Feels Like Today...

Dani California's New Home

2008-06-30T14:04:00.000-07:00

To my faithful readers, dear friends and loyal fan base (thanks, mom and dad,) -

After attempting to fulfill the creative need and justify my journalism degree by participating in the blogosphere for almost four years, I've decided to really get serious about this. Well, sort of. But I did buy a domain, and I am going to see where this little blogging adventure takes me. So, please come see me at:

WranglerDani.com

...where I will continue to beguile you with tales of my life and bulleted lists of my favorite things.

Thank you for your faithful readership, your friendship, and for continuing to like me even when I lose the filter and just keep writing past my better judgment.

Happenings

2008-06-27T13:26:00.000-07:00

Hello, my friends. It's Friday. That means that I'm in that crazy-tired, can't-wait-to-go-home, but-still-kinda-actually-have-a-lot-to-do-at-work funk that leaves only one option for my over-caffeinated brain. Blogging is the answer. Always.

Val did a "stream-of-consciousness" blog last night, and I daresay that it was not only entertaining, but I'm sure very therapeutic. So here goes:

On Monday night, Adam pushed me through CostCo on one of those giant flat carts, designed for coffee tables and work-out sets, but also perfect for girls with hurt feet. It was actually really fun. "Turn here! I want fruit! And a gallon of soap! Stop!" He got to have some fun too, riding up and down the aisles on a mountain bike and defending me from slightly creepy old men who asked how much I cost.

While at CostCo, I bought two pounds of shampoo and conditioner. That's right. I have TWO 1 lb. bottles, who are now lording it over the little drugstore-sized containers in my shower. "Ha. We're from CostCo. We could smash with our beauty, cheapness and weight, you little pedestrian hair care products. We were only eight dollars a piece. Beat that!" When I bought these snobby big containers, Adam looked at me like I was crazy. "You're really going to use ALL this?!" Honey. They are EIGHT DOLLARS. For roughly six months of clean, great-smelling hair and bonus arm-work-outs every morning in the shower? Yes. I'll take two.

This morning, when I packed my lunch, I realized that I have a crisis on my hands. I'm OUT OF DIET COKE. Yes. This is a very serious plight, and I don't think I can go on with my weekend plans until it's resolved.

Also this morning, I went to pour delicious, hot coffee into my travel mug, but no coffee came out. I had forgotten to actually put COFFEE in the coffee-maker, (kind of an important step,) so I got a mug of hot water and cream. Ew. I lasted about 10 minutes at my desk before I had to go to Starbucks.

I was informed on Wednesday that I'm moving my desk. I keep expecting an army of IT guys to pop around the corner any minute and move me, but they never do... old desks and monitors and cables and fans and office furniture just keep piling around me. I figure pretty soon they'll forget about me and I can use all this discarded furniture to build a fort. I can even use a rope ladder to get in and out and defend it from the rest of the office with Nerf guns. That's way better than a usable desk, any day.

The other night we went to dinner with Adam's cousins, (Brent, Kim and Jill,) Mom (Karen) and Ashley, and it was a blast. We got gelato afterwards and heard hilarious stories about the Nichols/Zakaryan childhood experience. We also realized that several things are weird about Texas, including, but not limited to: Bridal portraits, wedding/engagement announcements in the paper, Mums, Texas highschool Homecoming in general, and property owners in Lone Oak.

Tomorrow is Adam's and my first-ever Engagement Party.* I'm so excited to get to officially celebrate... BECAUSE WE'RE GETTING MARRIED. I know! Isn't it great? I can't believe it either.

*Thanks again to Brent and Kim for hosting. I'm so excited to get to be part of such a cool family.

Forgetting to Worry

2008-06-26T15:04:00.000-07:00

Adam: "It'll be OK. Why are you upset?"
Me: "Hi. I'm your fiancee, who is given to desperate sorrow and vehement proclamations that all is lost."
Adam: "All is not lost, Dani! Hang on!"
To which I laugh, and do hang on, and all is not lost, in fact, it's so very far from lost that I recognize my own propensity for such doom and gloom as completely ridiculous.

I know I'm a worrier. I know it's lame. I know I need to buck up, cheer up, move on and stop being dumb. But sometimes, the best medicine for a stupid illness is just a little distraction. So here, my friends. Enjoy:

Teen Girl Squad - 14

Scantron Armor..... ASSEMBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Curbs with Trees

2008-06-24T17:30:00.000-07:00

So, Saturday night I broke my foot. Well, I didn't break it per se, but it gets me more sympathy if I say that. I was walking out of CostCo, so dejected that it had closed moments before so I couldn't buy a box of granola bars the size of a large microwave, that I didn't look where I was going, and totally ate it.

You know those curbs in parking lots, with the tree in the middle? Yeah. I hate those now. I think I stepped in it or over it or something, but whatever it was, it was not successful. The best part is, I fell against an expensive-looking SUV, who immediately started alarming in protest, fell back against Rocky, who just shared some his dirt with my shoulder, and hit the ground, feeling sexy and oh-so-awesome. Then I noticed that my foot hurt. I figured I'd just made it unhappy with all this falling around, and my upbringing has taught me nothing if not the mantra "walk it off".

So walk it off I did. Trouble was, it didn't really "walk off". I was mid-Target, staring stupidly at a display of half-price throws, wondering why on earth I was there and why my right foot was still attached. I finally left with random assortment of pain-induced cravings and nothing that I had originally planned to go there for. For instance, nothing would do but to buy a Towel for Two and some breakfast sausage. I don't know.

Anyway, I made it home on Cruise Control, (stupid me, didn't even think about the Advil in my console, but suffered drug-less,) and as soon as I got up the stairs, fell on the couch and cried.
I called my mom and dad, part of which made me feel better, ("you'll be OK, use ice, take Advil,") but part of which made me feel more alone, and sorry for myself for being alone. Then I called Adam and promptly cried into his voicemail and felt more alone. He called back later and I cried again. It sucked.

The next day it was so much worse that I decided a field trip to an x-ray machine was in order. Thank God for Brent and Kim, who kept me laughing and waited three hours in the ER waiting room without complaint. They even stopped at Starbucks on our way... people after my own heart.

(Oh, side story about the ER. It's inherently dramatic. Seriously. When we got there, an older man with a large bloody bandage around his neck was screaming into the windows that seperate the lobby from the nurses - "There's injured people out here! Come out and see us!" To which an eerily empty back room did not respond. Apparently they were short-staffed and didn't her the buzzer... rather normal - but if it had been a midnight Thursday instead of a sunny Sunday morning, it would have been decidely horror-movie-esque. Anyways.)

I finally got x-rayed by a short Philipino man with a thick accent and a sense of humor. When he asked me for my last name (which is, for those who don't know, great fun to confuse telemarketers with, but on the flip side, tough for the rest of the world, too,) he nodded at my ring. "Bet you'll be glad to trade that name in," he said, smiling at me.

Finally, I heard that it was not broken. (Hallelujah!) but maybe hairline fractured, or maybe just sprained in a way that only a klutz of mythical propensity could accomplish. They sent me off with advice to take painkiller (duh) and ice it.

Kim tried to talk me into a "fashion cane" at CVS, but none of her royal-blue-checkered whiles would fool me. Brent also thought that icing my eyes might be just the ticket, but once again I held firm in my resolve to be normal. (ha.)

When Adam got home, he took good care of me, bringing me anything I needed, worrying as only the famous eyebrows can, and ordering in Pizza and Heineken, which completely hit the spot and healed it by leaps and bounds on first bite.

The moral of this story is:
Look out for curbs with trees in them. Very dangerous.

Lonely

2008-06-20T09:20:00.000-07:00

Just the word itself makes me cringe. Lonely speaks of a silent telephone, entering a crowded room and remaining anonymous, of small joys and unshared hopes. It's one thing to have a dream, it's another to share it with a trusted confidant, and feel the edges of it draw nearer by the encouragement and anticipation of a joint hope.

I don't mind being alone - I am an introvert by nature - but I hate loneliness. Everybody has seasons of solitude, times when they see the world differently because they are actually taking time to see, rather than rush through. I believe that we know ourselves better alone than in the light and sparkle of a crowd, so loneliness has its place.

When we move to a new place, enter a new job, end a relationship... loneliness always follows. It's natural, but made no less difficult by that uncomfortable fact, and some of my darkest times have been the lonely ones.

You might be wondering why I'm writing about loneliness. I've written many times about my wonderful friends, near and far, and I recently got engaged to the love of my life. Those who are in a season of real, daily loneliness are rolling their eyes and mentally calling me names for even bringing it up. I get that. And I'm sorry for being a wuss.

I'm writing this becuase loneliness has been on my mind - more becuase I'm trying to figure out why it bothers me so much than anything. This weekend, most of my OC friends and my fiance (still love that word) are going out of town for a retreat, and I can't go. I won't bore you with the details, but basically they've all been on a ministry team for a while that I wasn't chosen to join, and that team is leaving for a weekend away.

Now, it's not the end of the world, it's one weekend. I promise I'm not completely incapable of taking care of myself for 2 1/2 days. But, despite all that, this forced solitude bothers me. I know there will be inside jokes and memories made that I will know nothing about. And I hate the thought of Old Dani, who gained weight becuase there was nothing better to do, and was too insecure to say hello but didn't want to leave after church becuase she needed a friend but was scared to ask. I know I won't become an emotional wreck in a weekend, but I don't even want to see that side of me. I know that I've grown enough to have left the majority of that thought-life behind, but even the remnants are distasteful.

I know there's a good, healthy part to all this. I know that if I choose to embrace rather than wallow, I can write and design and revel in a few free days to let loose the Muse and treasure the solitude. I know that my friends and fiance will love me regardless of whether or not I'm included on everything, and that my worth is not measured by my popularity or my weekend excitement level.

That's the truth.

So come here, Lonely. Put your feet up, stay a while. I know this isn't the last time we'll hang out, so I better learn to enjoy your company and see what good can come of it.

Chillaxin' (in list form, of course!)

2008-06-16T10:29:00.000-07:00

My roommate Julie(tte) came into town last week. We had a blast together, going to LA and eating out and laughing and trying on dresses and reminiscing and kayaking and reading Bridal magazines on the beach. She also took some awesome engagement pictures of my hot fiance and I, which I promise I will post soon, along with all our other sweet shots.

However, since I love the Blog List so dearly and I'd rather write about my roommate-vacay than do anything else, here's the abbreviated breakdown, by the numbers:

75 - miles round-trip to Hollywood and back
60 - dollars of fun money, thanks to our very-much-missed Valerie
4 - new shirts for me, thanks to Julie's impeccable fashion sense
2 - trips to In-N-Out
3 - days laying on the beach
300-something - great engagement pictures
1 - fantastic new lipstick, aptly named: "I do! I do! I do!"
11ty-jillion - times we missed our other roommates
5 - delicious forays to JC Beans
2 - fish tacos each from Pedro's
1 - great Italian meal at Sonny's
7 - bridesmaid dresses tried on
3 - favorite bridal gowns
4 - gerber daisies for the Bower
2 - hours kayaking in the sunshine
6 - days with my Roommate

Best line of the weekend: "You're gonna be Adam's wife and somebody's mom (someday), but it doesn't matter - you'll always be Roommate." ~Jules

The Story

2008-06-10T11:06:00.000-07:00

I'm sure that most of you have heard The Proposal Story, and if you haven't, you don't want to because you're either disenchanted with the whole "love" thing, totally happy single and thus unimpressed, or just getting along and doing your best to avoid bitter diatribes at "freaking save the date cards".

(No offense, Annie, I've felt the same way in the past and thought it was too classic not to share. :)

Anyways. The point I'm trying to make is this - I realize that this post is probably completely unnecessary, but I'm going to write it anyway, if nothing else, so I won't forget the little things that make it special.

So. The Friday of Memorial Day weekend, I was supposed to be working a half-day from home. It started out stormy, and the workday was matching the weather with all the gloomy-ness it could muster. It was going horribly and because of the storm, my internet kept cutting out. I'm getting more and more upset as I realize that, not only am I running late, I am running late for a CAMPING TRIP IN THE RAIN. I love camping and all that, but I am not a hard-core mountaineer. I am also very prone to being cold, and once I'm cold, I'm very prone to being miserable. So. Adam came over at the appropriate time, only to find me still hunched over my laptop, getting more miserable by the minute. Being the good sport that he is, he assured me it would be fine, let me finish my work and even bought me a latte on our way out of town - a sure bet to make me smile again.

So, we got up to Sequoia, and it was cold. But it was OK, we had a great dinner with the other early birds, hung out by the fire, and I was feeling pretty cheerful about the whole thing. The next day, I kept bugging Adam to go for a hike. He didn't really seem like he wanted to, which was weird, but luckily for him, he was leading the camp-out, so that gave him an out. Later in the day, he mentioned that he wanted to go for a hike "just the two of us" on Sunday. I thought it was weird that he was planning something that he hadn't wanted to do all of an hour earlier, but I just thought he was being weird.

Saturday night, our friends Phil and Kirsten and Nate and Lindsay showed up. Phil and Adam went off on a random hike and were gone FOREVER. Kirsten and I wondered what the deal was, but we didn't think about it too much.

It started snowing that night. Lindsay, Kirst and I all snuggled in my itty-bitty backpacking tent and had girl-talk. They both are engaged, and hearing them talk about their plans with such assuredness made me wonder if Adam and I would have that someday.

(Also, Before we went to bed, Adam asked if I wanted to just wake up on my own or set an alarm. I thought that was weird, too, normally he's so relaxed about that kind of thing.)

The next day (still snowing/raining) we hung out by the fire and had some coffee, than Adam came over to me sort of sneakily and asked if I was ready to go. As we left, I asked if we shouldn't tell somebody where we were going. "I told Phil and Rocky last night," Adam assured me. Again, weird. Also, why on earth was he carrying such a big backpack for a little hike? Where were we going, anyway?

He said it was just some breakfast stuff, and I believed him. Looking back, I just swallowed a lot of things that were definitely fishy.

