Yearly Archives: 2012

My Weekend in Pictures [via my iPhone apendage]

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I am back from my extended weekend in Florida. And despite the circumstances, it was a really nice trip. I love it there. Oh Southern coast, you lace my dreams like the moss in your trees. Someday I’ll return for good.

1 morning on the river . 2 seesters . 3 Sunday wandering . 4 riverbank where we scattered Granddad’s ashes

1 spanish moss . 2 lazy afternoon with Heathcliff and Catherine

1 manatee in the river . 2 its tail . 3 off the dock . 4 mama and her babies

Our time was filled with family and friends, a sunset service on the river bank, a Saturday memorial, lazy meandering around the Ranch, reading, sleeping, snuggling/smooching/chasing/adoring the niece, entertaining cousins, delicious food, manatee watching, and general relaxing. If only Granddad had been there.

Perhaps he was.

To Be a Mother

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It was late, and dark, and I was tired. But I held her nonetheless and rocked her back and forth in a chair that squeaked every time I moved. Every so often she would surrender to sleep, only to wake minutes later with a shudder as her body heaved and coughed, trying desperately to root out the infection deep inside. Monitors beeped and tubes trailed from her tiny body, making it difficult to cradle her the way I really wanted to, but I held her as close as I could, in the corner of a sterile hospital room, as the moon rose high.

She wasn’t mine—that baby in my arms. And I am not a mother. I have never watched my belly grow round with life. I have never felt the rush of that first movement from within. I have never pushed my body beyond my presumed limits to birth another human being. I have never felt the immediate instinct that binds a woman to her child as he is placed upon her chest for the very first time.

And if I am being honest, those are the things I want most, second only to finding a love with whom to experience them—so much so, that there are nights when I will place a pillow under my shirt and imagine what that roundness feels like.

Her mother, an old friend and severely sick herself, had called earlier in the day. Would you please go hold my baby for me? she asked. She had three other children at home who desperately needed “mother time,” not to mention she needed rest, and little Lissy had just been released from the NICU.

There was no need to think. Of course I would go hold her baby. There was no work meeting, no appointment, no previous commitment more important than driving straight to the hospital to stay with my friend’s baby, all night in the squeaky rocking chair, if need be.

At one point, I looked down at her soft, round face and traced her nose with the tip of my finger. Her teary doe-eyes looked back at me, whispering volumes of wisdom beyond her few short months. And a distant memory came to mind. I was five and had fallen and scraped my knee. My first impulse was to call for my mother. She came running out of the house, scooped me up off the driveway and carried me inside, where she sat me on the kitchen counter and reached for a wet cloth and band-aid.

Suddenly, holding Lissy, I found myself more grateful for my life than I’d been in months. No, I had no family of my own to care for, no husband to be home with, no children to tuck into bed, but because of that, I could easily and immediately go to the hospital when I was needed most.

And I understood—though I may not have birthed a child myself, this is what it is to be a mother: to come when you are called—as soon as you are called, to wrap your arms around another person, and to cradle them with love–all night if necessary.

Here, Without Him

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It is a very odd thing to be here in this house and not have him here too. The television is silent, his chair empty. But his captain’s wafer crackers are still on the counter. His notepads, filled with wobbly numbers and reminders, on the table. It’s as though he has simply stepped out for a minute and will return any second.

I woke up early and came down the stairs to find Grandma in the living room. I hugged her and asked her how she was doing. Fine, she said. The girl who has come to live with her is taking good care of her, although, Grandma says, she’s not as good of a cook as you. This makes me sad.

For nearly two years I didn’t have a job and could have easily come here to take care of her. To make her eggs and toast and tea in the morning. To make sure she’s taking the right medicines. To just … be here. But now I do have a job. So that means I can’t. I can’t be here. I can’t cook for her.

