The Backyard of the Future and Christmas

Howdy Loyal Readers (Nadine!),

It's been about four months since my last post.

I've been real, real busy. Mostly, I've been thinking a lot about ideas discussed in this post, spending approximately six hours locked in a bathroom, and giving great thought to legally changing my last name to Hammerhead Shark, and these things take a lot of energy. In between I work and sleep, but won't write about the former, as I don't want to get Dooced.

A friend once told me that she knew a guy that built himself an outdoor pizza oven. He even makes his own dough! Needless to say, I've been fascinated with this concept since about May of this year, and have even done a bit of internet research and considered sending away to Australia for the instructional DVD. Step one: Must own house with backyard in which to build outdoor pizza oven. We're on a 2-3 year plan to complete step one.

I've been talking about my longed-for outdoor pizza oven for about six months, as well as our plan to purchase and care for two miniature horses, who, with the aid of a cart, will be responsible for pulling boiled shrimp on ice and beer around at future parties. Everyone in my immediate family thinks this is an amazing idea, or, if not, can't get a word in edgewise to say otherwise.

Last weekend my folks, brother and future sister-in-law visited for the weekend, and the conversation quickly turned, as it so often does, to the pizza oven and miniature horses, to be collectively referred to henceforth at "The Backyard of the Future" or TBOTF.

This is basically how the conversation went down.

Dad: "This is good french onion soup, Robyn, maybe a litte sweet. In the future, maybe don't carmelize the onions quite as much."

Brother: "Where's the meat?"

Mom: "Robyn, I'm surprised that you have become such a good cook. You know who's a good cook? Your brother. He is also very funny/good looking/smart/good at making biscuits."

Brother: "If you're going to bother building an outdoor pizza oven, you should really look into also building a tandoori oven for Indian food."

Dad: "No, no...you could do both tandoori and pizza in the same oven. If you're really thinking of doing this, you should get one of those upside-down Mongolian bells that you can use as a grill."

Brother: "What the hell, Dad? I've never even seen one of those things."

Dad: "You can cook shrimp on those things."

Brother: "I wish I had some shrimp right now, at least there would be some meat with this dinner."

(Husband and future sister-in-law just exchange sympathetic looks)

Robyn: "Fine! If I build the pizza oven, I'll also build a tandoori and somehow secure an upside-down Mongolian bell."

Mom: "What's a mongolian bell?" Subtext: I'll ask (brother) because I know he is smart.

Dad: "Dammit, Nancy, it's just a bell, you cook on it."

Mom: "Oh, thanks (she directs this thanks at my brother)"

We move on to dessert.

This weekend, we were home to shop for wedding dresses with my future sister-in-law, and around the table for dinner we begin discussing what to do for Christmas this year:

Robyn: "I want Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking and a subscription to Oxford American."

Dad: "Only if you give me old issues."

Brother: "I can make a bomb-ass coq au vin."

Mom just roles her eyes. My husband, once again in survival mode, just quietly eats his meal.

Brother: "Robyn, you can't cook French in a pizza oven."

Dad: "We should really think about getting that upside-down Mongolian bell."

Mom: "What's a Mongolian bell?"

Brother: "And a tandoori oven."

Dad: (very excited) "No, scratch that all. For Christmas this year, I want you kids to get out in the backyard and build me an outdoor smokehouse. Now, that is an idea. I would live out there if you kids would just build me an outdoor smokehouse."

Now, dear readers, you see that I come by it naturally. We are an idea family. Execution may be lacking, but we have some big ideas. Big ideas that will build TBOTF.

Montreal

One more thing...

Dyngus Plus Balls, especially me, loves to hate on French Canadians. We don't ACTUALLY dislike French Canadians, we just like to pretend we do (in your free time, look for Triumph the Insult Comic Dog in Montreal on You Tube.)

Anyway, I come by this honestly, as many of you know that my father recently said, at the dinner table, "Look, I'm not saying that I hate the French, I'm just saying that, if I went to Montreal, I might have to kick some ass."

