Movin' on...over

So when I wrote my New Year's Eve post, I closed it with the line that I hoped "For 2012 to be a year of new beginnings and of joy, with opportunities that surprise even myself."

Well, color me surprised. I hardly imagined that within the month I'd be preparing to pack up my apartment. Now, I'm not moving to a new city or for a new job -- despite the fact that for years I said I wouldn't move unless I had a new job or new city to go to -- but into a new place about five minutes away from my current apartment, where I've lived for the past six years. And I only just got around to hanging that long-framed art on the wall two months ago. Go figure.

Anyway, my friend Pam told me her current housemate was moving out this month, and she asked me if I'd be interested in moving in. It took me several days to think about it and make a decision. See, I can talk a good game about being spontaneous, but I'm really a prototypical eldest child, with the need to be responsible and a propensity to over-think things. I have a serious lack of daring, generally, and like many (and not just eldest children, I imagine), both a desire for, and a fear of, change.

But at the same time, I realized that I've grown too comfortable. While the thought of packing and culling these next couple of weeks is more than just a little daunting, it needs to be done. I'm looking forward to being free of some of my stuff. Plus, I have this strange notion that if I don't make this smaller change now, I might be unwilling to make any sort of larger move in the future (worst cast scenario: 12 years from now, I'm still living in this apartment, crammed with even more stuff, and sharing the space with multiple cats...ok, maybe not the cats, but you get the idea).

Plus, moving will enable me to save significantly every month and, almost more importantly, I will never have to truck my dirty laundry to the laundromat (thereby avoiding being hit on by creepy men old enough to be my father) ever, ever again. It's the little things, really. 

Like any transition, there will be some things to get used to (it has, after all, been a good nine years since I've shared living space with anyone besides an immediate family member), but Pam and I get along really well, and I already have a key to the place (from occasionally dog-sitting her pooch, Trustee), so I can gradually take boxes over as I pack them, saving the big items for last (this is the plan, at any rate). I'm sure there will be some adjustments, but I've been saying for a while that I need to be organized and more neat as a general rule, which Pam most certainly is, so hopefully a little of that will rub off. She is also fully prepared for (and excited about) the onslaught of books I'll be bringing with me.

And it looks like, if nothing else, I'll be able to put a check mark next to my New Year's Resolution to "clean out my refrigerator" sooner rather than later. :-)

I'm going to be needing more of these!

Books for 2012

On New Year's Eve Day, a high school friend of mine (Kristen lives out in L.A., writes TV show reviews for an entertainment website and is working on a romance novel) wrote a blog post about books she'd read in 2011 and others she hopes to read this year.

I thought it was a fun idea. Well, the later portion, at any rate. With as fast as I read, I honestly can't remember how many books I read in 2011. But that contributed to this post, too, and I thought perhaps I should keep track in 2012. I'm not going to blog about all of them (that would be silly), but there are occasional books that I find myself wanting to write a term paper (for lack of a better, um, term) on and may deserve note. But I think I will use one of the many journals I've received as a gift to record them...that way at the end of 2012, I will know what and how many books I read this year. It should be interesting to look back on.

I received several books for Christmas, along with a Barnes & Noble gift card that enabled me to buy a few more. :) Plus, there's that giant bin underneath my bed, a few stacks scattered around the house and several books I'd like to reread.

Anyway, five days in, I've read one and started another. The one I've completed, "The House of Silk," which I finished yesterday, is one of the books I got for Christmas. It's a Sherlock Holmes novel, but the first one that was actually authorized by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's estate. I'm always up for a good mystery novel, and this one was entertaining.

I started the second book, Bill Bryson's "At Home," (which I also got for Christmas) last night before bed. The problem (if you can call it that) with Bryson is that A) he's an incredibly witty writer and B) there's so much fascinating information in this book (all kinds of crazy facts about the Crystal Palace, for instance), so I spent a fair amount of time laughing and really didn't want to put it down and go to sleep last night (or this afternoon while reading during lunch). I've found several topics/ facts that I want to know more about (Skara Brae in Scotland, for example. I'd never heard of the archaeological site. Reading about it also almost immediately triggered a time-travel novel idea, but that's another story). And I've only just made it into chapter 2.

