Do you ever do this? Park your car, go inside a store, then come out and realize you have no idea where you left your vehicle? For me, this is a frequent occurrence.
Yesterday, for example, I parked and went inside the store to grab a few groceries. I usually make a mental note of where my car is just so I can avoid the embarrassing event of getting lost in search for it, but this time the parking lot was relatively empty so I knew there would be no chance of forgetting where my car was.
When I came out I was thinking over my mild guilt at never having any loose change to donate to the bell ringers who stand outside of shopping centers this time of year. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, but was absent mindedly headed in the right direction, flipping through my keys so I would be ready to unlock the door the moment I got to the car. I had been walking towards a grey mass that, from my peripheral vision, I had assumed was my truck. When my eyes zeroed in on it I had a sudden moment of recognition that this was, in fact, not my truck, rather, one that did not resemble it in any way except the color.
I stopped short and had that flash of awkwardness, thinking that now I was going to have to make an about face and go search out the truck that was really mine. I did it quickly, hoping to draw as little attention to my blunder as possible, before I located my vehicle, jumped inside and sped away.
Unfortunately, this is merely one of many such happenings.
I’m not sure why I can't ever remember where I’ve parked when I come out of a store. Whenever I exit a building, I begin walking, in bold confidence, to where I know I’ve parked the car, only to find that it is indeed not where I’ve parked the car. I then end up wandering frantically through the lot, hoping that I can find it before too much attention is drawn to the girl in the red coat who is aimless pushing a shopping cart around, up and down the rows.
I don’t quite know how to solve this problem. Obviously, my method of mentally marking my parking space is not working. Perhaps some type of tracking device attached to the car would work. Or maybe homing pigeons. Although, that could get messy.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Christmas Caroling
I went Christmas caroling the other night and I was struck once again how there is much inherent awkwardness in caroling. The concept of bringing music and treats to someone’s door sounds good, especially when it conjures up romantic images of nineteenth century carolers, men in top hats, women in silk bonnets, singing “Good King Wenceslas” up and down streets lined in Tudor architecture.
When you really think about it though, knocking on a family’s door and standing before them to sing multiple verses of a song all while letting cold air blow into their home as they stand there in shirtsleeves and bare feet is somewhat of a strange idea. No one is ever sure where to look, no one really wants to keep eye contact for the duration of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” so eyes usually nervously flick from person to person and then down at the plate of cookies that has been shoved into their hands right before the singing started.
It’s all kind of awkward. At least, I thought.
When we went caroling last week, I approached the event with mild trepidation, wondering where I would look to avoid the uncomfortable levels of eye contact. I volunteered to hold the pile of treats we would be handing out, taking care of the next question of what to do with my hands during the moments of singing. I was as prepared as I could be.
Door number one brought us a family. Answering our knock was the father who, as we sang our number, tried to beckon his children over, of course not to dispel some of the awkwardness, but to allow his children to enjoy our melodious singing. Of course. The next door was a sliver of light as the resident attempted to keep the cold out while we sang our song. We wedged our Saran wrapped cookies inside and headed to door number three.
Answering this door was a little boy who stood looking at us for a few seconds before deserting our song, we assumed to go in search of others to come and listen. We were in the final strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” when the dad came rushing to the door, a smile on his face, and two little girls in his arms who were dripping wet and wrapped in a bathrobe. Thank you! he said. And I do believe he meant it.
Our final stop was to the home of a new mother. We knocked, hoping that we weren’t waking up mother or baby. Finally the door gently opened and we saw inside the home of a brand new family, just a few days old. The only lights were from the small Christmas tree in the corner. The mother, holding her baby, beckoned us in as we sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.” She stood there swaying back and forth with her little bundle as we finished the song. She was crying. (My husband told her after he hoped it wasn’t because of our singing.) I haven’t slept in two days, she said. Thank you.
So caroling was worth it. We brought awkwardness to some, laughter to others, tears to one, and Christmas to all. Including ourselves.
When you really think about it though, knocking on a family’s door and standing before them to sing multiple verses of a song all while letting cold air blow into their home as they stand there in shirtsleeves and bare feet is somewhat of a strange idea. No one is ever sure where to look, no one really wants to keep eye contact for the duration of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” so eyes usually nervously flick from person to person and then down at the plate of cookies that has been shoved into their hands right before the singing started.
It’s all kind of awkward. At least, I thought.
When we went caroling last week, I approached the event with mild trepidation, wondering where I would look to avoid the uncomfortable levels of eye contact. I volunteered to hold the pile of treats we would be handing out, taking care of the next question of what to do with my hands during the moments of singing. I was as prepared as I could be.
Door number one brought us a family. Answering our knock was the father who, as we sang our number, tried to beckon his children over, of course not to dispel some of the awkwardness, but to allow his children to enjoy our melodious singing. Of course. The next door was a sliver of light as the resident attempted to keep the cold out while we sang our song. We wedged our Saran wrapped cookies inside and headed to door number three.
Answering this door was a little boy who stood looking at us for a few seconds before deserting our song, we assumed to go in search of others to come and listen. We were in the final strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” when the dad came rushing to the door, a smile on his face, and two little girls in his arms who were dripping wet and wrapped in a bathrobe. Thank you! he said. And I do believe he meant it.
Our final stop was to the home of a new mother. We knocked, hoping that we weren’t waking up mother or baby. Finally the door gently opened and we saw inside the home of a brand new family, just a few days old. The only lights were from the small Christmas tree in the corner. The mother, holding her baby, beckoned us in as we sang “Angels We Have Heard on High.” She stood there swaying back and forth with her little bundle as we finished the song. She was crying. (My husband told her after he hoped it wasn’t because of our singing.) I haven’t slept in two days, she said. Thank you.
So caroling was worth it. We brought awkwardness to some, laughter to others, tears to one, and Christmas to all. Including ourselves.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Further Oblivion
Orem now has an In-N-Out Burger. It is housed in a brand new building which sits on University Pkwy, the main thoroughfare. It's been in operation for quite some time now. There are cars lined up at the drive through window for miles. The parking lot is always full. It's obviously a main attraction here.
Somehow, I totally missed it.
When my husband asked if I wanted to stop at In-N-Out Burger tonight I said sure. I'd been hearing people marvel about it for awhile now, so I thought it was our turn to go and check it out for ourselves.
I wasn't quite sure where it was located. When I found out it was on a street I drive down at least once a week, usually more, I was surprised. When I discovered it was as close to the roadside as it could get, not hidden somewhere in the back of the shopping complex, I felt a little foolish. How in the world could I have driven past this building for the last who knows how long and not even noticed it was being constructed? Did they build it under a cloak of darkness? Have I been partially blind for six months? I'm not sure. All I know is one day there was an empty parking lot next to Office Max and Mimi's. Now there's a burger place. What else is popping up in Orem when I'm not looking. . .
