Olympus High School Class of 2000 Alumni Website

When I was in Ohio, I had a conversation with a lawyer friend of mine that got my wheels turning. It started out as a typical catch-up (“How’s Utah?” “It’s nice.” “Cold there?” “Yep.”) and then it turned to the inevitable “So exactly what is it that you’re doing?” Since I don’t have a job, I’m under more pressure to come up with a list of fascinating and necessary things that I get done every day. Sometimes I tell people that I’m doing some freelance writing. This is true, actually, but it makes me sound like I’m sitting in a coffee shop working on the great American novel, when in fact I’m just writing the occasional story for those newspapers and magazines that you’ve never heard of.

I also like to tell people that I’m a housewife and spend my days cooking, cleaning, and mending Kyle’s pants. This is also true, but I’ve learned that this should only be said when I’m sure that the person I’m talking to will be amused by it. I once said this lightly to someone I graduated from law school with and the look of pity that it inspired was a total conversation killer. I just had to wander away, mumbling “but I should be getting a call about that six figure job any day now.”

During the particular conversation in question, however, I gave the most honest answer I could, which is that I spend part of the day looking for jobs, part of the day picking up around the house, and the rest of my time is spent reading, writing, or blogging. This perked the interest of my lawyer friend and he asked what I was blogging about. I explained that I had a couple of different blogs, but mostly I just blogged about stuff. To which he responded, “Oh…so you just…talk about your life?”

The disappointment and disinterest in his voice was palpable. In truth, this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation. In fact, I’ve been on both sides of it. When someone tells you that he or she has a blog, it’s natural to immediately ask what the blog is about. When they tell you it’s about their life, don’t you always have a moment where you just think, “Oh…it’s that kind of blog…it’s not a blog about politics or cars or movies or celebrities or food. It’s just a blog about this person?” And this, my friends, makes you immediately think, “I bet that blog is a suckfest of boring.”

It also makes that person seem just a bit more self-important. After all, blogging is widely viewed as a narcissistic pastime. It’s a hobby in which you, yourself, are the thing that you’re really interested in and want to spend time thinking about. What kind of an egomaniac would sit down at a computer every single day and talk about themselves? What makes these people think that they are so much more special than everyone else…that they’re so special everyone else will be interested in reading about their daily existence? Who do these people think they are?

I caught the look of disappointment in the face of my friend and quickly changed the subject, but it stayed on my mind for days afterward. I started to wonder if I had let this blogging thing get out of hand. What started out as rants and lists and notes to self has turned into a conversation in which I naturally assume that people will tune in to participate. But who am I and what am I doing and why do I blog almost every day? At nearly 27, with two degrees under my belt, shouldn’t I find a better way to spend my time?

And then I realized something. No, I couldn’t find a better way to spend my time. Because I need this. And I don’t need it because I can’t stop talking about myself. I need it because I can’t stop talking. I think it’s a chick thing. When women get together, they don’t talk about cars and movies and politics and technology. (Well, they do, but it usually isn’t the main focus.) The women in my life get together and immediately we start talking about relationships and how we feel about things and who we feel we are as people.

I have cherished those moments with my girlfriends and coworkers and classmates. I can’t remember the names and faces of some people, but I can remember sitting down on the couch with them while they expressed secret fears about break ups or little hopes that seemed too silly to say out loud. You know that moment when you and someone else have just traded immensely personal stories and you’re just sitting together, knowing that you’re understood and not judged and not alone? I love that.

That’s what led me to blogging. By reading other people’s blogs, I started to tap into mini-conversations with strangers all over the world. Sure, I didn’t really know these people, but when I read about the stupid relationship mistakes they made or when they cracked jokes to mask their insecurities, I totally connected to them. I felt like I was more normal for making mistakes and feeling insecure. The fact that they shared these thoughts actually began to buoy me up and enrich my life. The international chatter on the Internet was as familiar and friendly as any lunch circle in my life had ever been.

That’s why I blog. I want to add to that conversation. I want to toss this stuff out there so that someone else can read it and get something out of it, even if the something is that they think I’m an idiot and they’re glad they’re not me. (Hello, law-practicing Class of ’08!) For every person that misses the points I’m making or doesn’t agree with something I’ve thrown out there, I’ve found someone who really gets it. And even if they don’t leave me a comment or send me an email, I’ve become part of that person’s experience and hopefully I’ve made them feel just a bit more confident/happy/understood/secure/normal. I know that when I need that and I can’t get a hold of a friend, I can usually find a blog to lift up my day.

I don’t think that bloggers are self-obsessed. I think that they’re socially open. I think that they’re recreating something that is getting lost as people become more disconnected from each other. And I think that what all bloggers are doing…all of that verbal chaos and overflow of opinion…is really, really important.

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In Defense of Bloggers Everywhere

Some thoughts, early in the morning…

I’m still going through my little journey of change. People who are intimate touchstones in my life won’t be surprised by this. It’s actually a bit of an annual event, this retreat into myself, and was even a biannual event when confronted with the stress of law school. In response to complaints about my sudden social disappearance, I used to tell Janean that I was feeling very Zen these days. This announcement was always met with groans and more complaints as my Zen phases were synonymous with me suddenly becoming a pain in the ass as I refused invitations to the bar, locked myself in my apartment with my books, and systematically deleted all of my Facebook photos.

In reality, these phases aren’t very Zen. I do tend to lean towards complete simplicity, shedding my worldly possessions and breaking off all connections, but I don’t do this to achieve a balanced inner peace. I do this because the chaos and clutter of my life seems overwhelming all of a sudden and it’s all I can do not to just throw a blanket over my head. In truth, these phases would be more accurately described as having a nervous breakdown in slow motion, the only cure for which is time and Facebook-photo-destruction.