But I digress. In addition to finishing "At Home," there are a few other books that I know I want to read this year. They include, in no particular order: "The History of the World in 100 Objects," written by the director of the British Museum; P.D. James' "Death Comes to Pemberley," a mystery that takes place about six years after the events described in "Pride and Prejudice;" then there's "Hedy's Folly: the life and breakthrough inventions of Hedy Lamarr," (no, that's not Hedley) which should be fascinating, since she was an incredibly beautiful and talented actress in old Hollywood, but she also was remarkably intelligent and helped create technology that aided the war effort in WWII and now makes our cell phones possible. Then there's "A Canticle for Leibowitz," by Walter M. Miller Jr. My friend Rebecca sent me a review of it written by Peter Kreeft in Dappled Things several months ago (sadly, I can't track it down now, even with Googling--whatever happened to things staying on the Internet forever?) which fascinated me, and so I ordered it off Amazon. It arrived just after Christmas.

Plus, I also want to reread "The Screwtape Letters." I haven't read it since I was in seventh or eighth grade, when I was required to read it in Theology class. I'm sure I will see parts of it differently, now that I'm an adult. For the same reason, I also want to reread "War and Peace."

Time to go read!

Fast away the old year passes...

A mere seven hours remain of 2011, and it's natural to look back on the year that has gone (I gained a godson -- the newly crawling Charlie Rosario -- saw my brother Ethan deploy to the Middle East and come home safely, and I bought a car, an experience that was somewhat surreal and yet made me feel concretely an adult).

Like most people, I make resolutions for the one upon us. Although it's been true of past years, I want to write creatively more (which, in looking back, was really the only resolution I made last year. I kept it a little, but there's much room for improvement); to clean out my refrigerator (although more of a chore than a resolution) which so desperately needs it; to get back into the gym regularly because, even if I say so myself, I looked damn good for most of 2010. In 2011 I let it slide, and I want to get back into those clothes I only wore for a short period of time. I've also done a lamentable amount of cooking this year. So I resolve to cook at least one meal a week (and put all those back issues of Cooking Light to good use!) starting tomorrow with a crock-pot pork loin recipe I'm eager to try.

As for the writing, I was recently encouraged to continue by one of my fellow reporters at the paper. He's a veteran at the paper (he said his original plan when he started there was to stay three years. That was in 1990, which makes my two-year plan and six-year stay pale in comparison) who is also a poet, and was encouraged to hear I still write creatively, albeit not as frequently as I used to. But last night (well, about 1 a.m. this morning, to be honest), just before bed, I was thinking about how, to me, the New Year has always seemed slightly akin to Advent (although less liturgical, of course): a new season to be hopeful for coming joy. I was reflecting on hope, and I had this phrase trip through my brain, which I had to write down. It turned into something akin to a concrete poem:

Hope on a plate

There's a chance for me to take another international trip in 2012. I'm saving up for a ticket to further European adventures and the opportunity to knock out at least one of the places that's been on my to-visit bucket list (I started a bucket list post a few weeks back and haven't finished it) for a long time, Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany (more on that later), among other sights.

Of course, I want to continue to deepen my prayer life, and to trust in God more fully. This never changes, nor will it, I pray. I hope to say the Rosary more frequently, and to keep trucking through the Theology of the Body. I pray for good things for all my family and friends, for their intentions, for peace and wisdom and grace. For 2012 to be a year of new beginnings and of joy, with opportunities that surprise even myself.

So too may charity unite

Us all in bonds of endless light,

And bringing household peace, o'ercome

Life's woes in ev'ry earthly home.

- Pope Leo XIII

Just for fun

I've found my wedding cake! You know, if I decide to have a Muppet-themed wedding when I get married...



I found this over at Cake Wrecks which, if you've never been there, is a source of nearly endless enjoyment (and sometimes horror, if you have any sort of grammar and spelling skills) at the expense of, well, lets just call them less-experienced cake decorators. On Sundays Jen, the creator, also posts fun and beautiful cakes baked and decorated by professionals. This cute monster creation falls under that category.