Somehow, I totally missed it.
When my husband asked if I wanted to stop at In-N-Out Burger tonight I said sure. I'd been hearing people marvel about it for awhile now, so I thought it was our turn to go and check it out for ourselves.
I wasn't quite sure where it was located. When I found out it was on a street I drive down at least once a week, usually more, I was surprised. When I discovered it was as close to the roadside as it could get, not hidden somewhere in the back of the shopping complex, I felt a little foolish. How in the world could I have driven past this building for the last who knows how long and not even noticed it was being constructed? Did they build it under a cloak of darkness? Have I been partially blind for six months? I'm not sure. All I know is one day there was an empty parking lot next to Office Max and Mimi's. Now there's a burger place. What else is popping up in Orem when I'm not looking. . .
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
My Obliviousness
I went to the gym about three to four times a week when I lived in Idaho. Gold’s was a mere matter of minutes away from my apartment and somehow my husband convinced me that this was the perfect chance to take that 5:00a.m. spinning class he knew I’d just been pining for. It was our golden opportunity.
So we went and I’m proud to say that we actually lasted longer than three days. For a person who hardly realized that there was a 5:00a.m., this was quite the feat. It took three months before the blaring microphone of the instructor and the blaring beat of the music finally got to us. Funny that those things should do us in before the early hour did. But I wasn’t going to complain. I could start getting up again at 8:00a.m. like a normal person.
I did continue to go to the gym, only now when the sun was out. Paying $50 a month for a membership is great motivation to use it. That, and the small fact that they have cable TV on all the treadmills. I’m not ashamed to admit that HGTV, more than health, was my main reason for getting myself to Gold’s each day.
Now that I was heading to the gym at a reasonable hour called daylight, I noticed for the first time that across the street was a big empty plot of land. I’d driven past it many times before, but when the sun isn’t shining and your eyes are barely open, there isn’t a lot that you notice. I wasn’t missing too much since nothing had ever been there but an empty lot of dirt.
For months it continued to be the same expanse of nothing. Then, one morning I drove right past it as I usually did, heading for Pilates class, not really paying attention to the field on my left. Forty-five minutes later as I was waiting for the two-way traffic to recede so I could turn out of the parking lot I saw that the dirt across the street was suddenly covered in trees and half-finished construction projects. It was a double-take moment and I wondered what kind of fast-working construction elves had been doing this while I had been inside, working my core to the music of Jack Johnson. I swear it hadn’t been there forty-five minutes earlier. Or had it?
Hmmm, I wondered. What else had been going on while I hadn't been paying attention? Shrugging my now-limber shoulders, I pulled onto the street and headed home, but not before I saw a little elf run behind some plastic tubing. At least, I think I did. Maybe all the sunlight was playing tricks with my eyes.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Craigslist Codes
You might say I’m a bit of a Craigslist junkie. You know, that website that is virtually an online garage sale? With this site, rather than leaving your house at dawn on a Saturday to get the good stuff before it’s gone, you can simply view other people’s junk from the comfort of your own couch. It’s a beautiful thing. And I take part in it daily, usually more than once. Of course I have to check it to see if that mirror I was thinking of buying is still on the market or if someone has posted the storage shelves I’ve needed but for which I haven’t been able to bring myself to pay store prices. Here I can peruse to my heart’s content without feeling the garage sale guilt that I should buy something I don’t want just because the seller is peering at me from behind the cashbox.
In my perusals of this twenty-first century genius, I have become something of a self-proclaimed professional in deciphering the descriptions. When I first began to dangle my feet in the waters of Craigslist I naively clicked on everything, truly believing that the three word tagline described 100% truthfully everything about the item being advertized. I soon found that words can be deceiving. That, or people are either blind when it comes to their own stuff, or have a skewed sense of what really can and should be labeled “beautiful,” “classic,” or “vintage” when words like “repulsive,” “worn-out,” or “just plain old” would seem more appropriate.
This applies not just in the furniture section, but across the board. For instance, commonly, descriptions on Craigslist of an apartment or house can make it sound like a charming, even historical, home but then the pictures show it for what it really is. There definitely is a code when it comes to Craigslist and I'm starting to crack it. Here is my Rosetta Stone so far:
"Vintage" really means old and somewhat dumpy.
"Cute/Adorable" – small.
"Perfect for newlyweds" – small.
"Cozy" – small.
"Condo" - small apartment.
Yes, I'm definitely on to these people.
And then of course, there is always that post that makes me feel like I’m on Sesame Street, singing along with the gang to “Which of These Things is not Like the Other?” Yesterday was one such time. I was scanning through Craigslist as I commonly do in the mornings, looking for furniture I'm not going to buy, when I came upon this item, right above an ad for ironing boards and just under one for free hamsters:
STRIPPER POLE FOR SALE, $150
I clicked on it out of sheer shock, wanting to find out if this person was serious and lo and behold, there was the pole in all its majesty. Not only is the seller wanting to get rid of this thing, he or she is attempting to sell in order to upgrade to a more expensive model.
All I could think was, Seriously? This is Provo, a fact that the seller did acknowledge as a possible obstacle to his/her trading goals. Yes, this might be a tough sell. Although, I have noticed that the people here are extremely health conscious (I once counted fifteen different runners in a two block radius) so perhaps if the seller took that angle therein might lay success. I mean, I have heard pole dancing is a great workout.
Although I have contemplated many a purchase from Craigslist, I will not be adding this to my list. I have had my share of experience with poles. My husband and I used to live in an apartment that had two metal poles in the entryway. We were never completely sure why they were there, but we learned to live with them. These poles drew quite a few comments from people who came to visit us as they would jokingly wonder if these metal supports were stripper poles. (They weren't.) We've since moved and left those architectural wonders behind us.
However, in light of my newest discovery, perhaps I should have put them up for sale. Apparently they would have been right at home in the “General” section of Craigslist. Next time I’ll know. Only, I hope there won’t be a next time. I much prefer my Craigslist posts to consist of filing cabinets and futons. Speaking of futons, I wonder if there are any for sale today. I’d better go check.
In my perusals of this twenty-first century genius, I have become something of a self-proclaimed professional in deciphering the descriptions. When I first began to dangle my feet in the waters of Craigslist I naively clicked on everything, truly believing that the three word tagline described 100% truthfully everything about the item being advertized. I soon found that words can be deceiving. That, or people are either blind when it comes to their own stuff, or have a skewed sense of what really can and should be labeled “beautiful,” “classic,” or “vintage” when words like “repulsive,” “worn-out,” or “just plain old” would seem more appropriate.