So why am I telling you all this? Wouldn’t the very nature of these moods (my strong desire to pull away from the world until the dust settles) mean that I’d be less likely to pour my heart out on this random public space? Well, yes. That’s why I haven’t been blogging much. But I have been receiving emails from readers even without blogging. Many of them have questions about other things, a few were gentle inquiries as to why I wasn’t writing, and a couple were complaints that I wasn’t supplying anything to entertain them and where the hell was I? I received one yesterday, though, that really snagged my attention and brought me back to the computer. It’s this email that I really wanted to write about today.

How’s that for the longest introduction in the world? I feel like Victor Hugo.

This email is from a friend. Granted, I do not “know” this person in my “real” life (excuse my “overuse” of quotations there), but this person is a long time reader and someone that I’ve had many conversations with on another forum. So while we do not actually know each other, there is a comfortable intimacy in discourse between us and, as such, she felt fine making inquiries into my personal life. Her email, gentle but blunt, simply asked if Kyle and I were having marital problems and if we were thinking about getting a divorce.

The email struck me as funny at first. With all of the unemployment and non-direction and living with my parents that’s been going on in my life, leaping straight to “are you getting divorced?” seemed to be quite the stretch. Then again, Kyle and I are still in that starter marriage part of our relationship timeline and we both have many friends who took vows and found themself divorced before the anniversary of those vows caught up to them. So maybe the inquiry wasn’t so strange?

In a simple answer, no, we’re not having problems. My life is chaotic and overwhelming in its sheer lack of importance, but Kyle is still the thing I’m holding onto to steady myself.

Honestly, if we were having problems, I would not be above writing about them on this public space, provided Kyle didn’t mind. We don’t have a Leave it to Beaver marriage and there’s no sense in holding it out as one. I once read a quote that someone had put up that said, “We have the greatest prenuptial agreement in the world. It’s called Love.”

I found that quote to be offensive on two levels. One, (as a lawyer) that’s just crap planning if you have any assets going into a marriage. Two, (as a wife) it would be arrogant for me to spend the rest of my life dependent on the emotions that we were feeling when he slipped the ring onto my finger. Things change, people change, and it isn’t too often that people walk into a marriage saying, “I doubt this will work out, but what the hell.” There’s a whole lot of love that precedes a whole lot of divorces. It’s unfair to assume that someone who is divorced just didn’t love the other person enough or wasn’t loved in return. Like marriage, there’s more to divorce than love.

That being said, I will of course qualify prior statements by saying that I don’t believe Kyle and I will get divorced and we didn’t get a prenuptial agreement either. Of course, neither of us own anything or have any real prospects, so our agreement would have just been a note to ourselves that said, “You want out of this? Well, maybe you should go home and try a little harder.”

You know, we’re almost to our one year anniversary, a thought that sends up a flutter of panic when I realize that I may only have 70 or 80 more years with Kyle and I’ve lost this first one so quickly. It’s been an amazing journey, this marriage stuff. I’m not one of those people who believes that you really get married on the day of your wedding. I feel like that giant party is a joyful celebration of the start of a really long walk. It’s in the days and weeks and months and years that follow that you start to knit together with someone, joining up a thread at a time, getting closer so that you will be stronger together when life tests you.

Our marriage is doing very well for only having one year behind it. It’s still a green, puny sprout of a thing, but we’re doing what we can to keep it healthy. You know, my husband is something of a physical hypochondriac, constantly concerned that we’ve got this or that illness or that we’re showing symptoms of chronic and life-threatening diseases. Heaven help our children on days of runny noses or bumped heads.

I, on the other hand, am something of a relationship hypochondriac. The first time I sense that we’re drifting apart or not truly communicating or snapping at each other a bit too much, I start Googling marital problems and imagining all of the horrible things that could happen to us if we don’t get back on the same page. The result of our hypochondriac double-teaming is that we take more vitamins and pills than you’d even believe and at least once a day we have earnest, soul-bearing conversations that are all full of eye contact and validating statements.

Is it overkill? Oh, definitely, on both accounts. But, it reminds me of something I recently read:

The average couple is unhappy six years before first attending therapy, at which point, according to “The Science of Clinical Psychology,” the marital therapist’s job is “less like an emergency-room physician who is called upon to set a fracture that happened a few hours ago and more like a general practitioner who is asked to treat a patient who broke his or her leg several months ago and then continued to hobble around on it; we have to attend not only to the broken bone but also to the swelling and bruising, the sore hip and foot and the infection that ensued.”

We may get the occasional emotional fracture, but you can bet your ass that I’ll have us knee deep in relationship books and marital counseling before you can even blink. And I’ll probably be blogging about it.

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Some thoughts, early in the morning…I'm still going through

Have you guys heard the term “pay it forward”?

The idea is basically that you do something nice for someone in the hopes that they’ll turn around and do something nice for someone else. So, if you rake your neighbors lawn, maybe they’ll be inspired to shovel someone’s driveway in the future. That kind of thing.

One of the most common ways is to pay for something as a gift to another person. For example, if you’re dining out, you can ask the waitress to pick up the tab of a family eating near you, in the hopes that your kindness will inspire them, etc. I got a whole lecture about this when I was in college, studying how to make the world a wonderful and peaceful place. (Note to others: if you’re in college, study things like physics and finance. Those humanities courses have unemployment written all over them.) Anyway, after that lecture, I went through a McDonald’s drive-thru and paid for the person behind me, feeling all full of charity and good will towards men.

It’s funny how things like that can bite you in the butt.

