then you make up a story using the emojis as your inspiration. You post that story by Thursday at 5:00 pm either (a) in the comments here or (b) on your own blog and share the link to it in the comments on this post. Try to keep it under 800 words so I have time to read it!

On Friday, I'll post my own story and I'll pick one from the comments to highlight.

No prizes.

If you're feeling shy, post yours anonymously. But I guarantee you that writing emoji fiction will make you laugh and take your mind off your troubles for at least 15 minutes. 

Get to it!

Emoji Fiction Friday!!

I see that you guys were feeling a little shy about Emoji Fiction Friday. I totally get it.

We only had one entry, but that's alright. After you see mine and what our brave soul submitted, I know you'll want to do it next week!

Here's the story from "Sarah":

Stroke, two, three, four; Inhale; stroke, two, there, four.

It had been years, but the familiar smell of chlorine enveloped him like an old friend. His arms cut through the placid water like butter. Muscle memory is an amazing thing, he thought to himself, as his arms arched over his head, water cascading back into the pool. Ever since med school started, his days in the pool became fewer and farther between. This was what he wanted. He had worked hard to get here. The nights of studying, missing parties, working two or three jobs to afford his dream, all had been building up to this point.

But the money. It always seemed to come down to money. The threatening monthly letters, the bold red print, scolding him for not taking action sooner. How could he have known what Patrick would do? When he co-signed the small business loan for Patrick’s bake shop, he thought they were forever. 14 months later, when the business failed and Patrick spiraled into depression, Michael wasn't thinking about his signature on the bank papers. 

Maybe this was why he had stopped swimming, he thought. The busy schedule was a convenient excuse, but maybe what he had been avoiding was the time to think. The what ifs always harder to digest than the what was. 
______

Michael made his way back to the locker room to take a shower before heading to campus. He had put Patrick back in the recesses of his mind- as far back as he could, to prevent more unwanted memories from returning. 
_______

The 1998 Honda Civic crawled into the student lot on campus. He was late, not that anyone would notice today. He found room 118 in Hammond Hall, and slipped into place, nervously twisting the ring on his right hand. The ring he and Patrick bought on their trip to Thailand, celebrating their 2 year anniversary. Patrick. 

No. Not today. This is my day, Michael thought. I worked hard for this, I earned this. 

“Michael Edward Davis, Jr” the loudspeaker bellowed, snapping Michael back into reality. He climbed the stage to collect his diploma to the sounds of proud family and friends clapping. 

What a touching little glance into the loss of a relationship - fabulous imagery at the beginning and I loved her creativity with the use of the lock emoji as the locker room. This line was my absolute favorite: "The what ifs always harder to digest than the what was." Aside from being pleasing to the ear, it's such a true statement!

And here's mine (also, I totally broke my own rule because this is 916 words! whoops!):

Also - can I say how crazy it is that we both ended up writing stories about gay guys??

Eric looked out at the room and straightened his tie before bringing the microphone up to his mouth. "I still remember the day I met this crazy surfer boy like it was yesterday." He smiled at Keith and grabbed his hand. 

* * *

"Dude. Dude. Dude." 

Eric tried to open his eyes, but it felt like there were little anvils sitting on top of them.

"Hey man, can you hear me?"

"Yes," he croaked out.

"What? Can you hear me, man?"

He concentrated on his mouth. "Yes, I can - "

"Oh dude, that's awesome. The paramedics are on their way."

Eric tried again to open his eyes. Who was this guy? How many times could someone say dude?

"What happened?" Eric's mouth was moving a little better now, thankfully, and he was starting to open his eyes.

"Oh man, dude, it was epic. You were up on the board, and the wave was coming, and you totally road the shit out of that thing. But then it just rammed you - I didn't know it was comin' that hard. You hit your head on your board, dude. It was crazy."

The guy was waving his arms around, acting out all the different movements as he talked. He had shoulder length, tangled, brown hair and looked like he'd spent ever single hour of his life in the sun. 

Eric suddenly remembered - surf lessons. He'd been taking surf lessons. Wait. He'd been taking them with that hunky surf instructor - where was that guy?