This applies not just in the furniture section, but across the board. For instance, commonly, descriptions on Craigslist of an apartment or house can make it sound like a charming, even historical, home but then the pictures show it for what it really is. There definitely is a code when it comes to Craigslist and I'm starting to crack it. Here is my Rosetta Stone so far:
"Vintage" really means old and somewhat dumpy.
"Cute/Adorable" – small.
"Perfect for newlyweds" – small.
"Cozy" – small.
"Condo" - small apartment.
Yes, I'm definitely on to these people.
And then of course, there is always that post that makes me feel like I’m on Sesame Street, singing along with the gang to “Which of These Things is not Like the Other?” Yesterday was one such time. I was scanning through Craigslist as I commonly do in the mornings, looking for furniture I'm not going to buy, when I came upon this item, right above an ad for ironing boards and just under one for free hamsters:
STRIPPER POLE FOR SALE, $150
I clicked on it out of sheer shock, wanting to find out if this person was serious and lo and behold, there was the pole in all its majesty. Not only is the seller wanting to get rid of this thing, he or she is attempting to sell in order to upgrade to a more expensive model.
All I could think was, Seriously? This is Provo, a fact that the seller did acknowledge as a possible obstacle to his/her trading goals. Yes, this might be a tough sell. Although, I have noticed that the people here are extremely health conscious (I once counted fifteen different runners in a two block radius) so perhaps if the seller took that angle therein might lay success. I mean, I have heard pole dancing is a great workout.
Although I have contemplated many a purchase from Craigslist, I will not be adding this to my list. I have had my share of experience with poles. My husband and I used to live in an apartment that had two metal poles in the entryway. We were never completely sure why they were there, but we learned to live with them. These poles drew quite a few comments from people who came to visit us as they would jokingly wonder if these metal supports were stripper poles. (They weren't.) We've since moved and left those architectural wonders behind us.
However, in light of my newest discovery, perhaps I should have put them up for sale. Apparently they would have been right at home in the “General” section of Craigslist. Next time I’ll know. Only, I hope there won’t be a next time. I much prefer my Craigslist posts to consist of filing cabinets and futons. Speaking of futons, I wonder if there are any for sale today. I’d better go check.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Decoration
Everyone has at least one Christmas decoration that holds special meaning. For some, the entire business of decorating for Christmas is a beloved tradition. This was so in my family. Each year, I would wait with the growing anticipation that is of a unique brand at Christmas time, for my mother to pull out the tattered box that housed our holiday wonders. The process became very methodical for me as I would make sure I first played with the wooden bear, its sled and Christmas tree whose home was the edge of the fireplace. I would then police the placement of each item that followed, making sure the glass rendition of Joseph and Mary on their way to Bethlehem sat on the right side of the piano, just as it had the year before. There was the wooden Rudolph that fit together in pieces like a giant puzzle which guarded the stockings above the fireplace and then the little wooden mouse which sat next to Rudy, the one someone had given my mom a few years before. Of course, there was the Nativity scene with baby Jesus in the center of the manger, and in the center of the season.
Then there were the Swedish decorations, representative of our Scandinavian ancestry. For years I watched my mom pull out the Swedish angel chimes and tiny Dala horse. The only time these decorations did not make their appearance in the Hazlett home was during our brief period of cat stewardship. Boo Kitty (as we affectionately called the snowy-white fur ball that more often than not could be found hiding under our couch) didn’t realize the chimes were just for display, rather, she thought they were her own personal swatting toys. Several candles were lost to her claws before my mom carried them away to safety. It was a number of years before they were brought out again.
For some reason, I was always most enthralled by the Swedish decorations, especially the chimes. I would stare in fascination as the candles blew the tiny metal pieces in a circle beneath the angel sitting on top of it all. In sixth grade, I was lucky enough to get my own Swedish decorations. My pen pal, a distant cousin in Sweden, had sent me a tin, beautifully decorated in rich pictures of Santa Claus and filled with Christmas treasures. There were small figurines of St. Lucia children and one of Santa himself, wishing “God Jul” to all. A bag of delicious Swedish candy topped off the gift. This was a beautiful intercontinental exchange of gifts, albeit a rather imbalanced one. While my cousin had sent me thoughtful pieces of her heritage, my present to Sarah was a mix tape with a song selection spanning Mariah Carey and “Gangsta’s Paradise.” I thought it an ultra cool gift then, but I often wonder now what kind of image of America I sent my young Swedish relative that Christmas.
Those porcelain figurines are now part of my tradition, and I pull them out each year first thing when the decorations come out. As I now look around my small apartment at the Christmas trimmings I put up last night I see so many emerging stories that I hope will carry over each Christmas.
For instance, there is the small tree sitting on top of the red secretary desk in the corner, the tree my husband’s niece and nephew gave me for my first Christmas as a Stephens. This tree, only about twelve inches in height, reminds me of the first Christmas my husband and I experienced as a married couple. He was in Pakistan and I was in Idaho. It makes me think about the even smaller apartment I was living in then, while I waited for him to come home. I knew there would be no room for a Christmas tree and I was fine enjoying the one my mom had up in her house and the one my in-laws had up in theirs. I decided to keep it at that. However, this would never due for Justin and Ashley, who were fairly scandalized at the thought that I was going to forgo a Christmas tree in my house!
One afternoon I came home and there, sitting on the sidetable in the hallway, was a tiny Christmas tree, complete with ornaments, ribbon, and a small string of lights. I had a tree after all.
I loved this little tree, but thought it would probably only see one Christmas before we replaced it with a larger version. I was wrong. I put it up last night. It’s now going on its third Christmas with us and I think I will put it up in every house we live in, if nothing more than as a sweet reminder that two children brought Christmas to my apartment. And that my husband is home.
Also decorating my living room, and to make up for the short supply of greenery a twelve inch tree provides, I have green garlands up. These are the same strands of garland that last year covered the strange, bare metal fixtures in our then-apartment which we affectionately called the stripper poles. For at least one month I had a good excuse to cover them. That year we had one tiny tree and two very skinny trees.
Now they’re draped over bookshelves and adorned with the ornaments I’ve collected over the years. There are ones from my childhood, ones from my travels, one representing my love affair with the Harry Potter series. They remind me of the many Christmases spent as children, ceremonially putting them on the family tree while listening to Christmas music and eating Swedish gingersnaps. That reverent ritual always seemed to include the ceremonial fighting between my brother and me over who got to hide the little homemade Hershey’s Kiss holder in the tree, and subsequently, who got to find and eat said Kiss. There was no fight this year, but I imagine some time down the road there will be smaller versions of me running around, fighting over similar things. It makes me smile to think about it. At least, I smile now.
