On the cost of joy....

Indulgence is kind of a funny thing, isn't it? It seems to have such hedonistic connotations associated with it. When I think of indulgence, I often think of over-spending or over-eating...things like that. I wonder, though, if that's just my childish view of indulgence seeping into my adult mind.

When I was a kid, there was nothing better than indulging in a giant bowl of ice cream with chocolate syrup. I could really be okay with eating a tub of ice cream every now and then. The same went for hot dogs cooked over a campfire. I once at something like five hot dogs then ran around playing tag for an hour followed by several s'mores. The end result was nothing short of digestive pyrotechnics, the likes of which kept me from eating another hot dog until I was well into my 20s.

As a teenager, I loved indulging in clothing. I never really had anything super expensive (save my cheerleading uniform), but I loved buying clothes. At some point, and I really have no idea why, I owned a Hanson t-shirt. WTF? Mostly, I just loved clothes. I had yet to discover my underlying passion for shoes.

In my early 20s, indulgence became wildly hedonistic. I drank and ate and danced in extreme ways. I indulged in much of the "underworld" of Denver (if you can even call it that...Denver is a pretty tame city, as far as that goes, but what did I know?). I did things I'm not proud of, but man, did it feel good at the time. It was indulgent on so many levels.

But as I get older, as each year passes, my ideas of indulgence are changing...markedly. I still love to eat a good meal, but I'd rather enjoy it, savor it, take it slowly. Clothes are still something I enjoy, but I'd much rather save for five years for a great pair of heels than spend $800 over five years on 40 pairs of shoes that'll crap out in a year.

So what defines indulgence for me now? Being able to pay someone else to clean my house. Taking an afternoon nap during a football game. Long, hot showers after work for no reason other than that I felt like taking a shower. Spending an evening with my best friends laughing and playing games. Reading a book, cover to cover, in one day...things that cost me nothing, but that pay back in dividends the likes of which Wall Street will never see.

It seems that the older I get the more intentional, even calculating, I become with my indulgences. As a grown-up, I understand and appreciate money in ways I couldn't have when I was younger. I don't have to spend money to indulge (a lesson I wish I'd have learned about 15 years ago)...indulgence is so much more than that. At this juncture, it's about finding peace and laughter, even joy, in whatever I see, whatever I do, wherever I go.

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On time standing still....

There are plenty of things that happen in my life that just take way too long. Things like waiting in line at the grocery store. Or getting my meal after I've ordered at certain restaurants. Or driving from place X to place Y (I'd much rather fly). But maybe the thing that takes much longer than it ever should is the time between now and whenever my next vacation comes around.

It seems the less time there is between now and vacation, the longer time seems to take. If I don't have a vacation planned, time just trucks right along at a normal pace while I wish away time, trying to figure out where to go next. But once the vacation is planned, time inevitably begins to slow down.

Like the time we went to Paris. The trip was decided on in December and booked by February...but the trip didn't happen until June. Good Lord. February and March were okay, in the time department. Plenty to keep busy with (buying a house and what not), but by the time April and May rolled around, I felt like I was swimming through cement most days. Time couldn't possibly go by more slowly.

Or so I thought.

The week before the flight to Paris was, without question, the SLOWEST WEEK EVER! Eight hours took eight days to pass. I couldn't do anything to make it go faster. Nothing! It's painful, waiting for something exciting to happen, isn't it? And just when I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse, the unimaginable happened.

Time slowed down. Again.

If I thought the days leading up to vacation were bad, I was in no way prepared to deal with the mere hours prior to take-off. I honestly did not think time could slow down any further. Yet it did. Sigh. And then, of course, once we landed in Paris time sped right back up again. One solid week flew by and I wondered how in the world we'd ever see all the things we needed to see! We managed pretty well, but by the end, it all sort of felt like a dream.

That's how vacations seem to go for me. It's a dream-like state of affairs. Whatever vacation I take next, I'm sure that trance-y feeling will make an appearance. I'm sure the hours before my next flight will be tragically long. But still...I want a vacation.