The tears come at the most random of moments. Like the other day when I was opening my mail. I slid my finger under the flap on an envelope and got a paper cut. And I thought how I should get a letter opener. And then I caught a memory of Granddad opening his mail with his knife. Insignificant, really. I know. But that was just how he always did it.

After talking to Grandma for a minute, and making her toast, I went outside to take a turn in the golf cart. It was less than a year ago that I rode around with Granddad, listening to his stories as the morning air grew thick with Southern humidity. And today, it was a lonely ride without him.

I followed his daily route, stopping to pick up the debris and air plants that had fallen from the trees during the night, just like he taught me. I rode down the street to “check in” on the neighbors and their horses and on the way back, I picked up the newspaper. Just like he always did.

And now I sit in his chair, the leather worn soft and broken on the arm rests, his can of cashews to my right, really wishing he was here.

It is a very odd thing, indeed.

Granddad and me, after my college graduation (2004)

How do you find the day?

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I’m not really sure how or where to start this post. And I suppose the answer is to start at the very beginning. At least that’s what I hear Maria von Trapp singing in my ear. But the problem is that I’m not sure where the beginning is.

I mean, at what point, in the course of a girl’s life, does she begin to hate her body. How do you find the day?

As children we can’t stop ourselves from jumping into pictures, making crazy faces, and loving the resulting photos. We are oblivious to the nuances and peculiarities of our bodies, simply happy that they’ll pedal a bicycle, skip down the street, and hang one-handed from the monkey bars.

But all of a sudden, we cross some threshold. We become “aware.” And we begin to shy away from photos, hiding from the cameras, hoping to be put in the back row. We begin inspecting ourselves in the mirror, eyes trailing from head to toe like a dot-to-dot under a magnifying glass, suddenly certain that our hair is too stringy, too curly, too straight, that our nose is too freckled, ears too uneven, chin too pointy, skin too pale, buttocks too round, or perhaps too flat, boobs too big, boobs too small, stomach too flabby, thighs too fat, ankles too thick, toes too long, need I go on?, all the while carrying on an internal dialogue wherein we tell ourselves that we’re not pretty enough, not tall enough, not tan enough, not thin enough, not curvy enough … not. not. not. Enough.

But where is the day that begins? When does it happen?

I have blurry memories.

There was the day in seventh grade that Joel Vierra pointed out that Shannon Schlesman was great at English, and that he was good at math, and that I was good at lots of subjects. “You’re well-rounded,” he said. And then he chuckled, “Get it? Well-rounded.”

There was the day in fifth grade when I didn’t sign up for swim team—not because I didn’t want to. But because I couldn’t bear the thought of putting on the swim suit.

Or the afternoon I’d forgotten my sheer, filmy ballet skirt in my dance bag. And so I pulled on the cotton skirt I’d worn to school that day, fully aware that I needed something to cover my belly. No one had to tell me. I just knew. It wasn’t flat like the other girls’.

Ballet class began, but when my teacher noticed my attire, he stopped class to tell me to take the skirt off—that I would have to dance that day in just my leotard and tights. And I stood there at the bar, my eyes on the floor, everyone else’s on me, heart pounding, ears burning, and told him no. He stood there in silence for a minute and then told me again to take it off. And still, I quietly whispered, “no.”

I had never told an adult, let alone a teacher, “no” before. I’m nothing if not an obedient teacher’s pet. But I was certain, that day, that it was more humiliating to stand in front of everyone wearing only my leotard plastered to every curve of my body than to do disobey.

I was in second grade. Eight years old.

I quit ballet soon after—not because I wasn’t good, and not because I didn’t love it. But because I knew, and was certain everyone else knew, that my body was not a ballerina’s body.

But when did that happen? When did I finally know? And how? When began this seemingly endless battle with my body? How many years have I been looking in the mirror silently telling myself that the reflection looking back is wrong?

What You Should Never Say to a Single Woman, If You Are A Married Man

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Recently I was having a conversation with a friend’s husband. It was a normal conversation, mostly just pleasantries and such. When all of a sudden … he went there.