He pressed his hands against the sand and tried to push himself up, but his head was so heavy it felt like his neck couldn't hold it. 

"Woah, dude. Woah. Wait for the paramedics."

"Where's...? Where's....?" He'd laid back against the sand. He couldn't remember the guy's name?

"Where's who? Who are you looking for, dude?"

Eric closed his eyes and tried to remember the guy's name. 

"Surfer...hot..." 

"Another surfer? It was just you and me, man. And you were killing it, man. Killing it." 

Eric opened his eyes as the guy leaning over him ran his hands through the tangled hair and the sun gleamed on his bare chest.

Oh. This was the guy.

* * * 

"Of course, even though there was no question he was gorgeous, I was a little ridiculous back then." He looked around at the crowd and noticed a few nods from his friends. 

"I was so into money and making it to the top of the ladder - I thought I was going to make partner that year, and I didn't want anything to get in the way. I could hardly see a good thing in front of me. In fact, as a few of you will remember, I tried to run away from this particular good thing." He squeezed Keith's hand. 

* * * 

"I can't just move to California, Keith. I'm not a surfer dude. I can't just be all 'this is so awesome, man. Dude, life is good.' I have a real job with real responsibilities. People are counting on me." Eric looked right past Keith at his suitcase when he was saying it. He knew it was harsh, but he also knew it was what he had to do if he wanted that partnership. 

That partnership was the key to unlocking everything he'd ever wanted. He wouldn't have to kowtow to all those asses on the 8th floor anymore. He'd be the one in charge. He'd finally be able to pay his parents back for bailing him out when he couldn't pay his student loans. There wouldn't be anything hanging over his head anymore. He'd be free. 

The little fling with Keith had been fun - flying back and forth between Malibu and New York was a blast. And yes, they'd had some amazing late night talks and he felt passionate and understood and wanted in a way he never had before. But he was never supposed to end up with a surf instructor. Not for good. You don't move across the country for a surf instructor. A professor? An accountant? An architect? Yes. Maybe even a teacher or a carpenter or something. But a surf instructor?

He grabbed his suitcase. "I'm sorry," he muttered as he walked out.

Back at the office, he couldn't focus. He sat at his desk with papers strewn all around him, and all he could think about was Keith, about the way he made him laugh, the time they spent the whole night on the beach watching the stars, the things Keith had told him about how surfing made him feel and what it was like to watch a person ride a wave for the first time. He shook his head and looked back at the papers, but all the words ran together. 

* * * 

"Getting on that plane and coming back out here was the best decision I ever made. Well, second after choosing this guy for my surf instructor." He nudged Keith with his shoulder. "He did almost kill me with a surfboard, but I suspect that was just a ploy so he would have a reason to give me mouth to mouth."

The crowd laughed and clapped, and someone started clinking a glass. "Kiss kiss kiss!" they all cheered. 

Eric wrapped his arm around Keith and laid one on him. 

Then he leaned around and whispered in his ear, "Hey dude, thanks for becoming my husband."

"Back at ya, man."



Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll join us next week. As you can see, there's no right or wrong way to do this. It's just a fun opportunity to play around with words and pictures. I think of it as the ultimate "yes, and" exercise, like in improv. You start writing, and when you come to the next emoji, you have to say "yes, and" incorporate it into the story. And maybe next time we'll do titles.

Introducing Emoji Fiction Friday!

My friend Lauren and I have been playing this game that had rapidly become one of my favorite pastimes.

If you're a writer or if you'd like to be a writer or if you think you could never write anything creative or if you think writers have superpowers and that's how they make stories, then this is for you. 

Yes. I'm bringing our game to the masses - if the masses mean the 50 people who are going to read this post. 

Here's how it works.

I "send" you a list of emojis. Since we're playing this over the interwebs, I'll post them here on Wednesday morning. Then you make up a story using the emojis as your inspiration. You post that story by Thursday at 5:00 pm either (a) in the comments here or (b) on your own blog and share the link to it in the comments on this post.

On Friday, I'll post my own story and I'll pick one from the comments to highlight.

No prizes.

