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Last Night I Dreamt Of Joni Mitchell

2 Jun

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Last night I dreamt I met Joni Mitchell again.

We were in Carmel-by-the-Sea, the tiny artist’s colony up north.  The town with the white sand beach and the fairytale cottages and the 100 art galleries.  The town where Robert and I spent our one-year anniversary.

Joni was wearing a jumpsuit when I first saw her.  Teal, navy and seafoam blocks made patterns across her legs.  The material was polyester, the pants flared.  She wore fuzzy socks with her black Birkenstocks.

That was because of me, surely, for I have learned the only way to wear Birkenstocks is with a flamboyant pair of fuzzy socks.

Joni gave a concert by the side of a stream.  In the middle of tall, yellowed grasses and matted, tangled weeds she sat down and pulled out a guitar.  She talked to us, those waiting eagerly to hear her sing.  Her speaking voice was very specific, about as unique as her singing voice–hesitant and warbly, soft and high.

I can’t remember ever dreaming so specifically about a voice.

She sang for us by the banks of that river, the one that reminds me of the river by my home in Utah.

My worlds all melded together for Joni.

When she was done singing, she and I headed back to Carmel.  We didn’t speak about it, but soon we were running as fast as our feet could carry us, running through dense forest and foggy skies and smoky air.

Running through the smells of Carmel, the ones Robert says he found in a tea.  “It tastes like Carmel,” he says, handing me a bag.

Joni was strong and fast.  I tried to ask her about living in Carmel, about what she thought about Big Sur.  Her answers were brief, said to end the conversation.

I marveled at the strength of her legs, the pitch of her voice.  I marveled at the rocky cliffs to our right, jutting into dangerous waters.

When we got to town we headed to a restaurant.  Joni stood separate from me, up on a slight grassy hill.  I sat under a twinkle-lit terrace with the other customers.

Joni told the owner that she wouldn’t pay, she would simply do her own dishes, and that she didn’t want dessert, she simply wanted a little brown sugar on the bottom of her peaches.

We didn’t speak again, Joni and I.  I just watched her on her hill, in her wild outfit and her wild socks, with her abnormally strong legs and her soft, recognizable voice.

She didn’t look at me again.

Overanalyzing The Meaning Of My Closet

10 Jun

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So here’s the deal.

Yesterday my grandmother told me she was worried because I haven’t blogged in a while. This is the woman who taught me to love the Egg McMuffin with my whole before-10:30AM soul, who introduced me to soap operas, and who texted me, legitimately, a month ago to say:

Heads up!  Princes Harry is now single and is in Miami this weekend.  You two would be a perfect couple.  Go to Miami now!!!

If this fabulous woman says I’m not blogging enough, well then by golly gosh darn it lickity split holy smokes I’m not blogging enough.

That’s the deal.

I’m in the midst of the undermployment period of my life, a time both fraught with “When am I getting a job? Am I a worthless loser who should pursue full-time rollerblading and peach buying?” and “Oh no, if I get a job I probably can’t go to the beach every day any more, can I?”

I’ve been doing this whole working from home/attending school thing now for going on 2.5 years, and I have to say, it has been the best 2.5 years of my adult life.  Human beings are made for Malibu and nachos and flexible schedules, and I am a human being.

It’s that type of profound writing that the world has been missing the last few weeks.

In this weird time, I’ve found myself cleaning out my closet in a big way. Well, in a “I’m-unemployed-and-casually-approach-it-sometimes” way.

I’m thinking I should complete the task in approximately 24 years.

This is progress, people.

Important: I recently missed a family vacation because I am unloved and no longer living in Utah, and I was informed that on said getaway, my family played Mafia and when it was my mother’s turn to host she said, “OK, people, welcome to the show…”

By golly gosh darn it lickity split holy smokes I can’t escape my genetics.

So this closet clean out, when it happens, has been good for my soul.  I know this is not groundbreaking, and everyone at some point or another realizes how nice it is to have less stuff.  To be less cluttered.  To let things go.  But this particular closet clean out has been more than that realization.

It’s been a realization of who I’ve become.

I’ve heard before that the human brain stops developing at 25.  I haven’t looked this up to confirm it, and I don’t know if it even really matters, but that idea has been on my mind lately.

So has this F. Scott Fitzgerald essay on being 25, which you should read right away.