Anyway, Autumn has long been proud of her Canadian (British Columbian, tea-loving, Cougar fearing) heritage. When she moved here last month, though, her father gave me the greatest birthday gift of all. We were talking about her grandmother and Doug (Autumn's dad) casually mentioned that Autumn's grandfather was FRENCH CANADIAN.

I still almost hyperventilate just thinking about the sheer joy of it all.

Dyngus Reunion Tour and Polterwang

First, a lesson. Dyngus is most widely understood to be the state of Andrea, Autumn and I all being in the same geographic location, a great meeting of the minds, but is also the name for Easter Monday in Poland. To wit (and thank you Wikipedia!):

Dyngus Day or Wet Monday (Polish Śmigus-dyngus or Lany Poniedziałek) is the name for Easter Monday in Poland. In the Czech Republic it is called Velikonoční pondělí or Pomlázka. Both countries practice a unique custom on this day.

In Poland, traditionally, early in the morning boys awake girls by pouring a bucket of water on their head and striking them about the legs with long thin twigs or switches made from willow, birch or decorated tree branches (palmy wielkanocne); however, the earliest documented records of Dyngus Day in Poland are from the 15th century, almost half a millennium after Poland adopted Christianity.

Dyngus discovered the existence of this tradition sometime early in our 20s. Mostly we just liked the idea of a holiday where people run around slapping people's legs with pussywillows. A great tradition was born.

Dyngus is a little like Fight Club lite: We can talk about it, but don't really elaborate on his laws and customs. Suffice it to say that there are few things one can do to be evicted from the State of Dyngus, but there are frequent judge's rulings on issues of contention, e.g. "Judge's Ruling: Robyn is an Asshole."

With too-rare exceptions in the form of weekend visits, Dyngus had not convened since August 2003, upon our return from an International Tour in Scotland. As you can imagine, we were most pleased and excited when Autumn made the move to Lawrence this month and Dyngus reunited permanently for the first time since 1996. I know you are all excited too. In celebration of this extraordinary event, we decided to go on a Dyngus Reunion Tour, celebrating Dyngus as well as Andrea's 3oth birthday.

We went over the 4th of July weekend. Our first order of business was to officially discuss and determine a role for Ben, who committed to supporting Dyngus when he married me in October.

We had to have a new name.

When Ben is in residence, we are "Dyngus Plus Balls."

We headed to The Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. We chose The Crescent because it is a haunted hotel, having once been a hospital of sorts, that was featured on an episode of Ghosthunters. My friendship with Andrea and my many nights at her house has opened my mind to the possibility of spirits in the afterlife that stick around, although, with one exception, my exposure to these spirits has largely been limited to the presence of Polterwang, to be described later.

Some highlights and lowlights of our trip:

We ate in Nevada, Missouri at a place called The Cowboy Grill which offered chicken fried chicken (highlight), only to be informed that they were out of gravy (lowlight);

My fellow road-trippers allowed me to listen to three Celine Dion songs on the road trip (highlight, naturally);

The weather was gorgeous and Eureka Springs wasn't nearly as hillbilly as I'd imagined (highlight);

Still, Eureka Springs was hillbilly enough for me to feel comfortable, e.g. signs that said "Pete's Car Wash: Free Hand Job";

They had rocking chairs on the porch (highlight) and unlimited bacon on the breakfast buffet (major highlight);

There is a giant statue of Jesus, called "Christ of the Ozarks" that turned its head to look at me (highlight) but also had boobs (lowlight);

Andrea became overly excited in the glass slag pit of the gift shop and almost severly cut herself (lowlight);

I made that last bit up, mostly, but she was excited (highlight);

Our ghost tour guide thanked me for giving him good eye contact and minimal encouragers on the ghost tour (highlight) but refused to tell me the name of one of the ghosts so that I could summon said ghost in the morgue area (lowlight);

Andrea's GPS system, Angelique, tried to make us drive through a house (lowlight) and Autumn thought were were going to be attacked Deliverance-style, which was hilarious (highlight);

I was able to watch a fascinating show on the 50 states on the History Channel (highlight) but primarily caught information about Ohio (lowlight);

When the tour guide described a ghost that grabs people's ankles in the men's bathroom, I made a very clever joke about Larry Craig (highlight) but only Andrea and the tour guide heard me (lowlight, I hate when my comic genius cannot be shared, see: this blog);

Finally, at midnight on July 4th, my two best friends and my husband all wished me a happy birthday, and, since we were all in the same hotel room, it only took me tour hours to fall asleep, what with the fear of being attacked by ghosts.