And so, as I look around my now green and red apartment, I know that I am ready for Christmas. There’s no snow outside yet, but it says December 1 on the calendar and I have a tree up so I know it’s time for the festivities to being. That, and I have Santa on my bookshelf wishing to all “God Jul.”
Then there were the Swedish decorations, representative of our Scandinavian ancestry. For years I watched my mom pull out the Swedish angel chimes and tiny Dala horse. The only time these decorations did not make their appearance in the Hazlett home was during our brief period of cat stewardship. Boo Kitty (as we affectionately called the snowy-white fur ball that more often than not could be found hiding under our couch) didn’t realize the chimes were just for display, rather, she thought they were her own personal swatting toys. Several candles were lost to her claws before my mom carried them away to safety. It was a number of years before they were brought out again.
For some reason, I was always most enthralled by the Swedish decorations, especially the chimes. I would stare in fascination as the candles blew the tiny metal pieces in a circle beneath the angel sitting on top of it all. In sixth grade, I was lucky enough to get my own Swedish decorations. My pen pal, a distant cousin in Sweden, had sent me a tin, beautifully decorated in rich pictures of Santa Claus and filled with Christmas treasures. There were small figurines of St. Lucia children and one of Santa himself, wishing “God Jul” to all. A bag of delicious Swedish candy topped off the gift. This was a beautiful intercontinental exchange of gifts, albeit a rather imbalanced one. While my cousin had sent me thoughtful pieces of her heritage, my present to Sarah was a mix tape with a song selection spanning Mariah Carey and “Gangsta’s Paradise.” I thought it an ultra cool gift then, but I often wonder now what kind of image of America I sent my young Swedish relative that Christmas.
Those porcelain figurines are now part of my tradition, and I pull them out each year first thing when the decorations come out. As I now look around my small apartment at the Christmas trimmings I put up last night I see so many emerging stories that I hope will carry over each Christmas.
For instance, there is the small tree sitting on top of the red secretary desk in the corner, the tree my husband’s niece and nephew gave me for my first Christmas as a Stephens. This tree, only about twelve inches in height, reminds me of the first Christmas my husband and I experienced as a married couple. He was in Pakistan and I was in Idaho. It makes me think about the even smaller apartment I was living in then, while I waited for him to come home. I knew there would be no room for a Christmas tree and I was fine enjoying the one my mom had up in her house and the one my in-laws had up in theirs. I decided to keep it at that. However, this would never due for Justin and Ashley, who were fairly scandalized at the thought that I was going to forgo a Christmas tree in my house!
One afternoon I came home and there, sitting on the sidetable in the hallway, was a tiny Christmas tree, complete with ornaments, ribbon, and a small string of lights. I had a tree after all.
I loved this little tree, but thought it would probably only see one Christmas before we replaced it with a larger version. I was wrong. I put it up last night. It’s now going on its third Christmas with us and I think I will put it up in every house we live in, if nothing more than as a sweet reminder that two children brought Christmas to my apartment. And that my husband is home.
Also decorating my living room, and to make up for the short supply of greenery a twelve inch tree provides, I have green garlands up. These are the same strands of garland that last year covered the strange, bare metal fixtures in our then-apartment which we affectionately called the stripper poles. For at least one month I had a good excuse to cover them. That year we had one tiny tree and two very skinny trees.
Now they’re draped over bookshelves and adorned with the ornaments I’ve collected over the years. There are ones from my childhood, ones from my travels, one representing my love affair with the Harry Potter series. They remind me of the many Christmases spent as children, ceremonially putting them on the family tree while listening to Christmas music and eating Swedish gingersnaps. That reverent ritual always seemed to include the ceremonial fighting between my brother and me over who got to hide the little homemade Hershey’s Kiss holder in the tree, and subsequently, who got to find and eat said Kiss. There was no fight this year, but I imagine some time down the road there will be smaller versions of me running around, fighting over similar things. It makes me smile to think about it. At least, I smile now.
And so, as I look around my now green and red apartment, I know that I am ready for Christmas. There’s no snow outside yet, but it says December 1 on the calendar and I have a tree up so I know it’s time for the festivities to being. That, and I have Santa on my bookshelf wishing to all “God Jul.”
Friday, November 27, 2009
Defining Moments
We all have defining moments in our lives that shape our futures. One of my most defining moments occurred three years ago today.
I was at my grandmother’s house with my large clan of aunts, uncles and cousins for a day-after-Thanksgiving celebration. Above the happily loud cacophony that is a Hayden family gathering the ringing of the telephone could barely be heard. We were zipping up coats and searching for lost mittens, all in a jumble by the front door, as we prepared to head out to an evening movie.
It was through this jumble my little sister waded. When I turned around and saw she was standing in front of me with the phone I was a bit surprised, wondering who would be calling me at my grandma’s house. Then she said the words I had been hoping I wouldn’t hear for quite some time:
“Crystal, it’s for you. It’s a boy!”
It was just like in a movie, where the ruckus had been reaching unchartable levels, then, upon the words “it’s a boy,” the noise immediately cut off. All eyes were on me and every face had a knowing smile on it.
I ran into the office, escaping the sly stares only to find on the other end of the phone a guy who was just as surprised as I was to be talking to me since he was only calling my grandmother’s to ask for my phone number. I heard him ask me if I was doing anything that night and this is where that defining moment stuff comes in.
I had returned home from serving an LDS mission only a matter of days earlier. Having never dated beforehand and being deathly afraid of dates in general, it was my goal to not talk to boys for at least six months. I would be able to accomplish this because I fully intended to hide in my mother’s basement for the duration. All these plans were dashed as I talked with this young man at that moment.
I had met him on my returning flight. He was coming home from his Army post in North Carolina and we had found ourselves on the same plane. Had it not been for a mutual friend sitting by me in the back of the plane I’m sure we never would have talked. Missionaries don’t generally interact with members of the opposite sex unless said interaction involves handing them a pamphlet about eternal life. We were introduced to each other and that was that. I thought.
As the day continued, fate took a hand in the form of my grandmother. This young man chatted with her as she was leaving the airport after my arrival and then ran into her again the next day. She told him he should stop by and visit her sometime. She was in the phonebook.
A few short days later he took courage in hand and called June to see if her granddaughter was available. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her,” was the reply and suddenly he was on the phone with me, stammering out an invitation for a date.
On my end, I had a dozen thoughts run through my mind in a split second. What was I doing talking to a boy? Hadn’t I only been home for five days? What would I do? What would I even say to him? I could just tell him I was busy, I mean, I was, wasn’t I? I was going to a movie. “Well, I’m going to a movie with my cousins,” I started. Yes, that’s it, just tell him you’re busy and then you won’t have to face your ultimate fear of going on a date.
“Do you want to come with us?”
