Once upon a December.

Things I'm loving on this blissful season:

.. and some Christmas whishlist tidbits:

What're you lovin on?

A Writing Excerpt.

Mr. Carpenter ate his supper at six p.m. sharp every evening.  He lived on the eleventh floor of the old brick apartment building on West 62^nd street, New York, New York. His window curtains were vintage canvas, smitten with years of dust and introversion, ones you could see through from the outside. Wild rice with chicken, or canned tomato soup and crackers was the alternation, a regimen of nearly sixty years in the making. His apartment was lonely; the whole space smelled of loneliness. The furnishing was drab, plain and practical; an ancient tweed couch and a ten-inch television atop a rickety old table were the highlights of the place at first glance. But at six p.m. sharp, every evening on the dime, there sat a picture in a lovely, rusted, silver frame across from him on the table. The photograph inside was black and white, the fading face of a memory and a young woman with distinctly arched eyebrows, shining dark eyes and a warm smile peered out of it. In black ink there was a message scrawled toward the bottom of the photo that read:

                                   

To my James,

Never forget me soldier. I’ll be waiting.

           

                        Love always,

                           Emaline

            There was a slight crack in the glass that slid horizontally across the frame, one created in a fit of rage and helplessness years before. It was ugly and foreboding across such a beautiful face; although appropriately so.  There was a chair on her side of the table, filled with the ghost of a lost love. To anyone else observing the scene, he ate alone, but to James Carpenter, he was indeed, never alone. Tonight’s cuisine was a bowl of tomato soup, which sat motionless on her side. They sat in silence, James and the picture frame. He had run out of things to say to her, he had become numb; at least for tonight. He reached for a handful of crackers placed in the middle of the table and crushed them in his hand, dropping the crumbs into the bowl.

            “Crackers, Emaline dear?” He asked with a soft, worn voice. He took a bite and chewed, staring at her portrait absently.

            “No? Alright.” Another few bites and he was finished, not unlike his Emaline’s life. He got up and took her bowl with his to the kitchen and washed them. He then turned on the television and took a seat on the scratchy tweed sofa. Every night at 6:30, his favorite travel program came on. He always thought the television was the best way to travel. He could sit in the comfort of his own home and never have to spend a penny or move a muscle, while simultaneously taking in the world outside his own sad existence. At least he chose his solitude; ignorance had never become him. He watched the program and glanced over at the picture on the table every now and then. Sometimes he would set the picture next to him, other times he would leave her on the table. When the program finally ended at 7:30, he found himself spent as usual, and sorely stood up. His arthritis had worsened within recent years, and it made his bones creak and his spirit wane. He began turning off all the lights, and eventually maneuvered over to his tiny bathroom to brush his teeth and change into his pajamas and robe. Once he was all ready for bed, he returned to the kitchen and stood in the doorway, staring once more with that blank stare at his sweet Emaline. Usually, he took the photograph to his room and set it next to him on his nightstand. But tonight, he walked to the table and gently placed the frame face down. As he crawled into bed, he heard sirens sounding in the distance. They reminded him of the war, which permeated into all of the memories he tried so desperately to forget. After an hour or so of wrestling his demons, the pitter-patter of a light rain came, and carried him to a place somewhat better than reality: sleep.

somuchbeauty.

I love the 50's-70's:

... that's all. 

Fall Festivities.

"Or maybe it is just Fall, and so everything is softer round the edges, and a little bit frayed."

I love Fall; everything about it. I think last year was the first year I truly appreciated it, and ran with open arms to greet it. It seems like when you're growing up, things like seasons don't mean as much- or you just don't notice them like you should, and then all of the sudden you wake up and realize that things like seasons make you happy- they are the blissful things that come round once a year to offer change, and renewal and beauty. 

We celebrated the Halloween weekend by visiting a pumpkin patch. I'm not sure what's wrong with my camera, and when peering at the picture above I can arguably say that maybe there isn't a thing wrong with it, because it produced such a lovely Pumpkin Wonderland, which is an accurate portrayal of the aura of our night.

We first went out to dinner: 

The beginning of our mural-our waiter was pleased. 

Then off to the Pumpkin Patch:

The shapes of some were tumorous, and overall questionable..

David was very happy to be measured at the pumpkin patch- he just can't stay away from the camera, that one.

We tried to find a Baby-ish pumpkin to include our little gem tucked away in my tummy, and this, sadly, was the creme of the crop.

On our way out, we were well-wished by these fellas:

More particularly, this guy:

 

Happy Halloween and Happy Fall, to all. (:

The business of growing humans.

Our loveliest happening yet:

Our little gem, due tentatively April 25th, 2013!