We hiked for a while on this beautiful trail through the woods. I did turn around a time or two to see if Phil was following. I figured if Adam was proposing, Phil would be in on it with a camera... but he wasn't, and Adam seemed nonchalant about looking around the forest, so I put it the proposal idea out of my head. The whole time it was sort of misting/snowing/raining, but we were working hard and didn't mind. We got to some pretty deep snow and decided that our boots weren't quite up to that (I've worn mine since high school) and we turned around and found a big stump in a pretty area to sit on.

Adam said he brought me out there to tell me all the reasons why he loved me. He pulled out a piece of notebook paper and started telling me all these things and read a scripture. It was very special, and I thought he was just being sweet for our one year anniversary. After he'd finished, we sat there for a minute, but I, being the practical girl that I am, suggested that we break open his backpack o' breakfast.

"I have one question I have to ask you first," he said, at which point it started hailing and I started hyperventilating, saying yes over and over, as he got down on one knee (in the snow!) and pulled out the ring. I teared up and said yes again.

He had packed a whopper of a celebratory breakfast, complete with prosciutto, cheese, fruit, yogurts, hummus, pita chips, crackers, bread, brie and champagne and OJ for mimosas. We made mimosas in our Nalgene, (in his hurry, Adam had forgotten the flutes, which we decided was sort of appropriate anyway) and had an AMAZING breakfast together, despite the cold.

We took some pictures and walked back to camp, where Phil happened to be waiting in the parking lot for us. He got Kirsten, Nate and Lindsay, and us girls did an awesome screaming engaged jumping dance.

All day was euphoric, and even though the weather got so bad that we had to pack up and head home that night, we still had the best engaged day ever, and tried our best to slip the word "fiance" into every possible sentence. Actually, I'm pretty sure we still do that. Or at least I do.

I love Adam because he's my best friend as well as my love. He knew exactly what would make me happy in a proposal, and he did so fantastic at it.

Here's us on our stump, just after he asked:

But the weird part is....

2008-06-03T08:03:00.000-07:00

Before I begin a slightly off-kilter post, let me say something clarifying. *DISCLAIMER* If you have called to wish me well or squeal with me on the phone, I love you dearly and am so glad you did. If you have not yet called, I probably love you anyway, and we'll talk eventually, which honestly is fine by me, since I've never talked on the phone so much in my life as I have the last week or so, and I think my right ear is turning black. I am completely in love and totally stoked about it, and the coolest part is that he loves me back, which still gives me goose bumps when I think about it, because he's just so awesome and I can hardly believe that I'm somehow cool enough to marry him. Also, the full engagement-down-on-one-knee-so-romantic-you'll-just-fall-out-of-
your-chair story is coming. PROMISE. And you probably won't think it's as great as I do, but that's OK, because he's taken.

OK. Now that all the mushy stuff has been said....

Being Engaged is a little weird. For instance:

For most girl-types, being engaged is something akin to celebrity, and they want to be as close as possible and get regular hugs and stand very near just in case your fiance happens to be very bad at ring-purchasing and a diamond falls off or something, in which case they can snatch it up, run out and find an available man and be totally prepared for engagement at first sight. Crazy scenarios aside, this sudden closeness is weird to me. We've hardly talked before, yet you see a ring on my finger and give me a bear-hug, which I respond to with awkward back-patting and frantic running through the annals of my brain to figure out what your name is and if we've ever hung out. Maybe Love makes the whole world kin or rumors have been circulating about the likelihood of chocolate strawberries at the reception or you just really get fired up about engagements in general, but still. Weird.

On the other side of the spectrum from the huggy girl phenomenon, there's the grumps. Case in point:
Me: "I'm getting married."
Coworker the Grouch: "Well, it's your first one, so you've got a 50/50 chance."
Nothing like heartfelt congratulations and unwavering belief in true love. Weird.

Everywhere I look I see a wedding/reception site. EVERYWHERE. I mean, I was walking through Crate and Barrel the other day thinking about how much I liked the color schemes and wondering what it would look like with my bridesmaids lined up, when I remembered some fragment of my past life that reminded me that people don't normally get married in malls. Weird.

Lighting is so much better now! Sunlight, mood light, candlelight... even fluorescent light has been somewhat redeemed by the beautiful ring on my finger. I heard about every 25th word in church on Sunday because the stage lighting in Mariners was almost more than my little heart could take. Good, but a little weird.

Dates are suddenly super important to me. So are pictures. Everything has become a big deal, and I am fighting the urge to be crazy-wacko-bride and take pictures of everything and cry when I realize that a summer wedding likely won't happen. Um, I mean, I don't cry over stuff like that. *ahem* Weird.

I am so much more confident now... and say things that I find myself wanting to censor, but then don't, because I realize that I'M GETTING MARRIED, and the whole world can know how I feel about this man, dang it. "I'm in love! I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!" Very good. Not weird.

Love

2008-05-29T16:55:00.000-07:00

It's true. I'm in love with the my best friend, and he loves me. The full story is coming, but I just couldn't hold it in any longer.

Love, Soon-to-be Mrs. Nichols

Sgniht sdrawkcab and Oddities

2008-05-21T10:36:00.000-07:00

Right now, I'm eating hot buttered popcorn and drinking Diet Coke. It's 10 in the morning. Also, most nights I get pancake cravings, that I don't usually fulfill. This leads me to believe that someday, if I ever get pregnant, I will want breakfast food in the morning and dinner at night, and my husband will be utterly shocked.

I've never been the kind of girl who dreams of my someday wedding or buys bridal magazines. However, helping my friends pick out dresses and make centerpieces and giggle about their fellas is one of the most fun things I've ever done. I did not expect this from myself.

I'm always cold, but I love fresh air. So, most of the time I have my windows open at night, only to wake up freezing and cursing whoever left the window open, only to remember that it was, in fact, me. Why I have not yet learned to close the windows BEFORE I fall asleep is beyond me.

I love driving, but if there is a man coming along, I usually insist that he drive. The only exception is if he is between the ages of 16-20, in which case I value my life too much.

Rainy days are my favorite. FAVORITE. However, laying out and getting a tan is also my favorite, and so is the beach.

I love good photography and taking pictures, but never remember to bring or use my camera.

I love clever commercials and ad campaigns, but HATE advertising-speak, which brutalizes the English language.

I check email obsessively during the week, and completely ignore it on weekends.

Pink pedicures are awesome, but if I paint my fingernails anything other than natural, I feel sorta like a Ho.

I love horses, but typically stay quiet in conversations about them unless I know you very well. I do not, will not, compete about how much I know and love the things that I know and love.

I always pay bills and rent on time - except for my student loan. For some reason, that one slips through the cracks every few months.

Remembering Today

2008-05-19T15:43:00.001-07:00

Today I went to lunch with a friend. We were honest about our friends' weddings and our own relationships and the weirdness of growing up. We sat outside and ate Mexican food and drank Diet Coke and gloried in the perfect day.

Yesterday I rode in a car filled with some of my favorite people. I went to a Bridal Shower and saw unmentionables thrown about in a cavalier way that would embarrass all of us, were it any other occasion. I went to do a good deed and got crabby about it, which made it not-so-good after all. I went to church and worshiped my heart out and saw my imperfections and was ashamed of myself but grateful to God for putting up with me.

The day before I laid on a beach and ate salad and chillaxed with awesome people. I passed out programs and teared up for a dear friend's wedding. I danced the night away with friends and the man I love. I smelled roses and wine and laughter in the air.

I need to record these things more often. I need to remember why life is so good and I am so blessed.

In Which Dani Gets Swallowed By Cubicles and Forgets That Sunshine Exists

2008-05-15T14:44:00.000-07:00

Work has been stressful lately. That's really all I need to say, because recounting the stress simply serves to remind me of the stress, which simply serves to make the stress worse. Yes, close friends, family, boyfriend, and frightened acquaintances at the grocery store to whom I vomit my daily outpouring of recounting pointless stress, I realize that I am a walking, talking contradiction. But that's what makes me fun. Right? Right.

Anyway, when I get stressed, rather than do something healthy like go outside and recall that flowers still grow, or pet a cat or feed a baby or knit a sweater for a cold person or something else lovably wholesome, I wallow in the dullness of my life in a horribly sad and sniffle-inducing way.

I sit here, pointlessly wringing my hands and making to-do lists, looking around the gray walls of my cubicle, which are just sad, being only spruced up by shiny industry posters and the occasional horrible email.

It's lame. I know it is. Even when I force myself out of the office for lunch, though the faint hint of a summer breeze ruffles my hair and I am slightly wooed by the sunshine on my cheeks, I march myself staunchly into the cold dark of the parking garage and sit in Rocky, bemoaning my fate and listening to Dr. Laura tell people how dumb they are.

I just realized today after one such pointless lunch hour how really absurdly stupid this is, and how it doesn't help anything, and how if I keep on in this stressed-out state I might just have a coronary by the time I'm 30. So today, as soon as the bell rings, I am living up to my NEW to-do list, which has NOTHING to do with anything essential, at least in the traditional way.

I will:

Laugh
Work out
Eat something healthy and good
Enjoy the hint of summer swirling around
Go see my friends
Laugh more
Give good hugs
Steal a kiss

In Which Dani Travels to an Unknown and Intimidating Land of Mirriors, Plastic, and White, Fluffy Fabric

2008-05-13T10:40:00.000-07:00

Confession #1: I've never been inside a David's Bridal before.
Confession #2: I've never bought a Bridal magazine.

These two truths might be the reasons why trying on bridesmaid dresses in a large, girl-centric store (as opposed to a small, boyish bridal store - I don't know what I'm talking about these days,) is such a challenge for me. Or maybe it's because the walls are LINED with mirrors, and there are little pedestals on which you're supposed to stand and knock everyone senseless with your beauty, but I just get up there and feel weird. WHY is everybody looking at me?! Go about your business, please. Dress shopping is not for the faint of heart or the shy.

Anyways. So we walk into this strange land of large poofy dresses encased in plastic, softspoken ladies, monochromatic bridesmaid dresses in every possible color... and mirrors. Did I mention the mirrors already? Because it's OUT OF CONTROL. The doors are mirrored, the walls are mirrored, I'm pretty sure there are mirrors attached to the price tags, should you desire an itsy-bitsy glance at yourself. If you're at all insecure about anything on your body, you should just leave now, because it's will be shown off in glaring detail from several angles.

Be that as it may, I tried on a couple of cute flowy numbers with little straps that went with my comfort zone. "OK," I thought. "This works. These are short, they have straps. I can do this."

Then the Bride says, "I'm not crazy about straps..." at which point my face falls and I look around in terror at the many mirrors and my sweet bikini-strap tan lines from too many hours on the kayak and by the pool.

So we try on the long, a-line strapless dresses, and even though my bikini lines need some work, one look at the Bride's face tells me that this is THE dress. And you know what? I'm OK with that. This is her vision of the wedding she's always dreamed of, and I'm so excited to get to be a part of it - even if that includes braving the world of plastic and straps and tulle and and scary bras and all kinds of fabric-y terms that I don't understand.

This Love

2008-05-12T12:46:00.000-07:00

In a darkened bar, a line of young people wait eagerly around an inflatable kiddie pool. Ranging from probably 16 years old to late 20s, they are all races and backgrounds, both sexes. Some guys have the tight button-down Volcom shirt and shaved head of a dressed-up surfer, some sport the shaggy locks and tight jeans of wanna-be rock stars. The girls are huddled together with towels around their shoulders and grins on their faces, wearing cute tanktops and headbands to hold back their soon-to-be-soaked hair.

The disco balls hanging from the ceiling reflect dim light onto the water and the crowd shifts as we stand and stretch up from our bar stools and couches for a better view. The band starts with an acoustic strum and an invitation from the stage into “new life” – and we watch as smiling people kneel in a tiny pool and are asked a serious, life-changing question: do you believe that Jesus is the Son of God and your savior?

We see the steadfastness in their eyes. These are the discounted, a group of MySpacers, college kids and wait staff, members of a lost generation who’ve been romanced by a love that their peers find laughable. They are standing up, so to speak, courageously announcing their change of heart in a dim bar on a Sunday night, going into a few feet of water as a nervous new believer and coming up to the cheers, music and applause of their new-found family.

We can’t wipe the grins off our faces as they come up and are wrapped in warm towels and big hugs. We are singing, clapping, dancing – celebrating a life rescued and a Love found. This is RockHarbor at the Shark Club – where God is found in the unconventional and Church is not a place but a relationship.

Despite the fact that we don’t know their names, we have a community in this rag-tag bunch of believers. It’s not fake or imposed – I don’t have delusions of best-friend-ship with the couple sitting beside us with whom we shared pleasantries – but I got an authentic glimpse at a Love that transcends age and culture and music tastes. A Love that supports even those we don’t know because of the divine romance we find ourselves in.

This Love changes lives. I hear a lot about how scared we should be, how bad everything is, and how the world is going to hell. Maybe so, but I have a feeling that we’re not done here yet. This Love is strong enough even for this generation, and I got to see it first-hand.

Tyrone Wells - Live at the Coach House

2008-05-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

I went on one of the most awesome dates of my life last night. Tyrone Wells played at the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano, and Adam and I went to get wowed once again.

He did not disappoint. The man is an amazing singer/songwriter, hilarious storyteller, and great entertainer. I'd never seen him with his whole band before, (last time we saw him, it was in his "home turf" - Plush Cafe in Fullerton - which tops the charts for weirdly bright decor and only holds about 50 people - a totally different vibe from the full band and bar at CH).

I've never been a celebrity follower, (it took me until J.Lo actually had a child to figure out that the GFY rumors were just messing with me,) and while most of my girlfriends will beguile time at the beach or pool with a gossip rag, I'm much more likely to be seen with a fat novel, recent news or a writing magazine. I have to be honest, though, and admit that I am a sold-out Tyrone groupie.

I've learned also, that I should listen to (and become groupies of?) the people who he shares the spotlight with... Amber Rubarth and Jason Reeves were fantastic as well.

ps - Thanks to Adam for being a great date and equally enthusiastic live music lover... at least somebody else feels the need to move to the beat and not sit woodenly like these boring Californians...

ps #2 - We didn't have a camera... but the Blackberry did pretty good at catching the moment:

What a great night.