This morning, I woke up with an intense craving for wheat chex. Since we didn’t have any, I scrounged around until I found a bit of cash (my cards are a little strapped these day), and drove out to the grocery store to get cereal and a couple odds and ends. On the way back home, I decided to swing by Starbucks and spend my last few dollars on a tall chai latte, since I’ve had a major craving lately and they aren’t as bad for you as you’d think. I went through the drive-thru, placed my order, and was told to pull around to the window.

I had to wait for a bit, because the car in front of me ordered four large drinks, but when I finally got up there, the barista leaned out and said, “Guess what?! You’re the 34th car in a line of people who have been paying it forward. 34 cars ago, a man paid for the order of the car behind him and everyone has been picking up the tab of the car behind them ever since. So your order has been paid for! If you’d like to keep the chain going, you can pay for the car behind you. That tab is $16.50.”

Ok, I get the whole spirit of generosity that inspired all this. But, I only had four one dollar bills, I had only ordered a small chai, and I didn’t want to pay $16 bucks to cover the drinks for the large SUV behind me. Plus, I couldn’t feel too warm and fuzzy about the fact that my drink was covered when I realized that the woman in front of me had received four large coffees but only paid for my tall chai. So I told the woman the truth, that I didn’t have enough money.

Cue guilt here. The woman looked totally disappointed and said, “oh, that’s ok. I’ll just grab your drink.” At which point I heard another barista go, “oh no! She’s not going to do it!” and the one who was serving me said, “Yeah, she just wants her drink. I guess that’s as far as it’s going to go.” She gave me my drink and I put $2 in her tip jar (half of my spending money until next Monday when my unemployment comes through), but I still felt like such a jerk.

I drove away grumpy and vowing not to give in to any more Starbucks temptations for the rest of the year. Being the last person in the pay-it-forward chain, I don’t think that’s how I was supposed to feel, but alas. I would have much rather just paid for my drink.

I guess that’s something to think about the next time you want to pay for the person behind you…

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Have you guys heard the term "pay it forward"?The idea is

A friend of mine is going through a breakup. She’s doing ok, but it’s only been about a week and a half and she’s right in that it-still-hurts-just-as-much-but-there’s-nothing-left-to-say phase. I went through all the usual “you deserve better” and “he’ll be sorry” at first, but now our conversations have pretty much boiled down to her saying, “yep, he’s still gone” and me saying, “dude….that sucks…”

Talking about it with her has naturally brought up my own past experiences and I realized something rather profound recently. I shared it with her, but she’s not in that place where she can believe what I’m saying, so until she gets there, I’ll share it with you:

My breakup is the number one thing in my life that made me a better person.

I’m serious, it really was. (And by “my breakup”, I’m referring to the end of my long term relationship with my college boyfriend.) That one adolescent act altered my inner self more than study or trauma or even death ever has. I can actually say that my breakup altered me more than my marriage did, which is pretty incredible when you really think about it! Let me break it down…

I’ve written about my breakup before, but it’s usually been in the context of this really hard things that I went through and when I came out the other side, I found Kyle waiting for me. That is my favorite perspective on it, but it does simplify things quite a bit. It suggests that it was this nasty thing that I just needed to get past so that I could be done with it, when in reality it was a major shift in my personality tectonic plates.

Before my breakup…no, wait, let’s go back even further…before my college relationship, I had a pretty set view on life. I was much more concerned with getting ahead in my education and occupation than I was in relationships. I felt like I was constantly at battle with everyone around me, including friends and family, simply because everything was always such a struggle. I think everyone has this feeling at some point in adolescence, although we approach it differently. My approach was to come out swinging. I figured that if I could understand life, I could at least dominate it.

My college relationship started unexpectedly when Kate set me up on a blind date. It was summertime, life was easy, and by the next fall I had shifted my focus from conquering the world to conquering one person. The relationship that lasted for the next three years was one of constant struggle, as a result, because we were happy but also very insecure, possessive, and self-centered.

I think we both approached the relationship from the standpoint that we were going to force the relationship into whatever form we needed it to be so that we could have the life we deserved. In my mind, this meant that he would be a constant companion, unquestioning of my authority, and dependable as we built our home and raised our family. In his mind, this meant that I would be a constant companion, unquestioningly supportive of his career goals, and dependable as he made his mark on the world. Unfortunately, you can’t run a relationship simply on the fuel of wanting to constantly be together, especially when you’re driving each other crazy and you’re both there for different reasons.

When the relationship ended, not by my decision, I was crushed. I was completely bewildered, terrified of going on alone, and outraged that he had the audacity to veer from my life plan. My dependence on our relationship had honestly led to an atrophy of spirit. I was dependent on him for happiness, for support, for validation…and I was so used to him being there that my reaction was not one of concern for him, but rather the selfish anger of a hurt child. It was terrible.

And then…days and weeks of lying in bed later…I don’t know. It’s like sparks started to come back. I made lists of all the things that he had never wanted me to do, all the books and movies that he thought were too dumb to watch, all of the people he didn’t like me to hang around with…and I dove in. I think it started out as revenge, but it quickly grew into revival. I found new sources of happiness that didn’t have anything to do with anyone else and every good discovery left me wanting more. It was like I was famished for life experience.

Before I knew it, I had broken off into a different person. This person was new and still frightened about the future, but she was much stronger, much more content, and, ultimately, much more interesting than the person I had been. We talked about rekindling the relationship, but by then it was too late. I was on a trajectory that was leading me up and away from that old life and, as it turned out, I would never go back.

There are other things in my life that have profoundly affected me. Having Kyle in my life and experiencing love that I spent a long time not being able to understand is one of those things. Kyle has affected me by freely giving me stuff I didn’t know I needed. But I have to remember that if it hadn’t been for that bump on the road to where I am now, I wouldn’t have ended up being the person who could turn to Kyle and give back. And for that, even with all of the past pain, I am intensely, intensely grateful.