I’m still not sure where those words came from. They were certainly words I, who had celebrated each time in my life I’d had the excuse that I was too busy to go out on a date, had never uttered.
I’ll be forever grateful I uttered them this time.
Scott came with us to the movies, where, for our first date, we had fourteen chaperones ranging in age from twenty-five to eight years old. We went out again the next night and the next, until, six weeks later, we were engaged.
At this Thanksgiving time, I’m always thankful to mark the day after as the day when I got a phone call at my grandma’s house from a boy. And that the boy turned out to be my husband.
I was at my grandmother’s house with my large clan of aunts, uncles and cousins for a day-after-Thanksgiving celebration. Above the happily loud cacophony that is a Hayden family gathering the ringing of the telephone could barely be heard. We were zipping up coats and searching for lost mittens, all in a jumble by the front door, as we prepared to head out to an evening movie.
It was through this jumble my little sister waded. When I turned around and saw she was standing in front of me with the phone I was a bit surprised, wondering who would be calling me at my grandma’s house. Then she said the words I had been hoping I wouldn’t hear for quite some time:
“Crystal, it’s for you. It’s a boy!”
It was just like in a movie, where the ruckus had been reaching unchartable levels, then, upon the words “it’s a boy,” the noise immediately cut off. All eyes were on me and every face had a knowing smile on it.
I ran into the office, escaping the sly stares only to find on the other end of the phone a guy who was just as surprised as I was to be talking to me since he was only calling my grandmother’s to ask for my phone number. I heard him ask me if I was doing anything that night and this is where that defining moment stuff comes in.
I had returned home from serving an LDS mission only a matter of days earlier. Having never dated beforehand and being deathly afraid of dates in general, it was my goal to not talk to boys for at least six months. I would be able to accomplish this because I fully intended to hide in my mother’s basement for the duration. All these plans were dashed as I talked with this young man at that moment.
I had met him on my returning flight. He was coming home from his Army post in North Carolina and we had found ourselves on the same plane. Had it not been for a mutual friend sitting by me in the back of the plane I’m sure we never would have talked. Missionaries don’t generally interact with members of the opposite sex unless said interaction involves handing them a pamphlet about eternal life. We were introduced to each other and that was that. I thought.
As the day continued, fate took a hand in the form of my grandmother. This young man chatted with her as she was leaving the airport after my arrival and then ran into her again the next day. She told him he should stop by and visit her sometime. She was in the phonebook.
A few short days later he took courage in hand and called June to see if her granddaughter was available. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her,” was the reply and suddenly he was on the phone with me, stammering out an invitation for a date.
On my end, I had a dozen thoughts run through my mind in a split second. What was I doing talking to a boy? Hadn’t I only been home for five days? What would I do? What would I even say to him? I could just tell him I was busy, I mean, I was, wasn’t I? I was going to a movie. “Well, I’m going to a movie with my cousins,” I started. Yes, that’s it, just tell him you’re busy and then you won’t have to face your ultimate fear of going on a date.
“Do you want to come with us?”
I’m still not sure where those words came from. They were certainly words I, who had celebrated each time in my life I’d had the excuse that I was too busy to go out on a date, had never uttered.
I’ll be forever grateful I uttered them this time.
Scott came with us to the movies, where, for our first date, we had fourteen chaperones ranging in age from twenty-five to eight years old. We went out again the next night and the next, until, six weeks later, we were engaged.
At this Thanksgiving time, I’m always thankful to mark the day after as the day when I got a phone call at my grandma’s house from a boy. And that the boy turned out to be my husband.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Thankful
Scott~comforters~cereal~cloudy skies~sunshine~fast internet~slow Sunday mornings~humor~that annoying sound that reminds me I left my car lights on thus saving me from a dead battery~free mobile to mobile calling (a.k.a. ability to talk with my family as long as I want!)~pizza~intermittent windshield wipers~fuzzy carpet~music~pillows~beauty in all forms.
Friendship~The Comforter~rain~hot showers~hulu.com~reading~memories~dinner parties~traveling~U.S.A.~closet space~pretty baskets~other people's talents~optimism~laughter~Debussy~donut holes~lovely placemats~ring on my left hand~Real Simple magazine~learning~holidays.
Family~old houses~blogging~shoes~especially cute shoes~goodness in people~listening to a cello~democracy~volleyball~life lessons~old photographs~sight~work~open fields~daisies~oportunity.
life.
"Just to be alive is a grand thing." ~Agatha Christie
~Happy Thanksgiving~
Friendship~The Comforter~rain~hot showers~hulu.com~reading~memories~dinner parties~traveling~U.S.A.~closet space~pretty baskets~other people's talents~optimism~laughter~Debussy~donut holes~lovely placemats~ring on my left hand~Real Simple magazine~learning~holidays.
Family~old houses~blogging~shoes~especially cute shoes~goodness in people~listening to a cello~democracy~volleyball~life lessons~old photographs~sight~work~open fields~daisies~oportunity.
life.
"Just to be alive is a grand thing." ~Agatha Christie
~Happy Thanksgiving~
Friday, November 20, 2009
Working Out
I used to belong to a gym. As a member, I had several reasons for going every day. I had a closet filled with pants that no longer fit me. There was air conditioning. HGTV could be found on any of the monitors above the treadmills. There was a hot tub. And, oh yeah, to be healthy.
During my time at the gym, I noticed that among the other cable-watching, I mean, health-conscious patrons there were several very specific types of exercisers. There was the big sweaty guy who had ripped the sleeves off his t-shirt and who lifted amounts of weight incomprehensible to man. Then, there was the grunting man who was not going to suffer in silence, but would make it known to all within earshot, through a series of varied huffs and heaves, that his was a grueling workout. Of course there was also that one guy whose purpose was not to see how many sets and reps he could get in, rather, to see how many sets of phone numbers he could acquire.
Next came the hard core, don’t-mess-with-me chick. She was typically a size two in black spandex and a tiny sports bra with a sweatband and bike gloves. This type worked right alongside the perfect beauty who had not a hair out of place as she completed her wind sprints, all while listening to Beyonce on her IPod.
Where did I fit in all of this? I fell under the just-rolled-out-of-bed-hide-in-the-women’s-workout-room-and-self-consciously-pull-at-my-clothing-while-dying-on-the-treadmill-and-watching-Trading-Spaces type.
My gym-going days were cut short when we moved to a place where Gold’s was no longer thirty seconds away, and thus, too inconvenient to continue a membership. I have carried on my fitness routine, though I do find it challenging now that I can no longer watch Gilmore Girls as I battle it out with the exercise machines.