“I just don’t understand why you and Kim* are still single!” he said.

And in my head, I thought: Oh geez. Someone please rescue from this conversation. 

But out of my mouth came: [pleasant smile] “Oh thanks. [haha] We don’t either. [haha] We think we’re pretty great.”

Seriously is there no one here willing to excuse me from this unbearable moment in time to show me the coat closet? Or a wall? Or shoot me? Any of those options is perfectly acceptable at this point.

But he didn’t stop there. He kept going. “You know my wife and I were actually talking the other night and we decided that if she died, I would marry one of you.”

[silence]

And out of my mouth came: [very uncomfortable chuckle] “Oh, okay. Well. Thanks.”

But in my head I thought four things simultaneously:

1) Did he seriously just say that? No really. Did he actually say those words out loud?

2) Sweet! Because we’re just waiting around for our friends to kick the bucket so we can snatch up their widower husbands! 

3) I wouldn’t date you if you weren’t married, or had never been married, or were a widower, or anything. So not my type. 

4) WHAT THE FREAKING CRAP?!?!?!?!?!

And then I walked away. Because really. What was I supposed to say, or do, at that point?

I mean, really.

Really?

As a sidenote: I have had girlfriends tell me that they’ve given permission to their husbands to marry me if they died. And while that’s certainly morbid, it’s, for some reason, not weird coming from your girlfriend. In fact it’s flattering, kind of. Like, you’re the only woman in the world that she would trust to raise her children, have sex with their husband, and not haunt until the end of time.

Yes. These are the conversations that 30-something single women have to have.

You so wish you had this life, don’t you?

Just imagine the day you have to start thinking about freezing your eggs.

Not kidding.

*Kim = Frit. They are one in the same.

Just. So. Nice.

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It was a date. But it wasn’t.

I had this sort of “network-ey” work thing with a colleague–my account manager at the ad agency we hired to create our new print campaign. Party of four: she and her guest, me and mine. Dinner and a Jazz game. Which was apparently a big-deal game, as it determined whether or not we were going to the playoffs. And truthfully, I didn’t even know that going into it–he was the one who told me.

He had actually flown up from Arizona on a whim to try and go to the game and I needed a +1. And so he came with me. This friend of mine whom I respect and admire. Because I needed a date. And he needed a ticket. And we’re friends.

From start to finish, it was a perfect night. Delicious dinner. Easy conversation. Sweet seats. Great game (we won). Gorgeous weather. Breezy night. Totally fun.

And today, I continued to think about it. No, not because I’m “interested.” But because … because it was just so nice to go out with someone who knew how to go on a date. To spend an evening with a man who was … aware of me.

I told him we could meet at the restaurant–I really didn’t mind. But he chose to pick me up at my house instead, which meant he had to go out of his way to come get me and then backtrack to the City. And when I walked to the passenger’s side, he opened the door for me. But it wasn’t like he was going out of his way to do so. It was more like … that’s just what he does.

At dinner, he was perfect. He knew where to sit and how to handle the situation. He was funny, but not too funny that it seemed like he needed all the attention. And conversational, without dominating. And when asked what he does, he didn’t grandstand about his awesome job and professional success–which, he certainly could have done, seeing as how he does have an awesome job and has achieved crazy success. And when the check came, and my account manager reached for her credit card, he casually noted that he’d take care of “us.” And when she said, no, that it was on her, he offered one last “are you sure?”, and then let it go.

(Those situations always stress me out. I never know what to do. And it was just so nice to defer to him and have him handle it so casually and gracefully.)

Later, as we walked from the restaurant to the arena, it was as though his radar was tuned to me. He was always aware of where I was walking. Making sure I wasn’t behind him. Making sure that if we had to walk around something, I went first. Making sure that I went through doors before him. Always matching my pace–which was slow because I wore the wrong shoes (like always) and my heels were a blistery mess. And when we had to deviate from the sidewalk into the street, he casually repositioned himself so that he was walking on my left, where the traffic was.