I turned 25 right here in the great state of California, in the beautiful Malibu nachos time of my life.  And it’s here in California that I’ve become the adult person I am.  My views on spirituality and relationships and what I want out of life…those have all become more and more solid as I’ve been here.

My style too, that has become more and more solid.

As I clean out my closet I notice a lot of what I’m throwing away is from about three years ago, an era where I dated a very stylish, very preppy boy.  It’s funny how distinct those clothes are.  You could walk into my closet and say, “Oh that’s from the Josh era.  And that menswear-inspired bit, well that must be from it too.  And these thick, uncomfortable pants scream ‘I’m trying to impress a boy named Josh.’”

And I’m shedding that self.  That undeveloped, willing-to-change-who-I-am-for-a-boy self.

I’m shedding all the boy selves, actually.  Their actual clothes, which I’ve collected as one does in relationships.  But also the subtle changes my closet took while dating them.

I’m shedding the things that were never truly me but that I tried on for size.  Wedges, for one.  Blazers.  Pants!  Oh pants.  I don’t think I’m going back to you ever.

And I’m finding at the bottom of it, at the bottom of my closet, the girl I’ve become.

Last week Luke and I went on our first shopping trip, an event that really deserves it’s own post, perhaps its own screenplay.  What happens when someone who loves to buy things ends up at the mall with someone who shops so infrequently he believes his foot is FOUR SIZES different than it actually is.

I’m calling the pieceWhen Harry Met Sally.

At one point in this shopping trip I was sitting on a stool against the wall in the Levi’s fitting room hallway, drinking a Pawnee-sized Diet Coke and calling helpful things over the dressing room stall, “You’ve just never put in the actual effort.  Shopping is a process!” when the fitting room attendant found me.

“Miss, can I help you find anything today?”

“Oh no, thank you,” I said calmly, “I don’t wear pants.”

The attendant smiled and ducked out, and before I could say, “Luke, let’s talk about shopping more!” the worker was back with this delightful, oversized jean mumu, exactly what I would have picked out if I could choose anything in the world for myself.

Seriously, there’s this great triangle embroidery thing on the perfect colored neckline.

You should see it.

I tried the mumu on right away, yelling over my stall, “Oh my everything, this is so thick I won’t have to wear a bra!  My life is all coming together!”  Luke replied, in much quieter tones, “Sounds perfect, Jill.  I’m really happy for you.”

And soon we walked away, he with his new pants, me with my new jean mumu.

Later that night, I added that jean number to my closet next to my yellow mumu.  And the maxi dress I never take off.  And my tutu.  All of the things that survived the great closet purge of 2014.

And I recognized myself in them.

On Waffles, I Guess

27 May

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My belly is full of an imitation Waffle Love waffle from my dear mother, who, after making the dessert twice has declared it to be her “signature dish.”

I was playing The Newlywed Game the other day, and one of the questions was about your parents–what is a quality you got from them.  Luke said I inherited my mother’s insistence that everything be the best in life.  Both she and I can’t just give a lesson, we must give a life-changing, earth-altering lesson, and we must fret about it every second of the way.

My mother can’t just make an imitation waffle, the imitation waffle must succeed the original and become her signature dish.

Fret, fret, fret.

I would say this is all pretty accurate stuff.

Shall we move along to the photos then?

I had a whole blog post planned about a recent photography epiphany that was sort-of inspired by these lush Huntington Garden photos.  But really, isn’t this place lush?  The lushest?

Lush is starting to feel like one of those words now that sounds really weird upon repeating.  I can’t decide if it’s a good weird like “splendid” or a bad weird like “Brazilian bikini wax.”

Oh hey, it’s almost summer!

The photography epiphany was centered around the idea that no matter how many photography goals I set, I just cannot lug that big camera of mine around in my life.  Can’t do it. Nope.

Just thought about aperture and had small, full-body shiver.

And for a long time I thought this dislike of real cameras meant that I disliked photography altogether.  Sometimes I even fretted about this.  Why didn’t I like photography?  I should like photography.  What does this mean?  What does it not mean?

And then, a few weeks ago there I was at the Huntington Gardens, snapping up a storm on my phone, taking picture after picture for no real reason but the love of a pretty photo.

And I realized it’s OK if I don’t take big camera pictures.  It’s OK if I’m only ever an iPhone photographer.

It’s 2014.

It will all be OK.

I actually got the idea to go to the Huntington Gardens and Library from an Instagram photo of a friend.  It’s weird how social media does that, introduces us to places and foods and clothings we never knew we always wanted.