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A friend of mine is going through a breakup. She's doing ok,

Last night, at Riverton High School’s Homecoming game, my little brother was crowned Second Attendant to the Homecoming King, which means that out of all the boys at Riverton’s overcrowded high school, my little brother is the third most popular.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

I’ve already told you that my little brother is the funniest person in the world. Apparently, the general consensus is also that he’s one of the nicest kids in school, although I’m not the person you should ask on that front since the kid is a complete brat to me about 98% of the time. I can see it, though, when he’s around other people. So it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when he was nominated for Homecoming Court, even if his reaction to the whole thing was to be completely embarrassed about it.

I can’t even tell you how weird it is to be watching my little brother go through his senior year of high school. I haven’t lived her for four years, so when I left Randy was struggling through middle school like everyone else. Now he’s part of the elite group in charge of his high school and he’s having the time of his life. It’s weird enough to see your little brother acting like he’s starring in a John Hughes movie, but it’s even weirder for me because it keeps underlining the fact that it has been exactly ten years since I was in the same exact place.

Of course, I wasn’t in the same exact place. Although I think I was probably as happy as he is in high school, I spent most of my time with a small group of close friends, rather than a large group of good friends, and we spent our senior year believing that the activities of the drama department were life-and-death-the-most-important-thing-ever. Although this tight knit attitude resulted in life-long friendships and a plethora of good times, it also led to a general lack of interest in the rest of the student body and I’m am less than proud to admit that I made it all the way through high school without being nice to more than about 30 people.

I was on the Homecoming Committee my senior year, but I wasn’t asked to the dance. I actually wasn’t asked to any dances in high school (ok, technically this isn’t true, but for various reasons I never accepted the invitations) and while it was pretty common for girls to go in groups without escorts, I didn’t really like going to school dances and usually opted out. However, for senior year Homecoming I was guilted into going and I ended up heading off to the dance with five lovely “dates”.

We had a fabulous time.

Do I wish that I’d had a high school experience like Randy’s, where everyone knew who I was and thought that I was a great person? No, not really. It might be the stuff of Drew Barrymore movies, but I’d pass on being the most popular girl in school, only because I know now what I would have missed. My friends from high school are fewer and weirder (much weirder), but I can’t imagine life without them, now or then. Plus, if I had been on any other life path, I probably would have missed Kyle, who spent Homecoming Week at his high school playing saxophone in the marching band and then went to the dance in a diamond patterned cummerbund that matched the sleeves of his date’s dress (straight out of the eighties).

Nope, wouldn’t have missed out on all that for anything.

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Last night, at Riverton High School's Homecoming game, my

One of the great personal idols in my life died yesterday and although her death followed a long illness, it was so sudden to me that I actually cried out and knocked my laptop over when I read the headline announcing the end of her life.

Mary Travers, of Peter, Paul, and Mary, died at 72 yesterday after a long battle with leukemia.

I have adored Peter, Paul, and Mary as long as I have adored anything else in my life. I equate their music to Christmas and cookies and sunshine and play. Their holiday album is simply the greatest holiday album to have ever been recorded and I taped the PBS special on their concert when I was younger so that I could watch it over and over again. I loved Peter Yarrow and Noel “Paul” Stookey for their spirit and laughter and lovely, deep voices, but it was Mary Travers that kept that VHS playing until the tape was worn so thin that it broke.

I idolized her voice and her long blonde hair and her guitar and simply everything about her. She was the iconic folk singer for me and when I dressed up to play “rock star”, I wasn’t wearing the clothes of the 80′s singers around me. I was dressed in prairie skirts and fringed tank tops, with flowers in my hair, singing “Blowin’ in the Wind” to an audience of stuffed animals.

When I read the news and cried out, Kyle came downstairs to see what was the mater. When I told him that Mary Travers had passed away, he responded, “Oh…is that the person who wrote Mary Poppins?”

Le sigh.

I shouldn’t be surprised…Kyle’s education in folk music is severely lacking. When I once asked him if he knew who wrote my favorite song on the planet (Angel from Montgomery), he replied, “I don’t know…uh…was it those people you like? Peter, Paul, and Harry Chapin Carpenter?”

It’s official. In tribute to Mary Travers and to save my future children from a fate in which they mangle the names of three music icons at once, I’m going to learn to play the guitar. I’ve wanted to learn my entire life, but since I was the resident piano prodigy of the house (my father, mother, brother, and Kyle all play the guitar), I keep getting pushed towards the ivory keys. No more! I’m going to go drag that guitar out of the basement and find some instructional videos on You Tube.

At the very least, I owe it to this idol of mine to be able to sing and strum a poor version of Mockingbird to my kids in the hopes that they’ll grow up to put flowers in their hair and sing songs of joy, love, and peace to their teddy bears.

Rest in Peace, Mary. And thank you.

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One of the great personal idols in my life died yesterday and

First, thank you to everyone who left comments or sent notes yesterday. Although I was not intending to hold a roll call of all remaining readers, it was nice to see that so many of you stopped by. Thank you for all the kind words! And I completely agree with the comment left about the fact that my blogs still aren’t linked very well and I’m hoping to fix that in the next couple of days.

Although I enjoyed the love fest that ensued, yesterday’s post was just a continuation of my rambling search for purpose and meaning, etc. (I am so the main character of Avenue Q.) After I blogged yesterday, I went downstairs and set myself up on the couch, since I still don’t feel that hot. I spent the day catching up on season two of True Blood and scanning a bazillion photographs into my computer in an attempt to save them from my mother.