At the game, I had a couple of questions about what was going on (I’m not exactly sporty-spice, you know), and then I apologized and promised to not be annoying and ask a bunch more. To which he responded that I should “always ask questions” and actually seemed sincere about that, and didn’t seem the least bit put out that I was interrupting the game for him.

At the end of the night, on the way home, we were, at one point, talking about life and culture and faith and where to find truth, and he shared an opinion about something and then turned and asked, “What do you think?” And then he listened to what I had to say. Which, for the record, is like the best thing a guy could ever do with, or for, me. Ask me what I think and then listen to my ideas or opinions and you will forever be a favorite.

And then he walked me to the door.

Even though it wasn’t a date-date.

And I know that these all seem like little things, but they’re not. They’re huge. And I may have cried about it today. A happy, grateful cry, of course. (You know, my good-zone is between a 4 and a 5.) Because it just felt so. nice. to go out with a good guy. A successful guy who has a job and works hard. Who carries maturity in his posture and a quick smile on his face. Who respects me and my ideas. Who is friendly and can talk to anyone. Who knows the value of a firm handshake and can handle a work dinner. Who knows what matters most and is dedicated to what’s right and doing good. Who is kind and humble, but certain and pointed. Who was aware of me. Who didn’t look through me or beyond me. But was focused. Who made me feel safe and important.

Being 33 and single and female isn’t easy. You have to take care of everything. There’s no “equal-yokage” going on for you. You make your life decisions, by yourself. You pay the bills, by yourself. You choose your apartment or your house, your neighborhood and your city, by yourself. You find the answers to your questions, by yourself. You change the smoke detectors, by yourself. You go to Church, to the grocery store, to the bank, by yourself. You weed, and clean, and mow, and cook, and eat, by yourself.

And certainly there are friends around you (thank the Lord in Heaven above for Frit) and there’s always God, too. But essentially, from day to day, you’re alone in a way that your married counterparts will never understand.

So you have to build up a certain amount of strength to do it. A certain level of independence. Because there is no one to share the hard stuff with. Or the happiness with, for that matter. No one to stand in for you while you catch your breath. You have to be strong. Or you would crumble daily under the weight of it all.

And so sometimes? … Sometimes it’s nice to defer to someone else and let them take care of you.

Last night, I didn’t have to be charming all by myself. I didn’t have to keep the conversation going all by myself. I didn’t have to read the who’s-going-to-take-the-check signals all by myself. I didn’t have to think about walking into traffic. I didn’t have to think about opening my door. I didn’t have to stare blankly at the court because I didn’t know why the ref blew his whistle. I didn’t have to wonder whether or not my opinions are worth listening to or if I’m interesting enough.

And it was just. so. nice.

And today I felt good and grateful and clear in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

All because I spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening with a good man. And it’s nice to know that combination of variables actually exists.

My Weekend in Pictures

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Part 1: The long drive to Arizona… which involved an off-road detour through the middle of nowhere when the freeway was shut down…

Part 2: Two Braves Games

Part 3: My sisters

Part 4: The cutest niece ever

Part 5: Our sweet rental ride

If you can’t tell, I broke down and got an iPhone. And now? I can’t. control. myself. I love it so much I sleep with it. Kidding. (but not really.)

His Favorite

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He passed away about an hour ago–my Granddad, just one day shy of his 82nd birthday. And I’m sitting in a dark loft looking at te pictures I took of him last summer when I spent a week on the “ranch” with him and my Grandma before coming back to Utah.

I keep hearing his voice answer the phone. The way he’d say “Hello” with the accent on the “He” and a scoop in pitch as he made his way to the “llo.” And I’d say, “Hi Granddad!” and he’d answer, “Well, which one are you?” “It’s Krista.” “Krista! You’re my favorite! Where are you calling from?” “I’m still in Utah.” “Well you sound like you’re right next door.”