It's just for fun because I'm a total writing geek, and it's the most delightful writing exercise I've ever encountered. Case in point: recent stories from my friend have included a piece of petrified poo named Peter and a motherless tomboy in the Sonoran Desert. And I wrote a story complete with boob jokes. There's no limit here!  (Except, there's a little bit of a limit. Keep it under 800 words so I have time to read it!)

If you're feeling shy, post yours anonymously. But I guarantee you that writing emoji fiction will make you laugh and take your mind off your troubles for at least 15 minutes. 

Without further ado, here is the prompt for Friday:

Get to it!

Making My Tribe

"Where there was good food there were usually good people. I learned that early on. I also learned that making food for other people was something I was good at. It gave me a sense of peace and belonging. When I made food, I made a tribe."  Kim Severson, Spoon Fed

This weekend at my wife's firm's holiday party, I stationed myself next to the chilled shrimp, slathered cocktail sauce on a plate and got down to business. Between shrimp and what I would describe as gourmet pepperoni, I ate almost a full meal before we sat down for dinner. Shrimp is one of my favorite foods, and I don't eat it at home because we keep a somewhat kosher kitchen, meaning no shellfish, no pork, and no meals that include both dairy and meat (though I sometimes have both if it's just me).

The negotiations that surrounded our moving in together almost six years ago were tense, not because we weren't both sure that we wanted to take that step but because we struggled to figure out how to make the "food stuff" work. We come from completely different worlds on that front.

I grew up in Georgia with parents from South Louisiana, which meant that my fried chicken and biscuits were mingled with sausage-filled red beans and rice, jambalaya, seafood gumbo, shrimp stew, and - my absolute favorite - crawfish etouffee.

Not only that - I came from a clean-your-plate, eat-what-your-mama-cooked house. No one had allergies, or ethical food considerations, and I was allowed only a small number of food dislikes. I was expected to eat the food put in front of me.

My wife, on the other hand, grew up just outside Philadelphia in a strictly kosher house. She didn't eat out at restaurants. She checked every food box for the kosher symbol. Add to that the fact that she was diagnosed lactose intolerant when she was 11 and a myriad of food intolerances shortly after we started dating, and we were looking at a pretty challenging landscape for compromise.

If we hadn't each made a little movement since our childhoods, I'm not sure we would have had a chance. But by the time we met, I had dabbled in vegetarianism and was focused on eating sustainably-raised meat. My wife now ate out at restaurants and ate non-kosher foods, though not non-kosher animals (aka, no pork, etc).

Naturally, she wanted a kitchen without pork or shellfish and with separate dishes for meat and dairy - the type of kitchen she grew up with. And I wanted a kitchen with cheeseburgers on the grill and pots of shellfish-laden etouffee simmering on the stove - the type of kitchen I grew up with. It wasn't just that I felt that I was, in the food arena, perhaps becoming Jewish by default (something I was not prepared to do). It was that so many of the warm and cozy memories of my childhood involved a food item that would not be permissible in a kosher kitchen. And even the "kosher lite" kitchen we were discussing wouldn't welcome a shrimp cocktail. But of course, the alternate was true for my wife.

We ultimately took the plunge with a set of parameters we both felt we could accept. They've morphed over time along with all our other interfaith issues, but we thankfully always come back to the same place - we want to be together enough to expand, to grow the box of our lives big enough to include elements of both of our traditions. We'd rather be doing that messy work with each other than not.  At this point, I'd say we've both given up a fair amount.

But we've gained so, so much.

Those occasions where I find a way to share my family's food traditions with her are such a gift, whether it's making something kosher-friendly or dairy-free or without refined grains and sugars (which wreak havoc on her system). When we subbed out buttermilk for soymilk in the fried chicken, when we found the perfect chicken andouille sausage for my mom's sausage and chicken gumbo, and last week when I realized I could make one of my favorite holiday treats - chocolate haystacks - with her special dairy-free, sugar-free chocolate chips, salted almonds, and gluten-free pretzels. In those moments, I am creating our own new traditions - ones that are a mix of her and a mix of me.