Or maybe that’s just me and I’m a particularly susceptible consumer.

Hilary and I, susceptible consumers that we are, bought a box of “the best chocolate chip cookies in the world!” the other day at Vintage Grocers in Malibu simply because of their name and let’s just say, even when we followed the package’s directions to “air them out,” they weren’t the best cookies in the world.

In fact, I’m placing Famous Amos above them in terms of quality.

So they were pretty far down the list.

Speaking of Instagram! (whew, I was afraid this blog post was going to be scattered, glad this isn’t the case)

Speaking of Instagram! that same Hilary day, we ended up in a pool confessing our Instagram shames and watching the water slowly turn our skin into juicy prunes.  I talked about those people, you know the ones, the randoms you don’t actually know, but you sort of know because they are close friends with one of your Instagram friends.

And I have a few of these people.  I kind of feel like I know them even though I obviously don’t.  And occasionally I check up on their lives that I do not know and say, “Oh look.  They had brunch today.  How cute is that?”

And that’s an odd, 2014 thing.

I suppose this is sometimes the way those who read my blog feel about Caitlin.  I’ve had quite a few people who have never met her mention Cait in casual conversation. “That Caitlin, amiright?”

Caitlin, of course, loves this.  She’s Caitlin, after all.

And I mainly laugh.

I think that’s why we read blogs in the first place. Or at least why I do.  We read blogs, and tell stories and want to know details of other people’s lives because their stories might help us make sense of our own.

We connect to the world with our stories.

Or at least I do.

This is what I tell myself, particularly on days like today when my blogging is reallyyyyyy top notch.

Other things on my mind:

1. Kimonos

2. Pasta salad

3. Gas stations

Let’s go with gas stations, how about?

Utah has the best gas stations, and this doesn’t seem all that grand, but when you’re on a road trip and looking for somewhere with Nutter Butter bites and racks of licorice and Andy Capp’s Hot Fries, quality gas stations become terribly important and Utah becomes terribly nostalgic.

I know this because yesterday I took a road trip and my appreciation of Utah gas stations went up tenfold at least.  What is wrong with LA?  Why is it pretending to be a major urban center and yet failing so heavily in the gas station category?

What can I, personally, do about this travesty?

Real thoughts.  Real feelings.

It’s really almost summer, people.

It’s almost summer and I’m in Utah eating waffles.

It will all be OK.

Smuged Strawberries and Tri-Tip Sandwiches

22 May

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Let’s skip to the most important stuff here.  Last weekend I went to the California Strawberry Festival and stood in line amongst the childrens to get this glitter face paint.  Soon after, I left the claustrophobic, bad corn dogged festival and traveled quite a distance away.

I wore the face paint all day, in about 20 different stores, amongst hundreds of people, in several Danish bakeries, and no one so much as mentioned it.

No double takes.

No secret I-want-to-bring-it-up-but-might-offend looks.

No, “Oh hey what’s that strawberry doing on your cheek?” conversations.

Nothing.

Zilch.

Nada.

Not even Nada Surf.

I’ve been trying to figure out what this means ever since. Did no one notice it? Did the strawberry just fit me so well that people didn’t feel the need to comment on it just as they didn’t comment on the fact that I had mascara-d eyelashes or painted fingernails?

Were eyelashes and fingernails the right choice for this comparison?

I’m not going to lie, the idea of becoming a casual face paint sort of person just thrills me down to my toes.  Imagine the possibilities here!  Next time I throw on my gray t-shirt dress I can just add a few colorful stars to my cheek and call it a day.

Whenever that pink sundress comes out I can draw a subtle red heart next to my eye and conquer the world.  Maybe I turn this into a business, an Instagram account, a whole new, wildly profitable blog.

Maybe casual face paint is the way of the future.

Or at least my future.

OK.

Second things second.

The remains of that deliciousness you see on my plate?  That’s the Cold Spring Tavern tri-tip sandwich also known as the best thing Cat Cora ever ate, and let me tell you, she was not exaggerating, oh no she wasn’t.

The tri-tip sandwich at Cold Spring Tavern is a whole blog post in and of itself if I had the energy or patience for the gushing-about-food-for-1000-words thing.  The tavern is in the middle of nowherseville in the Santa Barbara mountains and there’s a live band outside and a chili recipe on the wall and the sandwich comes with three of the most delicious sauces the world has ever seen.

Like the tri-tip?  It was good.

But these sauces.

