Freezing Fog

Last night I drove home through freezing fog. It was strange. It doesn't seem as if you're peering through mist; rather it seems as if everything becomes blurry...like you need glasses. It feels like driving through a dream in which you can't quite see clearly.

I have nothing really to say. Nothing interesting. I just keep thinking about those tiny sparks of ice I could just see in my headlights. If not for that, I may have thought that I had indeed fallen asleep and had driven into some kind of dream.

Four Cheese Florentine and other related matters

I would apologize for not having written in so long, but apologies are tiresome, so I will jump right in and not even try to recap my life for the past seven months.

Lately I have had less time to cook food from scratch--or perhaps I have just grown disgustingly lazy...very probable!--so I have been cooking things that come in bags and say things like "cook in bag in microwave" and "you can cook this and pretend it's natural even though it's not at all, but at least there's a picture of a farm on the front of it, and it's ready in thirty seconds" on the packaging. It's easy and it's all from Target, so it's a win-win for me, really.

Anyway, tonight I decided to cook something the nice green box called "Four Cheese Florentine." It looked very fancy and delicious...much better than macaroni and cheese from the blue and orange box with the dinosaur on the front. You're obviously a child or a loser if you eat THAT. This is super classy, though. And it's from Target...did I mention that? I love Target. Anway! So I started cooking it, added the cheese sauce, and it boiled up like crazy. I thought, "This couldn't possibly cook for another fourteen minutes without boiling over!" And then I looked at the directions, and they said to turn the heat down to a simmer. This is a lesson, I say firmly to myself. Always read directions.

So, yes, in answer to your frustrated queries at this point, I DID just write a blog post about....really, nothing at all. But I, my friends, am on Christmas break, and so I can write about nothing, because nothing is what I do, and I am thrilled with it.

Please tune in next time for another exciting installment!

I like.

I like rainy days--sometimes--because they make me feel cozy-warm-happy.
I like using dashes--hello!--because they are bolder than commas and because Emily Dickinson liked them too.
I like candles--but who doesn't?--lit on a rainy night because they're romantic and because they're warm and because they look like they'll protect you when electricity looks so cold and might disappear with a flash of lightning--BOOM!
I like things that people like and things that people don't like and things that people don't like because other people and too many people do like: example of the first being chocolate; example of the second being Damien Rice and grammar; example of the third being country music and Twilight.
I like being myself and liking it and sometimes being other people because that can be fun too, and why should you be always just yourself when yourself is probably three or four selves?
I like being girly.
I like being romantic.
I like being bookish.
I like being the femme fatale.
I like being cutting.
I like being caring.
I like cooking.
Looking.
Seeing.
Being seen.
Hiding.
Sleeping.
Buying and making.
I like liking what I like.
Don't you?
What makes you like who you are--what you do?

Tell me.

Babies.

This is the year of babies! Last year--or was it the year before?--was the year of weddings for me, and this is the year of babies. The problem is that the year of weddings could not make me want to get married because I already am. The year of babies, however, is making me want to have a baby. Peer pressure! I must withstand, however, unless I want to be juggling a baby and English classes. Not happening! Plus, juggling might not be good for the baby.

I must wait. But still! Now all my future child's friends are going to be older than him/her because I didn't jump on the bandwagon fast enough! Stupid school. Oh well.

On a different note, I am going to try baking again today, as a reward for cleaning, laundry and grocery shopping. But I suppose that means I should start the cleaning/laundry/grocery shopping.

Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers and moms-to-be! Please wait to have some children, though, dear friends, until I do. Or else, who will my baby be best friends with and eventually marry? See?

Dear everyone,

I wish I were a baking goddess who always wore floral-print sun dresses and high heels. I would wear frilly aprons whenever I cooked, and somehow never have to do dishes. Dirty dishes simply don't exist. Basically I wish I were a slightly younger version of June Cleaver. Oh no, Donna Reed is who I want to be. Beautiful and capably domestic.

