Milk

Now, I don't usually drink milk. I find that I feel better if I drink soy milk or rice milk, or just anything that's not cow milk. When I came home for Christmas vacation, my mom got me a half-gallon of Silk (soy milk). I've since used it all up for cereal or using it as a beverage with a meal. No big deal.

This morning I didn't get up early, and everyone else had had breakfast before me -- including Sonnet. She rarely finishes her meal without using up an entire hour or having "coaxing" (in the form of threats -- "Your meal is over in three minutes, darling"), so I wasn't surprised to find a half-drunk glass of orange juice and a bowl with half a Shredded Wheat biscuit, dry. Sonnet also doesn't like having milk with her cereal. Even when she does have it, she reserves a handful of cereal and sets it on the table to munch out-of-hand. She does have eccentricities, so I usually don't think much of things she does.

So, I thought, "Mm, Shredded Wheat sounds good, with a drizzle of local honey on top of it. Mm. Yeah, that's what I'm having for breakfast. I guess if I don't have THAT much milk, it won't hurt my stomach that much." So I got two Shredded Wheat biscuits out of the bag and got a spoonful of honey and proceeded to drizzle honey on top of it. "Wow, how nutritious," I thought, as I remembered honey has healing properties blah blah blah . . .

Then I opened the fridge. Orange juice, buttermilk, sparkling cider, whipping cream, egg nog. Milk? *sigh* Maybe in the other fridge. Soup. No milk. Now, there's a gas station across the street that has milk . . . but I don't want to put on my makeup and shoes and coat to go across the street to get a gallon of milk for $4, which I will only use about 1/3 cup of. So I thought, maybe I won't even bother with the milk; I'll just put the biscuits back. But now they have honey on them. If I leave them on the table, someone will come in and say, "Ooh, honey! Whose hair can I rub it on?" or "Which floor is the cleanest, to drop this on and then run away and act like I don't know anything about it?" I know those very thoughts cross little people's minds. I know it. And, I don't feel good about just THROWING IT AWAY. That's rude. And I wasn't in the mood for rude today, even by my own self.

I closed my eyes in dispair. Then I reached in the fridge for egg nog. I knew I'd hate eating this breakfast today, but I'd gotten myself into my OWN predicament. Arrgh.

I was not disappointed. I recommend NOT having honey AND egg nog in the same spoonful. It's wretched. And I feel kindof dorky even MAKING this recommendation, since who would be foolish enough to even think up egg nog + honey? Many people who read this blog probably even wonder why I'd think up egg nog, because they don't find pleasure in partaking of it.

So, a new recommendation I give unto you, is that you first search the fridge diligently before preparing to feast upon the cereal.

Poem

I decided I'd compose a wonderful poem about autumn.

But I have a hard time with poetry, unless it makes fun of other poetry. And I don't want to make fun of things right now.

Plus, autumn is cold. As I type this, I'm shivering on my bed in my sweater under my blanket. My nose is cold and running (not because I have a cold, but because I AM cold!). Supposedly, the naked trees are supposed to let the sun shine through, but every building casts a shadow on its every side, no matter what time of day it is! So I think, "Oh, I'll ride my bike and warm up from moving around!" No, moving around just puts you in contact with MORE COLD AIR.

I wonder if they make heaters for bikes. That's just silly, but it would be awesome.

So, sorry about my deep and meaningful poem. I just don't have it in me to be a poet right now. My nose is too sniffly, and I have to make, like, a THOUSAND pies today at the restaurant. I've been dreading this day. Last night we made 14 pies. I think that after this week, I'm due for a three-week vacation. I might just take it during the end of December.

Days of Our Lives

I got a new planner for 2009. I have a hard time with planners because the week always starts on Monday, and I just don't think that way. Back in the olden days, I used a weekly planner that was about the size of a credit card and about a quarter-inch thick. That line has since discontinued the little planner (since 2008) and I've been forced to use the monthly ones, which are larger and they're basically a calendar stretched across two pages.

So, the planner I got for 2009 is a lovely one, and I have been excited to use it. I have learned in the past that, if I choose to have a planner I like, I have to buy it early -- before December. Otherwise the planners I get to choose from are those that no one else wanted (and for good reason!).

When I got home from the store with my perfect new planner, I unwrapped the plastic wrapping that encased it, and I began to look at the first couple pages (the one where you put your name and all personal information in all the blank lines, so someone can find it and steal your identity; the page with a world map with different time zones that no one ever looks at except when they first buy the planner, like I did; all the conversions of measurements, where they have all the ones you know but never the ones you need; a list of "traditional" and "modern" wedding gifts, where I've always wondered if it's the spouse that's supposed to give the gift, or is it the neighbor or friend? and what kind of gift is "paper"??). I kept turning the pages until I got to April, so I could write "General Conference" where it goes. I realized this General Conference that I always have to request that Saturday off at the last moment, because until about Thursday of that week, I've forgotten that I should have asked for work off -- and then there I am, scrambling around, trying to convince my employer that "I have church on Saturday, but only this Saturday. It's a special Saturday where we Mormons have church . . ." and I just feel like a bumbling goon. Well, more so than usual.