In the end, other than getting a creepy feeling a bunch in the hotel, getting a picture of "orbs" that may or may not have simply been my boobs, and Andrea and Ben's insistence that a phantom made the papertowel dispenser dispense an extra towel independent from human movement, the only supernatural activity discovered on the reunion tour was the constant threat of Polterwang, or the effect of appearing to have a boner, (trust me, this is mostly Andrea) when you are female and generally boner-less. At least we think she's boner-less, but still a boner, no doubt.

Strangely, this phantom follows Andrea everywhere she goes.

Go gently, Andrea and her Polterwang, go gently.

Love,
Robyn

30 Years

Howdy!

Just back from two weeks (mostly) away and, having played catch up at the office, ready to regale you all with tales of my adventures. But first...

I just want to thank you all for what proved to be a super fabulous birthday. Whether it was a phone message wishing me a happy birthday, a thoughtful email wishing me a lovely day, gifts that prove you really know me (thanks, Nadine, Lindsey and Brandon, Caitlin, Cristin and Diane), or lovely cards that now reside in a place of pride on the dining room table, I felt really loved, and thank you all for that, as it is the best gift of all, is it not?

I got this (approximate, from memory) message from Caitilin, Cristin and Diane, and I think they said it best:

"What to get you for your 3oth birthday? You already have a handsome hubby, a hysterically funny family, gorgeous friends, and a rockin' degree, so what else is there to get you? Cheese--glorious cheese, with funny names and even funnier smells..."

A membership to the Cheese of the Month Club. Genius. It started with three glorious cheeses that ARRIVED ON MY DOORSTEP like they had been delivered by the Cheese Fairy. It was a miracle. A delicious, delicious miracle. A week later I am still basking in the joy of Jarlsberg.

Thanks, all, it was truly a very, very happy birthday.

Love You,
Robyn

Smarty McSmart Pants

I will *try* not to use this blog to alternately mock/enthusiastically praise my husband, but I wanted to say a few words about his smarts.

Ben decided to go back to school after a lukewarm semester of college in the 90s. When we were first dating, he'd mentioned to me that he'd always fancied the idea of being a social worker, and I pretended to listen while I thought about how dreamy his eyes are. When he moved to Georgia, he attended an orientation day for prospective undergraduates at UGA, and came home feeling dejected and very frustrated. There are many things that I appreciate about my alma mater, but their skills for catering to non-traditional students are not one of them.

As a doctoral student, my anxiety and burgeoning OCD took center stage, and Ben worked at a local coffee shop to bring home the bacon, or, in this case, the free coffee. I was and am very grateful. My husband, then boyfriend, was bored out of his gourd for about three years, though, suffering 4:45 a.m. alarm bells, rude customers, a wildly hypocritical boss, and a revolving door of "I'm sure my band is the next Neutral Milk Hotel" wannabees who invested more in their drug habits than their work ethic or hygeine. That said, for what the boss paid them, I could hardly blame them.

That said additionally, there were a number of amazing people who graced our lives as a result of Ben's time with the beans, namely Seth, Trish, Tyler, Jesse...but I digress....

The upside of Ben's inertia in the coffee world is that it encouraged him to write again, and to take up photography. To hear me tell it, he was a local legend, music critic extraordinaire. To hear everyone else tell it, he was a true fan, with an honest, even-handed criticism of the local music scene that benefitted everyone involved (even that toolbag who wrote him a nasty letter, implying that Ben's lukewarm review of his latest album rendered him "unable to put food on the table for (his) young daughter." Like I said, toolbag. Ben's article and, eventually, photographs were thoughtful, well-executed, and great promotion for struggling, talented bands. Basically, he did it with integrity, and I was so proud of him. Other people noticed, too, and when we left Athens, friends from that part of our life gave him a killer send off, including a beautiful rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" that I still wish I had a recording of.