I want to say inappropriate things about these sauces.  I want to use the words lick and heaven and I want that spicy salsa to know that nothing compares.

Nothing compares 2U.

OK.

So about this picture.

I have a bunch of photos from this perfect day of mine, actually, sitting on my phone, soon to be uploaded to my computer and forgotten about for all of time, but this was the shot I liked most.  This was the one at the end of the day, when my body was tired and my strawberry was faded from the sun and heat and, well, kisses, if you must know.

This was the picture that showed off my $3 gold heart bracelets purchased at a kitschy little store in Solvang, found amongst the wind chimes and the Buddha candles.

This was the one taken right before we raced the sunset to the Santa Barbara beach only to discover the sun sets away from the water. (What?)

I’m drowsy in this shot, tired from a day of driving and eating and wandering, and I’m happy.

My boyfriend said something the other day.  Shall we call this boyfriend of mine Luke for now?  I don’t know how these blog relationship things work, and look, if I were married I would share his name right quick, but I’m not.  And I don’t do cute nicknames.  And dating is so hard and so fleeting I just don’t want to go there quite yet.

So we’ll call him Luke, yes?

Anyway, Luke said the other day that my happiness is so fragile.

And I feel like that’s a good way to describe it.

My happiness, like much of me, is so fragile.

Some parts of me are so solid and strong and rooted in years of practice.  But this happiness-in-a-relationship bit I’m just getting used to and it startles me sometimes.

I’m happy in this picture.

I did this trip once before alone, the Santa Barbara/Solvang adventure trip.  And the thing is I really like to travel alone.  I believe solo travel is one of the great luxuries in life.  I love to do exactly what I want when I want, thank you very much.

Pizza at 10:00AM? Done.

12 minutes in a museum before I’m bored?  Don’t have to mention it to anyone.

Sleeping 16 hours a day?  Perfect.

And I guess I got so used to traveling alone, having mini solo adventures, that I dismissed the possibility that traveling with someone else could be even more fun.

That watching the mellow light bounce over the rolling hills and reading Nick Hornby is actually better when someone else can admire the sun and laugh at the quotes and share your love of California.

That, maybe, with the right type of person, life and love and mini road trips don’t have to be so endlessly hard all of the time.

Sheesh, who am I?

What has this blog become?

February In Photos, Or Something

12 Feb

Recently my brother said that it seemed like my life was pretty good right now, and I said, well, yes.  Yes, it is.

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MySpace angles courtesy of Caitlin.  Do we look 14? I felt 14 walking around in our cutoffs and graphic tees and messy hair.

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Pizza on the beach, or the magic of Newport. (Can you spot Cait’s foot?  Very Where’s Waldo)

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Perfect clouds because it’s Malibu.

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A terrible shot of the Pepperdine deer as seen through Hilary’s car.  I went back to try to capture a perfect picture of the moment, and it had already passed.    There’s a life lesson there somewhere.

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Writers group selfies at a gloomy Getty Villa plus the beginning of my feminist sketch comedy career.

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The Sweethearts I almost bought myself for Valentine’s day. Still regretting I didn’t.

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The Yeti + John Lennon sunglasses. (I was recently told my celebrity lookalike is John Lennon, so you know I’m doing something right.)

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The view from the best bagels in the world, let us not argue over this point.

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Snapchats from Jordan that I screenshot and put on my blog (hehe)

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The Price is Right + Gilmore Girls (And that NASA shirt!  The show said we could not wear any brand/logo/etc. and we thought Star Wars might fall under that and so we went with NASA and it was all a mistake.  ALL A MISTAKE.)

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Pepperdine going all beautiful on us.

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LACMA, yo.

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Palm trees. Always palm trees on my phone.

Annnnd one more Malibu photo just for good luck.

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February, you’ve been good to me.  Let’s keep this up.

Chocolate-Covered Macaroons

12 Dec

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Today Hilary and I did a dramatic reading of the Bridget Jones’s Diary script.

We sat in the upper corner of the Payson library, I wrapped my scarf around my head “in the manner of Grace Kelly,” and we read in loud, obnoxious British accents to the empty room (and Rob, who put in his headphones, because he’s an only child and doesn’t know how to deal with annoying little sisters.)

I took the Bridget role and Hilary took every other part, and my goodness you know something too well when the script you read from does not have character names, just dialogue, and you still never miss a beat.

Also, whoa Hilary, I don’t want to speak too soon, but Academy Award nod for your Pamela Jones performance?