Something was hideously wrong with the calendar part of the planner. The weeks started with MONDAY!! Good grief, there's an "S" and the beginning and an "S" at the end, and a "W" right in the center. How can anyone mess THAT up?? I couldn't take it back to the store, because I took the wrapping off it. Arrgh.

So, Sunday before Church, I sat in the chapel as folks wandered in, and I changed 365 days, one number back. By hand. In addition, I had to cross every "Monday," "Tuesday," "Wednesday," "Thursday," "Friday," "Saturday," and "Sunday" out and write above it, "Sunday," "Monday," "Tuesday," "Wednesday," "Thursday," "Friday," and "Saturday."

And the first weekends in April and October, I marked "General Conference."

I Am Beautiful

I saw a show a few weeks ago, where a gorgeous beautician from L.A. switched places for a week with a punk beautician from Vegas. The gorgeous beautician worked in a posh salon, where she had an assistant and lots of glamourous celebrities go to get beautified. The beautician in Vegas worked at a salon called "Curl Up & Dye," which was gross gross gross gross gross. Everyone had ugly tattoos and piercings on their bodies, and nasty hair, which looked like they poured a mixture of Wesson oil and Kool-Aid over. They were also dressed in shredded/dirty clothes and everyone smoked, even inside the salon. It was just dirty and slummy. The point of the show was to test what the beauticians knew, outside their respective elements.

Both of the beauticians had a really hard time; the punk one had a hard time making clients look pretty, and didn't even know what chemicals she was putting on the client's hair. She didn't take help from her assistant, and she had a super bad attitude -- which didn't help her look pretty, with piercings in her lip and cheek, and mismatched makeup on her washed-out skin and some orangey-red greasy hairdo. The glamourous beautician was really out of place making liberty spikes with some woman's pink hair (which she had to shave on the sides first, to make the mohawk). This woman was a tattoo artist, who had given tattoos to every employee at the Curl Up & Dye salon. The ambiance of this salon was really dark and dirty, and I could feel the cigarette smoke at the back of my throat, and it was making me sick.

Both girls were severely out of place, but I was amazed at how beautiful the glamourous beautician was. She probably wasn't anything out of the ordinary. She was a blonde girl with awesome skin, who obvously cared a lot about her body -- and it showed. Her teeth were white, her hair was perfect, and her clothes were clean and light-colored. I kept thinking, "Why doesn't everyone want to look like her? She may be an airhead, but she's a kind of person who makes you smile because she looks so clean." Maybe she looked too clean? I don't know. But it got me thinking, about beauty.

As I walked toward the glass door at my work, I saw my face in the reflection, and I thought how beautiful I really am. I wear makeup, but it's not overpowering; sometimes it looks like I'm not wearing it at all. I don't have any enhancements. I rarely even wear earrings, since my ears aren't even pierced and clip-on ones can sometimes pinch a little too hard. I'm not thin, so my body isn't anything to gawk at, either. But I'm beautiful -- not any more beautiful than anyone else, and not glamourously beautiful, either. No one is going to take photos of me and try to sell fragrances or magazines or fruit snacks with my picture. I'll never make a work-out video like some models do.

I started looking at other people, and noticing how beautiful they are, too. I started being happy when I saw some people smile or walk or think -- people are just beautiful! I notice that some people put lots of piercings in their bodies -- guaged holes in their ears or big rings in their noses -- and those things are so distracting. Those people are beautiful, but you have to use your imagination to see how they might look WITHOUT those things! This is hardly a revelation, I know. But I was just thinking about that.

At about the same time I was noticing that people are beautiful, I was approached by one of the hostesses at my work, who is bubbly and sweet. She pulled me aside to tell me that she noticed my "light," and that she had a hard time finding people with that "light" where she works. Having her tell me that was comforting, because I had also been in a cranky mood about then, trying to find another job to keep me afloat, so knowing that someone saw my "light" under that dark cloud really made me feel better.

When I worked at Safeway one summer, there was a cranky lady who I thought was ugly. There was also a sweet lady who I thought was most lovely. One day I looked at the cranky one and thought, "Wow, she's actually pretty. She just needs to wipe off that thick eyeliner and smile a little!" I then looked at the beautiful lady and it shocked me to notice how homely she actually was -- she just tricked me into thinking she was beautiful because she was so pleasant to be around!

Interesting.

La Lingua

There's a guy at the restaurant where I work. He's got a shaven head and lots of tattoos and piercings, and he struts around all tough-like. He has really strong language, too, which has made me shrink from him at times. I have thought, "I should say something . . . but he might just get mad at me for 'judging' him, and then things can get really tense. He's the kind of person who can make anyone miserable. So I'll just avoid him when he talks."