I should of known from that alone that Ben didn't mess around with his pursuits.

When we moved to Lawrence and I neared completion of my program, Ben decided it was time to give it another go. He started with Introduction to Psychology and I still remember him dragging along a huge textbook on one of our trips south during that first semester. Ben's a sophomore now, still plugging away at our local community college, anticipating a transfer to KU next year, and wowing us all with a 4.0 and a composition paper deemed strong enough for publication. On Sunday nights when his wife pitches a fit about wanting to watch crime dramas on TV, he quietly and patiently advocates for the quiet, and studies when the rest of his world is having a leisurely time.

Here's where I'm impressed: When I was in college, I knew I was fortunate, and I think I used that opportunity pretty fully. Still, my work ethic and my maturity as a student was about 1/8th of what Ben has demonstrated; there are no 2 a.m. starts to papers, last minute emails claiming that something has rendered it impossible for him to be in class today, or classes slept through because he stayed up too late calling 1-800-HOTT-ASS just to see what would happen. (And yes, Kate and I tried nearly all of these types of combinations we could come up with, and most led where you might expect.)

He's making the most of this experience, because he gets what a privilege it is to do what we love.

Now that's smart.

Prayers

This coming Sunday, June 29th, some of our favorite people in the whole world will welcome their third child into the world. His name is Caden, and on that day he and his family (and all of us who love him) will really need your prayers.

Caden is not expected to live long on this earth, and the peace I have in knowing how loved he is and will continue to be has been a real boon to my faith these last few months as his parents and siblings manage this incredibly difficult time.

As the day of his birth approaches, I have done some reflecting on what Caden will be taking with him when he goes to meet his creator. While I prepare to mourn this precious child, I think of what he will have accomplished in his short time on earth, and I'm humbled by these things.

Caden has a mother who is a truly gifted woman. Though we are peers, she has long served as an example to me as a mother, wife, friend, professional and Christian. She has a unique warmth, a fantastic sense of humor, an inspiring work ethic, an awesome recipe for sour cream enchiladas and peanut butter bars, and perfect hair. Five minutes (plus seven months in utero) with this woman as your mother is more than many of us are fortunate to get in a lifetime. Even now that I am seeing her more than I've been able to in the last several years, I still miss her when she's not around.

Caden's father is the kind of man that you would expect the above listed woman to love. They are uniquely matched, made for each other. He's very strong, ethical and kind, which makes him a fantastic father, but for such a gifted man, he's also very humble, bright and exceedingly patient. He's also a very talented writer to boot, and someone from whom I expect more great things. I feel very fortunate to call him my friend, and also fortunate that he has long tolerated my bizarre sense of humor and arguably Socialist political philosophies.

Caden has a brother who is six. I would have loved him because of who his parents are, but now I love him because of who he is. He's also very patient, really, really cute, and one of those rare children in this day and age who prefers to be outside. He's also wise enough at six to observe the world around him, which gives him rare wisdom, insight and empathy for a six year old (or some adults I know.)

Caden also has an older sister. She has red hair that is already enviable. She's stubborn and opinionated and already the kind of girlfriend you want to have around for the long haul, the future righter-of-wrongs and injustices on the playground, in the classroom, and eventually the world. She also has a fabulous fashion sense and an aesthetic appreciation that makes everything more fun--you can tell that she is going to be one of those women who makes everything she touches more beautiful.

Caden also has loving grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends that will surround him while he is here, and an amazing grandmother who will greet him in Heaven when he arrives.

So, while I would give anything for Caden to delay his journey, I am confident that he is ready for it. Please pray for Caden and his family on Sunday.

Grocery Shopping

Our friends Peggy and Justin have been inspiring us lately, cooking meals, sometimes more than one, each day at home. Since I'm back-burner-ing what I must be doing (studying for my licensure exam), I thought I would do something I should be doing, and try cooking at home more. This week has been a good start--a couple hits, a couple misses, and lots of gratitude for this lady Elise who had a recipe blog www.elise.com/recipes who makes cooking easy and doesn't insist that we have a bucket of Saffron for every dish like those chefs on the Food Network do.