"Eating is so exciting!"*

2008-05-05T13:39:00.001-07:00

In honor of my dear Julie, who will be coming out to the Sunshine State in T-minus One Month, and who gets rightfully excited about all the great things that there are to eat in the world, I've compiled a by-no-means comprehensive list of the incredible eats that abound here in the OC. (She told me to make a list. I can't help myself.)

Also, this is a way to bribe all of you who have not yet purchased tickets to come see me, to do so ASAP. I have fish tacos. And the best bagel sandwiches ever. AND A BEACH, complete with kayak. Come, come.

Fantastic Eating Place #1: Chronic Tacos.
This is probably my favorite place. Here's what I wrote for my "Hungry? Thirsty?" review: "This is Saturday afternoon OC at its finest. Even when popping with people, the atmosphere is relaxed and beachy, and servers and clients alike are friendly and unhurried. It definitely has a local vibe, as most people walk right in and order without a glance at the menu, but not before saying 'Hi' to several other regulars and neighbors. Business people stand comfortably next to beach bums, and everybody walks out with full tummies." My personal favorite thing is the Pollo Asada Burrito with black beans and rice, cheese, guacamole, onions, cilantro, cabbage and green sauce. By the time you've powered through all that, it's time to move up a size and go take a siesta on the beach.

Fantastic Eating Place #2: Golden Spoon
This is definitely a girl place. The yogurt is so cool and delicious and has only 68 calories per 8 oz. of creamy goodness. And they have sprinkles. 'Nuff said.

Fantastic Eating Place #3: Pedro's Tacos
I kinda like Mexican Food. Pedro's is a total dive, but also the BEST baja fish tacos I have EVER had. Two corn tortillas, a giant piece of fried fish, creamy baja sauce and fresh cabbage. Adam and I have made a tradition of getting them after kayaking, and it is the best combo on the planet. Combined with a healthy, kayak-induced hunger, a soft coastal breeze, a Diet Coke and some extra hot sauce... heck yes.

Fantastic Eating Place #4: The Bagel Shack
I love bagels. It's a starchy indulgence that I will never give up. I have loved many bagel-ries in my long and illustrious bagel-eating career, but so far, the Shack tops them all. Styled after a classic Tiki Hut, the Shack is a wonderland of fresh-baked bagels, tan, hungry, sandy-footed beach bums and open-air, Saturday morning chillaxing. Every bagel sandwich is named after a famous local surf spot, and their OJ is seriously the freshest-tasting, most incredible stuff ever. My fave? A Cheddar bagel with "Trestles": ham, pepper jack cheese, onion, pepper, and guacamole.

Fantastic Eating Place #5: JC Beans
Best coffee in South County. Hands down. Unlike Starbucks, you don't need a quad-shot in a 16 oz., their espresso is so good that three does the job easily. The baristas are friendly, the outside is hand-muraled, and the inside looks like C.S. Lewis' study would if he lived at the beach. And it's a block from my house and cheaper than the 'Bucks. Delicious.

Fantastic Eating Place #5: Sonny's Pizzeria and Pasta
I like to say that this is where Adam and I had our first date. At least it's the first time that I remember knowing for pretty dang sure that he wasn't just a friend. I ordered a beer and he told me later he was very relieved that I was a "cool girl". (As if he didn't know that already! ;) Anyway, it's a very cute hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, the kind with busty waitresses, probably not-so-distant mob connections, twinkle lights and great food. Also, it's known to attract pretty people, (I mean, obviously, Adam goes there, Bah-dum-ching!) as the last time we ate there we saw this guy, in the flesh.

Fantastic Eating Place #6: El Mariachi
I warned you I liked Mexican food. El Mariachi doesn't have a website, but that's just because their food is so freaking fantastic they don't need one. And they have a "Grotto De Amor" and great margaritas, so it's pretty much my favorite restaurant.

Fantastic Eating Place #7: Mosun's
We started going to Mosun's because they have 50% off on Wednesdays and Fridays, and Adam eats a lot. It is a seriously swanky sushi bar (try saying that five times fast,) that opens into a dance club at night. It's also located in downtown Laguna Beach, which is touristy and fun to wander around in... especially when you save room for a stroll to the gelato shop down the way and a walk on Main Beach. Tip: try the Firecracker Roll. It's fantastic.

Fantastic Eating Place #8: The Chart House, Dana Point
High-class steak house with a multi-million dollar view of the Harbor and some killer mixed drinks. Take your girlfriend there for her birthday and it will melt her heart. Just sayin'.

Fantastic Eating Place #9: The Yard House
Now, I know there are Yard Houses everywhere, and I did my best to keep chains out of this list. However, this is a great place. I love the Snakebite (half Carlsberg, half cider) and many a memorable talk has been had sitting outside, at night, on heavy teak furniture over a pint or two. One of my favorite times was in Shoreline Village in Long Beach, after a long day working the Motorcycle Show, kicking back, watching the lights on the water and having a beer with one of the best sports I know.

Fantastic Eating Place #10: Waffle Lady
As of last week, this place now shares facilities with a BBQ joint, but I'm sure it's still amazing. The last time I went I got the Cinn-A-Wonderful Waffles, which were just that. Wonderful. Light, melt-in-your-mouth waffles loaded with cinnamon and walnuts with cream and syrup on the side for a drench-your-own experience. Like a cinnamon roll, only better (and more waffle-y). If that's not adventurous enough, Waffles with everything from chocolate chips to cheddar cheese and jalapeno also smell great, although I haven't tried them all.

*A direct quote from Julie, circa junior year or so.

Because the Big D did it...

2008-04-30T10:02:00.000-07:00

If my brother (Denver, aka the Big D, aka Mountaineer Extraordinaire, aka Chelsea's Husband,) does anything on these here internetz, you know it's a momentous occasion. If he responds to what is the equivalent of family-created Spam, you should look up, because the moon is probably crossing with a star and a universe is colliding and crazy things are happening in the cosmos.

So, I had to fill this out as well, just to keep the family trend going. Mine won't be as entertaining as my bro's, but you can read that here.

Two Names You Go By:

1. Dani Lin

2. DC (Dani California)

Two Things You are Wearing Right Now:

1. My favorite khakis

2. Cute blue Hurley shoes - yeah Hurley outlet sale!

Two things you expect in a relationship

1. I'm going to assume this means romantic, so I'll say that he should treat me like I'm special... open my door, want to spend time with me, every now and then I'm up for a little spoiling... :) However, girlfriends, you don't have to get my door. WE can just hang out and talk. Preferably at Pei Wei over free refills. Some of my best girl-talks have happened there...

2. Great character

Two of Your Favorite Things to do

1. Ocean kayaking

2. Reading a good book while outside under the sun shade, or laying on the beach, or curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee, or while trying to tell myself that my legs really don't hurt that bad and I can go another 20 minutes at the gym.

Two Things You Want Very Badly at the Moment:

1. to go outside

2. a 16 oz triple-shot Almond/Vanilla latte from JC Beans.

Two pets you had/have:

1. Well, I've kind of adopted George. He's my neighbor's cat, but he likes my porch better than his own, and I don't mind. He likes to play with my feet as I come in and out of the Bower, and he likes his tummy scratched. Oh, and his name's not really George. It's Rusty. But I think we all can agree that George has way more character than that.

2. I have kitties and a dog in Oregon that are pretty dang cute too.

Two people you know will fill this out

1. I'm cheating. Jocelyn, because she sent it to Denver...

2. and Denver.

Two Things You Did Last Night

1. Went to Pei Wei with Donna and had girl talk.
2. Talked to Adam and had not-girl-talk.

Two Things You Ate Last Night:

1. Chicken Teriyaki Bowl from Pei Wei

2. Hot Chocolate because when I got home I had left my windows open and it was FREEZING.

Two People you Talked With Last Night

1. I already answered this, yo.

2. I did talk to George, too, though.

Two Things You're Doing Tomorrow:

1. Working from home (yay!)

2. Going to Fuel

Two Longest Car Rides:

1. Oregon to Abilene, Texas.

2. OC to Fort Worth, Texas.

Two Favorite Holidays:

1. Christmas

2. Memorial Day. :)

Favorite Beverages:

1. I always say coffee and Diet Coke, so I'm gonna get creative. Heineken.

2. OJ from the Bagel Shack

Hey Mr. Grumpy Gills...

2008-04-29T11:50:00.001-07:00

"You know what you gotta do when life starts getting you down? Just keep swimming..."

I will openly admit that I'm grumpy today. I don't want to keep swimming, I don't want you to tell me it'll be OK, I don't want you tell me it won't be OK, I want to be alone, I want to be with people, I want chocolate, I feel fat. All of you Internet ladies, (and non-Internet ladies, too, but I can't really talk to you, no offense,) know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. Unfortunately, the Internet gentlemen don't, because guys are the most even-keel creatures on the planet, a fact that is currently very infuriating to someone who feels so very out-of-joint.

My day got off to an ugly start. I fell asleep to the soothing sounds of the Pilot episode of Lois and Clark - remember the one where the space station is going to cure sick kids but Lex Luthor wants to kill them instead and somehow make money on this nefarious plan while Lois tries to stop him by bossing Clark and his swishy man-hair around and pretending like she isn't bewitched by his adorable smile and big super-muscles? That one?

Anyways, I woke up this morning... Lois and Clark were long since vanished, my laptop having breathed its desperate last breath, begging for electricity, sometime in the night. The sunshine streaming in my window seemed awfully bright for 5:30, and I was just wondering why my light was still on when it hit me. IT'S 6:30. As in, a half hour after I was supposed to leave, and I yelled a grown-up word on my way to the bathroom. I got to work about a half-hour late, did not get to take Rocky to the shop before and so had to do so on my lunch break, and have felt crummy ever since.

But here's the good news:
Rocky will soon have fresh oil, rotated tires and a clean countenance, for which I'm sure he will thank me.
Work is just work, and staying a half-hour later tonight won't kill me.
I'm going to eat chocolate. Fat or no fat.

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming..."

Next Stop, Wedded Bliss

2008-04-23T15:04:00.000-07:00

Over the last few weeks or so, I've been surrounded by "getting-ready-to-be-married-and-be-blissfully-happy-forever-and-in-the-
meantime-try-on-dresses-and-buy-flowers-which-is-also-fun." people.

I've been helping ne of my good friends (whose getting married in May in Malibu,) with her invites and decorations, one of my closest friends from college just got engaged a couple of weeks ago, and another dear friend just got engaged this past weekend.

I've been asked to be bridesmaid in Megan's (September in Dallas) and Kirsten's (November in California). It's Bunny Season. No other explanation needed.

Maybe some other time I'll post Phil and Kirsten's (lovingly called Phirsten) proposal story, because it's really very sweet and I love these kinda things and I really don't even know myself anymore because I cry all the time and am somehow old enough to have married friends. Plus, Adam took some sneaky video of the moment itself and it is PRICELESS.

But today, I'd just like to say what an incredible experience it is to be asked to be a bridesmaid for a good friend. When both Megan and Kirsten asked, I openly squealed and got emotional - I couldn't help it. Asking "will you be my bridesmaid?" is the question that sums up all the years of friendship and sisterhood, the moments of laughter and tears, the shared fears and "boy talks" that seem so silly now that you actually have a ring on your finger and a man that's all your own.

Being a bridesmaid is more than holding a bouquet, shopping for dresses or standing on a stage. It's a send-off, a gift of support and encouragement for a new life and love.

The most incredible gift imaginable for a woman is when a strong man promises to devote his life and strength to her, asking only that she partner with him in return. Us girls get teary (or maybe that's just me, like I said, this new Crying Dani plays by different rules,) at our friends' engagements because it speaks to our deepest places - those dreams, once awakened, strike chords in us we didn't even know were there.

I'm honored to stand by you girls and send you off. I'm honored that you would count me as a friend worthy of supporting you on the biggest day of your life. You are intoxicating, beautiful, alluring, Godly women whose moment has come and I'm so proud to be your friend.

Just for good measure, here's a picture to ease your curiosity. See what lengths I go to for you? Enjoy:

Kirsten and I in New Orleans, March 2008

Megan and I, playing with flashlights, Thanksgiving 2006. (We spent a few days together this Thanksgiving too, but neither one of us are good at taking pictures. Shopping and talking was really more of a priority. Sorry that the picture's a little outdated - new, fresh photos soon to come.)

"Somebody Hates These Cans!"

2008-04-18T13:56:00.000-07:00

The other night Adam and I watched The Jerk, which is one of his all-time favorite movies. Now when he tells me that the "first day was like a week," or yells about the phone book, I get it. It's the little things...

Today, I bought a latte from JC Beans, my favorite coffee place. I got distracted at work this morning and let about half of it get cold, so I went to the kitchen to nuke it. I pushed "beverage" on the microwave and ran to the restroom while it heated. When I came back, my glorious 16-oz quad shot 1 % half-vanilla, half almond latte had EXPLODED all over the office microwave. Needless to say, I've been inconsolable.

Today we went out for a "team lunch" at work. I feel so young at those things. And not in like a "you're young and creative and fresh!" way, but in a "you're young and dumb and need a manicure" way. Work is weird.

Last night I did announcements at Fuel. I was so nervous and scared and miserable about it that I tried to get out of it and might have even cried a little. I did okay, though. I didn't fall on anyone or burp into the mic or say anything too horribly embarrassing about myself. So that's good.

I have a box of Girl Scout shortbread cookies in my desk. This is DEADLY, people. Don't do it. Your body will hate you.

Speaking of bodies, I have really weird man-related experiences every time I go to the gym. For instance, last night, I'm on an EMPTY ROW of ellipticals, when the Unabomber comes up to take a turn RIGHT NEXT to me. I'm not kidding - black hoodie sweatshirt with hood on, dark sunglasses, the whole bit. I guess doing shady things at night requires great legs. So that was weird, but if you're working out in a hoodie, your judgment on which machine to pick might be a little clouded as well. But then, Shady Guy leaves, and who comes in but Sweatband Guy - complete with nylon running shorts from 1986, a tanktop, and very hairy, sweaty underarms, which he feels the need to stretch in my direction. HONESTLY?! You can have a whole row to yourself, people. Explore the space! Also, can we maybe try to get away from extremes and just work out in something normal... like a t-shirt? Maybe that's too much to ask...