Our moving date is coming up so soon, and I feel terrified of it, more often than not. It's not that I don't want change, or that I'm not looking forward to some of things that are coming. I am. But I am so comfortable with how things are now, and our next step is, I feel, another transitioning step. We are not completely done with school, and we are not moving into our house with a yard. We can't yet get a dog or start a family. If things must change, I wish that that were the change. I wish we were at the part of our lives where we could settle down.

But I must be thankful. I have so many things to be thankful for, and this will be an exciting part of our lives, and one that I will fondly look back upon, I am sure, when I am holding crying babies in the middle of the night, wishing for sleep.

I must muster my wits, to paraphrase Shakespeare, and also muster some enthusiasm! And perhaps try baking in heels. Maybe that would invoke the calm domesticity of Mrs. Cleaver.

Autumn

My dearest readers, I must confess something most shocking to you: as much as I have been enjoying--really, delighting in--this past spring, I have just had a longing for autumn. The feeling came about this way: I was reading a recipe which involved baking pumpkins, and all of a sudden the sights and scents of autumn flooded my memory. As every lover of fall knows, it's somehow more than the spicy scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and burning leaves. It's also the first bite of chill wind, the mustiness of fallen leaves, the peculiar blue of autumn skies. It's the thrill of Hallow'een, children swathed in spectral apparel.

Whereas spring gently urges contentment, autumn demands courage and action. Perhaps that explains my sudden longing for fall: a desire for courage.

I have many changes rapidly approaching, regardless of my readiness to meet them. And they will come amidst the torpor of summer, though I may wish for the brisk brilliance of fall.

How to train your....

Ladies and gentlemen, I last night was instructed how to train my dragon. It was great fun! Now, those of you who know me, may be familiar with the fact that I generally do not like children's movies. They are usually really sad near the end and usually because someone innocent, like a child or animal, suffers. That happened in this one too, but the ending was fantastic and made it all worthwhile! Not to mention that said movie featured the gorgeous voice of Mr. Gerard Butler. Beautiful. Toothless, the main dragon, reminded me of my kitty, Jasper. This is a picture of Toothless, to the right. Maybe you can't see the resemblance here, but you can see it in the movie.

Last night was also remarkable because I got to meet the boyfriends of two of my dearest friends, Bethany and Elise. Their boyfriends were lovely: Josh, charming, adorable, and quite enthralled with the lenses of the 3D glasses; Max, tall, dark, handsome. Good job, ladies. Impeccable taste!

And now I must dedicate a bit of this post to a certain person I will call J. J is a boss--the boss, really--at a place of employment of a family member of mine. Now, I visit this family member, P, at said place of employment fairly often. I feel that J does not like me. Granted, she smiles at me when I walk in, but there is a sort of evil glint in her eye.Perhaps the reason for said dislike is that I get a discount when I go there, and she regrets that I take up space in her building without paying her the full amount of money. But, dearest J, may I point out that said discount was your own idea. I merely take full advantage of it.

My latest grievance concerning J happened recently. I visited her establishment and was waited on by L, a sweet girl, about my age, married, and going to the same school as I. So I try tip her well. Try being the operative word. But L and I play this game in which I tip her, and she gives me the tip back, and then I attempt to give it back again. Today, we began the game. She gave me the tip back, so I slipped the money into an Express pamphlet that L had been admiring, and, as I leave, tell P to give it to her before she leaves. P turns to J, who was standing next to him, and says something. I overhear, as I am walking out the door, J say severely to him, "No, don't play games. If she doesn't want the money, don't try to give it back to her."

Don't play games? Ah. Of course. Because, really, why should work be fun? And why should a waitress get her tips, for that matter? And why should I try to be nice? J, darling, here is a tip for you: watch How to Train Your Dragon. Perhaps it will instill some fun into your life.

Spring thoughts

"Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: wait, I say, on the LORD." Psalm 27:14

Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes I feel content and satisfied. Sometimes I feel worried and anxious. But what I am coming to realize--and trying to make myself remember--is that no problem is bigger than my God and Father. And that the same God who made the heavens and the earth has promised to take care of me--to provide my every need, to satisfy me with every good thing, and to bless me more than I could ever imagine. Sometimes--often--I feel that I don't deserve that. But the truth is that because of what Christ accomplished on my behalf, it doesn't really matter what I do or don't deserve: God simply loves me.