Oh my, it has been so hard keeping quiet these past several weeks. When we first found out, I wanted to sing it from the rooftops- but, we wanted to wait until we at least saw it on an ultrasound and heard a steady heartbeat. It's also just been nice to have a really big secret that is just ours for the keeping for a while. We are surprised, nervous, but absolutely over the moon to welcome this sweet new baby!

I was very, very thorough. ha!

I am currently just about 12 weeks along (first trimester nearing the end!!!!!!!!!). I started getting morning sickness at about 6 weeks. The term 'morning sickness,' in my opinion, is a vast misrepresentation of what actually happens, because it really should be called 'all-day-long-and-into-the-night sickness.' At least, that has been my experience. No, it is not fun, and at some moments it makes you wonder just what the hell you got yourself into, but I know that it will soon pass and I'll be holding a wee one in my arms before I know it. Plus, if anything it means the babe is developing normally. (: 

Things that have been my saving grace thus far:

• french fries/anything that has to do with a potato
• grilled cheese sandwiches/anything that has to do with cheese
• Jamba Juice 
• milkshakes
• skittles

Things that make me want to yack:

• spaghetti (red sauce)
• chicken
• salad 
• garlic
• mexican food (sometimes)
• things that smell

Basically, I've been living off of a 3 year-old's diet, eating things that I'd normally never be able to stomach- like Sonic and Taco Bell. Meat in general just sounds.. heavy. And gross. The thought, smell, or picture of certain foods makes me want to vomit.  I had a dream about cinnamon rolls the other night and woke up craving them SO badly, but later on in the day I saw a picture of them in a magazine and quite literally gagged.. what?

And toothpaste! ewewewew. Our cat, Socrates, who is my bathroom buddy when I'm getting ready in the morning, laughs at me with his little kitty eyes as he watches me gag brushing my teeth. It's routine. He's a snarky little feline. I really just don't understand these funny pregnancy hormones of mine. Thank the good lord above that I haven't thrown up at all, it's just been really intense nausea, cramping, and fatigue.

Speaking of getting up in the morning, it has been quite the chore trying to go to work and stay there all day. To be honest, it's an absolute mystery to me how women are expected to function normally during such a huge transformation in their bodies. Maybe I'm just the biggest wimp in the world, but seriously, you can't even begin to imagine the foul smells that permeate through the walls of an elementary school.. Not. Okay.

My boobs hurt. Also, I have to pee every 5 minutes and am told my uterus is currently slightly bigger than a grapefruit. I love the food comparisons they give you, like, "Oh, your baby is now the size of a Lima bean," or "the embryo resembles a cocktail shrimp." I am proud to say that we have now progressed to FRUIT! Our little prune/lime baby. Lovely.

Well, that's about it- I hope I don't sound whiny and annoying. I really do feel blessed to have made it this far and that this little light of mine is beaming away inside.

I can't wait to see David as a daddy. He really is so sweet with kids and there's no doubt in my mind that he is going to be a magnificent father to our little one. (:

I just can't believe that someday these little shoes will be filled:

-"These hills will swallow happy things with their bellies full to bursting." 

Unicorns, and other ramblings.

Have you ever tried to clean a broken mirror?

Well, it doesn't work out so well.
One fine day, not so long ago, my trusty mirror (a stand-up, leaning against the wall in the bathroom  that I've had since high school mirror) decided to take a dive in the bathtub but missed and broke it's little face. I felt sorry for it, to be honest.
And I have to admit right here and now that there is something about a broken mirror that I love. I think there is a deeper meaning behind it, like my mirror is trying to tell me something subliminally. Or, not so subliminally.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Oh god, here comes a most likely sappy and bitter feminist rant."
Eh, not really. I just think it's easy to forget what it means to be valued in this world and in the contours of your own fickle mind even, and that the word "beautiful" has been watered down to represent something that isn't quite relatable or real.

Everyone struggles with self-efficacy, self-image, self-confidence, self-worth, self self blah blah again and again all day long and into the dawn. That, to me, is one problem. Why do we constantly think about ourselves? 

Quite honestly, it has taken me a long time realize the terrible and wonderful truth that other people are not thinking about you. You are thinking about you. They are not scrutinizing that zit that decided to sprout over night that you think has taken over your entire face, or that your hair is slightly greasy because you were too damn tired to take a shower that morning because you stayed up too late watching Lost with your husband. (Okay, I am really really guilty of that last one). That nose of yours that's 'slightly angular'? The one that makes you extremely self-conscious in social situations and at times (even though you're ashamed to admit it) has caused you to shy away from certain friendships or relationships? Yeah. I am here to tell you that I am 99.99999% sure nobody else notices these little 'details' but you. And that one teeny little tenth of a percent that does, is most likely just an asshole anyway.