I think so.

Rob asked us why we didn’t just watch the film aka why are you girls so crazy, and Hilary gave him a look and said, “Umm, Rob we’ve seen the film a million times.  This is more fun.”

It’s been one of those weeks.  A week of finals and craziness.  A week after the week I had to finish my book in 2AM sessions.

At the end of these types of weeks, reading the Bridget Jones’s Diary script out loud with a crazy headscarf seems only appropriate.

Tomorrow I head back to Utah and head back to Christmas.  Something about living in LA has meant that Christmas is lost in perfect weather and palm trees.  I’ve tried to feel festive and even thrown on tights with my dress + ankle boots uniform lately, but that’s really more ceremonial than anything.

I haven’t set up a tree.  I barely listen to Christmas music. No amount of coconut macaroon hot chocolate is putting me in the mood this year.

If Salt Lake can’t change this nothing can.

And now I need to say something about macaroons.

There is a line in The Holiday where Jack Black says, “And those chocolate-covered macaroons. Delectable.”

This is one of my most-quoted movie lines, ever.

Last year when Cait and I were watching The Holiday, I expressed how Jack Black is the weak link for me in the film.  All other characters I believe and love (oh hey, Judeeee), but Jack?

Eh.

Cait argued pro Jack and soon things got…okay, not heated, because who really cares?  But then Jack said the chocolate macaroons line and we both just burst out laughing.

His tone, his delivery.  It was over the top, and Cait immediately gave up her argument, because chocolate-covered macaroons.

It’s the type of thing that’s probably only interesting to the two of us, but now every time I hear macaroon I think of that movie and I wish I was a person who knew how to make gifs because that’s what I should be looking at every day.

Also, the pronunciation of gif!  Let’s talk later.

Yesterday I ordered a pair of black ankle boots, and I know what you are thinking, “Jill, did you need those?” and the answer is yes.  All I want/need in my life are ankle boots and every shoe in my closet that does not fit the bill feels completely unnecessary/burdensome and I want to return them all and get the money back and then buy more ankle boots.

This is my mindset and I’m not changing it.

You should know I started this post as a 2013 music post, so that’s about where my mind is.

Happy end of finals to you all!  I hope you have a Hilary in your life that you can do a dramatic Bridget reading with, or at the very least I hope you eat a lot of macaroons.

Chocolate-covered macaroons.

Wink.

Big Sur

9 Dec

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Last weekend I went to Big Sur for the writing conference to top all writing conferences.

Big Sur is stunningly beautiful, as expected, and the experience was stunningly beautiful, as expected, and let’s see if I can use stunningly beautiful one more time, shall we?

Katie and Hilary are stunningly beautiful.

Nailed it.

As expected.

For the conference, we stayed in cabins in the woods and Hilary built a fire to provide heat.  I offered my moral support/supervision.

I don’t mean to go into too much detail here, but it took eight matches and returning the Duraflame packaging to the brick in order to get the flame going, so basically I would die in three seconds if asked to survive on my own in any way.

Also, it turns out supervision is really as unneeded as everyone says it is.

Moving right along.

The trip was full of so many wonderful things–a manic Hilary, who tried to insert her debit card in a cash-only slot, my tweezers, which were called upon to rescue said debit card, two days without service/wifi of any kind, and also, and most importantly of all, a new reality TV show series.

The Untitled Big Sur Project.

Catchy?

Ironic?

No to all?

The Untitled Big Sur Project, which I am now just shortening to Big Sur, is my new pet imaginary TV project based around “The Pub,” an Irish bar in the middle of the Big Surian woods. The Pub is everything you want out of an Irish bar–mahogany, live music, blue cheese burgers that change you life.

As we stood in the middle of its glory, Katie said, “This is the sexiest pub I’ve ever been to outside of Europe” and I said, “This is the sexiest pub I’ve ever been to including Europe.”

And we mean sexy, of course, in the most nonsexual of ways.

The Pub was not only physically beautiful, but contained some of the best characters I’ve ever seen.  I kept looking around for Josh Schwartz because I thought maybe he was filming some new CW show with super-hot people and I was just observing a set, because no one really looks like that, right?

There was the beautiful couple that had stepped from the pages of a mountain catalog.  The girl with her glossy blonde hair and red lips, the boy with his puffy vest and Range Rover.

(I am assuming the Range Rover here.)