There is one exception, though. Her recipe for crab cakes: "1. You'll need 1 1/4 cup of crab meat. This is roughly two, 2 lb. crabs that we picked up from Whole Foods and cracked, resulting in the necessary amount of crab meat."

As if. She assumes four things SERIOUSLY incorrectly about my commitment to crab cakes with this recipe, including 1. Me traveling to Whole Foods, which is about 45 minutes away, 2. Me paying for two live crabs, 3. Me doing anything with live crabs, and 4. Me cracking 2 lbs. of crab legs to get just over 1 cup of crab meat. Please. But I digress.

The downside of all this cooking?  More trips to the grocery store. Now, I know that no one likes going to the grocery store, and that I'm not saying anything revolutionary here. I'm going to describe some highlights of going to the grocery store with my husband here, though, and ask you to determine for yourselves whether or not my hesitation about grocery shopping is somewhat justified.

This is how grocery shopping usually goes down at our house.

Ben: There is nothing to eat. There is no milk.

Robyn: You're a grown ass man. If you want milk, go get some milk.

Ben: (Look of shocked incredulity)

Robyn: (channeling her mother) You're right--I'll make a list and go to the grocery store. 

I gather ideas. I run these ideas by Ben.

Ben: I hate planning what we're going to eat a week in advance. Can't we just play it by ear?

Robyn: You going to cook?

Ben: (Second look of shocked incredulity)

I make the list. Usually I go by myself. If Ben goes, it plays out as follows:

I work my way through the store. Occasionally I may ask that he go find something. Usually he just gets to stand at the meat counter, staring, typically for about ten minutes. If he does go find something, I lose him for thirty minutes. When he returns, he comes back with a forty pound bag of Basmati rice, Dip-n-Dots Ice Cream, a pound of lunch meat with no bread, a lawn torch, and, say, a plastic banana slicer but no bananas. 

None of this is on the list.

Robyn: "Where's the olive oil/Italian dressing/onions?"

Ben: "I couldn't find them. Look at this trail mix!"

I sigh. I politely explain why we don't need a lawn torch. I go find the remaining items. Ben follows me, now, staring longingly at his banana slicer, occasionally getting waylaid by *fascinating* items like yogurt in a tube.

We go to the check out. I unload the cart, as Ben insists that it is a "one person job." I note that he is never that one person. He looks at the candy aisle.

I load the car. Ben holds the cart and watches people. He might put the cart away at this point, but he will sigh while he does it.

We get home. The next few things will occur whether or not Ben has gone to the store with me. 

We begin to unload. Ben informs me that he needs to pee, but he'll be right back to help me unload. When he returns to the kitchen, he lets me know that he is "very" thirsty, and that, after having a drink, he will help me unload. Sometimes he is also "starving" and opens a box of Cheez-Its, snacks, leans against the counter, while I wrap up the unloading.

Ben: "I said I would help you."

I talk to my Mom for sympathy and support.

Mom: "Robyn, your father is the same way. It drives me nuts. Still, you are so lucky. Say "hi" to Ben, tell him we love him!"

Thanks, Mom.

I try to change my way of managing this situation. I leave the room to put the bathroom stuff away. I take a deep breath. I politely express how much I would appreciate the help. I vow to stay out of the kitchen until he is done.

Later on that night, I'll go for a glass of that delicious, coveted milk. All of the non-perishable foods will be in the middle of the table. Entire boxes will be stuffed in baskets. The plastic bags will be on the counter, loose, and not in the recycling. 

I sigh. 

Ben insists that he just doesn't "know where that stuff goes."

Now, dear readers, Ben did approve this post, and wants me to tell you that he's "improved... some...."

The next day, we'll be in the kitchen, getting our breakfast.

Ben: (sigh) "I hate these TLC bars. They're too soft! Next time you should get me the almond ones. I like them better."