It may sound silly, but as we stand in the kitchen crunching away on these modified chocolate nibbles or sit across from each other chowing down on bowls of chicken and sausage gumbo, I remember the words we said when we slipped our rings on each other's fingers.

I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine. 

This is where I belong.
This is my tribe.

Invisibility: The Internet's Greatest Gift?

Here's a question for you:

Why does anyone blog?

Put more specifically, why does a person with no celebrity status ever think that people (aside from their parents and closest friends) will want to stop by the little corner of the internet they've set up to share photos of their living room or their garden or their summer vacation, to explain their thoughts on common core or marathon techniques or the minimum wage or homeschooling or the particular merits of a neutral color scheme in the living room (spoiler alert: it lets you change your look seasonally at low cost with accessories in "pops of color!")?

It sounds ridiculous.

And yet perhaps one of the most fascinating phenomena of this particular moment in time is that, apparently, the person who believes that people care enough to follow their little story is not crazy. Folks will follow. Some point to the social media frenzy as a narcissistic tragedy of modern culture. Perhaps there are elements of truth there. But it's not the whole story.

What seems both more apparent and less traumatic is the complete fascination that we have with each others lives. If internet behavior is to be believed at all, people do want to know what you did over the weekend. They'd like to see pictures and read about your mishap with the dishwasher. They want to sign on to Facebook and hear about how potty training your toddler is going. They want to know who you're planning to vote for in the upcoming election, what type of shampoo you just switched to, what articles you're reading, why you've decided to stop eating gluten, and how you made that quilted table runner.

Not everyone, of course. Some will scroll through or will jump off a page after a quick scan of the photos, but a shockingly large number of people - more than most folks could rally on a street corner with a flyer that promised "Come see photos of this stranger's holiday decorations!" - are showing up to read the stories, from the short twitter versions to the multi-scroll blog post versions, of people they don't even know.

* * *

In an episode of This American Life, John Hodgman asks people whether they'd rather have the ability to fly or the ability to make themselves invisible. Through the responses, a picture emerges of the people who choose to fly as bold and guileless and the people who choose to be invisible as ashamed perverts (who want to watch other people have sex) or thieves (who want to steal clothes or sneak into movie theaters without getting caught). As someone who instantly chose the invisibility cloak, I questioned this outcome.

There is no doubt why I want to be invisible - to spy on other people's lives. In fact, for weeks after hearing the episode, I caught myself in moments of fantasy where I had the power to stand hidden in someone else's living room and watch them have dinner with their spouse.

I'm not denying the sneakiness factor, but spying is such a sinister word - what I'm really talking about is an intense curiosity about other people. How do they behave when they're alone washing the dishes? What do they talk about with their spouse at night after the kids are in bed? What makes them cry or dance around the kitchen? And perhaps, yes, what is it like when they have sex?

Of course, there's no doubt some self-comparison in it: Does she eat spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar after a bad day too? Does that couple also fight about drawers left open in the kitchen? Does he talk to himself in the mirror? Are they like me? Am I normal? How much the same are we? How much different?

* * *

The internet - for better or for worse - is a giant invisibility cloak. Slip it on and cruise around other people's lives unannounced. See what they had for dinner last night, what made them cry, what they're fighting about, and even what turns them on if you want. They've put it out there for all to see, but chances are, they're not thinking about you showing up. They don't even know who you are.

Much has been written about how the anonymity of the internet turns people into the worst versions of themselves, and there are truly deplorable instances out there. But the vast majority of internet perusal appears to be of the invisible sort. We "like" a birth announcement, retweet a funny joke about our favorite tv show, comment on our best friend's blog. But for the most part, we scroll through unannounced. We lurk. We stand silently in someone else's living room and satisfy our curiosity.

And maybe that's not a bad thing.

In all the fear of anonymity and the "selfie culture" and the concern about a tragedy of narcissism, the incredible gift of invisibility gets forgotten. Perhaps curiosity killed the cat, but it's also responsible for the majority of human progress. It is by being curious that we learn. And here, on the internet, we can satisfy that curiosity without being perverts or thieves. We don't have to sneak into someone's house under cover of dark to find out if they're pacing back and forth, paralyzed with fear about the zombie apocalypse.