He's come back and eaten brownies made from "My Special Recipe," which is one my friend gave me in college. I even put it in the Orton cookbook for everyone to enjoy. I believe that good recipes should be shared, because in some small way, it's a form of immortality: Making people happy long after you're gone. The brownies we made at the restaurant when I started, were NAAAASTY!! They used a mix and didn't even follow the recipe, but used buttermilk -- so the brownies tasted more like buttermilk than chocolate! They smelled awesome but were really dry and sour. Now, THAT'S not a recipe I'd like to have immortalize me; I decided we needed something to make people happy.

I think that this brownie recipe is what endeared this frightening guy to me. He even told someone (in my presence) that my brownies are "puke-on-yourself good," which isn't a way I'd describe something I liked, but that's how I'm a little different, I guess.

I spoke to the owner of the restaurant one day, and he asked me if this guy (Ben) offended me by his speech; he'd had complaints over the years from employees who had to be around Ben and hear his bad language. I said that it bothered me, but I usually just avoided Ben for that reason. The owner then told me that Ben has been trying to make positive changes in his life: He's started going to church and going to school, and I even learned later that he's committed not to drink anymore. He has had a really harsh life, and he was really trying to make changes -- so be patient with his efforts.

Not long after my conversation with the owner, Ben was back in the bakery area, talking to someone else, and he said a bad word, and then corrected himself. It made me smile; he kept talking and again said more bad words, followed by his correcting himself. Then he said, "I'm sorry, Bethani -- I'm trying not to say those kinds of things around you, because you don't like it." I laughed -- it tickled me that he'd care enough (and to assume I didn't want to hear him say those things) to try to make my time there pleasant. I had figured it was ingrained in him for so long that the bad language was "just part of who he was," and that having him try to make efforts to "soften" his language would be too much to ask. And maybe it was. Maybe he just had to decide to do it. He probably started using language like that for the very purpose of offending people. But now he's trying to NOT offend people.

Last night I went next to the kitchen to get a bowl of soup, and I heard Ben speak very loudly to someone else, using a word that's hideously offensive. I just pretended not to hear (since he wasn't talking to me, and my back was even turned as I ladled soup into a teeny bowl, so I didn't even think anyone saw me), and suddenly, he edited his sentence and said, "I'm sorry Bethani -- I didn't see that you were there."

I know other people have had experiences like this, too. It's such a compliment when someone respects you enough to try not to offend you in one way or another -- especially when you didn't ASK them to, and also especially when you know it's not easy for them. It makes me have respect for them, too, and want to make THEM feel more comfortable and accepted.

Chocolate

Tuesday night I was at work, trying to get rolls done and work on pies with the other baker. I got a phone call and hurriedly wiped my hands and bolted for the back room (where there's not so much noise).

"Hello?"
"Hi, this is Joel. I'm just wondering what kind of chocolate you would like."

Wow.

About 15 minutes later, he came to my work in his biker jacket, and handed me a bag with my FAVORITE chocolate. I told a couple of the girls what he'd done (thought of bringing chocolate for me and then BRINGING it!), and with squealy voices and huge smiles and bendy knees, they said, "Cute!!!"

With the overtime he has been having to work the past few weeks, the only times we are sure to see each other are Sundays and Wednesdays (at institute). So it was such a sweet gesture for him to bring me chocolate, just because.

Furthermore, yesterday I had a misalignment in my back and neck, so he showed up to my work before institute and had me drive his car to my house while HE rode my pink bike there, so we could meet up for institute . . . he didn't want me uncomfortable on my bike!

There's Something about Mary

When I first met Mary, we were taking a patternmaking class at BYU. She has an infectious smile, bright eyes, and she always has something kind or encouraging to say. She and I (and about 4 other people) shared a table, and it was so crowded that, after a few weeks, I went to a different table with the theater people who didn't talk so much.

Mary has a gift for memory: She remembers everyone's name, and she can tell you the storyline of a film with such careful detail that you feel as though you are watching the movie. After our patternmaking class, I forgot her name but remembered her face -- and I'd see her on campus in various places and she'd call out my name, and I'd be so embarrassed I'd have forgotten her name! I don't have the memory gift like she does, and even when I tell a story, it's hard for me to remember a complete sentence sometimes. So, when she'd visit with me, I'd try to remember her name while she chatted, and I'd be frustrated for a few hours afterwards that I couldn't remember. I think she could tell, but she's so kind and she must have forgiven me.

About a year after our patternmaking class, I took three sewing classes in one semester. Mary was the T.A. for one, and my classmate for another. She'd gotten married just months before that semester, to a theater student -- so she and I saw each other more often, too, and we would visit. Amongst all this familiarity with each other, I'm sure she thought she could trust me with a question: "How do you forgive?" I was confounded. There were areas of life I thought I would be able to give advice, such as how to keep cut flowers fresh for longer, or how to make a loaf of bread, or maybe, how to put a tuck in a bodice . . . I don't know, I just didn't think I really had any level of expertise on the subject of forgiveness.