This is the part of the blog entry that my mother will later call “that part where you threw me under the bus”, but my mom is terrible about photographs. She’s gotten better, I’ll admit, now that everything she takes is digital and she knows how to get them off the camera, but when it was all 35 mm film, it was every man for himself. Pictures would be taken, the film would be developed months or years later, and then the occasional snapshot would end up in a frame somewhere in the house. The rest of the pictures would go into the vacuum of pictures-never-to-be-seen again, a place that ultimately condensed itself into a giant rubbermaid tub in the basement. You know, the kind you use to hold sporting equipment.

(…little do my brother and I know, but we won’t see this photo
for another fifteen years…)

Funny thing, but my mom was not always like this. All of the photos from before 1990 are in albums, along with clippings from my parent’s days in junior high and high school and all the little paper scrapbook type things associated with their existence. My mom saved everything and carefully organized it into books and even had little captions and headings for special vacations, etc. I don’t know what happened to her…it’s like she woke up one morning and gave up and the next twenty years went straight into the tub.

I wonder, sometimes, if my compulsiveness about photos and documentation has to do with being afraid of the day that I’ll wake up and give up, because my grandmother has the same pattern. She has lots of neat, tidy albums with baby pictures of my mom and her sisters…and then she has slightly less neat albums about their adolescence…and then she managed to get most of the 80s into albums, although the pictures aren’t always in the right order…and now she has baskets and folders and boxes and stacks of pictures that are from who knows where and who knows when.

(…my mom and my Aunt Carole, both destined to a life of
not being able to keep track of their photos…)

If my mom is the person that makes you want to go “why is an entire decade of pictures missing?”, my grandma is the person that makes you want to go “why am I looking at this stack of pictures of someone’s garden and someone’s feet and why did you think you needed to get doubles of this particular roll?”

So yesterday I scanned in about 500 pictures. I scanned in pictures from when I was a baby, when Randy was a baby, when my sisters first moved in with us, when my stepfather was in the army, when my stepfather was in the seventh grade…it was pretty comprehensive. And as I sat there scanning and sorting and labeling and vowing to always keep my photos under control, I realized that it’s not going to be any great victory if my photo albums are always up to date and in the right order if I don’t do anything in life worth taking pictures of. Between the blogging and the journaling and the photographs and the ticket stubs, my entire life is going to be mapped out for anyone who cares to look. But what am I doing?!

Am I in some sort of quarter-life crisis flow chart? Why do all activities lead back to the question of “what am I doing with my life?” and “is that enough?”

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The Well-Documented Life

What is it about large changes that makes you re-evaluate who you really are? Whether it’s moving or graduation or a breakup or a divorce or a child…all of these are points in life where you take a step back and think, “is this really who I want to be?”

I’ve had these life-evaluating points in my life very often…more often than most, probably (self-obsession rears its ugly head)…but the life-evaluation phase that I’m currently in is hitting me like a hurricane. Who am I? What am I doing? What have I done with my life? Where is my path? What does it all mean?

I’m having a mid-twenties, mid-life crisis.

I gave myself the day off today, which is the first time I’ve done that since I lost my job. This isn’t to say that unemployment has been strenuous, but I’ve tried to get at least one grown-up thing done every day since I stopped working so that I can rationalize the fact that Kyle gets up and goes to work and I do not. Until this week, my life was pretty consumed with packing and since the moving truck came my life has been consumed with cleaning, painting, and using plaster to cover up some major points of damage in this little rental of ours. Oh, and there was that whole kitty rescue thing that I decided to throw in there for good measure.

Today, however, I made myself sit on my butt and do nothing. I read magazines. I watched Netflix on the iMac. I played with teh kittehs. And then…an hour into my day…I ran out of stuff to do. So I spent the rest of the day in deep thought about my life.

To be honest, I was a more interesting person before I moved to Ohio. I may have been much less happy, but I was a lot more interesting. I read almost two books every single day and could give you plot summaries for the top 20 on the New York Best Sellers list at any given time of year. I volunteered in the community and regularly donated my time. I attended free concerts and community theater and student art shows and all the other crap that shows up in those papers that are always laying around Starbucks. Oh, right, and I drank coffee from hole-in-the-wall local joints and bought all my books from independent book stores and made my own clothes. So I guess I wasn't really hanging around Starbucks in my Old Navy Jeans reading whatever was on the B&N clearance shelf. You know, like I do these days.

It’s true that the things I remember about my life are probably the things most people do in college and it could be age and not geography that’s the culprit, but I feel like I really sold out when I moved here. My first year of law school was like a massive meteor strike that sent my life spinning out of orbit and into this whole other pattern. Within two months of moving here I had changed the type of clothes I was wearing, where I was buying them…I totally chickened out and slipped into whatever I saw other people doing. That’s how freaked out about law school I was.

I’m not freaked out anymore, but I still feel like I’m eons away from that younger, cooler version of myself. Just last week I wandered into a local music store while waiting for Kyle to finish up at the DMV and I happened upon a fairly obscure Grateful Dead cd that I hadn’t seen in ages. Someone I used to work with owned it and we used to put it on all the time. I bought it and the car ride home was full of memories of all the interesting and creative crap I used to be into.

How did this happen? How did I end up being exactly the type of boring grown up I used to feel sorry for? I used to dye my hair purple. I used to be a regular at poetry slams. I was a nude model for college art classes, for God’s sake! What the hell happened to that person?

I’m deciding here and now that this move is going to be more than a catalyst for career change and weight loss. I’m going to try hard to get myself back on track so that I’m actually moving toward being the person I want to be. It took three years for Michaelangelo to stare down that massive block of marble and turn it into David. I sure as hell should be able to do this.

