One Could Do Worse

I love the smell of flip-flops in the morning.

2010-08-07T11:06:00.000-07:00

These arrived in the mail today. I ordered them online last week, having finally surrendered to this empirical truth: Old Navy flip-flips are the only brand in the known universe that are reliably cheap, comfy, and durable.

In other news, at some point in the last couple years I've become more allergic to mosquito saliva. I've got four quarter-sized knots throbbing away as we speak. But my will is strong.

Also, here's a poem fragment I wrote to a prompt a while ago, that's probably not going to end up anywhere.

Prompt: X-ray

High school choir grooved
middle C into my vocal chords,
made tight rope of my throat muscles,
leathered my lungs. Five lazy years later,
would an X-ray today show scar tissue
or the remission of promise?

Gradu-what?

2010-07-25T21:05:00.000-07:00

Well, it's done. I am no longer a BYU-Idaho student (and yes, that punctuation is correct; in the past three years The Powers That Be have changed the university title adjoiner from the em dash to the en dash to the lowly hyphen).

Weird. But cool. (Being a graduate. Not the punctuation demotion.)

The commencement and convocation ceremonies were very nice, though the latter didn't end until 9:30 PM, by which time I was so tired and overstimulated that I had a very difficult time handling the sudden intersection of so many divergent aspects of my life -- my dad, stepmom, siblings, and grandmother, Rexburg itself, Brother Samuelson, Liz and Jacob, and Gary Benson -- there in the stuffy foyer of the Kirkham building in that stupid hat that kept falling off with every hug and photoshoot attempt.

Ah well. Afterward Dad bought me a huckleberry shake from Arctic Circle, which helped. Then they dropped me off and I sobbed hysterically into my pillow for twenty minutes and fell asleep all crusty-eyed. Which also helped.

I guess I'll go to England now.

:)

Still on the dog thing...

2010-04-29T11:52:00.000-07:00

So, I've been compiling a list of dog breeds I want to own someday, arranging them into groups of three, and brainstorming names for them. Because I think this is a really good use of my time right now. Assuming an average lifespan of 12 years per dog, and assuming I won't want more than three dogs at any given time, in order to own one each of the following breeds I need to start fifteen years ago and live to be 154. Hm. Still, this was fun.

Note: A few breeds are interchangeable to me, as is indicated by slashes (/).

GROUP ONE

Leonberger: Orson or Ursa

Brittany: Bourbon

Boxer: Augustus ("Gus")

GROUP TWO

Weimaraner/Viszla: Nickel/Penny

Australian Kelpie: Oz

Briard: Filibuster

GROUP THREE

Australian Shepherd: Matilda

Chesapeake Bay Retriever: Charlotte

Basenji: Yosemite

GROUP FOUR

Standard Schnauzer/Kerry Blue Terrier: Moses

Doberman Pinscher: Turtle

Akita: Ticonderoga ("Ty")

GROUP FIVE

Schipperke: Escher

Borzoi/Afghan Hound: Baryshnikov

Airedale Terrier: Wallace

GROUP SIX

Pharoah Hound/Ibizan: Niles

Norfolk Terrier: Graham

Bernese Mountain Dog: Stella

GROUP SEVEN

Great Dane: Horatio

Shiba Inu: Kismet

Standard French Poodle: Wellington

GROUP EIGHT

Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever: Chloe

English Foxhound: Hugh

Canaan Dog: Jerusha

GROUP NINE

Belgian Tervuren: Wagner

Black Russian Terrier: Trotsky

Finnish Spitz: Terwilliger

Group Ten

Newfoundland: Noah

Dachshund (miniature smooth): Shoe

Yorkshire Terrier: Pudding

Group Eleven

Border Collie: McCoy

Kuvasz: Magellan

Gordon Setter: Charlemagne

Group Twelve

Rottweiler: Grissom

Siberian Husky/Malamute: Mush

Rhodesian Ridgeback: Malcolm

Puppy Love

2010-04-19T17:08:00.000-07:00

I discovered this (and last) year's Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is on hulu. Watching it, I was incensed anew that the Leonberger is still not yet recognized by the WKC. What is wrong with these people?