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On living up to my own expectations....

I've been doing a lot of introspection lately. Part of it stems from an article I read while having trash magazine/Emmy's/dinner time with a friend over the weekend. I read a lot of interesting, thought-provoking articles, but most of them come from the likes of The New Yorker and Vanity Fair. It isn't very often that I read regular, ol' girly mags. But I found an article about having a five-year plan in place and I was hooked. You know why.

I've spent the better portion of my life comparing myself to other people and trying to keep up with my friends, in a myriad of ways. Jobs, life, athletics, stuff...you name it, I've tried to keep up. It's exhausting! I don't know if you've ever tried it, but I certainly don't recommend it. It's how I've gotten into a lot of shenanigans in my life. The problem with trying to keep up with other people's expectations is that they're OTHER PEOPLE'S EXPECTATIONS. Everyone has their own path, their own things they want or need to do.

I have a few friends who are ladder-climbers. They want the absolute most out of a job they can possibly get. They work hard (and they play hard) and they know exactly how to get what they want out of a job, out of a career. I used to think I wanted that. But I'm coming to realize it's not really in my nature to do that. Climbing the corporate ladder can be pretty cut-throat. It should be, honestly. It shouldn't be all THAT easy to get ahead. You should have to work for it. I just don't have it in me to do that. I don't have that kind of energy. I don't know if I ever did. But I tried for a long time to convince myself I did.

So instead of trying to do what I think other people want or expect me to do, I'm going to try to do things that make me happy. Anytime I think about what makes me happy, the first thing that comes to my head is traveling. If there's nothing more you can know about me, know that I love to travel.

My current list includes the following: Bahamas, Lake Louise, Greece, London, Italy, Southern France, and Monaco.

I also really really love baking and cooking. In talking with a gal-pal the other night, she phrased it best: "You [and another person X in her life] like baking just so other people can enjoy it." Well, ain't that the truth. I told her she better plan on being chubby this fall/winter because I fully intend to do bake a metric ton of cookies, pies, cakes, etc. It's going to be madness. And I expect that everyone in my life will indulge in said baked goods. I'm also going to perfect a butternut squash soup this fall, if it kills me (and it might).

I'm going to try to make a better habit out of doing things that make me happy. Reading, walking my dogs, yoga (which involves breathing peace in, breathing worry out), cooking/baking, watching stand-up comedy, working on wedding stuff. Maybe I'll even learn how to make some jewelry.

How have I not thought about any of this before now?!

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On loving the living dead....

Fall arrives (officially) on Friday. I always say that fall arrives with the first NFL game of the season...that's always been a good marker for me. Football season, for me, equals the following: lazy Sundays, delicious soups, cozy sweatpants and sweatshirts, fuzzy blankets, afternoon naps, seven-layer dip, a house full of friends. Generally speaking, I guess football season is for me what Fall is for most people. I just never really considered that the two coincide. Yes, I hate Fall with the fire of a thousand suns. But I love love love football season!

It would seem that most people in my life love Fall the way I love Summer. So I have a few people that are making it their personal mission to help me make it through this most dreaded season. My co-worker is one of them. In fact, she's begun a list on my white board of reasons to love Fall. So far, the list is about eight reasons long and they're all very good. I have some others that have been given to me over the weekend, but the one that I had completely forgotten about is one that, frankly, is a little bit weird.

Zombies.

Zombies are one of the best reasons to love Fall that I can think of (so thanks for that, Micaela!)...ever since my first exposure to Resident Evil, I've been in love with zombies. I just think they're funny. Sure, they can be gross, but mostly they're just hilarious. I may even consider being a zombie again for Halloween this year. It's either that or Alice (Resident Evil Alice, not Wonderland Alice) and since I no longer have appopriate boots for that costume, I think I'll rock the zombie gear again.

Really, when I think zombies, I think hilarious. I mean, how can you go wrong with "Shaun of the Dead" or "Zombieland"? You can't. I promise.

And this? Gimme a break. How is this not funny?!