Eight Months, ICT, and Dracula

First off, thanks for the comments guys. I appreciate your reading this blog, and I appreciate your being so supportive. I especially appreciate Ben qualifying his last comment by stating that I had not complimented myself. This is important, because, depending on my mood, I may frequently post comments on my own writing. If I'm feeling particularly expansive, it may be something like, "Robyn, your genius is unparalled." If I'm down, I'll employ the old standard assurance that "Everyone is now stupider having read what you've written." I reserve the right to make said comments on the same day, about the same post.

Friday night was our eight month anniversary. In our pre-marital counseling, our minister, Ira, suggested that we make a point of having a difficult discussion each month during the first year of our marriage. While I am adept at cornering Ben for difficult discussions, e.g. Ben: How was your day? Robyn: How do you KNOW that you love me?, it has proven a tall order to come home from work each month on the 13th and start a discussion about how we reconcile our religious differences to raise our children with faith.

So, Friday night, in lieu of said difficult discussion, we opted instead to have dinner and dream big. We sat outside, downtown, which right now smells of lilacs, at a restaurant where my Dad once told me that he took my grandparents in the early 70's. I love this because I had not previously known that my grandfather, James, with whom I was particularly enamoured, had ever been to Lawrence, where we now make our home. It was also nice that the smell of lilacs was heavy in the air; the day that my grandfather died in 1995 was the first time in five years that the lilac bush in our backyard bloomed. The smell has ever since made me feel peaceful.

We talked about our friends and our families in that way that you never really have time for on a typical evening. We even had some of those hard discussions, but it was easier given the time we had for one another.

Many of you know that our car was pre-owned by Satan himself. Let me recount to you the following conversation that Ben and I had on Friday, which I think illustrates his confidence in my ability to diagnose automotive problems:

Robyn: "So, I'm a genius. The car started doing that shake-thing on the way back from Emporia on Wednesday, and instinct told me that I should put my foot undee the brake and pull it towards me as hard as I can. It totally worked."

Ben: (silence)

Robyn: "You're impressed, right? It totally worked!"

Ben: "That may be the smartest thing you've ever said about the car. "

Robyn: (smug smile) "As compared to what?"

Ben: "Everything else you've ever said about the car."

Touche.

On Saturday, Ben and I picked our friend Autumn up from the airport, who was making a last minute trip home from Chicago to see her grandmother, who is very ill. We hated the circumstances, but loved getting to see Autumn. It also gave us the chance to see my folks. They both had a fabulous night, as Dad got to eat German food, and Mom almost passed out when Ben mentioned that he might like it if she would be willing to make him a t-shirt quilt. I'll recount that conversation here:

Ben: "So, Nancy, we did all this cleaning this week (Mom looks peaceful when we mention cleaning) and I have all of these old t-shirts that I don't want to get rid of (Mom's heart begins to beat faster) and I was wondering if you would be willing to make me a t-shirt quilt...."

Mom: "Yes, YES, YES YES YES YES YES" (that may be exaggerated somewhat, but I swear she got louder and people at the restaurant looked up with fear at the commotion.

See, here's my Mom's priorities (through me, you'll see):

1. Matt
2. Ben
3. Dad
4. Simplifying her home
5. Quilts
6. Me

She has been trying to make a quilt for Ben and I since we first met, and his dislike of quilts may be the only thing that keeps Ben's place at #2 precarious. She has frequently suggested that she make a "manly quilt" or "just something small for the wall" and Ben has elegantly declined, so, to cope, she has to go back to her default discussions of how smart/handsome/funny/good at making biscuits my brother is.

As a result of Saturday's discussion, Ben may rival Matt for #1. I can just hear it now: "Robyn, Ben is so smart/handsome/funny/appreciative of a good quilt."

On Sunday, we had a late dinner with one Andrea Peterson. I'd like to briefly share a discussion we had during dinner, and assure you that this is not at all atypical for a discussion with Andrea.

For background, I'll offer that we were discussing "Interview with a Vampire" and suggesting alternate casting for the part of Lestat, played by Crazy Tom Cruise.

Robyn: "Would you have sex with a vampire?"

Andrea: "That's a stupid question. Everyone knows that vampires can't have sex."

Robyn: "Is it the blood thing?"

Andrea: "Well, yes, and the fact that they have no other juices, if you know what I mean."

