But... I still love chocolate...

I am a dark chocolate lover--the darker the better. I eat all the dark chocolate mini's that everyone else avoids, my chocolate milk usually looks more like coffee, and I rarely to eat ice cream unless it has some sort of rich chocolate flavor. At the risk of being repetitive, I am a dark chocolate lover.

That doesn't mean I hate all things vanilla, cause I don't. I wouldn't turn down vanilla ice cream on a chocolate brownie (though I'd still prefer the chocolate) and I do like a little bit of vanilla squirted into my root beer when I visit the fountain drink, but I can't think of anything vanilla flavored I prefer over its chocolate counterpart except... nope, there isn't anything.

But here's the rub--sometimes, vanilla is just better for you. Sometimes it's easier to come by. Why does it seem like vanilla is always available... always the one that picks me while I dream longingly of chocolate? I do know that too much of a good thing is just that--too much. I once nibbled on a corner of a 99% cocoa chocolate bar and it was awful--even as I write this sentence my face is crinkling at the memory I wish I could forget. Somehow even after that I still choose chocolate over vanilla every singly time. Maybe though, it's time for my taste to mature. They say that your tastes can change with age, and maybe it's time to find the virtue in vanilla. After all, vanilla is sweet and smooth and pleasant. It's just not exciting. I grew up on chocolate and peanut butter and almond brickle and fireworks, so vanilla is just a little bit of a let down. I grew up with flying dinner rolls, green eggs and ham, family dances complete with air guitar tennis rackets, water fights, and the perfect concentration of dark chocolate. These treasured memories don't make vanilla wrong, they just make it... vanilla.

And no matter what I try and do, it seems I can't give up my dreams of chocolate, even in the face of high-quality vanilla that is both readily available and eager to be tasted.

What can I do? I am in love with chocolate.

New Job

I recently started a new job in a rehab center/nursing home facility. I love my job. Obviously there are days that I feel like will never end and there are people I would just as soon not work with some days (for example the naked 300+ pound man I walked in on the other day. Not great), but all in all, work is wonderful.

There is something magic about watching people get stronger, watching their face when the turn and see how far they walked for the first time in weeks or longer. I love the feeling of watching someone stand up when they thought they couldn't, or the look of surprise when they were able to safely transition from their chair to their bed without a mechanical lift. Empowerment is a majestic virtue.

I also find that I enjoy the feeling that, to my surprise, more often than not I do know what I'm doing. Although I still feel like some days I have to make it up as I go along, for the most part I feel capable and in control. I have had lots of training, and if I stay smart and don't hurt myself I can enjoy this profession for many years to come.

Best of all though, I love working with the elderly population. For them, words like "hard work", "honor", and "independence" mean something that perhaps my own generation has not yet grasped. To listen to their experiences and to learn from their examples is a valuable training by itself, but to watch them work through constant pain and aches that I cannot even begin to conceptualize or understand is inspiring. I can be a better person. I can work harder, run longer, figure out more of my own problems, and appreciate better the good things in my life because the people I am suppose to be helping are teaching me to do so. What an amazing profession!

Birthdays

I am watching the clock as I write this late post and the last few minutes of my 26th year draw to a close. It has been a great year, really. I finally graduated from school, I got my first real person job, I learned to crochet and rock climb (though I haven't yet learned to do the two simultaneously) and I have at long last settled into a ward where I can stay for more than a few weeks--they even gave me a calling. And now, in a few hours, I will officially be 27 years old.

I'm not sure when it is that I am suppose to start feeling like I am getting old. When we are kids we delight in squealing out our age complete with stubby finger visuals to anyone who will ask us and many who don't (though of course they want to know, we reason). When we hit middle school and high school we suddenly want to act and be perceived as older than we really are and we dress, speak, act, and even think to that end. When is it then, that a woman is suppose to give the demure reply of, "I'd rather not say" when asked her age? I am short for my age, short in general really, so sometimes I surprise people whose vision isn't strong enough to see the budding bags under my eyes when I tell them my age. 27. It really isn't all that old, and I honestly don't feel that old. I still have lots to accomplish and I still feel a little like my child-self spouting pudgy fingers and half-baked sentences to anyone foolish enough to listen.