There was the corner with the old women raucously playing dice. There was the live music and the dancing and the man in the hat with the braids, and, oh, a dog off his leash that just wandered on in like NO BIG DEAL.

Big Sur has that magical feeling of a town untouched.  A town with Christmas light-adorned stores and gas prices that make you a little bit sick.   A town where you go, where does everyone actually live?

A town perfect for reality shows.

Catalog couple, I’m sure you follow my blog.  Contact me.  I will make things happen in the TV world with my as-yet-unknown industry contacts.

But really, though, oh beautiful ones– I’m a safe bet.

After all, I go to writing conferences.

Wednesdays!

23 Oct

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Pepperdine photo via Caitlin Markham/DJ Kitty Cat

When Hilary was younger, she used to say her favorite day of the week was Monday simply because Mondays don’t get any love and she wanted them to feel important.

I think that sums up Hilary and her Pollyanna heart rather well.

When I was younger, my favorite Pollyanna character was Mrs. Snow and I would quote her as she yelled, “I’m pickin’ the lining for mah coffin!”

I think that sums up me and my crotchety old lady heart rather well.

I’m always, always more interested in the Mrs. Snows of stories, but that’s another post for another time that I promise I’ll get to one day when I’m not talking about WEDNESDAYS!

Because Wednesdays!

At this point in my life, it feels like I spend all day and all night on campus, all of the time, always. And as beautiful as Pepperdine is, and as excited as I am about its new tea station (honey in the house!) this is too much time for me/anyone to spend on this/any campus.

But then there are Wednesdays!

Wednesdays I exercise and clean. I read the book that’s been sitting, staring at me all week. I cook! I make Hilary’s beef stew and she has to field 10,000 questions like “Where do you find beef stew meat in the store?” and “Explain your salsa choice in depth”– the sorts of things only someone who never, ever cooks asks when they try to make a three-step recipe.

This is what Wednesdays are for. Wednesdays are for adding another three-step recipe to my repertoire and texting any one of my 12 to 15 very close friends about my success.

Okay, texting every one of my 12 to 15 very close friends about my success.

(I really wanted to throw that Girls “12-15 very close friends” quote into something, and now that I’ve done it–and twice!–I feel quite accomplished. That’s who I am and that’s what my wins are, in case you were wondering.)

Wednesdays!

Wednesdays I go on walks and take pictures. I paint my nails. I blog and I check on online orders that haven’t arrived. I run grownup errands, and catch up on sleep, and brainstorm articles, and sometimes, if I’m very, very lucky, I write for fun.

I curl up in my newly cleaned room with newly cleaned sheets and I write those stories I’ve been wanting to tell but haven’t had time to because of life, but now have the time to because of Wednesdays.

Goodness gracious, Wednesdays!

Me and my Mrs. Snow soul are very, very glad to have you in our week.

Oh Hello There, Disneyland

20 Oct

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On Friday I headed to Disneyland with my mother, my baby sister, my baby sister’s friend and Caitlin/Thelma/Ben.

There is probably a more fun way to phrase that sentence, so I’ll let you get on that.

We walked around looking like mice all day because before we put on Minnie ears my energy was at a 0 and after we put them on my energy was at a 1 and we need to take these victories where we can get them.

MORNINGS!

Going anywhere with Caitlin means I take more pictures than I am comfortable with.  By the end of the day as we passed yet another perfect backdrop I said, “No more pictures, please.  I have enough awkward hand-on-hip shots to last a lifetime here.”

I really need to practice my photo taking skills, especially if I’m to call myself a blogger, but it just seems so out of character. You know those adorable girls on Instagram who just casually laugh and hold each other all the time and you go, “Is this real life?” and “That seems exhausting to cultivate”?

Yes, well that seems exhausting to cultivate and also nothing like my real life.

Oh!  And another thing about pictures with Caitlin, she keeps them all, INCLUDING THE BAD ONES and then comes back and tries to blackmail you with them later i.e. “Tell me about this conversation with this boy or I will post a 2012 OC Fair photo on Facebook.”

She hasn’t actually posted any because she loves me, but it is frightening to think that those photos of me are still out there.

What if they fell into the wrong hands?

I believe the greatest blessing to come from technology is the freedom to delete photos and try again and never, ever mention they happened.

And now that my Disneyland post has taken a drastic turn for the photo, we will end with one last, happy picture and the knowledge that on Saturday  I woke up and had a Disneyland caramel apple for breakfast.

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Successful weekend all around.