And it is simple, isn't it? So I just have to believe it. And I do. And I will.

I went for a run (or "run" which really included quite a bit of walking) today and, as usual, was struck by the beauty around me. There are so many wildflowers! I wish I knew their names. There was a multitude of gorgeous, velvety purple violets, as well as some white violets, which I have never seen before this spring. Earlier I saw a lot of blue-eyed grass but now am seeing another pale purple wildflower that grows close to the ground, but I don't know its name.

I walked through Adam's Park again, and the magnolia trees have dropped pale drifts of petals on the ground like fragrant heaps of snow. Some school children on break were scooping the petals in piles and playing in them.

Often I hear people say, "I can't wait to get out of this town." They want to start something new, do something big, start something exciting. I fear I am all too unambitious. If I never went back to college--although, of course, I am--I think I would be quite happy working little bits at jobs, playing at keeping house, being caught up in little home affairs, reading lovely books, and building pretty little castles in the air. But, unfortunately, that is not to be, quite yet. First I must get a degree in order to make money, which one must have in order to live a nice sort of life. But after I get that degree, I want to settle. I want to write, and to putter, and to bake. To paint the house, perhaps, if I am feeling adventurous.

Perhaps it's just the day. Perhaps it's a passing feeling of stupor brought on by the heat. But really, I feel delightfully dull most of the time and am quite happy with it. The inside of my brain is, I think, quite interesting and exciting enough, and I do not know if having an exciting outside-of-me life would really add to my enjoyment. I would rather semi-seclude myself in a nice little house in a pretty town with a lovely garden, and a few good friends. That sounds heavenly.

A bit of a rant.

The denial of one's own free will and the insistence that one did something because they "had to" or "had no choice" is no more than a cowardly attempt to shrug off both the reality of responsibility and the just feelings of culpability that wrongdoing inspires.

Reporter Lisa Ling was on today's episode of Oprah, reporting on the "residents"--not inmates apparently, because this place is not a prison--of an island where certain sex offenders live--some indefinitely--because, although they've served their prison sentence, they're judged unfit to live freely in society. Ling interviewed some of these people, and I was shocked by how loathsome they were.

Why should I be shocked, I wonder? I know they have committed heinous deeds, perhaps some of the worst imaginable. But wouldn't you like to think that after so many years in prison and on this island, that they would have repented, that they would be fixed, that they would feel remorse and swear to never "re-offend" as they so delicately put it.

But no, far from it. One of the men in particular said that if given the chance, he would "re-offend." Oprah called him "enlightened" for knowing his weakness. I call him simply weak for not even attempting self-control.

But...thanks be to God for loving us and offering us grace so that we can be saved and have a new, perfect nature, rather than our old, fallen one. Psalm 36:10 says,

"For with thee is the fountain of life: in thy light shall we see light."

It is wonderful that we should not be trapped in the darkness of wickedness, which so obviously exists, but that we should have such glorious light available to us.

Speaking of light, in lighter news, I have been reading a fascinating biography on John Adams. It's by David McCullough and is extremely interesting and well-written. I find a poorly-written biography to be so tedious, but this one is very engaging.

Adams was an amazing man: very intelligent and very human. In his thirties, I believe, he pondered, in a journal entry, his goal in life. "To what object are my views directed?" He reflected upon his ever-growing and beloved library: "Fame, fortune, power say some, are the ends intended by a library. The service of God, country, clients, fellow men, say others. Which of these lie nearest my heart?" Interesting that the search for self-knowledge and a path is timeless, and that the best men seem to feel it, as well as the lowly, like myself.

