11/11

It's a special day! I hope you made lots of wishes. I did.

Daylight Savings

No, this isn’t a post about some funny thing that happened to me because of a surprise time change. This is about theft. Specifically, the theft of one hour of my day.

I inherited several things from my father, i.e. crooked teeth, a love for writing, the gradual disappearing of my bum (mom contributed to that too, so my poor buttskies don’t stand a chance), an increasing use of mustard, and….the loathing of decreased daylight. You know that myth, the one about Persephone and springtime and flowers and stuff? I don’t really either, but her name sounds like mine and I feel a kinship with her. The gist is that she was captured by Hades and held prisoner in the underworld, only to be let out once a year to frolic above ground. She was so happy to see the light of day—and mother earth was equally enamored of her—that wherever she went sprang flowers and new life. Thus, the coming of Spring every year. Do you see where I’m going with this? No, I don’t consider myself the breath of life that invigorates mankind and gives new hope to the world each year. My conclusion is simply this: Not having daylight is akin to being banished to hell.

Ever since moving to California I’ve wondered when my obsession with the beach, sunshine, and warmth would run itself out of my system. Naturally, I figured that being starved of all three of these at least 9 months out of every year would result in a short-lived, wild-eyed sun frenzy, kind of like when I got addicted to not sleeping as soon as I moved away from my parents’ house and into the co-ed dorms at USU. Since that only took about a semester to wear off (the addiction to not sleeping, not the actual not sleeping), I think I figured this beach thing would too. But…alas, I remain besotted with sun.

Besotted with sun. That’s a lovely phrase.

Anyway, my relationship with daylight is very high maintenance. Since my work day is really long, sometimes I don’t see the sun all day. By the time Wednesday or Thursday rolls around, I feel weird, and by Friday I’m all messed up. Sure, this could be attributed to many other factors, but when I think to myself “I feel weird, what’s going on?” The first thing my self responds with is “Why is it dark right now? I want to go outside.” And then I’m terribly distracted with images of me, basking in the sun, not necessarily doing anything but recharging. That’s exactly what sunlight feels like to me—I’m a giant dry battery, and the sun is my charger. The weekends are barely enough to recharge me for the week, and I find myself plotting dangerous things to get more hits during my work day (like extra long lunch breaks, complete with a blanket and a book and a questionable park and pants that can be rolled up to become shorts and light layers so I don’t get too hot and sunglasses, etc. etc. etc.).

You would think moving here, the "Golden Coast," would satiate me. That’s what I thought. But as it turns out, I still have to go to work and stuff. It nearly kills me if I have to run an errand on a Saturday that involves getting in my car and going somewhere indoors. Some of you have visited and have perhaps seen how my anxiety level increases the longer I’m out of the sun on the weekends. I’m a junkie. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Every addict reaches a point where they have to either give up and let the beast take over, or give up and get help.

In short, I’m really sad that it’s November 10 and when I leave work at 5 I only catch about 20 minutes of sunlight. No more running at Manhattan Beach.  No more happiness.

Ok, that was overdramatic. How about this instead: I will try to keep my chin up while I tap into the backup charger, which is food (more on that in subsequent posts!). In the meantime, join me and my dad in gritting your teeth and hunkering down until the dawn of the best day of the year: December 21. It only gets better from there!

Halloween 2010

I hate being away from Utah on Halloween, turns out.
I did my best with the crushing homesickness and produced this:

 I'm a tornado, duh.

And here I am spinning.

...and dancing.

...and sprouting arms in grumpiness. Probably because someone mistook me for a tampon.

And, finally, calling it a night. Riding in the car with a troll doll.

Happy Halloween, from far far away!

CUPCAKES!!!! Oh my gosh I love cupcakes.

I made cupcakes last night for a birthday. White cake mix, cream cheese frosting, done. They are SO good.
I’ve known for awhile that cupcakes are good. Like, since I was 6. That’s what I always requested for my birthday cake—vanilla cupcakes with vanilla or cream cheese frosting. Yes, I was ahead of the cupcake curve. I knew then and I know now that cupcakes are good, and why are they good? Because they are golden brown on all sides. Because they’re less formidable than an entire cake. Because in about three bites it’s over and you’re happy. NOT because they have frosting piled 6 feet high. NOT because they cost $4. And NOT because they’re exotic and overwrought with ingredients like rose hip jelly and saffron buttercream cookie crumble.

Why am I so annoyed by modern cupcakes?
No really, why? Why does this bother me so much?

