Communication is Key

I like facebook. I like to blog. I like shopping online and the anticipation of tracking a package.

I also like being able to communicate with my husband. Somewhere in the 18 months we've been married we've lost the ability to look at each other like this:

Often, we'll be sitting side by side on the couch, each of us with our respective laptop open. I've lost him to the online world of guns, reading reviews, and KSL Classifieds. He's lost me to the online world of crafts, mommy blogs, Facebook, and Amazon.

One of us will talk to the other during this time, and get a vague "Mmmm-hmmm" or "Yeah" in response. This isn't how we started out. We used to be able to talk about anything and everything for hours. We'd listen to music together. We'd cook together, do the dishes together, do everything together. Somewhere, we lost that to the worldwide web.

So, in an effort to rekindle and revitalize our communication, and to maximize our together time, we will be going internet free for a whole week. This period of no e-communication will begin on Monday, and will run for 7 days (duh). So, miss me while I'm gone, and I'll see you when I get back.

Odd (Wo)Man Out

I can be a bit abrasive in social situations. When I'm uncomfortable, I tend to get loud and I use sarcasm to build a little bit of a wall around myself. This is not a news flash for myself, or for anyone who knows me well.

That being said, I have a problem with feeling left out. If some friends get together without inviting me, and I'm around when they're talking about it later, it bugs me that I wasn't invited. If there's a party or a get-together that I'm not involved in, I wonder why I never heard about it. Even if I am invited, and I can't make it, I feel left out when they talk about it.

I also have a slight paranoia that people are talking about me behind my back. If there's a whispered conversation going on around me I (usually without even thinking about it) cock an ear and try and catch what bits I can, just to make sure it's not about me. If I see a conversation happening somewhere out of my earshot, I worry that I'm the topic of conversation.

And my biggest worry? That my abrasiveness has shut me off from others socially. That the reason I think about these things is because I do them to others. Or that people just don't want me around.

So, I'm open to suggestions. Any ideas on how I can stop putting myself in the position of odd woman out?

At Home in the Hive

I would like to introduce you to my old pillow shams.
Now that you've met them, let me tell you a little bit about what's going on. Our bedroom is incredibly blah. I love our duvet cover, so I've slowly been making over our room centered on the colors in our duvet cover. As you can see from the above pictures our shams were old, worn out, and totally didn't match. A few weeks ago at the Downeast clearance center I found some hidden gems.

Meet my new (Pottery Barn!!) pillow shams, that I bought for $3 each:They are mismatched in pattern, but the colors are identical.And they match the green in the duvet perfectly. Hooray!This is the reason for the discounted price. One of them had a tear in it about 2 inches long. I guess it's a good thing I can sew, huh.Doesn't that bed look delicious and inviting? I think so.

My other project that I've been working on are these miniature apothecary jars. I found the idea on Blue Cricket, where one of her readers had found it on Shanty2Chic. Thanks to Kendall for the empty baby food jars. Since I don't have a baby to eat the food, she sort of saved my bacon on this one. Anyway, I think they turned out cute and I'm excited to find little sparkly things to put inside them for the holidays.
And the best news about all of these projects? I completed them in one evening while Curious George was out learning to be a good citizen with the scouts. I was quite the busy little bee. Now, I need to go fold the laundry I've been avoiding.

Under a Bushel

I have, I think, quite a few talents. I have been rather blessed in this area.

I can sing.
I play the piano decently.
I'm a dang good cook.
I'm a whiz with my old Canon film camera.
I make pretty rad baby blankets.
I can sew a little.
I think I'm rather humorous.
I have a million brilliant craft ideas (although, my follow through might be a little lacking).
I can decorate with the eclectic best of 'em.

However, something I seem to be struggling with (and I honestly didn't think I would) is digital photography. My amazing husband bought me one of my dream gifts for Christmas: a Canon Rebel xti. Beautiful! I'd been dreaming about one for months, pricing them out for almost as long, and cruising KSL Classifieds for the deal of the century. Well, lo and behold, there was one waiting under the Christmas tree for me.

Now, considering my luck with my older-than-the-hills film camera I thought I'd be fine. I love to experiment, and I'm a big fan of instant gratification, so I thought this would be fabulous. Oh boy, was I wrong.

I couldn't figure it out on my own, so I signed up for a community-ed digital photography class. Unfortunately for me, the teacher has opted to focus more on Photoshop and the editing aspect of photography. Ack! What's a girl to do?

So, I'm learning on my own how to set the shutter speed, how to change the aperture, how to read the light meter.

And maybe someday I'll be able to add digital photography to my list of talents.

Confessions of an Addict

When I was in college I seriously dated a boy who, I discovered, had a serious problem. We'd been together for awhile when he finally felt like he should come clean with me. He was addicted to pornography. In fact, he'd been sent home early from his mission for it, and he was currently in the church's 12 step program. Then he dropped the big bomb: He wasn't sure that he wanted to continue the program, and he wasn't sure he wanted to give up his beloved porn. When I gave him the ultimatum, either me or the smut, he wanted both. So, I showed him the door.