25 Things that My Ideal Self Will Do:

1. Get back into photography and take it seriously.
2. Get back into charcoal portraits.
3. Write things that have nothing to do with blogging, journaling, or academics.
4. Make her own clothing.
5. Read library books and buy old editions from secondhand stores.
6. Buy and redesign secondhand furniture.
7. Use public transportation on a regular basis.
8. Attend community events, especially the arts.
9. Not tempt herself by having cable.
10. Go to church at least twice a month.
11. Put real effort into collecting family history.
12. Run my own business.
13. Shop local, especially the farmer’s markets.
14. Be involved in social groups formed around common interests.
15. Mentor a child or find another way to give back.
16. Brush up my Spanish and start learning French.
17. Surprise friends and family with mail.
18. Handmake presents and other items.
19. Wear my favorite perfume every day.
20. Buy really fun socks and wear them without embarassment.
21. Paint my nails.
22. Take day trips with my husband whenever we can.
23. Learn to play the guitar.
24. Kick ass at Tomb Raider without feeling like a teenage boy.
25. Listen to my folk music (even though nobody else does) and lose track of MTV’s hottest.

Now I just have to follow through…

Read more here:
She’s Just Ideal

Better late than never, right? I know I’m kind of a slacker when it comes to blogging, but 7 months is bad for even me. Since I don’t want to spend two hours trying to remember and write it all down, I’m just going to take a page straight out of my journal. Hope you enjoy, but if you don’t finish this I don’t blame you.

Becoming a mother is the most wonderful that has ever happened to me. I was terrified, all the way until the delivery, that something would go wrong and I wouldn’t get to keep my baby. Maybe having a miscarriage made me paranoid. But the big day arrived and things could not have gone more smoothly!

The last week or so of December, I was feeling pretty bad. I was so tired and uncomfortable and just ready to be done. I was feeling particularly achey on New Year’s Eve, and Matt almost called in sick at work but decided to go in at the last minute. Not wanting to be alone, I went to my parents house and had sort of an early birthday dinner for my mom, whose birthday was the next day. I remember telling them about how badly I wished Matt was there. My dad told me that they would take me to the hospital if I needed them to, but Matt was the only one I wanted with me. Around 10 pm, I figured I would feel better if I went home and got some sleep. Shortly after I got back, Matt came home from work and we watched TV for a whille. We tried to find a New Year’s Eve specIal but there was nothing on. We turned to some random rerun instead and I slept right through the new year. About quarter after midnight, I remember waking up with a strange pain. I got up and when I got into the bathroom I lost my mucous plug and my water broke. I started vomiting right after that and then came the real contractions. They were very uncomfortable. AFter ten minutes or so of uncontrollable retching, my stomach was empty and I was feeling really weak. The contractions were getting stronger and faster, about four minutes apart at that time. Being a first-timer, I still wasn’t sure if I was truly in labor, so I called the hospital to ask what I should do (I’m amazed they understood me in between the panting and moaning). The nurse told me to come in and get checked, since they couldn’t see me through the phone (obviously). By this time I was so uncomfortable that I was pacing frantically around the house, so when I got off the phone I ran upstairs and threw some last minute things into my hospital bag. Matt kept telling me to sit down and breathe, but there was no way I could do that.

When we had everything together we jumped in the Jeep and headed for St. MArk’s. We left the house around 1:30 am and I was worried the whole time that because it was New Year’s Eve, we were going to either get hit by a drunk driver or get pulled over because Matt looked like one. Matt actually was very calm and in control, but I kept yelling at him to drive faster. Every stoplight was torture! The contractions were so intense and close together that I really believed I might have the baby in the car.

We finally made it to the hospital just after 2 am, when the nurse took one look at me and decided to wheel me into a delivery room right away for an exam, while Matt did admission papers. I changed into a hospital gown as quickly as a girl can when she is doubled over and shaking from pain. As soon as I got up onto the bed the nurse examining me announced in shock that I was dilated 8 cm already. It’s a good thing I had already decided against pain medication, because it was way too late to get it anyway! When the nurse realized how fast I was progressing, she hurried out of the room to find an on-call doctor. MAtt was still out in the lobby, filling out papers and calling our parents. We had decided not to call them until we were admitted, just to make sure we didn’t wake them up for a false alarm. Fortunately they both live within 15 minute of the hospital and they were able to make it just in time. What I didn’t know was that I had accidentally called my mom when I was trying to call the hospital, and she was so worried when she answered the phone and I didn’t say anything that she stayed up for the next two hours waiting for the phone to ring. Sorry Mom. When Matt finally did call her, she was ready to go in an instant. Pam, on the other hand, wasn’t home yet from a party in Orem, and Cal was leaving the house right as she pulled in the garage. Lucky for her she didn’t miss it.

Back in the hospital while I was alone in the delivery room, waiting for Matt and the nurse, I was trying to just breathe through the contractions when all of a sudden I started pushing. I knew I shouldn’t yet, but I could not help it, my body was so much stronger than my will. I was afraid that I would hurt the baby or myself by pushing too soon, so I started to panic when I realized that I couldn’t control it. I yelled like a mad woman for Matt, who came running in looking very nervous. I barked an order at him to go get the nurse, so he ran out. When she came in to examine me, she found I was at 10 cm and ready to go. I think it had only been about 15 minutes since the first exam, so she was pretty surprised.