I guess because I feel they’ve been prostituted. Something I liked for its very simplicity is now a convoluted, trendy mess of a confection that will make me gouge my eyes out if I see one more super hip shop dedicated solely to fulfilling your wildest cupcake dreams. Sure, they’re inherently cute and tasty and I can’t blame people for wanting to capitalize on that. But that ship sailed 10 years ago or something! We need to get over cupcakes! Well, at least over the cupcake frenzy. And we especially need to stop doing giant cupcake cakes. I’m completely mystified by a miniature cake imitating a full-sized cake by becoming full-sized. There’s a term for that, but I can’t remember....life imitating art? Meta? No, wait, I remember: super nerdy.



No offense if you’re starting a cupcake shop, had or are having cupcakes at your wedding, or if you just baked your child a giant cupcake birthday cake. I admit that these new cupcakes are sometimes really, really yummy. But like a good song that comes out and then 1 month later makes you want to surgically remove your ears because it’s been so overplayed, cupcakes need to keep their distance from me for awhile.

Words, words, words

So I’ve been reading again.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve outgrown a lot of things. Boundless energy, for one. A passion for miniature replicas of everyday items, for another. There was the turtle/frog phase, the playing orphanage phase, the pictures of shirtless Tom Cruise phase (Side note: This was when I first discovered the internet. And hot on the heals of this new delight was the revelation that one must be careful what one searches for on the internet. A shirtless Tom Cruise can very easily become a pantsless Tom Cruise, and at that point it’s only the sluggishness of a circa 1997 dial-up that preserves one’s innocence). But my childhood left me with one enduring passion: Reading. I thought maybe I’d sort of outgrown this too, but recent events have proven otherwise.

 Tom Cruise has changed. I haven't.

I spent last week in a self-imposed prison. I say prison because it’s the only word strong enough to convey the hold on me certain books can get. To say I become enthralled is not enough. Distracted, addicted, consumed…those get a little closer. But I think it’s safe to say that I am held captive by books. They don’t even have to be particularly fantastic books either—obviously, because The Babysitter’s Club has stolen many an hour of my life. But if there’s a story and I want to know how it ends, I have to say goodbye to every other thing I have going on in my life until it’s over. My family used to tease me for trying to read books at the dinner table, while walking, while I was supposed to be doing homework or practicing the piano or playing outside in the summer.

 What? I'm doing my homework.

What? I'm practicing piano.

 

What? My hair is permed. Especially my bangs.

In the last few years I’ve gone on and off with reading because I’ve become ridiculously busy. But every once in awhile, one of these books grabs hold of me and it’s not until a few days later, when I dazedly come up for air and see the shambles that is my neglected life, that I realize I have a problem.

I’m starting to think it’s not healthy. Like any other hobby, I guess it can be too all-consuming and start to steal from the other facets of life…like personal hygiene and social pursuits. Because when I read, I don’t care if I see another soul for days. I can’t seem to find the motivation to go running or eat a real meal or stick to a normal-length lunch break because the alternate world I’ve entered is much more inviting. Scary, isn’t it? I’ve always thought it was ok because, well, it’s reading. It’s not video games and it’s not porn and it’s not drugs or Renaissance reenactments or, I dunno, compulsive gambling or other things I consider deplorable. It’s reading. Reading is good for you! Reading makes you smarter! Reading is something precious, an ability and a privilege held sacred since the invention of writing. Right?

Is it possible that reading, for me, is a vice?

Nay.

I just felt like saying nay.

But really, I hope not. It’s true, I probably need to chill out a bit and not give up the few hours of sleep I’m lucky to get by finishing a few more chapters of my latest book. But I can’t do it! It’s a dang good thing that this relatively innocent thing happens to be my compulsion because the lack of self-control I’m exhibiting is frightening. I’m starting to get an idea of what life would be like if I had a fondness for alcohol. Thank goodness for acceptable pursuits!

So I’ve been reading again. And how.

In the last 2 weeks I’ve read The Hiding Place and all three Hunger Games books, and now I’m on to Don’t Get Too Comfortable by David Rakoff. Any new recommendations for me? I’m on a roll.

Dancing Queen

Well, I've found my calling in life. I suppose I've always known it, but today it's been made quite clear that I was put on this earth to dance. At people's weddings.

I've earned far too much face time on cameras doing this (most of you readers are probably nodding your heads because you've seen me plastered all over your wedding videos) and it's slightly embarrassing, because I'm usually not an integral part of anyone's wedding party. But my only defense is this: When I ask what I can do to help with someone's wedding, the inevitable response is "Dance!" Apparently there is a great need for young single girls to dance like it's going out of style so that the marriage will be successful. Those who know me know that this is a job I can do.

And, brides of the world, I am happy to do so. If I accomplish nothing more than occupying a 12x12 dance floor for 2 hours of your special day, then I've succeeded in this life.