It's funny because it's true...

On top of all that, I have a plan for any impending zombie apocalypse. I know exactly where I'll be heading.....do you?

On things that make me, me....

I've done these kinds of things before so it's not like this is new or different. However, it's Friday and I have nothing terribly interesting to write about (yet) so this is the best I can do right now.

Ten Random Facts About Me

1. My parents have effectively scarred me for life. "How?" you ask. I'll tell you. When I was 17, the movie SCREAM came out. My parents knew that I wanted to see it, but basically forbade me from watching it. The logic was sound. I have a really overactive imagination and they knew what seeing that movie would do to me. But being the normal teenager that I was, I watched it with a bunch of girl friends one summer evening. My parents found out. How? Because my brother, who was 12 at the time and had recently become interested in art (I have no idea why), wanted to be The Scream by Edvard Munch for Halloween. So my dad, not yet knowing I'd seen the movie, took my brother to buy his costume. My brother modeled for us one late-September evening and I lost my shit. From then on, my parents and siblings made it their goal to scare the hell out of me with that mask (often including chef's knives in their antics), day and night. Now, almost 15 years later, they can still get me with that damned mask.

2. Growing up, we didn't have a lot of the same backyard toys that most kids did. We lived in the 'burbs, but on the out-skirts, on two acres of land with a giant chicken coop, horse stalls, a rabbit hutch, a pond, and a garden twice the size of the backyards most of my friends had. We also had a giant teeter-totter (it was something like 10-feet long, made from a giant tree my dad had to cut down), a merry-go-round that tried to kill us, a rickety swing set that wasn't cemented into the ground, a grape arbor, and, well, the ditch. But among the weirdest things we found entertainment in would have to be the dirt hill and "the rock shop." The dirt was from digging out the pond. We'd take our bikes (or sleds, depending on our mood) to the top and ride down. That dirt hill was bigger than what most East Coasters ski on. The Rock Shop takes way too much time to explain. Suffice it to say, when you live on a dirt road with a ditch in front, you spend a lot of time finding quartz and washing it off in the ditch water.

3. Roadkill fascinates me. I'm not quite sure where the fascination comes from. But when I'm on roadtrips, I've been known to stop the car to take pictures. I have yet to see a dead armadillo, but I've seen my fair share of deer, elk, and skunks.

4. The feeling of hot pavement under my feet puts me in one of the best moods. It's no secret that I love summer. And while most people who love summer enjoy the feeling of cool grass or an easy breeze, I much prefer hot pavement. This probably stems from a lot of things. Growing up on a dirt road, I got quite used to wandering about the property in bare feet. The rocks and sticks and weeds never really bothered me until very recently (though I still prefer to be barefoot in the summer). My feet tend to stay cold all the time, so hot pavement always warmed them up quite nicely. There's also the small matter of some of the best nights of my teenage years spent with friends, laying on driveways on hot summer nights, watching the stars and laughing till we cried.

5. I love to sing a solid solo number, really I do. But given the option, I'd much rather rock the harmonies. Maybe that stems from being a first soprano my entire life and being subjected to the melody in virtually every choral arrangement ever written. I don't know. What I do know is that there is something absolutely magical about finding the perfect harmony to the perfect song. I especially love when the harmonies take me somewhere unexpected, into a minor key or a 2nd step (the most dreaded of harmonies) or hearing a moment of absolute pleasure, knowing you've found what you've been looking for the entire time.

6. I have come to be known as a bit of a mother-figure among my group of friends. This has apparently stemmed from making sure there are always photos taken of only the best parts of the evening, and also being able to ensure that no one gets arrested...which has never even come close to happening. More than that, it's because I roll up to any good party with red gatorade in hand.

7. I am a beer snob to the n-th degree. I cut my teeth on Guinness and ever since then, I've been very very picky about the kind of beer I consume. I realize that I'm incredibly lucky to live in a state with as many micro-breweries as Colorado has. My "designer beer" habit has probably cost me more than any of my designer bags or shoes. That said, if there's an option to have a PBR, either on tap or (preferrably) in a can, it's a pretty solid bet that's what I'll go with. Especially if it's only $2! I mean, PBR is an award-winning beer, after all!