And yes, being a girl, I do think about wedding cakes occasionally, even though there is no wedding in the offing for me at the moment.

A hair-brained post

I've been thinking about a hair-themed post for several weeks now, ever since an older woman stopped to stare at me in the library not too long ago. I thought something was wrong at first. "Oh, my," she said, pausing on her walk to the checkout kiosk, "What glorious hair." For a retiree, she was pretty speedy, and I barely had time to smile, probably somewhat goofily, and say thank you before she'd taken off again. It was a completely unexpected compliment, especially since I don't know that I've ever thought about myself, or any part thereof, as particularly glorious.

But her words stuck with me, and for the rest of that afternoon, I found hair-related quotes  and incidents from literature popping into my head. First, the scene in Louisa May Alcott's "Little Women" where Jo reveals she's sold her "abundant" hair -- "her one beauty," as one of her sisters terms it -- to a wig maker to buy a train ticket for Marmee. Another Anne, Anne of Green Gables, bemoans her red mane and wishes she could have jet-black hair like her "bosom friend" Diana. She even goes so far as to try and dye it, resulting in her hair turning an unfortunate green hue. And St. Paul, in 1 Corinthians 11, says "the long hair of a woman is her glory," but likewise admonishes those who go to prayer with their heads uncovered because it shows a lack of humility.

Well, women can certainly be picky --  and, yes, vain -- about their hair. We want what we don't have and lament what we do, yearning for curls if our hair is straight (and vice versa) or wishing it was a different color. We dye it, straighten it with flatirons, perm it and fill it with product to be more shiny, less frizzy or sometimes just to keep it in place. Most of us have had at least one hair style that we regret (bangs, for example. I tried them twice, and they were no better the second time around).

 When I was younger, somewhere around 6, I remember telling my mom that I wished I was a blond. Even at that age, somehow the "blondes have more fun" mantra had already worked it's way into my psyche. Or perhaps it was due to Barbie. I was incredibly excited when I received a Barbie doll that had even light brown hair and so looked slightly more like me. Funnily enough, I had honey blond hair when I was 2 and 3, but by the time I got to kindergarten, it was long gone. I would actually look terrible as a blond now, I think.

I've had my hair both long and short. For a long time, growing up, my mom cut it. There wasn't much to her cuts -- occasionally some layers, or the aforementioned bangs.

The first time I had my hair cut in a salon, I was 13, and I got one of those asymmetrical cuts that was popular in the early 90s. I don't know that I'd do that again, but it looked good at the time. By the time I went to college, it was the longest it's ever been, nearly to my elbow. A few months in, though, I chopped it almost all off, over a foot of it so it was less than chin-length. Sometimes, you just need a change. I know women who are incredibly intimidated by cutting their hair short. I've been to salons where, when I tell the stylist that I want it bobbed, they practically turn to stone and ask me, several times, if I'm sure. Once, there was even an older woman in the next chair over who said "You're very brave." Really? It's a haircut. I was hardly going into battle.

Right now, my hair is the longest it's been in several years. Though hardly Rapunzel-esque, it is practically to the middle of my back. Usually, when it gets to this point, I'm frustrated with it, especially if I try to blow-dry it -- I find myself looking like Gilda Radner playing Rosanne Rosannadanna on SNL, minus the bangs. But I have a really good stylist and a great cut. And I certainly appreciate the fact that it's pretty low-maintenance in the styling department.

Still, vanity has gotten the better of me, too, when it comes to my hair. Up until June of this year, I'd had what is typically referred to as virgin hair; never been dyed, never been permed. And I was proud of that. But thanks to genetics, my hair started to gray early (I found the first full-length one at 24), so over the summer I finally decided to dye it, just to cover up the gray. I was nervous that it would look strange, but practically no one noticed, which was my hope, since I didn't want the change to be drastic or obvious. One of these days, when I'm older, I'll let it go all nice and silver. I think having longer, silvery hair (why do almost all women cut their hair short into a helmet-like do when they reach a certain age?) will look quite striking. But not until I'm 50, let's say. :) Hopefully, it will still be glorious.