What will this year bring? I am different now at 26 than I was at 25. I am older--the high school dream finally reached I feel and even act a little older and (dare I say it?) maybe even a little more mature. How will I feel at the end of 27? Who will I be? Perhaps that is why we exchange gifts on birthdays--to help us to remember that the greatest gift we get--the greatest present if you will excuse my pun-- is our very own present-a reality we can unwrap and mold and uncover for a whole year.

I devote the last 10 minutes of my 26th year to gratitude. Gratitude to my Heavenly Father who gave me this year and the opportunities in it, gratitude to my parents who supported and sustained me through the various trials that were sent my way, gratitude to the army of family members and friends who took me in as I scoured the country like a migrant worker carrying everything I own in the back of my little car. I am grateful to the people I met for letting me into their lives and hearts, for their ability to "warm and clothe and feed" their guest, and sometimes go so far as to "lay them on their couch to rest" I am grateful to my car who made the journey with me and didn't break down once. I am grateful for my family members as they continue to support me, house me, feed me, and even have a rather lavish party planned for tomorrow--the most pomp and circumstance my birthday has seen in years. I am grateful most of all to my Savior. For His gift to me in not only the ability to be forgiven for the countless stupid and selfish decisions I make but for His grace which allows me to try and become what I long to be and am not--an instrument in His hands, doing His work in His way.

I pray 27 might be as wonderful as 26. Bring on the ribbons--I'm about to unwrap another year.

America the Beautiful

Every now and then I feel moved to become an artist. It runs in my family--my mother, my grandmother, and especially my great grandmother on my dad's side are all accomplished painters. Mom use to sell her toll-painted projects, Grandma's artwork fits right in with the other beautiful watercolor pieces on display in her home, and my Great-Grandma won first prize in the state fair with her painting of the lion and the lamb. You might think, as do I, that it probably runs in my blood and though buried deep, some magical day if I hold my tongue right and am smiled on by the mystical art nymphs I too will graduate from stick figures. Once I actually made a very convincing pencil-drawing of an empty toilet paper roll I tried a full roll with less success. Not even kidding. That being said, I have had the blessing to spend the last year as a migrant, living out of my car and moving every few months. In some ways it was a little difficult or lonely but mostly it was exciting and adventurous to meet so many wonderful new people and see so much of this amazing country. One of my new friends I met on this cross-country pilgrimage asked me the other day which area I liked best, and in thinking about it I decided I should write about the beauty of the various places I have been.

Any discussion about beautiful scenery will always need to start with home--Texas, in my case. My beloved home state is characterized by unbridled skies, long flat vistas, searing muggy heat that still surprises me with its intensity, and (in spite of most people's Hollywood-inspired perceptions) large leafy trees that provide useless shade and look even bigger than they are because the aren't forced to compete with mountains for breaking up the skyline. Like most people, there is that additional ethereal  "being home" beauty that is no more imagined than it is inexpiable.

Although Utah wasn't part of my "around-the-country-tour" last year I did spend several years there in school and have visited at least once each year since my graduation in 2009. Utah is rugged and imposing, majestic and almost violent in its beauty. The view from Bryce Canyon is quite literally breathtaking.



 
After graduating in Utah I went to Spokane, Washington right up by Coeur D'alene, Idaho for grad school. Spokane was too cold in the winter for my taste, but the other seasons were lovely. There are no large mountains where I was living, though they are readily available for the many outdoor enthusiasts in the area but there are rolling hills all through the city. Many of the roads have to be closed down in the winter because even with salt and snowplows the steep hills the roads are built on make them impassable. It is very green there, but my favorite part of the city is the diversity of everything; the people, the landscape, the weather, and even the restaurants. There is one in downtown Spokane where you can get deep fried Oreos if you know to ask for them.

Medford, Oregon was full of orchards. I was able to work one day in a pear orchard and even though I was there in the winter when most of the leaves were gone pictures of what the orchard sprang into mere weeks later were bright and friendly and beautiful. Medford also has moss, foliage, wildflowers, and blackberries everywhere and frothy fog most mornings.  Even in the winter, Medford was friendly.