8. In keeping with the edible snobbery theme, I can be somewhat choosy about food. I love going out to eat...doing the fine-dining thing is something I've come to love and appreciate. In fact, I'd almost rather eat out than make something on my own (though I do love a good home-cooked meal, don't get me wrong). As with other things in life, why do for myself what someone else can do for me? There are so many amazing restaurants and styles of food to try! And while I kind of can't get enough of fine dining, I have certain "comfort foods" that I recognize are pretty disgusting: Totino's Party Pizzas, Taco Bell, Peeps, those sugar-coated fruit slice things...I've even been known to open a can of black beans, heat 'em up, and go to town. Honestly, if it came down to a $40 steak and frittes or a frozen cheese pizza, I'd probably have to take some time to think.

9. I love surprises more than just about anything. I love being surprised and I love doing the surprising. But without a doubt, one of my favorite surprises are "just because" flowers. I know that ordering flowers can be pretty pricy so when I get flowers delivered to me, out of nowhere, for no reason at all, I nearly come out of my skin! I can be having the worst day/week/whatever, but the second I see flowers -- chosen JUST for me -- everything turns around. It's hard to have a bad day when you have your own personal bit of sunshine staring you down!

10. I love the rain. Just not when the weather is cold. This past Wednesday marked for me one of the worst days I've ever had since discovering that I have SAD. It was 55*F and raining, often in sheets. I cried from about 7a until well past midnight that day (for a lot of reasons, but it was all compounded by the crappy weather). What a world of difference 20* can make...if it had been 75*F or warmer and raining in sheets, I'd have probably taken to the streets for some puddle jumping, dancing, general shenanigans! And while it's probably not entirely safe, I do enjoy sitting outside during a good lightning storm. Summer storms are my favorites...feeling the hot, muggy day melt away underneath fresh, delicious water just makes me happy. Watching a storm roll in over the mountains, feeling the first drops on my forehead, slipping around in my flip-flops...it's hard to beat.

On showing my scars....

From time to time, Life likes to smack me up-side the head with a good reminder of how old I am. It doesn't happen all that often, but when it does...hoo boy! It's a solid reminder that I am far too old to be making the same silly choices I made in my 20s. Sometimes it feels as though my brain thinks I'm still 22 while my body is most assuredly in it's 30s.

Many times, these reminders come in the form of a good, old-fashioned hangover. I'm sure plenty of you can relate to that most wretched of feelings. I used to be able to party like a rock star....go out on school nights, dancing and drinking till all hours of the morning, and wake up after a mere 3 hours of sleep ready to kill it at the office and do it all over again. I was like a walking Katy Perry song. Then, one day, I turned 30. And I tried to do the rock star thing once. Or twice. The good thing is that I had the sense enough to attempt this on a Friday night. That's the ONLY good thing. There's nothing more embarassing than the way I am SURE I acted those two nights.

But my drunken escapades aren't really the point.

The point is that I am, we all are, prone to make silly mistakes even though we know better. It's the great chasm between ability and prudence, isn't it? Just because I can do something doesn't mean that I should do something. Mistakes are bound to happen, no matter what. It's human nature. Doing stupid things is basically part of our DNA. We play with fire, we get into shenanigans, and if we're lucky, we come out the other side relatively unscathed and without a rap sheet. The good news (I suppose), is that our mistakes never leave us completely unscathed. We are left with scars and burns and reminders and memories of the mistakes we made, which is probably life's way of helping ensure we don't do it again. Unfortunately, some (like me) tend to cover the scars with make-up and laughter and go ahead with life as though nothing happened.

Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if I let the scars show, if I let the pain exist in reality, even if only for a moment.

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On fixing the unfixable...

When it comes to fixing things, I tend to be an #epicfail most of the time. I'm not super handy around the house, even though I grew up learning everything about everything from my dad, in that regard. I can make pretty decent guesses about how to fix things, but when it comes down to actually fixing stuff, I fall apart.