When I asked for a little more information -- ". . . but not too much, mind you" -- she told me that she has a couple of sisters who haven't forgiven her. Apparently, she did something dreadful (and, if you know Mary, it must have been pretty benign, whatever it was) and worked it out with her bishop, and he gave her a temple recommend and she got married in the temple. When she told me this, I was very happy for her and I congratulated her on repenting and being forgiven. But she went on to tell me that her sisters talked to her bishop to prevent him from giving Mary a temple recommend, and when that didn't work, they both turned against her, severing all contact with her and snubbing her at church. They didn't attend her wedding, and when she's asked for their forgiveness, they have been cruel to her. In fact, when their father came around to reestablish bonds with Mary, the sisters cut him off, too.

I was sure when she told me this that there was just a misunderstanding or a misinterpretation, but when she told me examples of things her sisters did to her, and the way they talked to her, I was perplexed. First of all, whatever she'd done was worked out with the bishop. Second of all, if she'd sinned against her sisters, she'd clearly done all she could to work things out with them. And if the sin wasn't committed against them, why are they trying to ruin her life, anyway?

It broke Mary's heart (and mine) that her very own sisters would have so much hate for her. Her sisters, it seemed, got together to talk about her and perhaps made something out of it that wasn't there, really -- or just made what Mary'd done seem worse, until her name just wasn't safe with them anymore. That's perhaps one of the strongest powers of gossip.

I admire Mary for her faithful persistence amid expected rejection. I know people with whom my name is not safe, and I don't try to repair the broken bridges like Mary does. I have wondered why Mary would want to reestablish a relationship with these girls, and she says, "They are my family." I guess that should be enough.

Reason

I realize now why I named this blog "Creative Musings": I was going to do a bunch of fabulous knitting and sewing projects and document them here. I forgot a long time ago about this blog I started a few years back, and hadn't even cared enough to post a single entry. It may be a coincidence that I also never take pictures, and since I don't, I haven't figured out how to put pictures from the camera to the computer.

So "Creative Musings" is kindof a dorky name -- and it's even dorkier since that's not really what it is -- but I'm not really thinking of a better name for it.

At least it's pink.

He Loves Me!

Last Friday I had about the worst day EVAH!! I got off work at Crumb Brothers and we had some Indian food that the boss had bought, which was incredible. I get off at 2:00 and have work at 4:00 at Angie's, so usually that's a break to go home and change clothes and do all my errands. But this time, the other baker (Gaby) and I had been asked to attend a meeting with the owner and managers at Angie's. I knew nothing about the meeting; I wasn't sure if we were in trouble or if it was just with one of the managers or where it even took place. Gaby and I agreed to meet there at 3:15 or so.

Well, I got done eating Indian food at around 2:50, and I debated the entire ride to Angie's whether or not I'd deposit my paycheck, because I wasn't sure I was going to have time. Also, did I have everything with me, what was I going to do in the evening after work, why the hey do I have to make pies that night?? Lots of stuff was going through my head. I got there and, since I didn't know what the meeting really WAS, or WHERE was going to be, or WHO to ask for, I just sat in the lobby. I sat there for a good half-hour, kindof impatient, because that was a half-hour that I was supposed to be at the "Mysterious Meeting," and if I wasn't there, I could have at least done some of my errands. Finally Gaby showed up, and we went to the meeting. The managers and owner were talking about "stuff," and I didn't really know why we'd been invited. But whatever. They asked for us to give them "imput," but I wasn't sure what they wanted to hear, since I hadn't been involved in the meeting for the last hour or so. Then they mentioned that Gaby and I were both single, and they teased us, and that made me uncomfortable. Technically, I do have a boyfriend -- but I didn't want to mention that right then because I don't think it's anyone's business to discuss at a work meeting, no matter how nice these men all are.

Enter the freakshow: I had to make about 11 pies. Now, for one thing, I confess that I've had a really hard time with piecrusts. I learned how to make piecrusts in culinary school. The first one I made was marvelous. Second one, too. I didn't know I could NOT make a perfect pie crust! Then I got this job at Angie's. I told the guy who interviewed me that I knew how to make pies. I DID! I learned, and I made awesome pies, and everyone lived happily ever after -- UNTIL I got this job! Sometimes they shrink down into the pie plate, which really bothers me. Gaby says that's normal, with our recipe, with our flour, with our pie plates, with our convection oven. The crust tastes awesome, but it looks so strange, and that's really bothered me -- to the point where I'll fill and decorate the cream pies, but I don't like to build the pie crusts. But this day, she forced me to.

So I was already in a bad mood. The bad mood was perhaps enhanced by some chemical fluctuations that occur about every four weeks for most girls, and happened to occur during the time period I was mentioning (last week, to be more precise). I'd also had a few difficult experiences in the previous days, which don't need mentioning -- but they have to do with the story here in that they were emotionally traumatizing: Suffice it to say, I was at the end of my rope. As I was minding my own business, this punk server came in and got really belligerent and nasty with me, and as he was attempting to forcefully take away the equipment I was actively using, I made my decision to immediately shoot death crystals out my eyes. That may not have been what I was thinking, but it describes the frustration I was having to deal with at that moment. I left to solve his problem so that he wouldn't encroach upon my tiny little space, and I came back and turned off the loud, repetitive Hispanic music and wend to work on the MILLION PIES I had to work on! Well, I made 11 pies that looked like barf. I was so discouraged and frustrated and I just wanted to get in bed with my blankie, plus I had to work at 6:00 the next morning, and the prospect of that wasn't something I looked forward to, either.