Nope. They have kindly invited us in by sharing their entire zombie apocalypse strategy (minus the exact location of their safe house, of course). People share their stories of depression, and we find comfort in the knowledge that someone else's brain works like ours or we realize that the way we've been telling our friend that it'll all get better hasn't been helping, or we file it away in the back of our mind and remember it one day when our ten year old says he wants to die. A woman posts on Facebook about her kid's struggle at school, and we give our coworker a break the next morning when she's cranky because we remember that she had to get two children into their clothes with lunches packed and onto a school bus before we were out of our pajamas.

Someone posts about their mother's death and we include them in our prayers that night (after we call our moms). We read tweets from gay people if we're straight, black people if we're white, disabled people if we're able bodied, people who have mental illness, people who have kids when we don't, and we get a glimpse. We get perspective. We get knowledge. If we're having a good day, hopefully we say a quiet thank you to them for sharing their lives so we can learn from them.

Our curiosity is our connector. It's what gives us the desire to learn. And social media is curiosity's workhorse.

Through Twitter, I travel to Iraq, the Gaza Strip, a gluten-free kitchen, the bed of a depressed author, the streets of Ferguson, the writers room of my favorite tv show, the hallway of a high school, the desk of a jewelry maker. And I go many of those places with not just a media-approved story. I go there with a regular person whispering 140 characters into my ear about their opinion or their experience, what they think is funny or sad or poignant or unacceptable. And every one broadens my understanding of the human experience - even the ones that make my jaw clench.

Every one helps me better understand what it means to be a person muddling through this confusing landscape.

On my best days, they allow me to see the world through someone else's perspective. On my worst days, they confirm that there are others out their grappling with similar demons.

I started here with the aim of sharing why I stopped blogging a year ago and why I'm thinking about blogging again. But I couldn't get that question out of my mind - why do we share at all? This is my answer.

This is me, taking off my invisibility cloak, walking into your living room and giving you a big juicy kiss on the cheek.

Thank you for the photos of your child in their Halloween costume, for all the Facebook posts about how much you hate your job (though I hope you aren't friends with your boss or coworkers on there), for the tweets about your morning coffee habit, for the blogs about your home renovation, for the posts calling for prayers and assistance, for the times you told us what you had for dinner, who you voted for, how you fell in love, how you fell out of love, why you started meditating, how to build a compost bin, what you believe (or don't) about God, why you homeschool, how to make your grandmother's cornbread, and on and on and on.

Thank you for letting us in.
Thank you for your stories.

I have some I'd like to share too.

Writing in November

I wrote these words last November, just a little over a year ago, and then they sat in my list of drafts. 

My hands have been busy this November – a constant tension between writing and knitting.  The cold weather hits, and all I want is to curl up on the couch with a ball of yarn in my lap and click my needles together.  Except I also want to write a novel, and NaNoWriMo has called to me for a second year.  I try to balance a bit.  Some writing, some knitting.  I get into a flow with one and forget the other.  Then I switch.  It’s yin and yang –calming, exciting, calming, exciting.

This month I feel enormous gratitude for both of them, for the feel of yarn as it runs across my hand, a fresh scarf wrapped around my neck, for making words come out of the mouths of characters I create, for the luxury of precious minutes at my computer to live in my imaginary world. 

I didn't meet my NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words. I only made it to 20,000, and I can't even remember now what stood in the way. Certainly not knitting, unless I bundle the piles of yarn into the category of All Things Not Writing. 

Life, I suppose. The ups and downs, and all the events and feelings that pulled me away from the page. I did some writing - some on the novel, some on some short stories, a little journaling here and there. But for the most part, in the last year, I have found myself drawn more toward knitting and reading and watching television - things that calm me and pull me out of myself rather than the thing that turns my attention toward my own mind. 

Even with fiction, when I am writing about worlds that are not my own, there is still a turning inward, the way I rely on my own imagination and consciousness to create something interesting on the page. I must be alive, alert, engaged. 