I mean, look at this. Is this not the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?!

Also, HUGE. Oh my gosh. His paw is the size of her FACE.

They have friggin' GOLDEN EYES, okay?

And GIANT BUSHY TAILS,

which they sometimes carry curled in a highly adorable fashion.

In addition, they are brave and noble altruists, rescuing wanderers in the Swiss Alps in their spare time...

... and are 100% safe around small animals.

Basically, coolest dog ever. I so want one. Highfive.

"The Amen of Nature is always a Flower." --Oliver Wendell Holmes

2010-04-16T21:25:00.000-07:00

Finished.

2010-04-07T21:54:00.000-07:00

I am finally done with this 18-credit, 15-hour-work-week, grad-school-application-deadlined semester, and should finish with a 3.75 GPA.

Booyah, Bully, and Ballyhoo.

And now, in the words of John Travolta in drag, "Ah'm g'nuh goo d'bed; Ah'm s'tawrd." I feel an overwhelming need to sleep, watch hours of mindless television, and saturate various surfaces with ink and paint -- in which activities I now have a glorious week and a half to indulge before the next semester starts up. The last semester of my undergraduate career. Gulp.

Anyway, sorry if I haven't been responsive in the blogging or facebook worlds; my online socializations are usually the first casualties of stress. I love you all! Thanks for being awesome.

2010-02-07T18:51:00.000-08:00

All mankind is of one author, and is one volume. When one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice -- but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another.

John Donne

Meditation XVII

Wrapping Up

2009-12-13T15:01:00.000-08:00

"Painting: the art of protecting flat surfaces from the weather and exposing them to the critic." --Ambrose Bierce

Tomorrow morning, I turn in my creative writing portfolio. We were given the option of creating an illustrated cover. Because my longest and, reportedly, most promising piece of writing is about my summer job at an Alaskan fish cannery, this is what I came up with:

This is also a reference to frequent reminders in class to adhere to the Fish Head Principle of Editing, to wit, "cut it off!"

Thanksgiving Notes

2009-11-30T17:02:00.000-08:00

Liz, Jacob, and I had a lovely little feast on Wednesday (see Liz's blog or my food blog for details and photos) so that Jacob could be with his family on Thursday. I spent all Tuesday evening and the better part of Wednesday in the kitchen, and was so happy to have the time, money, and motivation to do so. I love, love, love cooking for myself and good friends.

Thursday morning at ten o'clock I attended the annual Thanksgiving Community Concert at the tabernacle. It was a joyful event in a handsome setting. The opening number was a choral arrangement of several phrases from the 55th chapter of Isaiah, the twelfth verse in particular:

For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

This struck me quite forcefully because, a few weeks ago, I went on a prayer/meditation walk, culminating in a (tentative) Big Life Decision, which was greeted immediately by a sudden stiff breeze that sent the topmost leaves of a nearby birch tree into a noisy, frantic flapping. It startled me; the sound was so loud, and so unlike anything I'd ever heard out of a tree. I exclaimed to myself, "That tree! It's clapping its hands!"

(Of course, I was very pleased with the poetic-ness of this idea, and thought myself very clever and original. Now I find out Isaiah was there 3,000 years ahead of me. Ah well.)

After the concert, I went to the Samuelsons' home. Brother Samuelson had invited me for Thanksgiving the previous week. I helped him and his wife with dinner, chatted with his mother, met their kids and grandkids and friend, Paula Soper, who is another professor in the English department, ate a wonderful, noisy meal on a clothed ping-pong table set for fourteen, petted cats, sang songs of praise, and sampled five kinds of pie. They are a beautiful family and it meant a lot to me to spend this holiday with them.