Gaby was understanding, and she encouraged me to go home and get some sleep, for she could take care of the bakery alone that night (especially since she wasn't coming the next day). I clocked out and made a break for the door, and I walked over to my bike to unlock it. Something was wrong: When I removed it from the bike rack, I noted that the front tire was 100% completely flat. "Someone SLASHED my TIRE!! It was that PUNK'S BUDDY!!! Or maybe one of the Hispanics who was mad I turned off his music. Or maybe it was SATAN!!!" Miraculously, I didn't sob hysterically. I just walked home and called my sweetheart to ask if he'd pick it up in his truck the next day. He came over with it a little while later.

Next morning, I got up at 4:00 so I could be ready to walk to work just after 5:00, because I had to work at 6:00, and I didn't know how long it would take to walk those 9 or 10 blocks. I got there in plenty of time. My supervisor was the one who was nearly 45 minutes late.

We had a whirlwind busy day on Saturday. Most the bread was gone by around 11:00, so we had a pastry worker there until around 12:45, making sure we would have something to sell for the next hour or so. Crazy busy, crazy busy. I even saw one of my former supervisors from BYU come in and get some treats . . . but we were so busy, I couldn't chat.

During a brief lull, my sweetheart (Joel) came in with his motorbiking gear on, and I was jealous. I wanted to be out riding in the gorgeous weather, too! He bought a cookie and left. And I washed more dishes and brewed more coffee and cleaned up more messes and . . . What a long day!

Joel came to get me after work, and he talked about cars and about what sorts of features I like to have in a car, and what features are available . . . We passed the turnoff for my house, and he talked . . . We passed the turnoff for my other work, and he talked . . . He said something about test-driving a car. We drove to a car dealership, and he took me on a test-drive. Very nice car. We drove to his friend's house, and spoke to the friend's wife, and I mentioned to her that my bike is broken, and Joel said it wasn't! I was a little confused; of course he had to know that it had gotten a flat tire. When I'd seen it the night before, it was so flat that it couldn't have just pumped itself up. It was pretty severe; I was sure it was a goner. So I asked him if he'd fixed it, and he admitted that he had. I thought, "Oh, well then, I need to just keep a tire pump with me."

On Sunday, Joel and I took a motorcycle ride and then we rode in his black car to his friend's house and we had a lovely time. Then last night I rode my bike to his house and he drove me back in his beater truck -- the first time we'd ridden in it for several days. I got in, and there was a bike tire on the seat -- he told me it was my old bike tire, and that I'd ridden over a pretty big thorn, which is typical to do this time of year. I was astounded! I thought he'd just pumped the tire up, and I thought I was the luckiest girl alive, that my sweet boyfriend would come over to my house and pump up my tire so I could get around! But he'd actually taken his Saturday to replace it and not even tell me about what it took to have that done!

My goodness, he really loves me!

Marmalade

I love marmalade. They have it at my work, and I like to eat it on bread. I think they home-make their own marmalade at Crumb Brothers, which is why it's different and GOOD. The marmalade of my past hasn't been so delightful.

Vroom! Vroom!

"Oh, so THAT'S why guys like motorcycles!"

We don't have much of a summer left here in good ole Cache Valley. Yesterday I was working at Crumb Brothers, and we were super busy -- I can't even think of a good way to describe the insane busyness! Well, the weather was just absolutely gorgeous. I hadn't taken much notice of it, however, until my sweetheart (Joel) came walking through the door in his motorbiking gear. He'd driven down to see me and to get a treat, and as I looked at him and looked around at how much work I had to do, my heart was torn. Our days of good motorbiking weather were not to last much longer, and I work every Saturday from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m., with only a 2-hour layover.

Today Joel came over for lunch, with provisions (such as chicken and pasta and sauce) in his backpack. Of course, I provide the bread from Crumb Brothers! (We get a loaf every day we work, provided we didn't sell out of it.) Joel suggested we take a ride on his motorbike. We've only taken a few rides together, so I'm still a little inexperienced. However, he did tell me it's getting easier for him to drive around with me, because I don't wobble around quite as much. I think maybe the leg muscles that keep me on, know what to do now. Yay! (So I don't have to tumble around tomorrow with sore legs!) We went up Smithfield Canyon and he showed me his high school (we were both bobcats! Just a coincidence? Impossible!). It gets a little bit difficult to speak to one another when we're driving, because of the wind that goes past our faces, plus our ears are covered -- and I have kindof a fear of bugs flying into my mouth when I make the "ah" sound as I talk. Or shout, as I would have to when we're on a bike together.

And I don't know why I don't tuck my hair in my jacket! It whips around and gets knotty. It's not like I don't know it will happen! I'm probably just insane.