October's bright blue weather

O sun and skies and clouds of June
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather.

-Helen Hunt Jackson

The first breath of chill in the air awakens something. An energy that has lain dormant. More than spring, to me, fall conveys its own special brand of verve. Perhaps it's because spring here dives right into summer without pause and the heat is more oppressive than it is welcome, and that it just seems to take more effort to do things slowly.

But this crispness is enchanting, the door cracked to Thanksgiving and Christmas and a peek around the frame to at least a semblance of the season that is in full flush north of here. Even without the vibrant change of color, autumn is an opening of windows at night and an opportunity to (literally) let down my hair from the near-constant buns and ponytails of languid summer, a time for scarves and sweaters; despite the protests of "it's cold" from neighbors, I rarely find it such.

Where I'm From

I stumbled upon this writing exercise while meandering about the internet today (and honestly can't remember how I wound up on the this page in the first place. It links to another, possibly the original template. That led me to this information) and I thought it would be fun. I like writing exercises (yes, I know that makes me strange. I'm ok with being strange) and have fond memories of several I did in various creative writing classes in college. But also, I'm in a non-writing phase at the moment. I tend to beat myself up about this sometimes, but I'm realizing more and more that, as with most things, there is an ebb and flow to that as well. I found myself filling in the blanks out of order as the answers came to me, but I don't think that mattered, ultimately.

 

Where I'm From

 

I am from hand-me-down furniture, from Playskool's "Record your world of sounds" tape recorder, horse models, fairy tales, a Fort Apache play set and the Berenstain Bears.

I am from avocado green appliances, Legos underfoot, the once-despised but now fondly-recalled scent of paper mill, shuttle launches, the combined smell of mothballs and morning coffee, daydreaming under the dining room table, balled up newspaper wars and waking on weekends to The Beatles, the Beach Boys and the Bangles.

I am from my parent's lawn I started mowing at 12, the cherry laurel I'd climb to read "Romeo & Juliet," crepe myrtles, orange trees, gardenias, hydrangeas and pine needles.

I am from pigtails and honey blond hair darkening, Santa gifts left unwrapped on Christmas morning, Disney rides that no longer exist (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea), mom's overflowing tea cabinet, long car trips and going gray early, from Bertolotti and Klockenkemper and Lynes and Wilson.

I am from lengthy reminiscences (which is hardly surprising) and stubbornness from all sides.

From "Annie get your gun," "Don't spin in the piano room chairs," "Pick up your feet" and "Don't say 'hey,' hay is for horses."

I am from cradle Catholics and converts, prayers at meals and bedtime, ("Angel of God, my guardian dear...)," from chastisement for pretending a piece of Trident was a consecrated Host (at 6?), the only girl with no veil at my First Communion, from a mental snapshot of how my mother's hand looked to me as a child while resting on the pew at Mass, my great-grandmother's sterling Rosary which I am never without and hopes for a future unwritten.

I’m from Fort Polk, Louisiana, Mobile, Alabama and rural Illinois, old Dutch New York, Italy, Prussia and Florida (including Key West, which I'll get to someday), from sofrito-based turkey dressing, spinach Lafayette and chocolate pancakes.

From Great Aunt Julia Collins convicted of a murder she didn't commit and sent to the Alabama Insane Hospital, staying even once she was discovered innocent; from my dad who, as a boy started a forest fire playing cowboys and Indians; from Grandpa dropping silken handkerchiefs from his plane to girlfriends he planned to take out that night and my great-great grandfather Obediah Lynes lying about his age and running off to to join the Confederacy.

From old movies and Saturday morning cartoons and late nights reading and college football.

I am from both overflowing boxes of sepia photos with once-heard names scrawled on the back and alphabetized albums arranged by year, from scrapbooks of clippings and attics full of the past, a family tree written on the back of a paper shopping bag, glass-fronted bookcases and Chrysler cars.

I am from these people and things and more than this short list can convey, from stories forgotten and some written down, a hodge-podge and melting pot that can neither be weighed nor found wanting.