I got the second pedicure of my life last weekend. It was great. I'm a girl, and I like having pink toes in the summertime. There, I've said it.

It's Friday. :) :) :) :) :)

The Power of "Hi"

2008-04-17T12:03:00.000-07:00

Today one of my co-workers saw me eating pita chips at my desk and wondered how fattening they were. I declared that I can eat the whole bag while sitting inertly at my desk, and not gain a pound. He doubts me. However, I am determined to prove him wrong, so I will eat an entire bag of pita chips in a selfless quest for truth.

Speaking of talking, I don't really. Seriously. Up until the last month or so, I really didn't talk to anyone at work outside of the occasional "hi" in the kitchen or report in the weekly staff meeting. I'm coming out of my shell now, and it's kind of nice to have more to my day than just getting things done.

Talking in the office is always weird though. I think we all feel as though it's just a giant elevator, so nothing can get too specific or meaningful - but that's not really the point. The point is that it's nice to be noticed, even if it's just a "hi".

When we were in New Orleans, our team said hi to EVERYBODY. Even introverts like yours truly were breaking out of our shells and chattin' it up to the best of our limited small-talk knowledge. Granted, people in the South are easier to talk to. I was much more likely to ask the sweet-faced check-out girl in Abilene about her day than I am to strike up a conversation with the high-maintenance, skimpily-clad diva in front of me in line, buying something non-fat and playing languidly with her cell phone. BUT, stereotypes aside, I do believe that people often live up to our expectations. This week, I did brave the "OC girl" fear by saying something friendly while in line, and was surprised to be greeted with a smile and some chatty conversation in return.

I'm the worst offender, but it bothers me that we so often walk right by our fellow travelers as though they were a tree or a bush or... nothing at all. When did it become OK to just not see people - to the point where if, on a rare occasion, someone holds the door or an elevator or makes eye contact I suddenly feel so valued?

This is my new resolve: to brave the SoCal masks and try to see people. It's a silly thing, but it might make someone feel better - I know it does for me. "Hi" is a powerful little word.

How I Find Purpose, Fulfillment and a Reason to Get Up in the Morning

2008-04-15T14:52:00.000-07:00

This email totally made my day. Right now, it's taped to my cabinets at work and highlighted in key hilarious places - an ever-shining testament to the IQs of our readership.

I like how he feels legitimately upset that his truck is not a boat, and his best insult is "stupid comes to my mind them".

E-mail, angrily entitled: "the public needs to know"

Hi my mane is Dave

I own a 2001 dodge ram 1500. lifted with off road tires, well I decided to go 4x4 ing with it last weed end well we went out had some fun in the mud, played for about 2 hours, well I got stuck in the mud and water imagion that. ?

as I was getting pulled out got muddy and wet had the time of my life playing in the mud.

I started to drive home it was about 2 hours home, my truck started overheating, and trannie oil started to spray all over my exhaust, needs less to say I barly made it home.

I sent the truck in to the shop to have it looked at well they called me back and said the hole system trannie transfercase differentials were full of water?? well to my suprise my truck is not water proof ??????

Who makes a truck that cant drive in a couple feet of water and mud , so I find out after 3100.00 dollars later I realize dodge trucks have vents in the tranny and transfercase to let out warm air, so I suck and what an idot I never though that the new trucks are not made for 4x4 ing?????

what kind of thinking dose the designers who make 4x4 trucks are they People that have no idea what 4x4ing can consist of .... stupid comes to my mind them for putting vents in to a place that can get water and me for not realizing that they dont know @#$% about what they are designing.

I am working on a design to fix that problem with the vent issue,, I am not mr know it all but is there an easier way to fix my truck to stop that water problem?????

by pluging or extending the vents some where , the water will not make it????

thanks for listing

dave

Let this be a lesson to you, kids: They people don't know nothin', and watch out when you're 4x4ing on the weed ends. Oh, and my mane is Dave.

A Different Kind of Hunger

2008-04-10T15:12:00.000-07:00

When we set off for New Orleans, I was starved for community. Not the kind of gentle, unobtrusive, Sunday-morning community that gives wimpy hand-shakes and makes small-talk, but the kind of gritty, heart-felt community that knows each other on a deep, dangerous level. The kind of community that is entertained by bouncy-balls and air-guns, can make fun of ourselves and each other in love, and is real enough to admit when we've screwed up or when we realize something Big. In Dangerous Community, you have to be honest, because we'll call your bluff. We also know how to encourage you right where you need it most, because we've seen those achey parts of you in a personal way and we know your strengths and weaknesses.

Dangerous Community is terrifying, I think for everybody, but I know for me. My roommates used to tease me about keeping secrets from them, but I swear it's not intentional. I just don't tell people things. It's always been hard for me to share myself with others, but oddly enough, what I fight hardest is what I'm most hungry for.

I was scared, though, I have to admit. I loved everybody going on the New Orleans trip, but what if they found out things about me that made me unlovable? What if I take too long in the shower or say something awkward or fail at a task and they decide I'm not worth it anymore?

By 24 hours into the trip, I was starting to thaw. A week in, and I was choking back tears in front of 16 people who I had finally let in. It wasn't so much that I hadn't cared for them before, or that they hadn't tried to get close, it was more that my hunger for Dangerous Community overcame my fear of it, and I finally stopped trying to achieve love and just let it happen.

This has happened before. I remember "giving in" to my Roommates, Oxford schoolmates and wrangler buddies, some with more grace than others. Maybe someday I'll learn not to fight it, but embrace the thrill of Dangerous Community in all of its scary, satisfying glory.

Munchies

2008-04-09T15:07:00.000-07:00

"I had so many things to say, and no one to listen." - Jerry Maguire

However, my dear readers, that is why we have our good friend, Internet. Here I can blab to my heart's content and comfort myself with the thought that perhaps my ramblings entertained someone in their oppressingly gray cubicle or lonely boat at sea (hooked up to Wi-Fi of course, who isn't these days?) or.... something.

I have more to tell you about New Orleans, too, but today I'm too scatter-brained, and it's too close to Quittin' Time to write anything of any real importance, so we're left with whatever pops into my head, which today, as with most days, is food.

I have a few signature foods which I have loved since college (when I started shopping for myself and learned the hard way that Oreos for dinner do not a happy tummy make).

Here are a few, along with whatever memory is associated first.

Cheez-Its and Diet Coke - a classic pairing. This will do for any meal of the day, in-between meal snack, late-night snack.. you name it. I've eaten this so many times that a specific memory is difficult, but I do recall one time at the Opinion Desk at the Optimist with a 20 oz Diet Coke and 16 oz box of said crunchy cracker, and eating myself into a cheese-induced haze. Jaci and Sarah ate some too, and I'm pretty sure their contributions saved my life.

Mother's Frosted Circus Animal Cookies - probably my favorite cookies of all time. They also taste better when they're red, white and blue for Fourth of July in August, because then they're on sale. I had just finished a bag of these a while back, and had not gotten enough pink and white goodness. I decided it was a great idea to pour the remaining sprinkles and frosting dust in the general direction of my face. (Note that I did not say mouth. That didn't happen.) I'm still picking up sprinkles off my floor. Sexy, I know.

Teddy Grahams - This is all the reason you need to love Teddy Grahams. Also, they come in those great Travel Sack things, and I used to stick them in my backpack and eat them... well... every few minutes until they were all gone. One time I tried to get into the bag quietly while in class. Oh, not just class. Comm Law class. The hardest class of a journalism major's dreary college career. I don't know why everybody stopped and looked when I finally got it out and started munching. I think they were just jealous.

Black Pepper and Olive Oil Triscuits and Pepper Jack Cheese* - Probably the best wheat and dairy product combo ever created. It's like the fields and farms of Iowa got married and produced a delicious, spicy taste sensation just for us. Adam and I ate an entire box of these crackers and a whole package of cheese somewhere in the New Mexico desert on our 24-hour haul from California to Texas, and we still devour it as often as possible. Last weekend we also paired it with some quality summer sausage, and our mouths did little dances of joy.

*Word to the wise - this combo, though delicious and totally worth it, will wreck your breath for at least a day and a half. Either get your significant other hooked also, or indulge yourself on nights alone with American Idol.

Bruce (A Portrait from New Orleans)

2008-04-04T10:59:00.000-07:00

He's a large man, with thick, muscular arms and legs that seem better suited for a bouncer at a Bourbon Street bar than a humble volunteer cook. As we walk into the BridgeHouse, (an alcohol and drug recovery center) he greets us with a smile and an invitation into the "Cage" where food is kept for distribution.

"This's where ah live," he says with a wink, as he pulls the chain-link gate open. As we walk in, we see boxes of crackers, granola bars, canned goods and countless other food items stacked from floor to almost-ceiling. He explains to us that BridgeHouse receives far more donated food than they can use, so they share with the churches and shelters in the community whatever they can.

"That's what y'all'r here to help me with," He says, leading the way into an enclosed room in the Cage. As soon as we walk in the room, the smell of old milk and the disorganized jumble of food containers assaults our senses.

"Ah've gotten a lil' behind," Bruce says, somewhat shamefacedly, leaning down to pick up a can of tomatoes off the floor.

Like most "Big Easy" natives, he likes to talk, and as he tells stories about BridgeHouse and New Orleans, we set to work on the disarray. He openly shares that he made some bad choices, which is how he ended up in BridgeHouse. He's been here five years off and on, and is proud of his sobriety and management of the kitchen. He talks almost nonchalantly about his old "using" lifestyle, saying, "I'm allergic to Cocaine, I break out in handcuffs."

When one of our team - still overwhelmed by the stories we're hearing - fails to smile, he points a meaty finger her direction with a playful grin. "That was funny!" He says, chuckling at his own joke. His laughter is infectious and we all join in.

He decides that since we're "from the big city in California an' all," we probably like hip-hop rather than the country radio station he had playing. Soon, scratchy hip-hop beats is blasting from his ancient boom-box, and we laugh. He's constantly being called away for questions and advice, and deals with everyone who comes by with grace and dignity. When he comes back to the cage from one such call, he is shocked to find us sweeping up rat droppings, hauling boxes and throwing away bad food, every now and then taking a few-second dancing break when the mood strikes.

"Whoa!" He says, trying to imitate some dance moves and laughing at us good-naturedly. "Too bad they don't got this piped through Naw'lans, or y'all'd 'ave the whole city rebuilt."

Bruce is trying to get his cooking certification through a local culinary arts school, and these dented, donated cans mean much more to him than someone's leftovers. He taps the labels, planning menus out loud for the residents of BridgeHouse and the homeless community they feed every Tuesday and Thursday. "We eat a lot o' that," he says, waving a case of peanut butter back onto the shelf. He comes over with a case of canned peaches. "Take this'n out, ma'am," he says to me. "They need these at that church."

Within a few hours, we've loaded two church vans and a small school bus with food, cleaned the cage and taught Bruce some sweet moves as an added bonus. He gives us (and anyone else who comes by) some cold bottles of Sunny D-type stuff, and we take a break to cool off and talk, sitting around on cases of green beans and lounging against metal shelving.

Like most people from New Orleans, Bruce is a drawling storyteller with a wealth of life experience and colorful characters to liven it. We're drawn into his tales, not just because they're interesting, but because he shows such a depth of faith. His stories casually reveal that he's had some tough times, but we don't hear bitterness or "why me?" - just a desire to keep others from the same mistakes.

Before we know it, it's time to leave the Cage for lunch. It's touching to help the men of the BridgeHouse serve a hot lunch to the homeless men and women - who are daily, flesh-and-blood reminders of where they come from.

Bruce is a gentle giant and seems to be everywhere at once. He's kind and caring to those whom he serves, greeting everyone with hearty handshakes and easy-going generosity, but willing to throw his weight around if necessary. When he feels one of the BridgeHouse guys gets "fresh" with a girl on our team, it's clear that he doesn't take any guff.

Redemption is a running theme with Bruce and those at the BridgeHouse. The homeless who are there for a free lunch, the men who have checked themselves into BridgeHouse to "get clean" the church volunteers who come to pick up food, all have a story of how the old is gone and the new has come. In this place, Christ is not a pie-in-the-sky, unreachable, church-nut God. He is here, making red beans and rice, handing out fake Sunny D, in our "how are you, sir?" and our smiles.

It takes courage for us to bridge the age, cultural and racial gaps that seem so broad at first. There are moments when I don't know what to say or how to feel. When we're done, Bruce gathers us, with bear hugs for the girls and strong handshakes for the men.

"Y'all come back anytime," he says, giving us each a stern look in the eye so we know he means it. "I had so much fun with y'all..."

We take a picture together and he insists that we send him a copy, telling us that he has a few, and they help him remember to pray for people. I don't feel worthy of his praying for me.

As I write this, I want to go back. I feel like I don't do enough in my everyday life, like one trip wasn't enough. I want to see people as valued children of a living God, no matter how they've squandered that gift (in my oh-so-holy opinion). I want to look into people's eyes and really listen to them. I want to look at my pictures and pray for the people I love. I want to use these moments for good. I want to never forget how a burly ex-alcoholic made me feel.

L-R: Adam, Me, Bruce, Kenny, Christina. 2nd Row: Holli, Kara, Becky.

I'm baaaaaaack! (you know you missed me...)

2008-04-01T14:07:00.000-07:00

Hey peeps.

New Orleans was great. Beyond great. Fantastic. I'll tell you more as my thoughts swirl around in my head and finally make it out on paper, but until then, here's a couple of pics to tide you over.

This picture says: "New Orleans is pretty and we're tired!" Which about sums it up.

Honestly, though, it was a life-changing trip and I can't wait to share my still-getting-figured-out thoughts on all of it. I just wanted to post something and let you know that I'm back and my heart didn't stop from too much Creole.

More to come! Stay tuned...

Rarin' to go...