Instead, I battle it out in other ways. This morning, for instance, I blasted the fat with Billy Blanks and his cardio crew. This is Tae Bo at its finest, power bands included. It’s fast and upbeat and Billy makes you contemplate not just how you’re going to blast the fat off your thighs, but things like the purpose of life, and more importantly, why Billy is wearing such tight spandex.
He accomplishes this through his many thought-provoking monologues which pepper his cardiovascular routine. Always looking deeply into the camera, he encourages me to change the way I think, to keep going, to finish that one more set (or seven more). This morning, I watched him recite what might as well have been Edward Everett’s oration at Gettysburg, all while his workout crew behind him were dropping like flies from exhaustion, each one trying to hang on until Billy gave the word. Then, and only then, was it time to put on the power bands.
The magic of working out from one’s own home is such that, while Billy gave his soliloquy from the television, I had time to grab a drink of water from the kitchen, re-tie my shoes, balance the checkbook, and make a casserole for tonight’s dinner before it was finally time for the next punch-kick-step combination. It was quite the productive workout.
Yes, I think I like this working out from home thing. Although I have to look at Tae Bo buffs shrink wrapped in purple spandex, I can avoid the sweating, grunting, flirting men of the gym, along with that girl with the ripped arms and the other one with the perfect hair. I can tug at my clothes from the comfort of my own home.
The only thing I miss is the HGTV.
During my time at the gym, I noticed that among the other cable-watching, I mean, health-conscious patrons there were several very specific types of exercisers. There was the big sweaty guy who had ripped the sleeves off his t-shirt and who lifted amounts of weight incomprehensible to man. Then, there was the grunting man who was not going to suffer in silence, but would make it known to all within earshot, through a series of varied huffs and heaves, that his was a grueling workout. Of course there was also that one guy whose purpose was not to see how many sets and reps he could get in, rather, to see how many sets of phone numbers he could acquire.
Next came the hard core, don’t-mess-with-me chick. She was typically a size two in black spandex and a tiny sports bra with a sweatband and bike gloves. This type worked right alongside the perfect beauty who had not a hair out of place as she completed her wind sprints, all while listening to Beyonce on her IPod.
Where did I fit in all of this? I fell under the just-rolled-out-of-bed-hide-in-the-women’s-workout-room-and-self-consciously-pull-at-my-clothing-while-dying-on-the-treadmill-and-watching-Trading-Spaces type.
My gym-going days were cut short when we moved to a place where Gold’s was no longer thirty seconds away, and thus, too inconvenient to continue a membership. I have carried on my fitness routine, though I do find it challenging now that I can no longer watch Gilmore Girls as I battle it out with the exercise machines.
Instead, I battle it out in other ways. This morning, for instance, I blasted the fat with Billy Blanks and his cardio crew. This is Tae Bo at its finest, power bands included. It’s fast and upbeat and Billy makes you contemplate not just how you’re going to blast the fat off your thighs, but things like the purpose of life, and more importantly, why Billy is wearing such tight spandex.
He accomplishes this through his many thought-provoking monologues which pepper his cardiovascular routine. Always looking deeply into the camera, he encourages me to change the way I think, to keep going, to finish that one more set (or seven more). This morning, I watched him recite what might as well have been Edward Everett’s oration at Gettysburg, all while his workout crew behind him were dropping like flies from exhaustion, each one trying to hang on until Billy gave the word. Then, and only then, was it time to put on the power bands.
The magic of working out from one’s own home is such that, while Billy gave his soliloquy from the television, I had time to grab a drink of water from the kitchen, re-tie my shoes, balance the checkbook, and make a casserole for tonight’s dinner before it was finally time for the next punch-kick-step combination. It was quite the productive workout.
Yes, I think I like this working out from home thing. Although I have to look at Tae Bo buffs shrink wrapped in purple spandex, I can avoid the sweating, grunting, flirting men of the gym, along with that girl with the ripped arms and the other one with the perfect hair. I can tug at my clothes from the comfort of my own home.
The only thing I miss is the HGTV.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Apartment Living
I moved out of my parents’ house for the first time over five years ago. Since then, it has been nothing but apartments for me and in that time I have come to some conclusions about things which are unique to apartment living.
First of all, upon moving in you discover that odd stain in the carpet left from the tenant before you and a kitchen floor that never looks completely clean. The walls that surround you are someone else’s sense of aesthetic, usually functional meets bland, which you are not allowed to change with new paint. And speaking of those walls, you cannot put holes in them. And you don’t find out that the plastic adhesive hooks only hold up to a half a pound until after you have paintings and pictures clattering down around you. Then, woops, it was there on the package all along.
Next, the neighbors are closer than when you lived in your own house, in that you share walls. And sometimes those walls aren’t thick enough to block out the constant thud of the base from the tenant’s surround sound below you. Or the yelling from next door. Apparently little Johnny was not supposed to take one more of something or other.
And then there are the random personal items which find themselves located in places they would not otherwise be if you were not living in an apartment. Like bikes in the kitchen, for example. Or in the hallway. Or out on the balcony. I draw the line at the bedroom. One particular instance, when I asked my husband if there might possibly be any place else to stow his road bike, he looked at me as if I had suggested throwing his first born child out into the snow and locking the door. The bike stayed in the living room.
On the other side of the coin, for all the quirks and limitations, apartments do offer a certain something known only to apartment dwellers or those who have-dwelled. The benefits usually balance out what could otherwise be an inconvenient situation.
For instance, you usually don’t pay a separate water bill, so, even though it is probably coming out in your rent somewhere, you don’t feel bad for taking that extra long, hot shower. Along that same line, our current apartment includes cable and internet in the rent, which means again, no separate bill. (Although with no ESPN my husband has contemplated many a time adding an extra bill to the Dish Network people.)
There is also a wonderful sense of community that comes built into an apartment complex. It takes no time to run errands to neighbors across the quad or down the stairs. There’s usually a barbeque of some kind going on out front and all it takes to get an invitation is simply walking by. Whether people are moving in or out, carrying groceries up three flights of stairs, or on the way with you to the community laundro-mat, there is always someone around to make friends with and be friendshipped by.
Finally, apartment living is great for two people, such as my husband and I, who are infected with an insatiable wanderlust. Someday we dream of having a house where we’ll raise our family and where I can finally put to use all that HGTV has taught me over the years. For now though, when we want to pull up and go, we go. I’m going on my ninth apartment now in five years. I’ve lived in two bedroom walk-ups and walk downs from Missouri to Massachusetts, Idaho to Illinois, North Carolina and now Utah where we decided to get extravagant and upgrade to a three bedroom within the cinderblock walls of married student housing. Who knows where we’ll find ourselves after the next two years.
Maybe our next apartment will have a place for the bikes. Some place other than the kitchen.