After the main festivities I was invited to stay and watch a Christmas movie. I wanted to, but was tired from three days of Thanksgiving-prep, so I took a rain check and was driven home where I walked into a sparkling clean kitchen -- courtesy of one golden-hearted LizAnne Whittaker.

I think I was asleep by 8:45. And very cozily, happily, gratefully so.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Well, it's finally snowing.

2009-11-22T15:39:00.001-08:00

And though I'm sad to see autumn go, I'm grateful that it lasted as long as it did. I walked to WalMart and back on Friday, and thoroughly enjoyed it. That's pretty amazing. For Rexburg.

Saw Julie and Julia last night with Liz and her mom, and adored it. Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci are absolutely delightful. And the food -- ! I'm totally revved for Thanksgiving. It's Epicake Time.

Speaking of gratitude and Liz, I want to express how much of the former I feel for and toward the latter. I so admire her gentleness, brilliance, and generosity.

Happy Thanksgiving!

"Just one more question for ya, ma'am..."

2009-11-18T09:42:00.000-08:00

Star Trek. Warner Brothers. The Lion in Winter. I, Claudius. David Attenborough. My Fair Lady. And Columbo. These are the movie and television staples on which I was raised. (Oh all right; and Murder She Wrote. But that's not as cool.)

Netflix recently made available for Instant View almost all of the original 1970s Columbo episodes. Being an indolent leech on the flank of society has its advantages; I've gotten through twelve episodes so far. It's so much fun to rewatch these as an adult.

Columbo is unique among murder-mystery series in that the viewer knows from the beginning whodunit -- most episodes open by actually showing a character (usually played by a semi-famous guest star) plan and execute a murder. This allows the show to be unusually psychological and character-driven; any suspense one feels is felt in identification with the killer, as Columbo lays his traps and pokes and prods and manipulates.

Peter Falk is shrewd and endearing in the part. One of the main draws of the show is seeing what sort of rapport Columbo will develop with the murderer, who is sometimes very charming and likable, sometimes guilt-ridden, sometimes perceptive enough to see right through Columbo's strategic bumbling and bold enough to call him on it. The quality of the acting also varies from the unashamedly melodramatic to the surprisingly genuine. Overall, I find the series much more natural and subtle than most of the slick, shiny, over-produced television of today.

And of course, much of the fun comes from the "period piece" factor. Bad suits, strange soundtrack choices, "cutting edge" camera techniques, shag carpet, and sexism abound -- not to mention delightfully smarmy guest stars like George Hamilton and Jack Cassidy! What's not to like?

Some of the very best (IMO) eps are, sadly, not available. But here are a few recommendations from among those that are:

Season 1:

Death Lends a Hand

Suitable for Framing

Season 2:

A Stitch in Crime

The Most Dangerous Match

Double Shock

Season 4:

An Exercise in Fatality

By Dawn's Early Light

Season 6-7:

Old Fashioned Murder

How to Dial a Murder

Try and Catch Me

Murder under Glass

Make Me a Perfect Murder

Seriously, so awesome!

2009-10-27T19:14:00.001-07:00

In class the other day, my writing professor had us look at and discuss this blog as a great example of... well, you'll see.

Seriously, so blessed!

HOUSE funny

2009-10-20T07:58:00.000-07:00

After a disappointing premier and second episode, season 6 of HOUSE seems to be back on track. The last three eps have been great, and next week's installment looks awesome, too. Anyway, here is the grumbling exchange Liz and I had with Hugh Laurie's televised image last night.

Annie: Aw, put your glasses back on.

Liz: And grow your hair out.

Annie: And take off your shirt.

I was reminded of GOB's office-closet encounter with Kitty in Arrested Development. Apparently Liz and I are pigs who like to control and objectify the men in our lives. (Watch out, Jacob.)