2008-03-21T14:53:00.000-07:00

Finally, it's here! We're going to New Orleans! I'll write more over the weekend if I get a chance, but in the meantime, you can check our trip blog at http://fuelorangecounty.blogspot.com/

I'll try to update every day, and you can see a picture of our oh-so-handsome/gorgeous team.

Yahoo!

Like a Comet Pulled From Orbit, as it Passes the Sun...

2008-03-18T12:35:00.000-07:00

Girl-friendship is a funny thing.*** I've had some amazing girlfriends in my life, despite my propensity for being closer to guys, being kinda tough to get to know, and not understanding the whole girl-talk thing in general.

When thrust into a vaguely acquainted-with or unknown set of girls, I feel like a lone dandelion bravely sprouting up through the cracked floor of a garden shop - I raise my little head and all I see is the weed-eaters, poisons, and lawnmowers that spell my early demise. Of course, I fail to notice the fertilizers and plant food, but my pessimism is a post for another day. The long and short of it is, I get scared.

However, despite being crazy, girls are amazing.** I have known some of the more fantastic ones in my extensive (ha) 24 years, and I'm blessed to count a few as the sisters I never knew I always wanted. I've been told three times in the last week by three different people that they've seen a change in me for the better. There's no greater compliment than that - and I'm pretty sure I owe most of it to my girls. (And Jesus, of course. Jesus in my girls, probably.)

This whole post was inspired by the news I got this morning that Julie, my very own roommate* of House 9 fame, is coming out to the Golden State to visit this summer. I CANNOT WAIT. I love showing off the things I love, and I love Julie, and having so many things I love in one place might just make my heart explode.

Anyway, I was sitting here, thinking about these great girls I've been close to for a long time and the ones who are just now becoming precious parts of my life. Thank you.
Thanks for coming into my dorm room at 1 am and convincing me that studying was lame, for forcing me to expand my movie horizons, for making me laugh more than anyone.
Thanks for encouraging me to write it down, no matter how foolish.
Thanks for endless hours tanning by the pool, sipping Diet Coke and sharing secrets.
Thanks for being outdoorsy and fun and sisterly.
Thanks for the long nights in the Optimist office, and your patience with my screwy InDesign lines.
Thanks for your fashion sense.
Thanks for baking cookies at midnight.
Thanks for carrying the paper with my anti-library-Starbucks column in it to the library Starbucks, and waving it nonchalantly under the barista's nose.
Thanks for the great pictures and deep understanding.
Thanks for the creative juices.
Thanks for Starbucks dances, holiday meals and Dallas shopping sprees.
Thanks for helping me navigate the deadly waters of relationships.
Thanks for trips to CostCo, being 1/2 of the Hot Ds, and making out with Park Newport.
Thanks for helping me find my Muse, for sharing music, for encouraging me, for seeing the beauty of shows like Smallville and Lois and Clark.
Thanks for defending me, supporting me and pulling me out of my shell.
Thanks for joining me in my OC/Ryan Atwood phase.
Thanks for Golden Spoon dates.
Thanks for "getting it".
Thanks for listening.

*Val, Kish and Julie will always be "roommate", no matter where we go. I think each of us have confused someone with this unconventional approach to nick names...
**I've not always thought so. But they are. Boys, you better be good to these girls!
***One last funny thing about girl-friendship. If I didn't get your specific memory or link on this list, please don't be hurt, offended or think I don't love you. I do. I promise I do. (Unless this is your first time here and I don't know you. That would be weird.) This was an off-the-top-of-my-head shout-out to my leading ladies and those who've recently been granted a slot in Dani's House of Jumbled Recollections. Enter at your own risk; if you're not here, chances are all you've missed out on is my driving your car like a truck, blathering on about some ridiculous problem, or freaking out because someone's nice to me. It's happened.

Therapy, Part Deux

2008-03-14T15:26:00.000-07:00

So I've been thinking about what's therapeutic in my life, and have come up with a list of some things that make me sunshiney when I'm a tad blue. (Not really blue, blue like bummed. You probably knew that, but it is Friday, so I thought I'd clear it up, just to be sure.)

Writing, of course
Playing with Photoshop, drawing, being creative
Curling up on the couch with some coffee if it's cold and Diet Coke if it's warm, and a good book
Journaling
Smallville (I know, I know. It's cheesy and predictable and filled with horrible lines and unrequited high school love. But it has some golden moments, I have some great memories associated with watching the first couple of seasons, and I do love the Man of Steel.)
Driving PCH (Preferably without traffic... hint, hint, road construction)
A good talk with a good girlfriend, my mom or Adam
Ice cream. Always.
Flowers. Also always.
Cleaning the house. (I think this proves I have a dormant housewife inside somewhere - remember the mom on The Emperor's New Groove? "I need to clean something!")
Tanning. Whether it's laying on the beach, at the pool, or even fake baking, acquiring skin cancer and great legs at the same time is AWESOME.
Showers. I love showers. I think it kinda comes hand-in-hand with my soap/shampoo/smelly things fetish.
So, I'll admit it. Trying new (expensive and smelly) soap/shampoo makes me happy.
Hot tubs. I don't get to do this often enough. But when I do....
Swimming in ocean/kayaking/being outside is great. I don't know if it should technically be listed as therapy, since I don't exactly finish a hard day at work and think, "I'm gonna go take a dip!" But maybe I should start. Anyway, it's all awesome and should be included in every list.
Cooking for someone who appreciates it. (Adam)
Shopping. I know! I'm such a girl. I... like to shop. I'm trying to come up with excuses, but I can't. I know it's pathetic and OC-ish of me. I'm sorry. But I do like it.

Therapy

2008-03-13T15:31:00.000-07:00

One of my friends has recently started reading my blog - or at least has just let me know that he is...

At any rate, he made the comment to me that he liked reading it to "get inside your head... I can tell it's really good/therapeutic for you to write that stuff." Now, this made me a little squeamish, as I've written about what makes me sneeze or cry, compulsively buying home supplies, blueberry muffin weather, and most recently, making out with an apartment complex, none of which cater to the higher kinds of tastes that I should be aiming to satisfy.

I imagine Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Victor Hugo, C.S. Lewis, George MacDonald and countless other of my personal influencers and heroes sitting down at the old-fashioned blog of their day and spewing out wise sayings, witty, hilarious thoughts and jaw-dropping insights with a flick of their fountain pen. Was writing therapeutic for them?

I hate to admit it, but these silly ramblings are good for me. Blogging or writing something, no matter how dumb, is often the highlight of my day, and I wonder where this compulsion comes from.

I remember writing a "book" as a child about a cat. I think her name was Spotty, after the very creatively-titled white-and-orange-spotted feline who wandered into our lives just long enough to have kittens and wander out again. I don't remember anything about it, other than I was very proud of my illustration abilities and my title, which was... ...wait for it: "Cat Tails". I know. I kill me.

Anyway, my first attempt never got picked up by a publisher, Oprah never needed this child prodigy on her show, and I've sunk into a blissful oblivion, writing away whenever I feel the need and enjoying the relatively calm buzz of seeing your work online.

As much as I dream of being the next Bronte or Austen, these ramblings are OK with me for now. I hope that my heroes forgive me a little public therapy... ...and that you will too. Thanks again for listening.

There's a Spring in My Step

2008-03-11T14:54:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I would like to share with you all the glad tidings that Lady Spring has finally arrived. I got such a kick out of my my sister-in-law's Spring-y observation of Portland versus our colder native habitat, that I simply must share: "I'm enjoying getting to "know" Portland. I learned there IS such a thing a Spring!! I always wondered why Easter was marked by a white bunny hopping around in green grass with a basket of yellow flowers, instead of grunge-haired cow stuck mid-belly in brown snowbank. Or... maybe it's just a matter of marketing."

Hee. Love it. While the beauty of mountain-range wildflowers is made all the sweeter by the memory of last month's "grunge-haired cows" - it is an incredible phenomenon to this country girl to see flowers popping out of perfectly groomed medians and hillsides bursting into bloom, accompanied by 70-degree temperatures and the insatiable desire to cook my skin at the beach. (Unfortunately, the water temperature hasn't quite caught up with the sunshine - it's still a brisk 58 degrees. I say, being the tough girl that I am, that if any part of me is blue, or if I wish I could wear two wet suits, or if after five minutes in the water I start hallucinating about being a survivor of the Titanic, it's too soon to get in. It's too soon.)

This weekend, Hot Donna and I had our traditional Hot D Summertime Activity: Making Out with Park Newport.* It was beyond amazing, although I did realize that the rainy weather diet of Oreos and Cheeseburgers doesn't work as well in a bikini. Spring Resolution now formed!

Also this weekend, Hot Adam** and I went hiking of off Highway 74 in the Ortegas. Whenever I get pictures off the camera, maybe I'll post a couple. It was gorgeous and freeing and exactly where one should be in the Springtime with someone you love.

So that's the moral of this story. Even though Springing Forward leaves an hour of sleep to be desired, Spring is a fantastic season and you should go out and enjoy it.

*Park Newport is the incredibly posh apartment complex where D lives - it's basically like living at the Hilton, with less luggage-hauling through gigantic lobbies. Making out is not really making out - it's laying out and getting tan - but making out is funnier.
**Not normally what I call BF (although it is apt) but like the above explanation, this too is funnier. I'm all about funny today. It's Tuesday and you still haven't given me any new blog ideas. So there.

And Though You Protest Your Disinterest, I Know Clandestinely...

2008-03-07T13:15:00.000-08:00

Why do we still long to be popular? Why do we want so badly to be liked?

I was asking myself that I wandered the floor of a trade show today, feeling distinctly out-of-place and far from accepted. I stood in a group of my colleagues, wondering why suddenly my hair felt really big, my shirt (unflattering as it is, thanks, man-clothes,) felt even more boxy, and I wondered if I looked as inept as I felt. I'm here to cover the show - covering being the journalistic term used for fast writing and desperate quote-seeking. As Ike Graham said in Runaway Bride: "Journalism is literature in a hurry," and nowhere is that more true than when covering a trade show for an online publication.

When I step back and look at the situation, I see my insecurity for what it is - a foolish indulgence of my own fears. I know, in my head, that I'm a competent writer and editor, that I can hold my own in this industry and that I don't really care about what people think. I know that I have good friends, a great family, a wonderful boyfriend and a blessed life.

So someone please explain to me why the coldness of my colleagues leaves such a mark on my spirits. Why can't I live in what I know versus how I feel?

We're sharing the Convention Center with a Cheer/Dance competition this weekend, and walking past these societal microcosms reminds me of how I felt as a gangly teenager (or 24-year-old... I mean, what? I'm totally secure.) watching the pretty, confident girls strut their stuff and giggle their way into popularity with a toss of their impeccable hair.

I feel the same ache when my colleagues leave me behind as I did on the playground as a child. Don't we outgrow this stuff? Aren't I mature enough to not compare myself to "perfect" bodies and clusters of friends?

Here's what I know - I am a daughter of the King. I am loved and created uniquely for a divine purpose that I am still discovering. Now I just have to walk out and live in that truth... simple, right?

PS - Sorry that this turned into a giant public therapy session - it probably wasn't the best idea to start writing "out loud", but it's done now. Thanks for "listening".

Word Answer Girl

2008-03-04T15:21:00.000-08:00

One of my friends recently discovered that I like words and stuff, (what? you don't read the AP Stylebook for fun?) and decided to ask me some English language questions, despite the fact that I occasionally say things like: "For reals."

Here is the transcription of our witty email banter - a testament to the joys of desk jobs and the weirdness of English in general. Enjoy:

----------------------

On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 7:53 AM, Phil Casalegno wrote:

Dani,

I have a question I have been meaning to ask you for a while and keep forgetting. Why is it that when authors write the past tense of words like leap they use leaped? Isn't 'lept' the proper past tense? Creap should be crept not creaped right, etc....

Random wonderings of Phil

----------------------------------------------------

On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 1:07 PM, Dani Linthicum wrote:

Dear Random Wonderings,

You pose an excellent question. To be quite honest, I had not thought a great deal about the leapt/leaped phenomenon until you brought it to my attention... which makes me wonder what exactly you're trying to write. Is it for your Website bio? "Also, I've leapt/leaped great distances with little to no sweat coming from my super-manly pores."
Anyways. I digress.
I think "leapt" is more common in the UK, while "leaped" is the US spelling, cuz we talk good ovah heah. It is pronounced the same though.
(Also, you are right, that "creep" would be "crept", unless you were saying "That guy who doesn't sweat creeped me out!" in which case "crept" wouldn't work. Oh slang. You're so fun.)
That's my best shot.

~Word Answer Girl

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On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 2:02 PM, Phil Casalegno wrote:

Word Answer Girl,

What you wrote makes alot of sense, but it isn't what I have seen. The most common example I have seen has been the word sneak. Everytime I see this past tense it is written sneaked. "John sneaked down the hall" I have seen this in both UK and american writers. The creaped example was from a UK writer. Shouldn't sneaked be snuck? I admit that snuck is kind of an ugly-looking word, but we don't say digged unless we are from the south.

Random Wonderings

--------------------------------------------------

On Mon, Mar 3, 2008 at 4:32 PM, Dani Linthicum wrote:

Random Wonderings,

I can see that you are a true student of language. I applaud you. However, I have researched sundry and dusty tomes to find the answer you seek (as well as my personal vault of vast wordy knowledge), and I............ have no idea. However, I completely agree with you that sneaked should be snuck, and I'll thank you not to say mean things about my man even if he is from the South. However, according to the Dictionary, both sneaked and snuck are right, one is just ugly and the other sounds bad. I guess we can't have it all.

~Word Answer Girl

Puke of the Brain

2008-03-03T16:25:00.000-08:00

Today is the sun is shining. Today I'm insanely busy. Today... is Puke of the Brain Monday! (See? This is what you get for not offering a creative theme. Now you have to sit and read my random thoughts - just know that this is all your own fault for not helping a sister out. )

Anyways.

It's very windy today, kinda like Santa Ana Winds, but chillier. As I was walking up to work this morning, a gardener was using a leaf-blower on the sidewalk. A LEAF-BLOWER. As I'm fighting my way up the walk and my hair sticks out straight behind me and the dust of a thousand empty lots wiggle into my eyes, this guy was futilely blowing specks of dead plant a few feet before they blew back in the gale-force gusts. I felt like asking him if he has a hard time getting up in the morning.