First of all, upon moving in you discover that odd stain in the carpet left from the tenant before you and a kitchen floor that never looks completely clean. The walls that surround you are someone else’s sense of aesthetic, usually functional meets bland, which you are not allowed to change with new paint. And speaking of those walls, you cannot put holes in them. And you don’t find out that the plastic adhesive hooks only hold up to a half a pound until after you have paintings and pictures clattering down around you. Then, woops, it was there on the package all along.
Next, the neighbors are closer than when you lived in your own house, in that you share walls. And sometimes those walls aren’t thick enough to block out the constant thud of the base from the tenant’s surround sound below you. Or the yelling from next door. Apparently little Johnny was not supposed to take one more of something or other.
And then there are the random personal items which find themselves located in places they would not otherwise be if you were not living in an apartment. Like bikes in the kitchen, for example. Or in the hallway. Or out on the balcony. I draw the line at the bedroom. One particular instance, when I asked my husband if there might possibly be any place else to stow his road bike, he looked at me as if I had suggested throwing his first born child out into the snow and locking the door. The bike stayed in the living room.
On the other side of the coin, for all the quirks and limitations, apartments do offer a certain something known only to apartment dwellers or those who have-dwelled. The benefits usually balance out what could otherwise be an inconvenient situation.
For instance, you usually don’t pay a separate water bill, so, even though it is probably coming out in your rent somewhere, you don’t feel bad for taking that extra long, hot shower. Along that same line, our current apartment includes cable and internet in the rent, which means again, no separate bill. (Although with no ESPN my husband has contemplated many a time adding an extra bill to the Dish Network people.)
There is also a wonderful sense of community that comes built into an apartment complex. It takes no time to run errands to neighbors across the quad or down the stairs. There’s usually a barbeque of some kind going on out front and all it takes to get an invitation is simply walking by. Whether people are moving in or out, carrying groceries up three flights of stairs, or on the way with you to the community laundro-mat, there is always someone around to make friends with and be friendshipped by.
Finally, apartment living is great for two people, such as my husband and I, who are infected with an insatiable wanderlust. Someday we dream of having a house where we’ll raise our family and where I can finally put to use all that HGTV has taught me over the years. For now though, when we want to pull up and go, we go. I’m going on my ninth apartment now in five years. I’ve lived in two bedroom walk-ups and walk downs from Missouri to Massachusetts, Idaho to Illinois, North Carolina and now Utah where we decided to get extravagant and upgrade to a three bedroom within the cinderblock walls of married student housing. Who knows where we’ll find ourselves after the next two years.
Maybe our next apartment will have a place for the bikes. Some place other than the kitchen.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
When I was younger my mother would always roll her eyes in chagrin when we would walk into the mall in November to find Christmas decorations plastered everywhere. It seemed that each year the decorations came out earlier and earlier until Santa Claus was trick-or-treating side by side with Batman and the Grim Reaper. I rolled my eyes right along with my mother, thinking in my little girl brain that I would never be involved in such a breach of seasonal etiquette.
Now, when Christmas paraphernalia begins appearing in stores starting the moment fall hits, I feel, not an eye-roll, but a tingle of excitement. When I see holiday lights and wreaths for sale in the weekly ads right underneath jack-o-lanterns and witch costumes, I cannot be more delighted. While it’s true that the marketing geniuses see this early adverting simply as a way to get the greater American population buying high-priced toys for our kids that much sooner, I see it as precious extra time to celebrate a holiday season that brings, not only joy to the world, but to me as well. Twenty-five days in December just isn’t enough. For one thing, there is far too much Christmas music to listen to in that short of a space of time.
I start listening to Christmas music the minute Halloween is over, much to the dismay of my husband. He is not a pre-December Christmas music listener. His holiday CDs stay tightly locked up until Thanksgiving is over and the first snow has fallen. I find this to be impossible, as much as I try. I am a closet Christmas music junkie. In fact, I have been known to pull out a holiday CD in July, if the feeling in the air is right. It’s never the hard core stuff, like the classics of Bing and Judy, but somehow a small part of me still feels like I have to be sneaky about this, as if I’m betraying some unspoken cosmic rule of Christmas.
I feel that way right now. As I write this, Vanessa Williams is singing to me about telling things on mountains. In fact, I’ve been listening to Christmas music all afternoon. I just can’t help myself. It’s a good thing my husband is in class.
Now, I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving yet, but, again, I can't help myself. It's really a showing of self-restraint that I didn't do this back in August. I love the holiday season and can feel it coming on starting in September with back-to-school goings on and then Halloween that slides right into Thanksgiving and then. . . CHRISTMAS!
So I will be one of those listening to Christmas music long before it snows and who is just itching to pull out the tree. I'm not forgetting Thanksgiving. I'm very thankful for many things. Christmas just happens to be one of them.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Bring on the Cold!
I always long for the weather to turn cold for many reasons and this year is no different. The crispness in the air; the colorful, chunky sweaters; the fuzzy wool mittens; hot cocoa--all are things I look forward to with the winding down of summer. This year, however, I have a more specific reason that tops the list. This year, when winter comes, it will finally be too cold for the children to play outside which means the quad in front of my apartment building will be what I’ve longed for: quiet!
I don’t have anything against children. In fact, I love them and the happy sounds of their playing. There are few things more joyful than the laughter of a child. As I sit by the front window I enjoy hearing little shoes rustling through fallen leaves outside, the crunch of a big wheel on the concrete. These things don’t bother me in the slightest.
It’s just the screaming that I don’t understand. It really is remarkable, this need children have to scream entire conversations. They scream when they’re happy and when they’re upset. They scream when it’s time to go in; when a new friend comes to play; collectively and individually. Why do they do this? Are they just trying out their voices? Are they testing the limits of their parents? I’m not sure. All they seem to know is, they’re outside and outside is the screaming place. And it’s screaming the likes of which I’ve never heard and which can penetrate even the cinderblock walls of my apartment. Indeed, I am in awe of the ability and longevity of these children. I once sat through a good ten minutes of continuous screaming. I timed it. These kidlets would be great at a rock concert.
The ultimate manifestation of the ability children have to make noise came last week. The warmth (and rarity) of a seventy degree afternoon in November enticed enough children outside for a great deal of this happy noise I mentioned earlier. Sitting on my couch, I could hear the familiar sounds of small sneakers pounding the pavement and laughter in the stairwell. Then, a sound I was not familiar with as one coming from children met my ears. Howling. And barking. I was confused, thinking about the “no pets” policy I had read on our renter’s agreement so many months ago. Where did all these dogs come from? Next, I heard a little voice outside appointing someone as “dog catcher” and realized why these “dogs” had sounded more like spider monkeys than canines.