Vancouver, Washington was also green, but green barely begins to describe it. Who knew there could ever be so very many shades of green in one place at one time? Vancouver is perhaps one of the most gorgeously lush places I have ever been. It did rain almost every day while I was there, and the resulting carpet of luxuriant forestry is amazing. Glistening lakes and rivers accent the forests of the region.

Last, I end up in Arizona. Going from Vancouver to Arizona was a bit of a culture shock, but even Arizona has its own beauty. Mysterious and romantic, the desert rolls out as a deadly force of heat and hard-fought survival in a world of dust, painted rocks, cacti, and brilliant neon sunsets. This will be my new home.

 

And so I am left to marvel at the beauty of the country I live in and for the moment I am left to leave the artistry up to the Creator while I marvel in his skill and diversity.

Tony Horton makes me cry... I hate him, but I love him

In life, there are some things you do just because they are good for you. Eating beets, washing behind your ears, making your bed, and balancing your checkbook are just examples of this phenomenon. For me, exercise falls in this category. I like feeling strong--being able to run up a few flights of stairs without being winded, able to carry groceries and boxes, able to work all day as walking, standing, pushing and lifting people back to health and not be exhausted at the end of the day. I also enjoy the feeling at the end of a workout, like I finished something hard and now it's out of the way. Mostly though, I feel like I have to work out because I tell people every day to stay in shape and exercise, so if I don't do it too then I feel guilty. All that to say, working out is not on my list of things-to-do-for-fun or even things-to-occupy-myself-with-when-I'm-bored.

This summer me and my sister have been trying to do P90X; an exercise program designed to either kill you or make you really strong after 13 weeks of difficult daily workouts that last between 60 and 90 minutes each. Disgusting, crazy, painful, and stupid can all be used to describe this behavior, but still we persist. I suppose if you piled up all the time people spend making their beds (not necessarily me, as my time may not add up to much) that may be seen as overboard too, right? Bottom line is that it is hard and difficult. We are sore every day after the previous day's work out, and it seems like we switch daily which of us has to work to diligently persuade the other to work out that day. Still, we can't stop because we've already put so much time and effort into what we've dune thus far that it seems wasteful at this point to not just go ahead and finish the program to see if at the end we are indeed either dead or fit. We are on week 6 and the jury is still out on which  if either state is the case.

Perhaps the worst part of the workout, however, is Tony Horton--the man who runs each workout.  He is super muscular (perhaps proving that bronze and brains don't always go together?) and he is cheerful and consistent, but somehow listening to him every day trying to be funny with the same jokes over and over again is more than a little exhausting. The following are all actual quotes from the workout videos.

"Don’t stop breathin’. You stop, you die." wonderful advice, really. "Tip of the day-don’t smash your face." again with the helpful advice. "Like a pterodactyl backing out of trouble. Kah!" this one, wouldn't be so bad if he didn't use it on several workouts, which means by the end of the 13 weeks you have  heard it over 30 times. "Go ahead and laugh, these are excellent jokes." His quote, not mine. "He makes Gumbie look like the Tin Man!" This one is during a stretch and is actually a little bit funny. "Don’t bite your toes, Aarg. I recommend foot spray." This is during a cobbler stretch, and yes, he actually says that. “Let the weight of your head do the work. Mine weighs 600 lbs; there’s nothing in it." Truer words, friend. Truer words. “Lets make it x like… not exlax thats somethin different” I'm telling you, you can't make this stuff up.

I could go on, but hopefully you get the picture. Perhaps not the brightest crayon in the box. Still, he is cheerful and works hard. That being said, sometimes after walking around observing and commenting on everyone sweating their faces off he likes to jump in at the very end and brag about his superior form and speed, sometimes even making fun of his less-effective work out buddies. This wins no love from me, as my form and speed definitely leaves much to be desired, even compared to the less-than-perfect participants behind the self-proclaimed perfectionist.

I wish I could go on, but the dreaded Tony time has come again and today it's my turn to encourage my sister that yes, we do want to exercise. Bottom line, I had better look awesome in seven weeks or I will be left to bemoan the loss of perfectly healthy brain cells.