Unfortunately, that hasn't really transcended every area of my life. You see, I have this bizarre "savior complex" wherein I feel it my moral obligation to "fix" people and situations. It's really bad and probably wrong most of the time. If people wanted fixing, they'd probably seek professional help. Or, at minimum, they'd ask a friend for help. I think that part of the reasoning behind this savior complex is that I am generally not happy unless everyone around me is happy, especially my family and friends. It's emotionally draining for me when someone I care about is struggling with something, anything...and it causes me to feel as though I should fix whatever is wrong.

That said, there has been one thing in my life that I've successfully fixed (albeit temporarily, it would turn out) and I'm quite proud of it (though I will be the first to admit that I had a TON of help).

Lily. My first car. A 1989 Ford Escort.

What a piece of sh*t that car was! So many issues and so much drama happened with, in, and around that car, I can't even begin to describe it all. But there was this one time in 2000, before I'd moved out of my parents house, that everything just hit the fan with her.

I'm pretty reliant on the various systems in any car I've ever owned. I depend on it to tell me when the tire pressure is off, when it's overheating, when it's too cold to expect the heater to work, these kinds of things. So when the systems failed to advise that Lily was overheating, I had absolutely no idea. I was just going along my merry way, driving to and from my various jobs that summer (my schedule was insane: cheer coach from 8a-11a, Good Times Burgers from 12p-430p, then closing shift manager at McDonald's from 430p-2a...every single day). I needed my car desperately so imagine my shock and anger when I discovered that not only had I cracked the head in my car, I'd also blown the timing belt...en route from Denver to Greeley. I flipped my lid. Called my dad in utter panic because, well, my dad has always fixed my cars and normally when I'm freaking out, it turns out to be something far less than I imagine it is. Not so, this time. Dad came and got my car (while I, in my righteous bitchiness, continued to Greeley to visit a girl friend) and took it back to the house. Two days later, I came home at 3am from a horrible day at all my jobs to find my dad in the driveway, floodlights abounding, and a new engine ready to drop in the car. "Get changed and get out here," was all he said to me. Didn't even say hello. That's when I realized what a bitch I'd been to my dad. I earned that. And there we worked for another 2+ hours, putting a new engine in the car, my dad teaching me all about the wires and connectivity and nonsense of my car's inner workings. It was a wretched evening (and an even more horrible morning), but I learned a lot that night...about myself, my dad, my car, and my attitude.

That wouldn't be the last from Lily. In December 2003, I was driving home from work (not a small task, given that I was living and working on w-a-y opposite sides of the city), rounding "Stadium Curve" when I felt something lurch under my foot. Yup, the clutch pedal came off...while I was driving in rush hour traffic. I made it home without incident (I swear I have guardian angels just from that) and Dad and I fixed that issue the next day. Then in February 2004, Lily finally gave out. The head of the new engine had cracked in four places and the timing belt snapped again. Even my dad conceded the following: 1) I needed a new car; 2) I shouldn't be alive; and 3) if ever a car was going to blow up, it would be Lily.

I got a new car the next week and called her Kate. Kate's clutch pedal fell off, too. I'm waiting for the shoe (or pedal) to drop with my current car, Eleanor. And when that happens, I'm swearing off vehicles and just taking the bus everywhere.

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On feeling the burn....

The first cold rain of the season came yesterday and carried on through the evening. Fall is definitely here and it came with a bit of a vengeance. One week, it was 95*F; the next it's barely scraping 70*F and the rain and chill has come. Fall can be a bit of a strange season for me...it signals the end of summer (my favorite) and begins to usher in winter (my least favorite). It's also the beginning of football season which, frankly, is about the most exciting time of year for me, second only to Christmas!