This weekend, a group of about 75 20-somethings went to Mammoth Mountain and tore it up. We ate lots of Pita Pit pitas, had a gi-normous guys against girls snowball fight, played Snow-lympics, sledded, boarded, skiied, played Mafia, board games, charades, answered silly questions and stayed up way too late. One of the funniest moments was playing Charades (guys against girls, of course,) and hearing the guys yelling out answers: "Huuuuuh! Gruummphhh hubbbabab bubbbba humph" and then the girls, about three octaves higher: "Eeeeeeee! Aiyyyyie yiyiyiyiyiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaa!" (Of course, they were saying real words, not war cries, but that was the only way I could convey the difference in tone. Anyways, 75 people in one itty-bitty Condo living room yelling answers gets intense. And guys and girls talk differently. That's pretty much my point.)

One part that was not so fun was when I took an ice chunk to the throat in our oh-so-intense snowball battle. The Trache doesn't respond well to hard cold objects thrown at blazing fast speed. But it was worth the pain for the love of war. The boys paid dearly for their crimes, and more than one tackling occurred.

Speaking of which, remember when we were little, and boys would pull our hair and throw Four-Square balls at us to get our attention? When you're outside playing in the snow, the old rules of playground flirting apply - and still work, oddly enough. Kirsten and I both got body-slammed by our chosen fellas, and weren't offended in the least. Quite the opposite, actually, although we got some snow down their necks to show our "disapproval".

I do not like gas station coffee. Yuck. However, on a cold night, when Mafia is calling and sleep is not going to be found for several hours and Starbucks is closed, it can be quite good. Although I admit that I averted my eyes from the last watery drizzle coming out of the cappuccino machine - lest I be unable to stomach my $1.19 of gas station goodness.

Well, my faithful readers, more brain-puke is coming, and I know you're dying to hear it. However, it's after 5 pm, I've already stayed over an hour late at work, and there are things to done, fields to plow, stories to prep and freelancers to harangue. Back to work, me hearties.

Dead White Guys Are Pretty Smart

2008-02-29T11:51:00.000-08:00

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ennnnnhhhhh...

2008-02-25T15:04:00.000-08:00

I'm sick. Full-on no voice, can't breathe, awesome cough that makes people turn and look with either sympathy or disgust: S-I-C-K. I looked back at the last time I was this under-the-weather (October 5th, 2007, if you'd like to know,) and my complaints are about the same.

I don't understand sick days, (hence why I'm moaning in discomfort and forcing myself to work,) I sound like a depressed bullfrog, and I would very much like some graham crackers.

On a happier note, I'm thankful for a great man who takes good care of me, (he went to the grocery store twice last night for tea, honey, Advil, and other sicky-feel-better things,) yummy juice and (hopefully) a nap soon.

Oh, and have I mentioned that I bought a kayak? Because the thrill of boat-ownership hasn't really worn off. Even when I'm sick.

2008 - Bobby McFerrin's* Worst Nightmare

2008-02-21T11:57:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Mostly because I have a tendency to worry myself to an early death, and our worst, most obvious behaviors are often what we gloss over in ourselves and despise in others. So before I say anything else, just know that I do recognize my worrisome tendencies and am sadly and acutely aware that I am not perfect.

In church on Sunday, they showed a flashy video (as Mariners, the ultimate in relevant megachurch, is so apt to do,) of things that are worrying Americans, and particularly, I suppose, affluent Southern Californians in 2008. Images with titles explaining our fears, such as " Iraq War" "Recession" "Presidential Primaries" "Global Warming" "Terrorism" and a host of others that I can't even remember, backed up with stressful-sounding rock music to enhance the effect. It's an impressive list of concerns, and I have to admit that I had a bit of a knot in my stomach after such a stirring reminder that I'm not actually in charge around here.

After they got everybody sufficiently riled up, they calmed us all down with a ballad of God's love and faithfulness, after which we all settled back into our semi-contented state, believing that we have more things to be concerned about now than any generation before us, but that we are quite righteous in giving it to God and worrying slightly less.

We are, as a society, becoming more and more accustomed to living in worry and discontent. To think that 2008 is the worst year yet, that we're overwhelmed with hardship, particularly in Orange County, of all places, is laughable and disturbing. Our worry is not a fleeting mood that comes when the rent is more than the paycheck; for most people at Mariners those days are such a distant memory that they can hardly remember what a bounced check looks like. It's a constant attitude of disgruntled living that colors our days, darkens our sunshine and batters our souls without us even realizing it.

What exactly are we so upset about anyway? We live in the most affluent, freedom-loving democracy in the world. We worry about terrorism, but not nearly like those who have lived for years in a war zone, losing countless friends and neighbors to pointless violence. We worry about Global Warming (which personally, I believe is an unfounded scare tactic - perhaps another blog on that will come later,) but we drive trucks and SUVs to work, gladly vacation all over the world, and willingly produce tons of waste per day, simply because we were too lazy to wash a dish or cook at home, and would rather buy it now and throw it away. Although we say we're worried about politics, only 64% of U.S. citizens over 18 even care enough to vote. And although Recession is a buzz word for furrowed brows and long sighs, I haven't seen many folks giving up their $6 coffee or $40 manicures lately.

OK. So now the people who've plowed through think I'm naive and have oversimplified the problem, and the people who don't care have long since left me to my rambling. Here's my point. It's become the fashion, as Jane Austen would say, to be a pessimist.

Here's the truth. We live in a beautiful, democratic country. We are blessed with freedoms of speech, religion, privacy, safety and affluence beyond what most cultures ever dream of. Everyone I'm writing this to has eaten today, and it was probably something that they actually wanted to eat, not the only thing they had. We have wide-open spaces, well-engineered cities, and above all, a God who loves us immeasurably and a purpose for being here.

We've got work to do, I'll give you that. But that's why we're here. Not to wring our hands in worried irrelevance, but to go forth boldly, speaking truth, living in love, making a difference, and above all, being content - and letting the Big Guy worry about the end result. I have a feeling He's got it covered... even in 2008.

*The composer and performer of the famous tune: "Don't Worry, Be Happy"

The Seven Dwarves - Bashful

2008-02-20T13:47:00.000-08:00

I've kept Bashful to the end because, well, he's the most embarrassing. I don't want to write what I'm bashful about on my blog! I'm bashful about it! Plus, being the modest guy that he is, Bash didn't even want to grace the blog with his presence. "You'll be fine without me," he said. "Besides, I'll just blush...and...twist my beard... and... st-t-t-tutter." But I wouldn't let him hide behind red cheeks and facial hair - I told him that we'd committed to this series, and we were gonna see it through, dadgum it.

He seems OK with it now, and even smiled for the picture, despite the pain he must be inflicting by all this beard braiding.

So, without further ado, a few things that make me Bashful, and a few stories about this weekend (with blushing twists):

Magazines. I buy a lot of them, and I keep them for a really long time. That's kind of weird, not really embarrassing, unless you count the amount of money I spend on them and the racks to keep them in.
I get really tired of wearing makeup. Often times, I just don't put it on. I don't usually care until I run into a particularly pretty girl, at which point I always remember the awkward red spots on my nose or bags under my eyes. Ick.
Note to personal trainers, buff dudes, and desperate gym guys: the gym is not a good place to pick up girls. I smell bad, you do too, and pick-up lines do not work on the self-conscious, or anyone else for that matter.
Compliments. I get all hot and nervous inside when I'm told I'm good at something, pretty, etc. I'm learning to say thank you and leave it at that.
Now about the weekend - it was phenomenal. It had several things going for it from the start: it was Adam's birthday/Valentine's Day weekend, Ashley was coming to town, and we had Monday off. It got better, because, as you saw before, I bought a kayak, Texas food is delicious, and girls are just as good as the guys at planning Valentine's Day surprises.
"This is getting really embarrassing!" Jill has the best reaction ever to surprises, and when the entire restaurant stops and stares, you know you have a winner. Check out how we spent Saturday morning.
"It won't be fun if I'm not in the picture..." Ashley is the Queen of Moment-Capturization, even if it requires a teensy bit of staging and some eye rolls from the less-patient members of the family.

So, that's a wrap of the Seven Dwarves. Please comment with suggestions for a new series, topics you would like discussed, or literary character whom you would like me to embody for a day on these pages, to either a comic or tragic end. The sky (aka my finite imagination and abilities,) is the limit!

We Interrupt This Broadcast...

2008-02-19T11:59:00.000-08:00

...of the 'Seven Dwarves' series for a very special announcement.

Dani Linthicum, wanna-be adventurer, Pacific Ocean lover and curly-hair-in-wind expert, is now the proud owner of her very own Hobie Revolution ocean kayak, in the sunshiney hue of Golden Papaya.

She is now accepting name suggestions, congratulatory notes and bottles of expensive drink to break over the hull on the eve of her maiden voyage.

Thank you for your kind attention. We will now return to your unpaid regular programming.

The Seven Dwarves - Sleepy

2008-02-15T10:31:00.000-08:00

Hello, my faithful readers! Today is Friday. We all know what that means - our poor little selves get to bounce between the exhaustion of finally being done with another week of perpetual motion, the incredible high of the coming weekend, and too much caffeine coursing through our little veins. This generally leads to an abrupt collapse Friday night and an insatiable craving for Cinnamon Toast Crunch on Saturday morning, after a bowl of which the world returns to its axis and we start again, ready to run ourselves ragged with work and fun and errands and commutes and getting gas and milk going bad and church and making coffee and cleaning showers and editing off-road articles and writing html and laughing and admiring the ocean and working out and listening to good music and kayaking and living life.

So, anyway, back to my original point. It's Friday and I'm tired. Sleepy, even. (Did you see what I did right there? I brought life and the blog theme together...)

Things that make me Sleepy and (bonus!) a few notes on sleeping in general:

Fridays
Boredom
Watching Golf on TV
Sunday afternoons
I can't fall asleep unless I'm laying on my right side. I didn't know this about myself until Valerie pointed it out to me when I slept below her in Oxford.
Speaking of sleeping below Val, I'm a very heavy sleeper. Val is not a morning person. We shared a bunkbed in Oxford, and every morning my alarm would go off, I would not hear it, and Val would forcefully shake the bed to wake me up. This was very aggravating to her, but lucky for me, she loves me anyway.
I also can't sleep unless I'm hugging something, so I still sleep with a stuffed animal curled up in my arms. I know, I'm adorable.
I scare easily when I'm sleeping.
I'm grumpy/cranky/no fun at all when I'm tired. Sorry to anybody who's tried to interact with me when this is the case. I promise I'll try to be nicer.
When I'm going to sleep, watching TV, or just sitting for too long, I wiggle a lot. A LOT. When I'm watching LOST or Prison Break or something equally nerve-wracking, I wiggle even more. I swear it gets stressful toxins out of my body, but it also drives some people crazy.
While we're on the subject of wiggling, I can't sit normally in a chair. I have to have my legs tucked up to my chest, or folded Indian-style, or feet on the dash/desk, or somehow splayed out in a more interesting fashion than feet on the floor or demurely crossed legs. The only time I will control myself is in business meetings, fancy restaurants, or short skirts. Even then, it's a challenge.
I slept on a couch for two years in college, and for four months in the bower.
Before I bought my college couch, I seriously considered putting a hammock in my room. I still think that's a pretty awesome idea.
Sleeping while traveling does not work for me. Planes, trains and automobiles are not comfy.
More than once, I've fallen asleep on my couch, only to awaken at 3 am with candles still lit, laptop open, and wondering if it's morning, only to look down and see that I'm still in my jeans.
When I worked as a wrangler, Ami, Boss and I would sometimes eat lunch wherever we were working, and then settle down for 40 winks in the tall grass, hats over our eyes and the smell of a summertime hayfield all around us. What beautiful days.
Wranglers didn't sleep much. I lived off of 5 hours a night for months at a time - only getting more sleep when I was home for a rare weekend. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for letting me come home to sleep and eat.
Cabin leaders don't sleep much either. I was 19 the first summer I worked at camp, and I thought I my eyes were gonna dry up and fall out I was so tired. By Day 2.
Going back to sleeping at Mom and Dad's, the Ranch house is seriously the BEST place on Earth to sleep. It's 36-miles-away-from-town quiet, ranch-style peaceful and boasts amazing beds and cozy sheets. Plus, when you get up, Mom's always been cooking something, so the house smells great, and there's a latte machine readily available. Paradise. Can I come home this weekend for a nap?
Napping on the beach, or after a day at the beach, is the most amazing summertime experience. I can't wait for warm weather again...
In college, I usually had Friday afternoons off. After the noise of Chinese Food Friday had subsided and before the fun of Friday night began, I usually had time for a couple hour snooze. Sometimes I really miss college.
Even writing this list is making me really tired. Time for a Friday nap...

The Seven Dwarves - Happy

2008-02-13T14:08:00.000-08:00

Happy and Grumpy are two dwarves at war. One is perpetually, foolishly optimistic, one is bull-headedly, arms-folded-leave-me-alone, pointing his face stubbornly in the opposite direction. Oddly enough, I think most of us have each one warring for space in the cozy little living rooms of our soul - one wants to play loud music while washing dishes, the other grumbles about it. One gives hugs freely and compliments others on adorable hats and awesome shoes, the other isolates himself with a "harumph" and silently wonders how one could be so foolish as to spend good money on pointy toes and heels.

Today, as most days, I'm trying to help Happy out a bit in his fight for prime Dani Real Estate. The trouble is, he's so dang good-natured that he won't actually beat Grumpy up or shake him down to size, even though I'm convinced he could take him. He just waltzes around admiring the scenery and making pleasant remarks. Dang happiness.

Anyway, I keep whispering little tips to him as to how to slowly edge Grumpy out... we're working on it.... Now if only we had little opposite dwarves for Dopey and Sneezy, like say, "Alert" and "Clear-breathing". They would come in handy.