Speaking of Adams, I read in Adams park today. Adams park is a lovely place, lush with vibrant, twisted magnolia trees spilling perfume from their thickly petaled flowers; inhabited by fat self-important robins and saucy black-capped chickadees; and enlivened by the tinkle of the fountain and the gurgling laughter of children. I learned today that this park I have been enjoying is, in fact, named after John Quincy Adams--not the sixth President, but a fourth cousin twice removed of the sixth President, bearing the same name. Now the President John Quincy Adams was, as I am sure you know, the son of John Adams, the second President, and Abigail Adams, of whom I am now reading. Interesting how it all intertwines, no?

And in closing, I finally cleaned my moldy shower curtain and registered for fall classes at NIU. I am excited.

You wear those shoes and I will wear that dress.

So last night, Steve and Alison joined Peter and me to go swing dancing! We--well, Alison and I, at least--have been anticipating this event for a while! The menfolk, Steve especially, took a little more convincing; but in the end, Steve added to the amusement of the night by virtue of his comments about this person's cankles and that person's horrendous lipstick.

I have come to believe, after a bit of introspection after last night, that dancing reveals much about one's character. For example, I discovered that--regardless of my lack of skill and knowledge--I have a tendency to lead. Before the dancing begins at the place we went to, there is an hour long lesson in which you dance with multiple people. So I was dancing with all these men I've never met before, most of which did not seem to know what they were doing, and I did not want to follow their lead.

There was one man in particular, who pointedly said, "Ah, you're leading!"

"Oh, sorry," I mumbled. He inclined his head, indicating forgiveness, though his pride had obviously been hurt.

So I tried to let him lead, but he didn't know what the hell he was doing! He was doing everything wrong! He didn't start on the right beat; he didn't turn the right amount of times...he didn't even stop right! Grrr. I wonder if he has a wife. If so, I feel sorry for her. What an idiot.

But I do lead terribly. I like it when the man leads, provided he does it well.

In other news, Peter and I visited Northern yesterday for orientation, where I learned that my educational path should be more or less a breeze--besides the fact that I have to take four semesters of French because I've slacked off on it for the past three years--and that Peter has about twenty-five more years of college in front of him. Lots of calculus too. I'm glad he's the math education major, and I'm the English major. Basically all I have to do is take English lit classes. How fun is that? I'm pretty excited!

I finally cleaned the moldy shower curtain. Now all I have to do is fold a small mountain of laundry and iron fifty shirts. Maybe I'll just put that off and go to the library. I'm feeling a little under the weather...I think laundry sounds a bit too taxing right now....

Oh......Oprah.

Oh gosh, I don't even know where to start on this one.

First, Becca and Josh, if you're reading this, you might want to stop, because it might weird you out.

So today, Oprah had a follow up show on this kid who "used to be" a girl, and "transitioned" to being a boy when he/she was fifteen. So this kid, Jake--formerly Julia--started taking hormone shots when he/she was fifteen to become more manly and then had a mastectomy so he/she could start dating girls. Jake thought of himself as a "man" not a lesbian he said. Okay, but THEN Jake decides that he likes dating GUYS instead! (But really, who could have seen this coming...it's not like he was ever a--oh what-do-you-call-it?--GIRL or anything!) So he is now dating a gay MAN...even though he has...female parts still. So Oprah asked Jake if his gay "partner" minded that he had female parts, because she was under the impression that gay men prefer male parts. And responded that his partner just considered that an "added benefit!" Well, that puts to rest any doubt we might have had. It seems that, honestly, all men prefer vaginas. And why wouldn't they? It just fits. Ha...ha....

So for a recap, Jake starts as Julia, a girl....decides she's really a boy...becomes Jake, the boy-with-female-nether-regions...decides he wants to date girls...decides he wants to date guys...and then starts dating a guy...who is, after all, quite happy with the female part of Jake.

Maybe, in the end, this is just a complicated way of doing what all of us women have thought about doing or have tried to do once or twice, and that is to turn a gay man straight. I mean, I've thought about doing it (that is, turning him straight) with Neil Patrick Harris. He's adorable! Why does he have to be gay? But Jake should have thought twice before actually REMOVING his/her boobs. I mean, if his/her partner likes a vagina, he should try boobs--I bet he'd like them too....

Bou! You scared me.

There's nothing like a nice, relaxing night closing at the Bou. Oh wait....