He answered the phone the same way every time, regardless of whether it was me or my sisters. And we all knew he meant it when he’d tell us we were his favorite.

Granddad could read a mean storybook. And he’d do it for hours on end. When I was a little girl, he’d pull me up onto his lap and we’d read. And read. And read.

And he’d scratch my back. And we’d play “hot spots.” And then, when I would climb down he’d catch me in the “clampers” as I was walking away. The clampers were his legs, and if we girls walked “too close” past his recliner, they would pop up from the floor and grab us in a lock and toss us back and forth. And every time, we would squeal and laugh as if we hadn’t seen it coming. Or as if we hadn’t walked “too close” on purpose.

Every Sunday we’d go to Grandma and Granddad’s for dinner. Granddad sat at the head of the table and clockwise from him sat Grandma, then me, then Kaycie, then Mom, then Karly, and then Dad. Every week. And before anyone ever took a bite, Granddad would announce, “Well. Everything looks very good girls.” Every week. And then Grandma would roll her eyes.

At some point during the meal, you could always count on him to ask if any of us had ever heard the “famous Maurer horseradish story.” And everyone would groan (in jest) because he’d told it a million times. That was part of the joke–part of his shtick. And he loved it. But I always answered no, that I hadn’t heard it before. Because I always wanted to hear it–not that there was much to it. But it was a great story and I loved hearing him tell it. “We’d have been bigger than Heinz.”

When we were in plays or recitals, no matter the size or prominence of our part, at the end of our performance during the curtain calls, he’d yell so loud from the audience, “Yaaaaaay Krista!” It was so embarrassing. But you also listened for it, and could count on it, just like the horseradish story, or the clampers.

I can see his hands, particularly his fingers–the way they extended long and straight. He kept a calendar by his chair and when I finally left home for college, he began writing the days I’d be coming home for Christmas and summer vacations. “Let me get my calendar,” he’d say. “Now when are you coming home? I need to write this in.”

Last year, after my summer on Hilton Head, I took a week to stay with him and Grandma and one night after they’d gone to bed, I sat in his chair and reached down for the calendar. Sure enough, there in his scratchy, wobbly handwriting was my name and a line extending through the days I’d be visiting.

One afternoon, the afternoon before I was to fly back, I found him sitting in his gun room with all his tools and knives and ammunition and coins–a collector, he was. He had big-band jazz playing on the stereo and we spent the better part of the afternoon talking–him telling stories mostly. Some I’d heard, some I hadn’t.

And when it was time to head in for dinner, I gave him a hug and thanked him for a perfect afternoon. To which he replied, “You’re my favorite, you know.”

Yes, I know.

New Music for April

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These are the songs currently on repeat:

1. Song :: She Got the Honey // Artist :: Mat Kearney // Album :: Young Love // Genre :: Rock // Link to listen (p.s. this whole album is worth buying)

2. Song :: My First Love // Artist :: Paper Aeroplanes // Album :: We Are Ghosts // Genre :: Singer/Songwriter // Link to listen

3. Song :: La Vie En Rose // Artist :: Sophie Milman // Album :: Sophie Milman // Genre :: Jazz // Link to listen

4. Song :: Happy Song (Tonite) // Artist :: Blackstreet // Album :: Another Level // Genre :: R&B/Soul // Link to listen

5. Song :: Sweet Pea // Artist :: Amos Lee // Album :: Supply and Demand // Genre :: Singer/Songwriter // Link to listen

6. Song :: Always Something There to Remind Me // Artist :: Naked Eyes // Album :: The Best Of Naked Eyes // Genre :: Rock // Link to listen

7. Song :: Work It Out // Artist :: Jurassic 5 & Dave Matthews Band // Album :: Feedback // Genre :: Hip Hop // Link to listen

8. Song :: Learnalilgivinanlovin // Artist :: Gotye // Album :: Whip It (Music from the Motion Picture) // Genre :: Soundtrack // Link to listen