Anyway, on to everybody's favorite feature, the bulleted list - this time about things that make me Happy:

Early mornings.
Sunrises and Sunsets.
Being outside. I could be walking down a sidewalk and I'm happier than inside.. although actually being outside and out of the city is pretty sweet.
Ambient lighting. No fluorescents for this girl. I love pretty light fixtures and soft golden light.
Home-made oatmeal raisin cookies. My favorite. Actually, I just like home-made cookies of any variety.
Flowers. Especially sunflowers and daisies. But you knew that. I kinda say it a lot. :)
Gmail chat.
Feeling creative
Feeling competent and valued.
Black lids on lattes. White lids are boring. They're for Starbucks and well, the birds, since everything dumb is for them. Black lids are so classy.
Cheezits and Diet Coke. Perfect afternoon snack.
Rainy/foggy days - especially if I get a chance to curl up with hot coffee and some inspiration.
Golden Spoon in the summertime.
Long talks - feeling understood and heard.
Horses. I love just about everything about them. Specifically the Paint Mare, specifically at Badger Creek Ranch. Actually, almost everything about Badger Creek Ranch makes me happy. I love the camaraderie, the deep appreciation for and knowledge about the horses, the pace of life, the smell of sagebrush in the rain, summer thunderstorms, knowing where I belong, mountains so close you can touch them, the heavy jangle of spurs on my boots, and the admiring young riders who look up to their wranglers to give them an opportunity to accomplish their greatest dream - to actually ride a horse.
One-armed photos.
Emails/phone calls/facebook posts/blog comments/gmail chats to and from my dear, far away friends. I love knowing that I can always talk to you.
Worship.
Kayaking.
Farmer's Markets.
LOST
Smelly stuff - soap, shampoo, hair products, candles.... yeah. I'm a girl. I can't help it.
Swimming in the Ocean. I have been known to duck under a wave and come up laughing for sheer joy. The Pacific has been a part of my earliest and most treasured memories... and I'm always convinced that everybody needs to learn how to swim in it. At least once.
New books.
Magazines. I'm always finding new favorites.
My family. Crazy? Yes. Fun? No doubt.
Small towns.
Cowboys, ranchers, farmers, mechanics, bakers, baristas, and blue-collar people in general. So many stories...
The first snow of winter.
Wildflowers.
Home stores. Particularly ones in which there are oodles of adorable things that I can afford.
Working in the shop.
Bristle-y kisses and quality time from a certain Somebody.
Hot D Dates.
Writing.
Christmas morning.
Getting tan.
Cute shoes.
Baseball caps with ponytail holes.

Obviously, I could keep going.... and I'm a lot Happier now than when I started. Maybe this is my new plan to help out Happy with his joyful takeover... with all this niceness floating around, Grumpy'll probably skeedaddle of his own accord. Actually, I think he just did.

The Seven Dwarves - Grumpy

2008-02-11T14:36:00.000-08:00

In honor of it's being Monday, and the joy that comes with Mondays, (especially ones that your teacher friends have off,) I've chosen Grumpy for today's dwarf.

I know he's not the most popular one, but he's really just misunderstood, and we need him around to remind us how boring our complaints really are. After all, the air never smelled so sweet as when you come out of the feedlot, and life never looks so good as it does after an afternoon with the Grumpster. So, without further ado, what makes me Grumpy, in bulleted points. May this list inspire you with a fond love of life and growing things.

No caffeine. Headachey no fun.
When the square cup holders in Rocky rear their blocky heads and allow my coffee to tip over. Whoever engineered those was not so bright.
Being late.
Bad hair days. I have curly hair. Sometimes, I have frizzy, funky, flattish, gnarly hair. This makes me feel like dumping my head in a sink ala Freshman year and never coming out again.
When people randomly brake on open stretches of freeway. Are you serious?! It's called a FREEway. As in, move FREEly. As in, don't brake in the middle of it and kill us all, k?
Shallowness. The OC and I have a love/hate relationship. I love the gorgeous weather, great food, and the beach and mountains so close at hand. I don't love episodes like this: Me, at the Tanning salon (yes, I went tanning, and yes, I understand that this kinda shoots a hole in my tirade against shallowness... but a girl can be tan and taken seriously, right?) Somehow, my stint in Texas comes up as I'm promising not to sue the salon if I burn. The girl behind the counter gets very excited about this. Girl, wearing way too much eyeshadow and sucking furiously on a chartruese candy: "So, like, I just have to know. I'm thinking about going to college in Texas, but... are people tan there? I just need to know for myself, you know? I like tan people." I started to answer, "um... what?" but instead went on a tirade about how Texans are some of the most beautiful, welcoming people I've ever known, how most of my best friends and boyfriend are from there, and how it's pretty much a promised land of friendly people, open skies and the American dream. When I was done, Tan Girl stared at me, twirled her bleach blonde hair around her finger and smacked on her candy. "Uh... ok. So, like, your bed's ready."
Losing things. I lose stuff a lot - and not random stuff like my memory box from 9th grade. That I can always find. What I can't find (almost every morning,) are my keys, cell phone, sunglasses, etc. It's a curse. (I bought an organizer for the purpose of improving in this area, but it hasn't helped. Maybe it's because I don't actually put things in it.)
Smelling like fast food. I hate it when I go get something to eat and come out smelling like I jumped on the grill for a little afternoon simmer. Gross.
Cold coffee. Not like Frappucinos, but like bleh in the bottom of my mug.
Angsty teenage music. Every now and then if it brings back a memory or fills a void left in a particularly bad day, it's OK. Most of the time? No go.
Telemarketers.
Buyer's Remorse - or, what's more typical with me, is BR's lesser-known cousin, Why Didn't I Buy That? Remorse
Being tired.
A messy bower. Bowers should be full of fruit, candles, wine, inspirational writing and lovely music, not dirty dishes, laundry, and dog-eared papers.

The Seven Dwarves - Doc (and bonus! a little note to the men in our lives)

2008-02-07T18:44:00.000-08:00

I picked Doc because I feel like I need a Doc right now. A heart Doc. I've been in the weirdest funk of needing people and pushing them away and being all around confusing to myself and everyone around me that I'm starting to get desperate.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so who better to call on than a self-proclaimed medical expert dwarf with sweet specs? EXACTLY. Thank you for agreeing.

My current problem is something that men in general don't understand. Sometimes, when girls cry, we don't need you to fix it. Sometimes we just need a hug and to be told that we're still cute, although we'll act offended when you first say it, of course.

Sometimes, we do need your wisdom, though. We won't tell which one we need at the moment, and for that, I'm sorry. In our moments of sanity, we understand that clear-cut communication would make life much easier for everybody. However, when we're crying (read: insane, or at last slightly tilted that direction,) we just want you to read our minds: hug us, give us surprises, advice, a smile, or whatever it is that we really want to make us feel better.

So maybe the Doc is really there for all men who have a girl in their life. So, basically, all men who aren't monks. He'll help you out, guys. He'll pull down his specs, give you a reassuring smile, hand you a flower, and say, "Go get her, tiger. Go dry her tears. Flowers are the trick - it worked for Snow White!"

And maybe it will. You never know... dwarves are pretty sharp like that.

The Seven Dwarves - Sneezy

2008-02-06T15:08:00.000-08:00

I picked "Sneezy" as my dwarf/mood of the day, because he's obviously the most off the wall, and it's Wednesday, so I need a little levity.

Also, I've felt like I've had an acre of grass clippings up my nose all day, and it's getting a little old - so I can kind of identify with poor Sneezy.

So. Things that make me Sneezy, and (bonus!) a few random nose stories, since I'm not allergic to anything, and this list will soon get boring and very short:

Bleach. Every time I clean my bathroom I sneeze like crazy. This kind of happens a lot, since I kind of have a clean fetish.
I was probably 8 years old the last time I stuck a marble up my nose. I think I had some vague recollection that it had been "fun" before, (in the way that squirming, sitting on your bathroom floor and desperately trying to get a large, round object out of a small nose can be fun... I guess.) At any rate, I think my schnoz had grown a bit since the last time I'd tried this trick - let's just say it ended with a combo of tweezers, pliers, my dad's strong hands, my mom threatening to go to the ER, and many tears on my part.
Laughing so hard that you get whatever you're drinking up your nose can be very painful. This summer, I did it to such an extreme in one instance, that the thought flashed across my mind: "You could die laughing. Just like this." It's a good way to go, I guess.
One time I caught a bug in my mouth and sneezed it out my nose. I feel like a 6th grader on the search for cool points, but it really happened. True story.
When other people get in sneezing fits, I get in hiccup fits, ALL THE TIME. But scaring me won't make it stop. I promise.
I've always been really grateful that I'm not allergic to dogs, cats, horses, grass, hay, open skies, sunshine, coffee, good books, Mexican food, candlelight, good-smelling soap, warm hugs, star-gazing, apple pie, Life cereal, rivers, daisies, the ocean, good exercise and wonderful people. Because I love all these things, and allergies would just mess it up.

The Seven Dwarves - A Week in Moods

2008-02-05T15:29:00.000-08:00

I got the idea for this week-long theme from friend. Every day this week I am going to take on a dwarf-like persona and explain what makes me that way. Or I might just use it to create an interesting title and then write about something completely unrelated. But I will try to keep up with the dwarf theme anyway, because who doesn't want to emulate short men with beards and great singing voices? Plus, they're kind-hearted miners, which seems to be a rare thing in these troubled times.

I know I should have started this on Monday, but I was preoccupied, so my week is off. This has made me Dopey.
(Editor's note: We know that Dopey was a pretty carefree fellow, but we are using Dopey in the "somewhat detached and out of it" context.)

Other things that make me Dopey are:

Too much of a good thing, such as cookies, pizza, or wine.
Late nights - you never know whether I'll be stupidly sleepy, falling-over style, or so tired that I lose the filter and tell you things you shouldn't know, but you will be entertained.
Too much TV. My eyes glaze over after a few hours - especially with stuff like talk or game shows. Stop clapping already and go outside, audiences.
Not being heard. If you talk over me, I will eventually give up and just stare at you with a mixture of dopeyness and distaste.
No caffeine.
Wearing glasses instead of contacts. When I wear glasses, I feel a lot dumber and sleepier. Maybe it's the fuzzy people around my peripheral vision or the spots that I can never seem to wipe off.
MySpace. Facebook I can understand, but MySpace? It's just so skanky and glitzy. Every time I go to someone's page they have some loud new song or sparkly teddy bear waving at me in a creepy animated way. No likey sensory overload.
Long lines.
Not having a plan. It's a paralyzing feeling for someone with several lists, five calendars and a mental note of every "to-do". Sometimes it's good for me, though. I'm learning.
A dirty face. I love washing my face, and have been known to give up on make-up halfway through the day just to feel clean. This can go for my hair too, although I'm less likely to try to tackle that in the office sink. :)

That's all that Dopey can handle for right now... he needs another Diet Coke.

Selling Myself

2008-02-04T15:38:00.000-08:00

I did it. I bit my lip, held in my screams and wrote about myself. I know all of you are thinking that I'm not only narcissistic, but crazy, since I clearly write about myself all the time on this dang blog. I know, I know. Such is the great contradiction of the creative soul: we can write about ourselves ad nauseum, but can't market ourselves worth a darn. That's why we're all starving, living in attics and writing for free.

Anyway, I digress. The larger problems of writer-hood cannot be solved until we hold our noses and dive in, so this was my attempt. It weighs in right at 60 words, which I consider a minor miracle, as holding to word counts has never been my strong suit.

Here you go:

Dani Linthicum

I am an artist of language. I love pulling people into new perspectives and making the mundane pieces of life extraordinary either with humor, spunk or a fresher, deeper look.

I love the outdoors, horses, interesting people, mountains, strong coffee, good jazz on rainy days, the color green and good excuses for eating poorly.

For more, visit: http://danicalifornia.blogspot.com

Would you visit? Please say yes. Or just pat me on the head and distract me with something shiny and/or covered in caramel. That works too.

Gettin' Down in Funkytown

2008-01-25T15:03:00.000-08:00

I'm in a funk. I can't help myself. I've been a aggravated mix of frustrated, overwhelmed and just straight bummed for the last few days.

I know that this sounds like the kind of emotional girl alert that any guy with half a brain runs from before he gets burned. But even though my guy is selfless enough to jump in to my emotional zoo with reckless abandon, and even though I know inherently what's bothering me, actually expressing it is a horse of a different color.

I know I'll be OK, better than OK. I know that I am incredibly blessed, and that the things that get me down should not have such a hold on my heart.

I just can't get that across to the Mayor of Funkytown, who has taken up residence in my spirit - he's brought the U-Haul, planted windowboxes of wilted gray flowers and everything, and now I can't get the dang guy to leave. And hes not even like the cool dude from Funkytown with the sweet moves who's casually dating an iPod silhouette. This guy is a little gray man in a big gray overcoat no matter the weather. He smells like yesterday's ham sandwich, brown bananas and uncreative despair.

He doesn't even have the gumption to have a good reason for his stubborn rental of my soul. He's cruel to to anyone with hope, ties my tongue when I should speak, and cultivates his garden of dreary gray-ness in my heart, of all places.

The more I think about it, I realize it's time to evict such a drag on my spirits. It's time to plant bright daisies in the windows and break out the cutesy yellow galoshes instead of the gray overcoat I've drearily shared with my "friend" the Mayor. Even if it's raining... why let him make me act like it?

Flattery? Anyone?

2008-01-21T09:12:00.000-08:00

Okay, guys, I need your help. (Yes, you. All three of you.)

I've written some restaurant reviews for a Hungry? Thirsty? guide to Orange County, and they want a bio/self-advertisement about yours truly for the guide. It has to be 40-60 words and hopefully convince the reader that I am the girl they want for glittering, moving, breath-taking, fabulous prose.

The trouble is, I have to write this little spot of genius, and it's a little awkward to write about myself, even if it will get me the chance at some other (grossly overpaid) freelance opportunities... or a byline. You really don't need to pay me. I'll take a byline. Really.

Anyways, if anyone has a sentence or two about my writing style, something you've liked from the blog, something you think I should say about myself or something I should cover up, now's the time to share. Because I have a Word document with my name at the top, and that's about as far as I've gotten, so I obviously need some help.