I am the worst example of this. Not being an asshole I mean, but I have been known to not go out on a weekend night or to work because I felt too fat, I was having a bad skin day, felt like nobody liked me, just didn't feel good enough about myself or interesting enough for someone to invest their time into, or I literally just had severe anxiety about having to talk to people in general. I guess introversion doesn't help. But I do know that the way in which you choose to view yourself runs deep; it flows with such a great weighty sadness that it fills the rivers and pools of your veins and into your heart, and soon you will drown in a wilted world that you've created.

Sometimes I wish that I could be this. Naked, exposed, wearing a unicorn mask on a beach somewhere. How wonderful would that be if we could all be this?! There would be no stigmas, no judgements or condemnations. It would be the bare bones of existence, beauty in it's most raw form, and you know what? I bet we would never think about ourselves. I'd probably be thinking about how the rain feels dancing against my bare skin during a naked jaunt in a wild storm, or how I am so connected to the very roots of existence and fiery core of the earth that I feel the thunder roar in my bones.. or that that unicorn head mask is getting really sweaty.

But really, I want to go back to the start- before there were standards and societal norms painfully etched into my psyche. I want the bare bones of it all, because when one is stripped of all predetermined flaws and harsh ridicule, shortcomings and everything tangible bad feeling, that's really all that's left.

I exist as I am, and that is enough.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. I've also been reading "The Perks of Being a Wallflower," which is a story about a teenage boy 'coming of age' and experiencing very similar thoughts and feelings to my own- but I am nowhere near as cool as him. I read it in 7th grade when I was a sheltered, ignorant little Mormon girl (not saying that all Mormon girls are ignorant, but I certainly was) and I had no idea what it was talking about and found myself scared and a little confused in more ways than one after finishing it. But reading it the second time has helped me feel more at peace with the weirdness and the unsure-edness that pools in my stomach like jello after the stomach flu. The jello of self-loathing, not knowing your place in the world, not being totally satisfied with the person you have to face in the mirror every day, broken mirror or not- that kind of jello. For the record, I have never liked jello. Ever. Hence the analogy.

I digress. I really just wanted to say that I know it's damn near impossible not to think about yourself, because you are a living breathing being and yourself is the only self you really pretend to know. But try not to think about yourself too much- the fussing, worrying, self-deprecating part of it anyway. I can't even imagine how many opportunities I've lost because of doing and being those things, and it's all because I put myself in a corner. You teach people how to treat you, and if you can't even treat yourself with the respect of human decency and acceptance, than who will respect you; who will accept you? Also, there's no definite meaning of beauty. It is all around us, hiding in every crevice, hill and dale, watery eye and whiskery smile. So choose to be the kind of beautiful that you would be proud of inside. And maybe, if you feel like it, look at yourself in a cracked mirror sometime.

I exist as I am, and that is enough.

Twenty-onethingsyoudidn'tknow.

1. I have a crush on Walt Whitman, even though he was most likely homosexual.

2. I am afraid of heights, the dark, and being alone in the dark on a cliff.
(... and just about everything else)

3. I COLLECT: quotes

“I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.” - Chuck Palahniuk

4. pictures (old and new) that make me smile and wonder just how things were.

5. vintage tins, because they remind me of my grandma.

6. Speaking of my grandma, she is giving me a harpsichord. I am pretty ecstatic about it, let me just tell you.


7. I have several journals/doodle/idea/quote books I've kept throughout the years. This is my most recent one:

I call him Archimedes. He's an old timer with earth and mud and forest secrets in his bones. 

8. I love walks and long talks, both are crucial to the ebb and flow of my sanity.  

9. My favorite colors are Robin's Egg Blue, Seafoam Green, Sunflower Yellow, Ruby Red, and Blueberry Brambles. 

10. My wallpaper and I are engaged in an arduous duel to the death. One of us has got to go. 

11. My first boyfriend was a boy named Michael in kindergarten. We shared a raspberry milkshake once, probably the closest thing to intimacy. Except for that time he kissed me with sticky popsicle lips behind the dog house. 

12. It is easier for me to write a song than to have a conversation with someone. 

13. I am an aspiring novelist, artist, philanthropist, Child Psychologist, ventriloquist.

14. I am currently reading, "Leaves of Grass," the Death-Bed edition, by Walt Whitman. (the obsession deepens)

15. My mother has the most vast, vibrant sweater collection, of which I frequent and hope to one day inherit in all of its sweatery glory.

16. A woman who inspires me (besides my mother): Audrey Hepburn 

17. A man who inspires me: Irving Penn 

18. lovelovelove embroidered things:

19. The Ditty Bops' song, "Pale Yellow," reminds me of rainstorms and living by myself. 

20. So maybe you already knew this one, but I love this guy like the moon loves the sky. He is just SO DAMN HANDSOME. 

My Bird

This is one of my favorite pictures of him, snarling dragon creature and all.

21. I love adventure nights where I get to go to Barnes & Noble and 'travel the world' with said handsome gentleman.

 

and now you know.