I've heard people talk about the loss of their faith, the hole that it leaves and the panic about not being able to get it back again. Not wanting to write has felt a little like that to me. Obviously I'm not a prolific author who makes my living by the written word, but writing has been, for as long as I remember, a place of discovery. Sometimes it has been the only way I have found to truly express myself to others, but more often it is the key to expressing my own feelings to me.  

In the last year, sitting down to write, I felt empty.  The words on the page seemed detached from me, and it was scary. 

With snow on the ground and hibernation in the air, I don't know if I'm back or why, but there's a tingling - a desire for my pen and my keyboard - that I missed. I'm afraid to put too much pressure on it. I have this sense that if I chase it, I'll find that it has flown away. 

Instead, I'm trying to take nice slow breaths and approach it gently, with the hopes that when I look again, it will be there sitting quietly on my shoulder. 

ABOUT

Thank you so much for visiting ktmade!  I'm really glad you're here.

These are the pages where I document my creative journey.  It's one part craft blog, one part cooking blog, one part photography blog, and one part lifestyle blog, and I sure hope all that makes up a whole!  

During the day I work in government affairs, and the rest of the time I try to find as many hours as I can to connect with my inner creative soul.  Here, you'll find me crafting, cooking, nesting, taking pictures, and often just sharing my thoughts on creativity, vulnerability, and following dreams.

I live in Richmond, Vermont with my beautiful wife and our adorable dog Jammer.

Here are a few posts to get you started if you're new here.

The Ease of Wanting

The Blogosphere Comparison Game

No, I Can't

Dreaming and Fearing and Dreaming

How to Build the Perfect Meal Salad

Honey Whole-Wheat Biscuits

Scenes from Rwanda

Poem Canvas

Fabric-Wrapped Canvas

Children's Tote Bag Tutorial

I hope you leave these pages feeling inspired to create, whether it's through words, images, music, or food.  I'd love to hear about it if you are! 

Consider following the blog, following me on twitter, or getting ktmade posts delivered directly to your email inbox.  And head over to my etsy shop.

If you would like to provide a guest post, have me review your product, or if you're a blogger and you'd like me to highlight one of your projects, email me at ktmadeblog@gmail.com.

I look forward to sharing with you!

Katie

Hello.

I keep wanting to talk to you guys.  I keep thinking of things to tell you, ways to share what is in my heart, how I spend my days, the things I love and the things that hurt me.  The science is right (of course).  A body at rest stays at rest.  Inertia is incredible. 

The longer I don’t write here, the harder it is to come back to these pages.  They feel foreign.  The act of publishing becomes filled with meaning, as if the words must be particularly special now to warrant so long an absence. 

What if I don’t live up to it?

What if my words are just words after a long absence?  No more brilliant or filled with epiphanies than any other words on these pages?

Fear is such a bully – so comfortable stepping into the driver’s seat and taking the wheel whether you asked or not.  Fear will pick the whole route for you if you don’t shove it out the door and slide over.

 

* * *

Hey guys.

I’m here.  Living day to day.  Some are good.  Some are bad.  Most are a mix, and I’m practicing practicing practicing - like scales on the piano - gratitude.  Sometimes I forget.  I’m late for work, and the house is a disaster, and there are still boxes, and another person tells me my job is ruining their life, and I am overwhelmed.  And I don’t want to practice anymore.  I want to scream and cry and eat ice cream and cheese puffs and feel miserably, inconsolably sorry for myself.  And then it starts to flurry and I catch a downy woodpecker nibbling on the suet my dad hung outside my kitchen window and my wife’s chin fits perfectly in the curve of my neck.  And then I remember. 

These are my days. 

Weekending

We've been packing it in these last few fall weekends.  This one was all about raking, picking apples, and preparing the garden for winter - with a little football and knitting thrown in for good measure. Life feels so very Autumn right now.  A never-ending raking job'll do that.  As will piles of vegetables and herbs that must get stored or preserved asap and garlic that needs to get in the ground before the frost.  (I hope Laura Ingalls is listening.)

I'm soaking it all in before "stick season," the affectionate term given to the winters here.  Then we'll hibernate as best we can, but for now it's all about being outside and enjoying these gorgeous days.