It was time to start pushing but the doctor still hadn’t arrived, so the nurse told me to start pushing gently and working the baby’s head down. I was totally unprepared for this part. Everybody says it’s a relief to finally be able to push through the pain, but let me just say that pushing was soooo much worse than the contractions. aFter enduring probably 20 or 30 minute of very slow torture, the doctor came rushing in and said I could give it my all. I did, and a few minutes later out popped my beautiful baby boy (aren’t you glad I’m sparing you the details of the episiotomy?). Miles Ryan McDaniel was born at 3:03 am on January 1, 2009, weighing 7 lbs even and measuring 20 inches long. When I felt that warm rush of blood that came with the final push, the first emotional was relief. The next was awe. When they held up my tiny, screeching, wrinkled baby I was so overcome. It was incredible knowing that child was mine, just sent from his Heavenly Father. Right away I felt the mantle of parenthood placed on my shoulders. It’s such a tremendous responsibility to have to provide everything for a helpless little infant, but what a gift!

There is so much more that I could say, but let’s just leave it at that. I love you Miles!

Read more here:
Welcome to earth, Miles Ryan McDaniel

Better late than never, right? I know I’m kind of a slacker when it comes to blogging, but 7 months is bad for even me. Since I don’t want to spend two hours trying to remember and write it all down, I’m just going to take a page straight out of my journal. Hope you enjoy, but if you don’t finish this I don’t blame you.

Becoming a mother is the most wonderful that has ever happened to me. I was terrified, all the way until the delivery, that something would go wrong and I wouldn’t get to keep my baby. Maybe having a miscarriage made me paranoid. But the big day arrived and things could not have gone more smoothly!

The last week or so of December, I was feeling pretty bad. I was so tired and uncomfortable and just ready to be done. I was feeling particularly achey on New Year’s Eve, and Matt almost called in sick at work but decided to go in at the last minute. Not wanting to be alone, I went to my parents house and had sort of an early birthday dinner for my mom, whose birthday was the next day. I remember telling them about how badly I wished Matt was there. My dad told me that they would take me to the hospital if I needed them to, but Matt was the only one I wanted with me. Around 10 pm, I figured I would feel better if I went home and got some sleep. Shortly after I got back, Matt came home from work and we watched TV for a whille. We tried to find a New Year’s Eve specIal but there was nothing on. We turned to some random rerun instead and I slept right through the new year. About quarter after midnight, I remember waking up with a strange pain. I got up and when I got into the bathroom I lost my mucous plug and my water broke. I started vomiting right after that and then came the real contractions. They were very uncomfortable. AFter ten minutes or so of uncontrollable retching, my stomach was empty and I was feeling really weak. The contractions were getting stronger and faster, about four minutes apart at that time. Being a first-timer, I still wasn’t sure if I was truly in labor, so I called the hospital to ask what I should do (I’m amazed they understood me in between the panting and moaning). The nurse told me to come in and get checked, since they couldn’t see me through the phone (obviously). By this time I was so uncomfortable that I was pacing frantically around the house, so when I got off the phone I ran upstairs and threw some last minute things into my hospital bag. Matt kept telling me to sit down and breathe, but there was no way I could do that.

When we had everything together we jumped in the Jeep and headed for St. MArk’s. We left the house around 1:30 am and I was worried the whole time that because it was New Year’s Eve, we were going to either get hit by a drunk driver or get pulled over because Matt looked like one. Matt actually was very calm and in control, but I kept yelling at him to drive faster. Every stoplight was torture! The contractions were so intense and close together that I really believed I might have the baby in the car.

We finally made it to the hospital just after 2 am, when the nurse took one look at me and decided to wheel me into a delivery room right away for an exam, while Matt did admission papers. I changed into a hospital gown as quickly as a girl can when she is doubled over and shaking from pain. As soon as I got up onto the bed the nurse examining me announced in shock that I was dilated 8 cm already. It’s a good thing I had already decided against pain medication, because it was way too late to get it anyway! When the nurse realized how fast I was progressing, she hurried out of the room to find an on-call doctor. MAtt was still out in the lobby, filling out papers and calling our parents. We had decided not to call them until we were admitted, just to make sure we didn’t wake them up for a false alarm. Fortunately they both live within 15 minute of the hospital and they were able to make it just in time. What I didn’t know was that I had accidentally called my mom when I was trying to call the hospital, and she was so worried when she answered the phone and I didn’t say anything that she stayed up for the next two hours waiting for the phone to ring. Sorry Mom. When Matt finally did call her, she was ready to go in an instant. Pam, on the other hand, wasn’t home yet from a party in Orem, and Cal was leaving the house right as she pulled in the garage. Lucky for her she didn’t miss it.

Back in the hospital while I was alone in the delivery room, waiting for Matt and the nurse, I was trying to just breathe through the contractions when all of a sudden I started pushing. I knew I shouldn’t yet, but I could not help it, my body was so much stronger than my will. I was afraid that I would hurt the baby or myself by pushing too soon, so I started to panic when I realized that I couldn’t control it. I yelled like a mad woman for Matt, who came running in looking very nervous. I barked an order at him to go get the nurse, so he ran out. When she came in to examine me, she found I was at 10 cm and ready to go. I think it had only been about 15 minutes since the first exam, so she was pretty surprised.

It was time to start pushing but the doctor still hadn’t arrived, so the nurse told me to start pushing gently and working the baby’s head down. I was totally unprepared for this part. Everybody says it’s a relief to finally be able to push through the pain, but let me just say that pushing was soooo much worse than the contractions. aFter enduring probably 20 or 30 minute of very slow torture, the doctor came rushing in and said I could give it my all. I did, and a few minutes later out popped my beautiful baby boy (aren’t you glad I’m sparing you the details of the episiotomy?). Miles Ryan McDaniel was born at 3:03 am on January 1, 2009, weighing 7 lbs even and measuring 20 inches long. When I felt that warm rush of blood that came with the final push, the first emotional was relief. The next was awe. When they held up my tiny, screeching, wrinkled baby I was so overcome. It was incredible knowing that child was mine, just sent from his Heavenly Father. Right away I felt the mantle of parenthood placed on my shoulders. It’s such a tremendous responsibility to have to provide everything for a helpless little infant, but what a gift!