Anyway, up the canyon, the trees are all changing colors. I love the bigtooth maples! They turn a deep pink/orange/red color as if to say, "I'm going to look beautiful for one last shot before I lose my leaves and don't make shade or beauty for the entire winter!" I just love those trees. I take their message maybe a little too personally, and it makes me love those trees like they're my friends. Plus, their leaves have such a cute shape!

Everything seems more beautiful in a motorcycle. I love riding my bicycle around, going slowly, with the wind in my hair and my feet going in circle after circle. For some reason, I just really like riding my bike! I don't like to drive that much, but I love my bike! The motorcycle seems like it's just a hybrid. You get the freedom of riding on a bicycle, but with the speed of a car! (We hit over 70 mph on that thing. I think I MIGHT have hit 19 mph on my bicycle.)

I like motorcycles.

Socks for Christmas

Good grief. I can't believe how difficult it is to find a decent Christmas stocking pattern these days. You know, years ago, if you wanted to wear socks, you had to make them out of bias-cut woven fabric (which, I am told, are not comfortable) or you had to knit them yourself. (Or get a friend or close family member to do it for you -- or live in Hawaii and just wear sandals.) I bet everyone had a sock pattern sitting around SOMEplace.

Nowadays, knitting is an elitist activity. Nice yarn costs a fortune. The needles alone can cost as much as a new pair of jeans, sometimes. For sure, you can go to the craft store and find aluminum needles and acrylic yarn -- but having stitches fall off your needles (and enjoying the accompanying blisters on your fingers) is frustrating. And then you have a project finished with acrylic yarn, which catches on my fingers and snags. Plus, it pills and has an oily feeling. Acrylic is great for afghans, but little else I like to do.

I don't mind paying for nice bamboo needles I'll use again. Or for wool yarn in delightful muted shades. And I don't mind paying $20 for a pattern book, if it will have a few patterns I'll use. All these purchases combined cause me to eliminate other "frivolities," like groceries and doing laundry with the expensive coin-operated washers and dryers (and washing clothes in the bathtub is virtually free! Blowdrying them with a hair dryer and risking burning a hole in them is a concern, though). But sacrificing these money-wasters is worth it -- IF I can get tools and supplies that work for me.

I've searched so many pattern books, though, for the perfect sock pattern. I have a Christmas stocking pattern book I bought a couple years ago (and used a pattern from to make stockings for my parents' family they have home for Christmas). It was a good book. Still available, too. Problem is, my copy is in storage (in Oregon). "Storage" means that you paid for it once but don't really HAVE it, but someday will . . . when you own a house or something. Also, I wanted a different pattern to try, if I'm going to make a set for one of my sisters and each of her kids.

She gave me permission to make judgement calls on how they are going to look, in regards to colors and patterns. One of the cool things about this sister, is that she appreciates the thought, AND the gift! And when yarn costs what it does, and when knitting takes so long to do, she's the kind of recipient I like to make things for. She's not the kind of person to say, "Oh, what a nice thought," and then you never see it displayed in her house because she gave it to D.I. or some pet to eat up "accidentally," saying to herself, "It's the thought that counts." But knitting is a very labor-intensive activity, and takes a lot of time -- not only in the actual knitting of the project, but also in the 42 times you have to unravel parts that didn't "look right" and shopping for the nice yarn and looking for the "perfect pattern."

Well, finding the "perfect pattern" has proven to be a lost cause, so far. All I want to do is a stripey sock with a cute wedge-shaped heel and toe to use as the main color. You can find socks like that to WEAR. Machines know how to make those socks. Hand-knitted socks almost ALWAYS have this strange triangle-shaped gusset and a heel flap -- not a cute little wedge-shaped heel. Every dang book on the market has a pattern for a knitted bikini! Are ya CRAZY?? Who would wear one of those?? Put a drop of water on them, and they get saggy! It's got to be more embarrassing for the people who are trying to divert their eyes than for the wearer. But I digress. Why don't these pattern books have a decent sock pattern?

I'm sure it's a conspiracy. I'm taking it personally, too. I'm trying to think of something to do about it. I don't need a hundred patterns. I don't even need 1 1/2 patterns -- I just need ONE pattern! I've got a pattern someone found on the Internet, but I'll have to make all manner of adjustments to it (part of the time-consuming factor I mentioned above), by following the pattern once and then figuring out what was done and what to do, and then unraveling it and making the "real" one and writing a new pattern out. Not that I mind doing that -- I was happy to have even found a pattern with a cute wedge-shaped heel at all! But you know, just about every illustration of a Christmas scene with the fireplace in childrens' books have the cute stocking with a perfect wedge-shaped heel and toe in a contrasting color. I don't think I've ever seen a scene like that with knitted bikinis.

Girls' Night Out

Wednesday is chicken cordon bleu soup at Angie's. I told Sharalen that, and she said she'd be by on Wednesday to have a taste. She invited Sharlee (our cousin) to have a Girls' Night Out, and we agreed on a time.

It was fun. I think we solved the problems of the universe. Actually, girls don't solve problems. Guys do that. It's best if guys solve problems amongst themselves. Girls just need someone to say, "Oh, I can understand how you feel. Gosh, that must be horrible," or "I've been through that before; jee, that's hard." Why is that so hard to grasp?