You've Got Mail... Now What?

I am throwing my dignity on the symbolic alter of full disclosure in an effort to vent out my snarkiness here rather than somewhere it might wreak more damage. I've always thought public humiliation, like bandaids, are best taken care of in one swift pull--rip it off. Here it goes: I have joined the world of online dating. It's true. The how and the why is a complicated and mortifying tale that I have absolutely no intention of disclosing unprotected here, but long and short of it is that I am officially an online dater.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that while I certainly have talents and good points dating and dealing with men in general is absolutely not one of them. I'm not sure what made me think that dealing with them in the cyber world would be more successful than dealing with them in the flesh, but somehow I did. In reality, I suppose I am a better conversationalist when I can edit and spell-check them before they are sent into the world. There are also obvious benefits when people can only see cute pictures of me. However, there are also some pretty serious pitfalls.

One obvious problem is the premise: you are waiting for an e-mail which is somehow even more pathetic than waiting for a phone call. The frequency is an issue--you don't want to write so frequently that you seem desperate but you don't want to wait so long between e-mails that he looses interest. Also, lots of guys don't put up a picture at all. At the risk of exposing even more of my shallow self while appearance isn't everything not showing a picture at all still makes me curious. Does he have an unsightly mole on his left eyelid that prevents him from opening it? Does he have tattoos covering his face? Maybe he french braids his nostril hairs? What does it mean? Or what about the guy who uses "lol", "hee hee", an inordinate amount of explanation points and no capital letters in his e-mails? Is that how he talks in real life? With no capital letters? Then there is the question of how to stop a web-based non-relationship. Do you send an "it's not you it's me" e-mail? Do you just stop reading his? Do you tell him you want to try and be facebook friends? And how long do you exchange e-mails until you expect him to "make a move" to the next step? (On that note, what should the next step be? Do we exchange numbers--usually the first step so it kind of feels like going backwards? Do we actually try and meet? How does this work anyway?)

So meanwhile I will keep looking for an "online dating book for dummies" book and falling all over myself online and in person... at least until my subscription runs out.

Me and my Daddy

Normally I am just to a fault--fairness is one of the most important virtues to me. Certainly I know that life is not fair and all that, but I can certainly try and be fair. All that to say, after writing about mom for Mother's Day I have long been intending to write about dad too. Below you will find my top 5 favorite memories of my father.

I grew up in a family with 5 younger siblings. My home was almost always busy, happy, and exciting, but I learned early that time alone with daddy was valuable and worth seeking out. Dad started out with 2 daughters before he finally got his son, so my earliest happy memory with him is learning all about football--rules, penalties, positions, and scoring. That of course led to many happy memories watching football with dad.

Dad also taught me about fishing as a young girl, and to this day I love to fish. My favorite fishing memory with my dad was when we were camping one day. Me and dad got up earlier than everyone else and went trout fishing for a few hours. We had been waiting for two old men to vacate a lucrative fishing hole for most of that time and we finally started catching stuff when they left. Unfortunately a thunder storm started right about then and we had to take the boat to shore and seek emergency shelter under a tree. I don't remember what we talked about but I do remember feeling special and important and loved.

My next memory is not nearly as specific. I was a typical teenager, sure that my world was tumbling down around my ears at the slightest provocation and one day when I was crying over some reason that I'm sure I would twinge over now dad gave me a hug and wiped away my tears. His thumb was large and calloused and I felt like everything would be alright--I will never forget the love behind that gesture.

Next happened recently. In 2011 I ran a marathon in Kansas. Don't ask me where this crazy idea came from cause I still don't know, but mom, dad, and one of my sisters all came to support me. As I crossed the finish line they were all there to greet me and dad didn't seem to mind that I was sweaty and disgusting he just held open his arms and hugged me to him. He still thinks it was a wildly crazy idea (rightly so, I guess) but he still supported me.

My favorite favorite memory though was when he sent me off on my mission. I will never forget the way he hugged me and the feelings we shared then.

I love my dad! I am so lucky in the parents that I was given.