Blessings

2009-10-15T19:46:00.000-07:00

I've been poor this semester. Like, super-poor. Like, will-I-be-able-to-pay-rent poor. My only steady income has come from my twice-weekly visits to the plasma center. The following is a list of the unexpected ways the Lord has helped me through to the point where I now know I have enough for next month's rent and I was able to spend forty dollars on groceries.

1. Sold a painting to a professor couple in town.

2. Reimbursed for a school library book I thought I lost last semester but which I found two weeks into this semester. Usually they would have purchased a replacement, but they hadn't, so they were able to pay me back.

3. Checks from Mom and Grammy.

4. Free potluck dinners (ward activity, Brit Lit reunion).

5. Sold my old peacoat.

6. Won first place poetry, honorable mention poetry, and honorable mention creative nonfiction, which apparently come with cash prizes, at the English department's Pre-professional Conference (didn't know that when I entered).

7. Generous friends and roommates (thank you, Liz, Sarah, Julie, and Lauren).

8. Bank teller flubbed a deposit; gave me thirty extra dollars (I didn't notice until later, and as it was a cash deposit, there was no way to "correct" the "mistake").

9. Dish duty for three roommates, at 2 dollars per week per roommate.

10. Practically everything I've wanted to buy has happened to be on sale when I went to buy it: canned beans, cucumbers, potatoes, cottage cheese, eggs, cauliflower... even my own particular brand, variety, and scent of deodorant (usually $4-something, yesterday $1.79).

It may not seem like much, but most of these occurrences came at times when I was just about at the end of my rope. So I feel very well cared for, indeed. And I am so grateful.

Complexion Woes

2009-10-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

I've been bitten by the pimple vampire.

Not one, but two massive eruptions are presently festering on my upper lip, less than an inch away from each other. Usually one would be minor -- a mere foothill on the cusp of Everest. But these are both monsters.

I know their kind. They'll never come to a head; they'll just throb and redden for another week or so and then turn hard, squat under my skin for a month, and finally start to recede with all the alacrity of a glacier. The marks will still be visible at Christmas.

I don't have this problem back home; Idaho's dry climate must be throwing my oil glands into panicked overdrive. Ingrates. Don't I bathe them twice daily in Olay's finest Oil-Free Facial Lotion? Don't I drink plenty of water, eat healthy food, and keep exfoliated and squeaky clean? Haven't I been good to you, skin?

What have I done to deserve this?

Creative Nonfiction

2009-10-09T17:49:00.000-07:00

On Berries and Their Preservation

Last summer passed in a purple haze -- though my drug of choice was a little on the sweet side. The upper ocean-side corner of Oregon, just west of the Cascade Mountains, is a soggy paradise where soil and sun and mulling rain conspire to produce the plushest berries on the continent. It was my first summer spent at home since turning eighteen. I confess I went a bit mad. Five straight years of Idaho's sagebrush summers will do things to a nice Pacific Northwestern girl. I couldn't get enough of that ripe, sticky tang.

My father and young siblings observed my record-breaking intake with mounting disbelief, predicting acid overload and gastric disaster. But Julie, my stepmom, laughed at my enthusiasm -- and encouraged it. We sneaked off to the local u-picks, morning after misty morning, always racing the weariness and pain which would usually level her before noon. She was in week four of a sixteen-week course of chemotherapy when berry season began. Picking soothed her, she said, though her shredded intestines didn't permit her to eat much fruit.

"Being outside," she'd say, "in the morning air, with the birds, and a full bucket... I feel like all's well with the world. Besides," she'd add with a smile, "you're eating enough for both of us."

I certainly was. For three months I glutted my way through each berry in its turn. Strawberries -- Hood strawberries, or forget it -- come first, lumpy-headed, flooding the mouth so syrupy-quick the tongue burns hot for an instant. Raspberries next, needling the jaws on their way down. Then the dear sweet blueberries, which grow thorn-free at eye-level in the most accommodating little bunches, tumbling en masse into the bucket at the touch of a skillful gatherer. I loved them all.