I notice I get a little more uptight when I am talking to my boyfriend about a problem, and he says, "Have you thought about such-and-thus?" or "What you need to do is . . . " and the translation to me is, "Here's more responsibility," or "If you were smart, you would have already solved your problem elsewise." I don't want to hear that. Something CORRECT would be, "Wow, I can tell you're really worried about that. Let me give you a hug," or "Let's solve that problem a little later when we can both think through it. Right now, let's go for a walk or play a quick game of Uno." Really, the message I want to hear is, "You are validated. You are smart but a little frustrated. And you are beautiful and sweet." I don't need someone to tell me how to think. At least, not when I'm emotional and frustrated about something. I don't think I'm all that weird.

Really, if some guy wants to solve my problems, he can go right ahead on and solve them. Guys just want to tell you what to do. Not that THEY would do the same thing in the situation. It's funny. It makes me laugh.

Even my little brothers do that. They're 7.

Jacob doesn't try to solve my problems. He's a good listener.

Sharalen also shared a secret long forgotten: my first Barbie name. The name was "Sliver." Like the thing that gets stuck under your skin when you rub your hand on a raw piece of wood. Sharalen said I thought it was a pretty name. Actually, I never thought it was a pretty name. I remember naming my Barbie "Sliver," and wanting to change it. I'm pretty sure Melodie said, "Well, if you pick that name, you have to stick with it." I was encouraged to think it was a lovely name, anyway. I remember feeling confused as we played Barbies with a cardboard box being the house. We had little Barbie accessories, like a platter for a roast, and some candle sticks, and an ice tray. We also had dinner plates. All were real metal. Over the years they've gotten lost. But they were really cute. Anyway, Sharalen said that Mom told her that I chose "Sliver" as my Barbie's name, and not to make fun of me about it. Actually, that might have been BETTER, cause then I'd have known FOR SURE that it wasn't even a name!! Children are so gullible.

Sonnet named her pink stuffed cat "Morbo Daunted." Where she came up with that, I think I will never know. She thought it up, though. It's different when you're duped into thinking someone else's creation is fab. Melodie did that stuff to me all the time. I wasn't the kind of kid to catch on.

Sharalen and Sharlee and I had some pie I made that Sharalen bought. Mmm. It was nice and fresh, and CHOCOLATEY! Yes, the other baker and I decided it needed more of a chocolate flavor. We are awesome, pretty much.

I don't remember right off what all other things we talked about. There are a few, but not that I can really expound upon. My head is tired, besides. We chatted for about three hours.

Girls' Night Out is a great treat. I recommend it.

Works for Me!

Welluh . . .

I didn't expect anyone would READ my blog. I sortof started it up because Rachel was writing on hers, and no one read it, and I thought, "Hey, score!!" So I thought I could write ANYTHING I WANTED, mwah hah haaaaaaaaa, but it sounds like I'm all whiny in that last blog. I could have been a lot whinier (I have whine talents that I try not to exercise too much), and I'm glad I wasn't. But I was still whiny. Many apologies!

Fact is, I had two interviews yesterday and they both went well. I interviewed first at the dry cleaning shop down about two blocks from my house. Great location. Full-time. Work that's not too difficult (by the way, the presses they use are NOT prissy little domestic irons -- they are some sort of INCREDIBLE!! The entire ironing BOARD is an iron, that opens and closes like a sandwich, and each has little gadgets you engage to vacuum, close, steam, open, blah blah blah . . . and you have to do it all in the right order. Pretty intense). Anyway, they paid pretty well, too. I spent an hour ironing polo shirts. Yes, polo shirts. I told the owner (the only man in the place) that I'd be leaving now, for I had an interview elsewhere. Then the guilt, "What do I do?" he asked me. Uh, well guess what: I've been applying other places, too. I'd be an idiot if I applied one place and sat around until I heard back from them . . . or not. (Some places don't call you to tell you that they chose someone else, guesswhat. But I'm not blogging about THEM.) I was sortof relieved to leave.