There is so much more that I could say, but let’s just leave it at that. I love you Miles!

Read more here:
Welcome to earth, Miles Ryan McDaniel

Today is the one week anniversary of my father’s wedding, which makes me slightly overdue for a post about my recent trip to Oregon, but I wanted to gather my photos (and thoughts) so that I could do the event justice…

Even now, I’m not sure I have the words to fully express how happy I am that my father found Chris. She is simply the loveliest woman and her warmth makes me feel like I’ve known her for years. More importantly, she seems to bring out my father…as though her presence allows him to be more comfortable in his own skin. I suppose that’s a weird description, but I don’t know how else to put it. After years of watching my father get more and more worn down with life, it’s amazing to see the difference that the right person makes.

The wedding took place on a beach in Yachats, Oregon, a small coastal town that’s practically untouched by time. The ceremony was short, taking place on a small cliff overlooking the ocean while the guests stood nearby, braced against those Pacific winds that I love so much. Oliver sported a tie like my father’s and I held Ella for most of the ceremony, all wrapped up in a jacket since her party dress didn’t offer much warmth. It’s very easy to love my new little brother and sister…they are the happiest, funniest kids.

The happiness of the event was shared by a small group of relatives and friends…most of whom were strangers to me in one sense or another. I had only met a few of Chris’s relatives before last weekend and there were relatives from our side of the family that I hadn’t seen in years and years. All four of my father’s siblings made it out to the event and I realized that I haven’t seen the four of them together in more than fifteen years, so it was wonderful to catch up with everyone.

It was easy to feel at home with Chris’s family and friends. Everyone was nice and fun and simply delightful. As we celebrated, I realized how lucky I am to be a part of so many happy families. I’ve recently joined Kyle’s and now with Chris I’ve found a whole new set of great people (including Chris’s talented, spoon-wearing niece), and with my sister getting married soon my family will be growing even more.

Mostly, though, the event made me reflect on Kyle. I suppose that’s not surprising, since we’re still newlyweds and everything from going to the grocery store to doing my nails makes me reflect on Kyle, but more specifically the weekend made me realize how important a job it is to be the person that makes someone else happy. We all want to find someone who will make us happy, but I don’t think we often think about what it is to be that person for someone else…or for the people around someone else.

What Chris has done for my dad is wonderful not only for him, but also for Randy and me, and I’m really happy we were able to be there to celebrate. Kyle and I will miss their Utah reception tomorrow, since we’re still stuck in Utah waiting to hear about Kyle’s transfer. Frustratingly, I can’t give you much of a moving update. The moving truck is coming on Tuesday and then all of our stuff will go to Utah with or without us. If we still don’t know by then, it will be Kyle, me, and the guinea pigs hanging out in our empty apartment, waiting for news. Le sigh…

Read more here:
My Father is Married

Today is the one week anniversary of my father’s wedding, which makes me slightly overdue for a post about my recent trip to Oregon, but I wanted to gather my photos (and thoughts) so that I could do the event justice…

Even now, I’m not sure I have the words to fully express how happy I am that my father found Chris. She is simply the loveliest woman and her warmth makes me feel like I’ve known her for years. More importantly, she seems to bring out my father…as though her presence allows him to be more comfortable in his own skin. I suppose that’s a weird description, but I don’t know how else to put it. After years of watching my father get more and more worn down with life, it’s amazing to see the difference that the right person makes.

The wedding took place on a beach in Yachats, Oregon, a small coastal town that’s practically untouched by time. The ceremony was short, taking place on a small cliff overlooking the ocean while the guests stood nearby, braced against those Pacific winds that I love so much. Oliver sported a tie like my father’s and I held Ella for most of the ceremony, all wrapped up in a jacket since her party dress didn’t offer much warmth. It’s very easy to love my new little brother and sister…they are the happiest, funniest kids.

The happiness of the event was shared by a small group of relatives and friends…most of whom were strangers to me in one sense or another. I had only met a few of Chris’s relatives before last weekend and there were relatives from our side of the family that I hadn’t seen in years and years. All four of my father’s siblings made it out to the event and I realized that I haven’t seen the four of them together in more than fifteen years, so it was wonderful to catch up with everyone.

It was easy to feel at home with Chris’s family and friends. Everyone was nice and fun and simply delightful. As we celebrated, I realized how lucky I am to be a part of so many happy families. I’ve recently joined Kyle’s and now with Chris I’ve found a whole new set of great people (including Chris’s talented, spoon-wearing niece), and with my sister getting married soon my family will be growing even more.

Mostly, though, the event made me reflect on Kyle. I suppose that’s not surprising, since we’re still newlyweds and everything from going to the grocery store to doing my nails makes me reflect on Kyle, but more specifically the weekend made me realize how important a job it is to be the person that makes someone else happy. We all want to find someone who will make us happy, but I don’t think we often think about what it is to be that person for someone else…or for the people around someone else.

What Chris has done for my dad is wonderful not only for him, but also for Randy and me, and I’m really happy we were able to be there to celebrate. Kyle and I will miss their Utah reception tomorrow, since we’re still stuck in Utah waiting to hear about Kyle’s transfer. Frustratingly, I can’t give you much of a moving update. The moving truck is coming on Tuesday and then all of our stuff will go to Utah with or without us. If we still don’t know by then, it will be Kyle, me, and the guinea pigs hanging out in our empty apartment, waiting for news. Le sigh…

Read more here:
My Father is Married