There's always your fair share of crazies there. They alternately infuriate and amuse me, depending on my mood. Two groups of people, in particular, stood out tonight.

The first was a fairly innocuous looking couple who got tea. We'll call them Jim and Jan. As often happens, the woman was the annoying one. That is not always the case, I grant you, but often. Somehow it came up that I was home schooled. God only knows why I let THAT little gem of information slip out, because the same thing always happens. Jan looked shocked and a little horrified.

"How...long were you home schooled?" Jan asked in a tone of voice that could have been used to ask, "How long have you had leprosy?"

"Through high school," I answered with a smile so bright it could have blinded her. Just be nice, I told myself.

"Oh...wow," she answered. "How did you...feel about that?" She obviously had mental pictures of my mother locking me in a bedroom, forcing me to do school work, and shutting me out from all the joys of childhood usually experienced in school. Joys like riding the bus, getting force-fed disgusting cafeteria food, and probably, in her case, being picked on by kids who were cooler than her. How terrible that I missed that.

"I loved it," I replied. "I had lots of friends, and I could work at my own pace."

"Oh." She nodded her head, as if to placate me. "But..." she licked her lips, hesitating. "But were you still able to....socialize?"

"Yeah, I had lots of friends," I insisted, still smiling. Then I turned to Mike. "Well, I don't know, tell me, Mike, am I socially awkward?" He insisted that I wasn't. Jim looked embarrassed and observed that I was outgoing enough, and they sat down. Just in time for me to not kill them in a bloody rampage. Excellent.

So that all worked out. Then, my favorite thing happened. A group of four lovely women waltzed in eight minutes before we closed. EIGHT. The first one hemmed and hawed and asked why we didn't have any desserts out in the bakery case.

"Well," I replied, "we had them out earlier, but we put them away right before we close." She didn't seem tot get th hint, and then made me repeat all of our bakery options twice. And I was like GTFO!!!! And I almost killed more people. But that would have been a whole other mess to clean up, and I was already running behind.

And that's my story.

But as a parting thought, may I ask you ladies reading this, what kind of sports bra do you use? Mine really sucks. I have to like layer two which is stupid and actually rather uncomfortable. But hey, I did get a run in this afternoon. I'm sure the endorphins helped to quell my murderous rages.

To begin my blog with the beginning of my blog....

About four or five years ago, I had a xanga. Do you remember xanga? I begged my mom to let me get one. She was convinced, and still is convinced, that to open any kind of account online or to put any kind of personal information online was tantamount to inviting all sorts of serial killers and perverts to somehow hack into your computer, give your computer a virus (you were always in danger of getting some kind of awful virus if you clicked on anything), hunt you down, and murder you. Somehow, though, I must have finally convinced her to let me have one.

I remember attempting to write, on my xanga, cryptically--though not so very cryptically that it would not be understood--about the different boys I was interested in, about my deep emotions (very emo-like), and about the really intellectual books I was reading/music I was listening to. Sometimes I would write the whole entry free verse or stream of consciousness--or rather, what I thought was free verse or stream of consciousness, but what was actually, I don't doubt, complete nonsense written very badly.

Anyway, here I sit, writing another blog--my first, since then. I imagine it will likewise be filled with lots of nonsense. I have debated creating one, because part of me thinks it's very silly to publish everything you do online for everyone to read. I mean, does the whole world actually need to know that I finally sorted through the two-year-old junk mail under my bed or that my cat got a cold? But then again...I do enjoy reading other peoples blogs. Secretly, I read them voraciously. Maybe it's because I'm nosy. I've no doubt that it's so. But I figure, I ought to enable others to be nosy too, since they probably enjoy it as much as I do.

So here is the start. I tend to be inconsistent (although I'll try not to be), and I tend to write way too much once I start (although I'll try to limit myself).

Thanks for stalking me today. Now I am going to attempt to work on my finances a bit, clean my really very moldy shower curtain (see, already too much boring info you don't care about!), and go for a run. I'm a terrible runner, but I do so enjoy telling people I "went for a run." It makes me feel really cool.