I arrived at Crumb Brothers shortly thereafter. The girl at the front desk greeted me. She had a pink hat on. I knew we could be friends or enemies, but definitely not acquaintances. However, I was escorted to the manager's office. We spoke briefly, and she told me what goes on around there. The bright rays of the afternoon sun flooded the entire facility in such a way as to say, "I love you!" Outside the office, about 4 guys and a girl shaped bread to be baked the next morning. Some of the bread loaves were wrapped in cloth, rather than sitting on an aluminum full-sheet pan over parchment. Every other bakery I've ever worked at used the pan and parchment, except the bakery at Angie's, who is too cheap to use parchment! The manager later explained to me that they use linen (say "linen" to me, and I sigh -- I LOVE linen!) because it has natural oil in it from the flax used to make it. I just about raised my hand with an "Ooh, ooh! I know! I know how they make it!" and described with full detail how reeds are collected and soaked and pounded and soaked and blah blah blah, linen comes out! But I didn't. I just glowed. Almost as bright as the sun coming through the huge windows, but not quite. I'm smaller than the windows. The manager (her name is Jan, and I think I'll call her that from now on) told me that she was sorry she couldn't offer me more money, but there were perks. For example, each employee gets to take home a loaf of bread every day! *sigh* AND, she told me that they don't use ANY commercial yeast in their breads; they make a starter a couple days before, so a loaf of bread will take two days to make. They only have ONE ingredient that's not from scratch, and that's an apricot glaze. That's the only thing they don't MAKE there. They also don't use hydrogenated fats; they only use olive oil and butter. That's why the breads taste so friggin' good!!! And they have a GREAT melt-in-your-mouth pleasurable feel to them. Gosh. I asked her how many people she was going to interview, and she said that she'd interviewed a couple of people, and that if I wanted the job, it's mine. Some sort of squeal of delight I'm sure was heard in some other realm, and I think my spirit jumped out of my body and did a "celebration dance," which the other spirits probably saw and either laughed hysterically or watched with horrific realization that I just don't dance very well. As I left the shop, the girl at the front (her name is Krista) brought me a loaf of ciabatta bread, and a lemon scone and a cinnamon puff. When I'd gone to pick up an application last week, I bought a lemon scone and a cinnamon puff to take with me!! And she REMEMBERED!! I know, that girl in the pink hat is AWESOME!!

I prayed about which job to take. It was hard. Only an idiot would choose the lower-paying, lower-hours, farther-away job (I ride a bike, not a car). But when I reflected on the feelings I had about each interview, the feeling of terror flowed through my sinews as I thought of working full-time at the hot, dark, crowded, dusty dry cleaners for eight hours every day with 5 gossipy women and one male owner. And I thought of working at the front desk for much less money, many fewer hours, 7 blocks away, where the angels were hanging out and singing happy songs, like Earth, Wind, & Fire songs that just make you feel all positive and cheery. I love Earth, Wind, & Fire.

I gave the guy at the cleaners a call and said I'd chosen the other job, and he said, "Okay, that works out just great, then." I thought, "Hm, I guess it's going to work out just fine, then. I don't want to be there, anyway." I called Jan at Crumb Brothers to tell her I'd decided to accept that job, and she said, "Oh, I'm so excited that you'll be working with us!! Can you start tomorrow at 10:00?"

We'll see how it turns out. I'll still be keeping my job at Angie's. She must be the "Dinna Sista." (Like, Crumb Brothers, Dinna Sista . . . Well, I just made it up. I think it's way creative and hilarious.)

Yay!

Job to Get a Job

It would be really cool to find a job. I do have a job right now. I work part-time as a baker, about 3 to 4 hours a day, except Sunday. Sometimes I work longer, sometimes shorter. It would be great to find a "real job," especially since I do have a bachelor's degree, and also an associate's. Maybe I should have moved to Montana or something. At the bakery, the other baker I work with is 17. I could have had the job I have now, without ANY education. A little disappointing.

I do have two job interviews today, which is nice. Although I do hate interviews. At least SOME of the jobs I've applied for, have shown fruit in interviews. I just need more job OFFERS. And GOOD ones, too. I'm getting pretty desperate. The thought of moving back into my parents' basement has some sort of appeal to me, and it's getting stronger. I'm here to "make something of my life." When I was living there, I did work at a quilt shop -- and that was nice. I was treated really well. Problem was, I didn't bring home a very big paycheck. I have lots of fabric instead. And I didn't really feel like I was making the world all that much better. I wasn't sharing my skills, working with the poor and needy, saving up to buy a house . . . I was just selling fabric and spa chemicals. And I was replaced there by a 17-year-old. Good grief.

What would I like to do in life to feel "fulfilled"? Maybe work in a hospital and save lives. Though I do have a problem with blood and other bodily fluids, and also pain. And the high stress, too. Maybe working at a school, teaching kids to read and do math. Or building homes for people who don't have homes. I don't know.

But right now, my lofty goals are to pay my rent and student loans, and some shelves or dressers to put my clothes & books (living out of boxes is really horrible). I don't think I'm asking for too much.

Bloggy

I used to blog. I don't much anymore. I think there are good things about blogging.

Blogging got to be really "it" a few years ago. I even made myself a blog on yahoo. Only my cousins really looked at it. And the guy I was dating. But he didn't read it that much, I don't think. I didn't blog that much, either.

It was interesting about blogging, though. Putting thoughts out there, and people could respond or leave it alone. That was nice.

I'm not that good at communicating. Blogging was kindof a cool outlet for me. People couldn't interrupt me, and if they didn't want to listen, they just looked away, rather than blatantly ignoring me. That was cool about blogging.

Typing is better to me than talking on the phone. I don't like talking on the phone. I like being with people in person, but it's also a little different on the blogging page. I can't imagine that I seem more ingenious or ignernt than I am in real life. I don't really pretend to be smarter or duller in blogland.

At least I'll enjoy this blog, though. It's bright and pink. Gorgeous.