And so I and my audial health look forward to the coming months when the children will be barricaded indoors due to the cold. I will be sitting happy with my sweater on and hot chocolate in hand. And, should the poor, stir-crazy mothers, out of sheer desperation bundle up their children and toss them out of the house under pretense of building a snowman, at least the plummeting temperatures will warrant a pair of cute earmuffs. Thick ones.
I don’t have anything against children. In fact, I love them and the happy sounds of their playing. There are few things more joyful than the laughter of a child. As I sit by the front window I enjoy hearing little shoes rustling through fallen leaves outside, the crunch of a big wheel on the concrete. These things don’t bother me in the slightest.
It’s just the screaming that I don’t understand. It really is remarkable, this need children have to scream entire conversations. They scream when they’re happy and when they’re upset. They scream when it’s time to go in; when a new friend comes to play; collectively and individually. Why do they do this? Are they just trying out their voices? Are they testing the limits of their parents? I’m not sure. All they seem to know is, they’re outside and outside is the screaming place. And it’s screaming the likes of which I’ve never heard and which can penetrate even the cinderblock walls of my apartment. Indeed, I am in awe of the ability and longevity of these children. I once sat through a good ten minutes of continuous screaming. I timed it. These kidlets would be great at a rock concert.
The ultimate manifestation of the ability children have to make noise came last week. The warmth (and rarity) of a seventy degree afternoon in November enticed enough children outside for a great deal of this happy noise I mentioned earlier. Sitting on my couch, I could hear the familiar sounds of small sneakers pounding the pavement and laughter in the stairwell. Then, a sound I was not familiar with as one coming from children met my ears. Howling. And barking. I was confused, thinking about the “no pets” policy I had read on our renter’s agreement so many months ago. Where did all these dogs come from? Next, I heard a little voice outside appointing someone as “dog catcher” and realized why these “dogs” had sounded more like spider monkeys than canines.
And so I and my audial health look forward to the coming months when the children will be barricaded indoors due to the cold. I will be sitting happy with my sweater on and hot chocolate in hand. And, should the poor, stir-crazy mothers, out of sheer desperation bundle up their children and toss them out of the house under pretense of building a snowman, at least the plummeting temperatures will warrant a pair of cute earmuffs. Thick ones.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Working from Home
How do people do it? Work from home, I mean. I've forever admired those who can run successful businesses from their homes because it's always been somewhat of a mystery to me how they accomplish this. In an office setting you have your desk, you have your schedule, you have your deadlines. At home there are these things as well, but at the office, other than the water cooler and contraband Facebook time on your computer, there are few distractions. At home? Oh, where do I begin?
First of all, there is the issue of mustering up the self-control to follow the requisite self-imposed schedule. Then there are those dishes you didn't finish up last night. How is your creativity expected to flow if there are dishes in the sink? And while you're in the kitchen you might as well fix some chicken salad and whip up a creme brulee for lunch later, right? There's that phone call to Mom you needed to return and lying on the couch is next month's issue of Real Simple magazine that arrived five days into this month. That needs perusal. And speaking of mail, you'd better go check it. Of course, after you've gone outside to check the mail, you'd better get on your computer and check both your email addresses. Nine times. And what about the sock drawer? It needs organizing, not to mention the laundry in general. And what's this? A sale at Target? Sure, I'm there! I don't even have to clock out.
So you can see the dilemmas.
These dilemmas are now mine as I have become the newest member of the at-home workforce. After butting my head against the "seeking employment" wall for a few months, my husband and I decided this was the perfect opportunity for me to take the time I've found myself with and do what I've always wanted to do, which is write. And although I have been tortured by, I mean, faced with all the above mentioned distractions, it's not like I've accomplished nothing in my work-from-home experiment. In spite of distracting stories on the news (how did that TV get turned on anyway?) of mothers rescuing their children from the jaws of mountain lions, the files on my computer have been filling up. And in the process I have concluded that some of the distractions which threaten my output can actually feed it. For instance, I wrote this entire article in my head while taking a hot shower this morning. So, really, the fact that it was an extra long hot shower is canceled out by its resulting productivity. This is one distraction that I can now label instead: my planning station.
And then there is that siren call of the TV that when answered can become my nemesis. But, where else would I learn stories of wildcat-battling moms? And how else would I witness that clever way the Law and Order guys solve crime? (Does it amaze anyone else that Law and Order seems to be on all day? Not that I would know from experience, mind you. . .) What others may call a time waster is really a feeder of creativity. I'll call this one my research medium. In fact, I've been wanting to do an article on the complexities of extended family dynamics and obscure '80s references. And wouldn't you know it? Gilmore Girls is on.
Maybe this working from home thing isn't such a bad idea after all.
First of all, there is the issue of mustering up the self-control to follow the requisite self-imposed schedule. Then there are those dishes you didn't finish up last night. How is your creativity expected to flow if there are dishes in the sink? And while you're in the kitchen you might as well fix some chicken salad and whip up a creme brulee for lunch later, right? There's that phone call to Mom you needed to return and lying on the couch is next month's issue of Real Simple magazine that arrived five days into this month. That needs perusal. And speaking of mail, you'd better go check it. Of course, after you've gone outside to check the mail, you'd better get on your computer and check both your email addresses. Nine times. And what about the sock drawer? It needs organizing, not to mention the laundry in general. And what's this? A sale at Target? Sure, I'm there! I don't even have to clock out.
So you can see the dilemmas.
These dilemmas are now mine as I have become the newest member of the at-home workforce. After butting my head against the "seeking employment" wall for a few months, my husband and I decided this was the perfect opportunity for me to take the time I've found myself with and do what I've always wanted to do, which is write. And although I have been tortured by, I mean, faced with all the above mentioned distractions, it's not like I've accomplished nothing in my work-from-home experiment. In spite of distracting stories on the news (how did that TV get turned on anyway?) of mothers rescuing their children from the jaws of mountain lions, the files on my computer have been filling up. And in the process I have concluded that some of the distractions which threaten my output can actually feed it. For instance, I wrote this entire article in my head while taking a hot shower this morning. So, really, the fact that it was an extra long hot shower is canceled out by its resulting productivity. This is one distraction that I can now label instead: my planning station.
And then there is that siren call of the TV that when answered can become my nemesis. But, where else would I learn stories of wildcat-battling moms? And how else would I witness that clever way the Law and Order guys solve crime? (Does it amaze anyone else that Law and Order seems to be on all day? Not that I would know from experience, mind you. . .) What others may call a time waster is really a feeder of creativity. I'll call this one my research medium. In fact, I've been wanting to do an article on the complexities of extended family dynamics and obscure '80s references. And wouldn't you know it? Gilmore Girls is on.
Maybe this working from home thing isn't such a bad idea after all.
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