9. Song :: Fairytale (Live) // Artist :: Sara Bareilles // Album :: Between the Lines: Sara Bareilles Live At the Fillmore // Genre :: Pop // Link to listen

10. Song :: You Always Make Me Smile // Artist :: Kyle Andrews // Album :: You Always Make Me Smile – Single // Genre :: Alternative // Link to listen

We Are Never Making Cake Bites Again

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When Frit said she thought we should make Easter cake bites for the ladies on our visiting route for Church, I groaned inside. I hate making cake bites. They’re such a process and such a mess and it’s hard to make them look right and uniform. But, Frit rarely suggests projects like that so I figured I should go with it and be supportive.

Hindsight being 20/20, I should’ve told her it was a bad idea and that we should just buy something for our gals.

But instead we tromped to the store, picked up the cake mix, frosting, and candy melts. Then made the cake, mixed in the frosting, and rolled it into little balls to stick in the freezer overnight. We set our alarms for the next morning and I told her to make sure I was up so I could help her get it done before Church.

The next morning, when I finally got up after multiple snooze buttons (of course), she had already been downstairs for a while trying to coat them with the candy melts, having disregarded the fact that she was supposed to get me up. (And yes, I realize I’m a 33-year-old woman talking about needing her roommate to help her wake up in the morning. The ridiculousness is not lost on me.)

This is what greeted me:

Well that–and a very frustrated Frit. At this point, I began having flashbacks from my first experience with cake bites, which could easily be classified under symptoms of post-traumatic-stress. But, I had learned a few tricks from my first go around so I quick hopped in to help salvage what I could. She happily moved aside and became sous-chef.

I wanted to scream a few times. And I may have sworn a few times (maybe). Gosh, I hate making those things. But we finally finished. With minimal damage to the kitchen. And our friendship still intact.

Later on, after we’d delivered every box, to their very happy, very gracious recipients, I said, “We’re never making cake bites again.” To which, Frit quickly agreed.

Happy Easter! Hope your weekend was filled with lots of egg hunts, candy, and Jesus … and NOT cake bites.

Toss it Around First

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Frit is always saying that “people should toss things around in their head for a minute or two before they let it come out of their mouths.”

So when she said to me, “Hey, next time Tim’s in town [Tim is the guy she's dating right now, who lives out of state], you should invite that guy you like to come and we can all go play wallyball at the gym,” I looked at her with curious eyes (AND by curious, I mean incredulous. And by incredulous, I mean disgusted.), and asked:

“Did you even toss that around in your head before you said it? I mean, at what point did any combination of those elements seem like they even remotely go together?” I asked.

“You’re the one who’s always saying how you want to see him more,” she replied.

“Yes. But not to play wallyball! Do you even remember the disaster that was our racquetball match? I’m not the least bit athletic, a fact you are well aware of,” I said.

“First of all, it’s nothing like racquetball. And you don’t have to be athletic–it’s just wallyball.”

“When have I ever been good at anything that involved a ball? And why, in any realm of my world or existence, would I want to subject myself to a game where the other players are sporty-Mc-sporty-pants [the guy I currently have a minor crush on], Tim, who’s like a gladiator, and you, Miss-bouncy-runner-lady who can pick up any sport and play it? In front of someone I’m wishing to woo.”

“I am just trying to help.”

“No. That is not called helpful. That is called humiliation.”

Of which I have plenty of … without wallyball.

And she’s supposed to be my best friend.

Sheesh.

Because You Can Never Have too Many Twinkle Lights

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I added a strand above my bed. (And I tell myself this is one of the perks of not being married–I can decorate my room however I want.) I think I still need to add a garland or fringe or something to the swoopies that hang down in front of the window so it’s not just bare lights, but even still …

Coming in at the end of the day and turning them on is one of my simple pleasures. They cast the most peaceful glow across the late-night shadows, and I curl in under the downy comforter, push play on the Notebook soundtrack, and brush the day away.