But it wasn't enough. I knew it wouldn't last. I wanted to seal up my summer for later enjoyment; I wanted to bring Oregon's crown jewels with me, back here to the desert. Julie was a seasoned jelly-maker. Canning jars were on sale at Wal-Mart. And the big cane berries were coming on hard.

We planned our campaign carefully. The day after her next treatment, when the steroids lacing her chemo cocktail still had her system ramped and buffered against fatigue, we left a sleeping household behind and headed for farmland. We picked for hours, shedding layers as the sun rose, grateful for the groomed rows of broad-leaved brambles that towered over and shaded us. Black-skinned, red-blooded marionberries. Fat, lusterless boysenberries. Loganberries long as my thumb. We picked enough, and kept right on picking. We bolted straight through Too Much, took a sharp turn at Ridiculous, and arrived at last at Utter Insanity.

"Don't tell Dad," Julie muttered as she wrote the check. Ninety cents a pound, and we were still blowing the budget. I felt giddy as a bank thief as we loaded the trunk and made our getaway.

The kitchen was cool and welcoming; we had scrubbed and sterilized it the night before in preparation. We washed, tied ourselves into aprons, and laid out our bowls, spoons, and measures with surgical precision. Julie showed me how to bind the berries in fine white cheesecloth and hang them over a bowl. Suspended there, they smothered in their own weight, tender skins hemorrhaging and draining.

"Let them drip," she chided, when my impatient hand attempted a surreptitious squeeze. "You want only the juice, and you want it clear, concentrated -- like wine."

Turns out patience is the one great secret of jelly-making; the rest is all there on the yellow back of the Sure-Jel package. The cook need only bring to the kitchen a stout perseverance -- and, if desired, an appreciative eye for the magic of the process.

Once collected, the rich, glassy juice is splashed into a pot and boiled with gelatin and a little butter. At the right moment sugar is added, which stalls the boiling; the liquid thickens and darkens and seems to turn on itself, brooding and panting like something alive. Stir, and stir, or the sugar will burn; spoon through rosy foam to gut the deep, rolling red. Get drunk on the color, the motion, the smell. Bring the pot to a second, howling crisis, then funnel it quick into clean warm glass. Once metal-capped, the jars are ready for final processing: a five-minute immersion in hot bubbling water.

Night had fallen by the time we finished our last batch. We were spattered and soaked with that hard-won juice, which started out a wet, raw red and then faded to blue and finally grey as it dried. The gradation of color on skin became a clock, marking the layered labor of hours. The stains on Julie's hands were at the purple stage and matched exactly the strange bruises there -- hallmarks of the chemotherapy that disturbed her almost as much as the baldness. I admired her long, tapered fingers and delicately dimpled knuckles as she tightened the silver ring around the neck of each finished jar -- fifty-two in all. Water droplets gleamed white against her darkened skin. I labeled each lid, she adjusted her hot pink bandana, and we filled up the pantry with tomorrow's perfection.

15 September 2009

for the Record

2009-10-07T20:18:00.001-07:00

This blog is about to begin. And so is my NyQuil-induced coma. So bye. For now.

First Real Post

2009-03-27T10:30:00.000-07:00

...and I'm going to spend it torturing myself with wishful thinking (and lots of purty pictures).

I love Oregon. I miss it. Someday I'll live there again, near the Columbia River Gorge, fifty miles northeast of Portland, in a small corner of heaven known as the Hood River Valley.

This is Mt. Hood, one of the highest peaks of the Cascades. She's my mountain.

But most of the time she likes to hide, like this.

This is Washington State's Mt. Adams,

the other peak visible from the valley.

This is the woodsy-watery-ness that makes Oregon awesome.

This what autumn (my favorite season)

looks like in the Hood River Valley.

And this is what spring (a very worthy season, too) looks like.

These are the delicious crops grown in the Hood River Valley.

This is the sort of house my friends and I will live in, commune-style,

when we move together to the Hood River Valley.

The End.