Robyn: "Could they somehow harvest the juices, if they want to have kids."

Andrea: "No, Robyn (hint of smug condescension, regarding my obvious lack of vampire knowledge) they cannot."

Ben: "Then why does stabbing a vampire in the heart kill him/her (but let's be honest, usually him) if it isn't a blood thing."

Andrea: "If you, say, cut a vampire in half, the blood they drank goes everywhere. It's food. It's not, like, running through their veins."

Ben: "What about vampire IVF?"

Hysterical laughter. Even we realize, at a point, that our dicussions are stupid.

Have a good Monday.

Over Eager!

Every year on New Year's Eve, I try to say a prayer of thanks for the year before, and then set some goals (btw, goals are wholly distinct from resolutions, I'm sure you understand.) Last week, I was cleaning out the file cabinet where I've hoarded my papers, projects and related anxiety from higher education for the last decade, and I found a list of said goals from 2001. Much of this list made me laugh, a couple of items reminded me of my failures (running shoes? a half-marathon? really?) but lots of it was done, and that made me smile, and encouraged me to give myself a bit of a break on the self-deprecating tip.

I thought I would start another list, here, so that you all can keep me honest:

I would like to build a pizza oven in my backyard like Angela's friend in Kansas City did. Then, I would like to have you all over for homemade pizzas;

I would like to get one of those big metal tubs that you see in Southern Living, which I'm pretty sure is just an old metal bathtub (yet, somehow, looks un-used and never rusty in the magazine pictures) to fill with beer and soda when you come over for above-listed pizza parties;

I would like to learn to put my hair up in those funky up-do's that look effortless but surely are not;

I would like to find, purchase and cultivate a wardrobe of clothing that does not entirely come from Old Navy, and wear pants that don't have a button missing;

I would then like my friends to explain my look as "classic and timeless."

I would like to be kinder to my husband when he isn't in the mood for chips and salsa;

I would like to understand how someone can't like chips and salsa;

I would like to continue loving cheese, but set a higher standard of quality for the cheeses I consume (smoked gouda? you bet! velveeta? rarely. American cheese slices? Let them go.)

I would like to hand write letters more often, professing my love for you all, that are well-written enough that you will keep them to use as bookmarks, etc...

Maybe it is because I turn 30 in 21 days. Maybe it is because I find myself wanting to buy a home and fill it with some children but know that we are not yet ready for that. Maybe it is because I have been reading "Eat, Pray, Love" and "Julie and Julia" (thanks, Lindsey and Wilcox) and they have been inspiring me to try something new. Maybe it is because I mentioned to Pete and Ben last night at dinner that I would like to try to write a book, which was more than just an attempt to start conversation, and a definite improvement of my recent comment that I was "looking forward to the changing of the seasons." Maybe it is because I wanted to spend this summer at a lighthouse in Croatia, learning to cook with seafood, but needed to stay in Kansas instead. Maybe it is because I alternate most days between feeling overwhelmed by the work that needs doing, then bored, and then guilty for not living with the constant recognition that I/we are incredibly fortunate. Maybe it is because this blog thing is free. Maybe it is because many of the people I love most in the world are beyond my arms reach now. Maybe it is because I promised myself I was going to write a book with this title when I was seventeen, in the library at Wichita Northwest High School.

Whatever it is, I am feeling compelled to challenge myself to write something everyday. In my mind, it's going to be really funny, when in truth, most days it probably won't be. I can count on one hand the number of jokes I've made in the last five years that were actually funny, so you may be holding out for awhile.

This one was funny, though: Ben and I got rid of television about two years ago now, because I have impulse control problems, because we are too poor for cable, and because I needed to write my dissertation. I've found myself in those two years telling people that we don't have a TV, mostly because I feel out of the loop on what happened on The Office the night before, but occasionally because it makes me feel a bit intellectual and like the professor I had in college who hadn't seen television in 20 years. I'm not sure why I thought that was cool at the time. Anyway, when I am not the embodiment of very person that this is making fun of, I like to tell people that "I don't watch television, I read" in a snotty tone. Then, when they ask what I'm reading, I tell them that I'm reading TV Guide.