Fall brings with it a myriad of delicious sights and smells, many of which conjure up some wonderful memories. Many of those memories revolve around two things for me: my childhood (and sometimes my teen years) and fire. Aaahhhh fire. I grew up in an old, old mining cabin that had been added to and remodeled over several years. While there was central heat in the house, my parents opted instead to make good use of the giant woodburning stove in the corner of the house. There was a smaller, pot-bellied stove in the dining room and around the time I turned 13, there was yet another stove in the kitchen on the opposite end of the house. But the big one in the living room holds most of my memories.

When it was cold weather season, my dad would create these intense fires that could sear the skin right off your back. My brother and sister and I used to love sitting on the hearth, heating our backs for as long as we could stand, then running to the couch and slamming against the cushions to feel more and more of that heat. I remember the smell of the fire waking me up in the mornings for school, knowing that the clothes I'd picked out the night before would be laid out beneath the stove, all warm and cozy for me. We'd all sit around the stove in the evening, somtimes watching television, but mostly my mom would grade papers, my sister and I would take turns practicing the piano and doing homework, my brother played with Legos and cars, and my dad would read a book.

The stove became a staple of life for us. It wasn't Christmas morning without a roaring fire. Once, my dad even made good on the song and we had chestnuts roasting over that fire. When we remodeled the kitchen and installed the "blue stove," my dad taught us the magic of cooking indoors with real flames (and, often, how to put out whatever disastrous fire we'd created in the process). Dad would cook up Red River Cereal and fried eggs every Saturday morning in the fall and winter, while Mom would warm her bum against the stove (a skill I have inherited and something that the two of us still do, to this day, whenever the "blue stove" is nice and warm).

Of all the things I so desperately love about the house I grew up in, the fireplace is by far the thing I love the most. By the time I reached my angsty teenage years, I could sit and sulk by that fireplace for hours. But more than anything, I loved introducing my friends to the wonder of that stove. I have distinct memories of standing next to that stove for many a formal photo in high school. I remember bringing a boy home to meet my parents for one of the first times and he just stood by the stove, waiting for whatever might happen next (and with my parents, the options there are limitless). Christmas not so many years later when a good and wonderful friend would join my family for Christmas Eve Soup, made on the "blue stove," the house reeking of Christmas and fire and love...and mulberries (apparently).

I love fire. Not in a pyromaniac kind of way, but in the way that only someone who has grown up with a wood-burning fireplace can love fire. In the way that only a person who has felt that intense heat on their face can love fire. In the way that only those who know the chasm of difference between a calm orange glow and a terrifying blue streak can love fire.

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On learning to lean and balance....

Life, for me, has always been a bit of a balancing act. Sometimes, that's taken to quite literal extremes. I tend to wear shoes that have a heel height of more than 3 inches. Currently, I've been rocking 5"-6" stillettos. It's not great for my feet or back or whatever, but I really just don't care. I love the way I feel when I wear those shoes. It's just that it takes a bit of skill to manage them, especially when I'm walking on tile floors at the office...watch out!

I tend to have decent balance as far as that's concerned. After years of cheerleading, I can usually handle the balancing thing (unless I haven't had enough to eat, then I just get shaky and dangerous). I'm pretty good on a balance beam most of the time.

But when it comes to the rest of my life, I tend to topple in one direction or the other.

I'm notorious for planning my entire life in 15-minute increments, but rarely do I plan for my own down time. I can't remember the last time I actually had something on my calendar that didn't involve making an appointment or planning an event or having to be somewhere. Yeah, I'm that person that basically has to schedule naps. Disturbing? Yes.

I'm pretty tough when it comes to my emotions, but there comes a time when breaking is just a necessity. Fortunately, I have good friends who know my tendencies and call me out on them...and then are just generally there when I start to lose my balance.

Breaking, for me, is always a challenge. I don't want people to think I'm weak or out of control. I want to be strong and pulled together. Most of the time, I am. Breaking means admitting failure or shortcomings, neither of which I'm comfortable with. But maybe experiencing failure or shortcomings isn't the worst thing in the world.

Maybe it's just the thing we need to push ourselves further. I'm not sure I believe that, not right now. But it bears some consideration.

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