Curious George saw his first R-rated movie at the age of seven. He was watching it with his parents. When he looked away from the screen, embarrassed by what he was seeing, his dad told him that he was going to be seeing a lot of that in his life and he might as well get used to it. This young-age-exposure, coupled with easy access to more porn and a life lived well outside the standards of the church, bred itself into a full-blown addiction by adulthood. When George "converted" he quit his addiction cold turkey. He is still very careful about what movies he will watch, avoiding all R-rated movies and even some PG-13, and is well aware of what his triggers are.

I didn't realize it until recently, but I had an addiction of another kind. In my quest for what I thought was "real love" I became addicted to Harlequin Romance Novels. It was my own secret little porn addiction. It took me a long time to realize that what was portrayed in these books wasn't real love, eternal love, or even healthy love. So I, like Curious George, quit cold turkey. I still get tempted from time to time, to pick up one of these pieces of filth. I avoid the romance section at the library, and I'm very careful about what I'll allow myself to read.

Pornography is out there. It's not some myth that's been invented to keep us on the straight and narrow. It is a real addiction, with real physical, mental, and emotional triggers. It is readily available to anyone, without even having to look to hard for it.

I hope you will all take the time to visit this site and educate yourselves about the dangers of pornography.

(And thanks for taking the time to read a serious post...)

Book Binge

It all started in the big blue rocking chair. I would crawl into my dad's lap for stories every night before bed. When I was too young to understand what he was reading me, he would read to me from the Salt Lake Tribune. When I got a little bit older it was Doctor Seuss's ABC's. Next it was Goodnight, Goodnight, and then finally Ira Sleeps Over. I remember the warm feeling of being enveloped in my dad's arms, knowing that I was safe, that no monsters could reach me in the big blue chair, and the ever-present thought that if I was really good I might get a cookie. I remember the feel of the crinkling newspaper, and the smooth, cool feel of the book's flimsy covers. I remember the sound of the pages turning, and the feeling of my dad's chest rising and falling with every breath. I remember mouthing the words to my favorite stories along with my dad and saying the next line before he could start it. I remember the pictures and knowing somewhere deep down that those pictures were just for me. But most of all I remember that book smell.

You know the smell I'm talking about, that gloriously sweet must of well-read books. It is the smell of libraries everywhere, and to me it is the smell of love. There is nothing I love more than cracking open a favorite novel and inhaling that scent. To me it is the greatest high on earth. It is the smell of excitement, the smell of anticipation, the smell of romance or adventure or science fiction. It is the smell of worlds beyond our own that we will never even know of. It is the smell of knowledge, the smell of wisdom, the smell of everything imaginable. It is because of that smell that I continued to read. That book smell drew me into more books, more adventures, more thoughts and emotions than anything else.

I binge on books the way some people binge on chocolate. To me, books are food, water, air, and life. If I couldn't read, I would cease to exist as myself. I use books to fill the empty places inside myself. I use them to hide from my fears. I use them to put a rosy shine on the not so shiny parts of my life. I imagine that I am book characters. I think about how life would be different if I had magical powers, or were a fair princess, or were so clever I could talk my way out of any situation.

Don't get me wrong, I am in no way dissatisfied with my life. But books allow me to escape the mundane, monotonous, and otherwise mildness of my life. I am in the middle of a life-long love affair with books. I will always love them from the bottom of my heart.

That book smell is, to me, the smell of happiness.

What's In A Name?

“Who are you? ” said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation.
Alice replied, rather shyly, “I--I hardly know, sir, just at present--at least I know who I was

when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”

I grew up in a family with four children- 2 girls and 2 boys- and we all have unique names. My parents gave us all just the right mix of creativity and normalcy. We don't have bizarre spellings, we don't get "Your name is what?" from little old ladies, and our names seem to fit our personalities rather well. Our names can either be used in full or shortened to a nickname. We are all individuals with the names to prove it.

I think this sense of individuality has given me a mild complex about naming my future children. For a long time I thought I knew what I wanted to name my kids... and then I learned that both of my favorite Girl names were in the Top 10 in America for the last few years. And then I met at least 3 couples expecting little girls with plans to give them My Favorite Name. I was enraged. That was MY name! How dare they? And my Boy names too?! The horror!

And then I met Curious George, who hated My Favorite Names. What? How could this be? These names were perfect. They were just the right length, they were classic, beautiful... these were my babies he didn't like. When I brought up names for our children to him he looked at me like I was crazy.

"You've already named our children?" he asked, "Don't you think that's a little premature?"
"No!" I argued, outraged, "It's not premature. With all the babies being born around us we need to stake our claim on the good names, let people know that they belong to us."
"Well, what about family names?" he countered.
"I was planning on using family middle names," I replied, with a bit of a pout.

So my name list changed. And grew. And evolved. And now we have some of the most beautiful names picked out for our daughters, some of the most dashing names for our sons. All of them fit with our last name. They are individual, poetic, and they are my new babies... until I have some real babies to give them to.

Our names help shape who we are. They carry us through our lives and they give us our first sense of self. Whether using our given names, or renaming ourselves later in life, our names are our sole claim on who we really are.

So, I would counter Juliet's argument of "What's in a name?" with one simple word: Everything.