"You are... my biggest fan."
~Guy Patterson, That Thing You Do!

Waiting for the Elevator

2008-01-17T15:37:00.000-08:00

Waiting for the elevator is a weird experience. People to whom you would normally nod to in passing, or maybe even mumble a "howyadoin...good," are now off-limits when in the lobby.

We all stand there, like the creatures of habit we are, staring up at the little lights above the elevator doors and begging it to come quickly and put us out of our misery already. The "ding" of an arriving elevator sends the whole tribe of waiting people into a well-disguised tizzy, and we all file into this little metal box and declare our preferred floor to the surrounding air - hoping that someone will find it in their hearts to push that button for us and not leave us here forever.

Once in the elevator, we have something new to watch: the numbers as they go up or down, respectively. This is even BETTER, as we get a rewarding "ding" for every floor we pass. Wait 'til you get promoted to the 10th or 12th floors, honey - now that's a elevator-riding euphoria I can't even describe. (Not that I would know, being only a sixth floor dweller, but I think this is why the big cheeses are so chipper all the time. Or maybe it's because they eat money for breakfast. Not sure.)

Normally, talking in the elevator is frowned upon, but if you must, you only have three topics of conversation to pick from. If early in the week, you can ask about the weekend in very general terms - not what you did, just whether or not it was "nice", if near the middle of the week, you can talk about how you don't want to be here/you're tired/you're glad it's ___day/your boss is a meanie, and if it's the end of the week, you can ask, (generally and non-threateningly, again) about the weekend - something bland, unimaginative and obvious is most preferred, like: "You ready for the weekend?" To which anyone with any spark of fun would say something like, "No way, man, I can't bear to leave, I'm gonna park under my desk with a can of Pringles and befriend the janitors after they lock up tonight" or "Yeah, dude, can't wait, my pet lions really need to stretch their legs and we're almost out of fresh meat in our neighborhood" or something... but of course no one ever does.

So we ride around in these little metal boxes (they never fail to remind me of the escape pod in Star Wars that C-3PO and R2-D2 get away in. You know what I'm talking about - don't act like I'm such a dork...) and get more boring by the day, and think silently of how desperately we need a Diet Coke while we watch the numbers ding by.

One thing I've discovered, though: if you're tired of riding the elevator silently with a bunch of people and want to ride it silently alone, or just be alone so you can talk to your imaginary friend, whichever, all you have to is not brush your teeth and look mad in the morning. It worked for me today, that's all I'm sayin'.

Just Because

2008-01-14T15:37:00.000-08:00

Today I got up early, I had a blissfully hot shower, pulled on my favorite khakis, and threw some random odds and ends in my lunchbox. I desperately need to go to the grocery store, but in the interim I'm stuck eating baby clementines, BBQ Pringles and instant oatmeal left over from last weekend's camping trip.

Work is full of little episodes like this:

Scene: Every-day-looking office supply room, full of highlighters and pens and Kleenex boxes. Two middle-aged men are standing, staring blankly at the shelves holding said necessities, when I walk in, in search of a pink highlighter. (Give a girl a break, I need some reason to edit stories... this week it's pink ink.)

Me, feeling funny and quippish, fresh from the weekend and already tired of my desk: "Don't worry, guys, the screen'll come down in two seconds... the cartoons are about to start."

Guy #1: "Actually, we were waiting for a sideshow."

Guy #2, smiling at me: "And we just got it."

Me, thinking: "Exit, exit, pink highlighter! Yes! Exit, exit, laugh, OK. Aaaaaand scene."

Other than random encounters with creepy men, the day has gone fairly smoothly. No big catastrophes, no major triumphs, just one long vanilla milkshake of an afternoon.

This weekend a group of us went camping in the hills by San Diego, and while we weren't very hard-core about it, we definitely had a good time. It's the little things that make up a trip like that - Bum Steer BBQ sauce, (watch YouTube for it, it'll be a big hit) hot cocoa in the mornings, "secret" fishing spots on the lake, endless firewood gathering, and Man-lympics, which mostly consisted of growing facial hair and throwing large pieces of trees back into the forest, accompanied by war cries.

Definitely silly. So much so, in fact, that I've already lost half my readership (now we're down to one, thanks, Mom, for hanging in there,) and I feel ridiculous for even writing it down. But the truth is, we are pretty silly people after all - we're a whole lot nerdier than we'd like to think, and the best belly laughs come from an honest acknowledgment of our own and each other's quirks.

So I'm going to steadfastly continue to get a kick out of you... and you're more than welcome a giggle in my direction as well. Life is just funny... and so much better when we look at it that way.

Plan for the Unexpected

2008-01-11T14:00:00.000-08:00

No, I don't know how to do this.

A while back, one of our friends referred to Adam and I as "Spontaneous and Outdoorsy" - and while I was flattered, I had to admit that I'm really not. Outdoorsy? Sure. Spontaneous? Does "trying to be" count?

A few months ago, I rear-ended someone in the midst of lunchtime traffic. It was my own fault, simply not paying enough attention combined with a supreme impatience with crowds, but a bummer nonetheless.

Thanks to this little episode, my hood was no longer shutting properly. Adam wired it closed for safety, but now with a sadly flapping hood, crushed front bumper and the additional dings and scratches accumulated in daily life, my beloved Rocky was looking more and more like a loaner from the Clampets then my pampered one and only.

I was devastated. It sounds stupid, and I feel stupid even writing it, but this is my truck. My Rocky. (I name everything, Rocky is one of my all-time favorite movies, and a fitting name for such a boyish truck.) He and I have hauled horses, hay, tack and all my personal belongings from one side of the West to the other and back again. We have four-wheeled through mud, muck, snow and ice, and even braved those flooded Abilenian roads with a cab-load of hungry ACU freshmen, bound for "the other side of town" come hell or high water. He has been a refuge, a way out, a magic carpet - and I have washed, cleaned, changed oil in, and been proud of, my old boy for over 6 years.

"It's just a thing," Adam said as I cried at the wire poking out of the grill and Rocky's overall disreputable appearance.

Beyond my emotional distress, though, I couldn't see how this would get resolved. Obviously, the hood had to get fixed. But I spend the majority of my paycheck paying rent, the rest goes to the gas that Rocky gleefully guzzles, and there's not a great deal left over for car repairs, let alone a new front end on an old pick-up.

I'm ashamed to say that I steadfastly refused to believe that it would be OK. Honestly. I dug my feet in and wallowed in my misery like a champ, crying over a thing and ignoring the wisdom floating around me.

I put my duress in the back of my mind though - managing to blissfully forget about the troubles of truck-ownership until we dropped Rocky off at the Body Shop for an estimate.

"What's the matter?" asked my patient and long-suffering boyfriend. I tried to hold it in, but my ocean-deep lack of faith came bubbling out. Soon I was again terrified... and blathering on about it as though volume of words could fix what a short prayer would have. As much as I would've liked to think that I had conquered my fear, I had merely covered it with distractions, and when those were gone, and so was my poor excuse for Faith.

Thankfully for me, though, God's patience doesn't run out as easily as my Faith in Him does. While I doubted my future, the mechanic fixed my hood for no charge and God smiled at me while I shook my head at my own foolishness.

The beauty of Life is that it is so unexpected - both good times and bad. Here's to the new lessons I've learned: that people are infinitely more important than things, that God is faithful, and that even the best of trucks don't last forever.

With his working hood and slightly straightened front bumper, though, I think Rocky has a few more adventures in him yet.

Overheard in a Coffee Shop

2007-12-21T09:11:00.000-08:00

Scene: Coffee Shop at Christmastime, complete with flocked tree in the corner, lights around the windows, clientele in red sweaters, and Christmas-y flavored lattes.

***

A man and a woman walk in together. It is instantly clear that they are the kind of people who are irreverent, funny, sarcastic, popular, successful and depressed. They're clearly "just friends" in the way that middle-aged-several-times-divorced people are.

"Oh, Gaaaawd," sneers the man, running a hand with a large ring on it through salt and pepper hair. "The most wonderful time of the year, eh?"

The woman gives a laugh and fishes in her LV purse for lipstick and her wallet, avoiding his eyes. "I mean, I guess it's nice, but..."

"Nice!" The man seems indignant, and for a moment I think I might get to see what's really getting to him about Christmas. Quickly recovering himself, he lapses back into his lax, sarcastic tone. "It's just morose," he says, "I mean, it's a holiday for religious nuts and kids."

"Yeah," the woman agrees, "I'm not particularly religious, so it's not that special. I mean, whatever," she concludes, with a sigh that belies the season's lack of sparkle.

As the barista hands over their drinks with a flip of her Santa hat and a cheery "Merry Christmas!" both look at each other with a jaded laugh. As they walk out, the man says, "Like hell, it's Merry. I'm just going to drink all day..."

The woman returns, "Now that sounds like a holiday!" and they walk out of earshot, drinking their five-dollar coffee and laughing at the foolishness of the old women, kids and "religious nuts" who get joy out of this ridiculous season.

***

Why do people resist this holiday so much? Why is it more fashionable to be irreverent and hurried than touched and full of wonder?

I think it's because it reveals our mortality and the smallness of our strivings - and if there's anything that the upper echelon doesn't want to be reminded of, it's that they don't really matter.

Yearly traditions are admittedly a small thing. Twinkle lights, homemade nativity scenes, candlelit services and morning excitement can get tarnished by time. We grow up and are more than willing to trade the 6 a.m. gift exchange for a few more hours of sleep and a sedate cup of coffee at 9 before the wrapping paper starts flying. What is harder to get used to is what these traditions mean. Well-worn carols sung by everyone from Nat King Cole to 98 Degrees mean something that even the most jaded among us cannot shake.

For if the foolishness of 24/7 Carols on Coast 103.5, Holiday latte flavors, and children's excitement means more than that it's just December - then what value have we lost in the rest of life? If one month can hold the salvation of mankind, peace on Earth, goodwill to men - what do the other 11 hold?

This is the great truth that keeps people like the Coffeeshop Couple from embracing Christmas. They are reminded of what they've lost and they cover over their despair with success and sarcasm - plugging the growing hole in their hearts with the clever cover-up that they're too sophisticated for such things.

For me, I'm proud to be a religious nut, and to unabashedly soak up a season built around a profound joy and irrefutable truth.

So here's to Christmas and the discomfort it causes - may it drive those like the Coffeeshop Couple to "the good tidings of great joy, which shall be for ALL people..."

It's the mood, moodiest time of the year...

2007-12-14T15:30:00.000-08:00

I love Christmas. Really, I do. It's easily my favorite time of year, (also because I get incredibly spoiled, as it's also my birthday month,) and I love the goodwill and cheer that oozes out of people about mid-December and lingers until sometime in the first week of January.

Personally, though, this season moves and excites me - and in the process, it turns me into a crazy, crying, laughing, moody girl. One moment I can laughing out loud for sheer joy in a parking lot of all places - all of twelve hours later I am in tears for my commute.

I think my poor little self wasn't built for such highs and lows of emotion, and so every now and then breaks down into either maniacal giggles or despairing sighs and tears. Although it seems like the type of problem that dutiful dads, brothers, boyfriends and guy friends leave strictly to the girls to handle, I have a sneaking suspicion that there is a reason for this emotional roller-coaster called Christmastide; as illogical and confusing as it may seem.

The crux is: I'm too finite. The highs of a season built around a concept that I am immeasurably loved by Almighty God, combined with the human lows of overdue bills and holiday traffic collide in a horrifying collapse of mixed emotions. The Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Men that blares through my CD player, the love involved in buying the "perfect" gift and the fully-operational mistletoe that hangs from my ceiling make me long to laugh for the pure beauty of it. The flip side of this beauty - the frustration of not enough time, money or energy to celebrate something that should not be a chore but a joy, makes me cry.

I cry not because I'm crazy, even though I feel that way. I cry because I've lost something - we've lost something. Snuggling down with family to watch scratchy re-runs of claymation Christmas cartoons, humming carols in the candlelight, and baking lumpy homemade cookies used to be enough. As children we didn't think about what it cost for the magic - it was just there, leading us into belief and awe with every time-worn step. We drank in the beauty of the season without feeling foolish or analyzing the truth that it is a man-made tradition or just a time of year - we abandoned ourselves to it wholeheartedly.

So this year, rather than indulge in the crying/laughing craziness that tends to overtake me, I've resolved to try to soak it in. To gaze at lighted trees and crinkly wrapping jobs with the wide-eyed wonder I lost somewhere, and soak up the joy of memory without feeling foolish or wishing for things I can't have.

This Christmas, I want to kiss my moodiness good-bye, and grow up to be a kid.

24

2007-12-12T14:40:00.000-08:00

Today, friends and countrymen, I turn 24. I can't really say that I feel older... but 24 definitely sounds older. (You're thinking, "Of course it sounds older than 23, learn to count!" But it really does.) I said that it sounds older to one of my friends who recently turned 30, and she gave me an "oh GOSH, you're KIDDING me, you freaking young thing, go back to the playground," look. And when I told another friend this who turned 24 a few months ago, he called me a jackass, which, although I'm sure it made him feel better, was not very nice. Anyways, I digress.

(Oh, one more thought. 24 also sounds cool because it has to do with Jack Bauer, who makes everything AWESOME.)

At any rate, in honor of being 24, I will now list 24 things that I learned in my 23rd year of life. Glean what wisdom you may.

Go backpacking. In the woods.
Always shop at Trader Joe's. Your tummy will thank you.
Umbrellas are unneccessary. Enjoy the rain - we all know you're not made of sugar.
A room of one's own really is important.
In-N-Out after midnight is usually NOT a good idea.
Hanging out with cool people after midnight, however, always is.
Gmail chat is one of the greatest inventions ever.
Speaking of Gmail, everything Google does is amazing.
Write it down! You think you will never forget - but you do. Having those memories in black and white is so comforting.
Worry less, live more. (No, I haven't figured this one out yet. I'm a work in progress.)
To-Do Lists will keep you sane.
When all else fails, when you're tired, or any other time of the day or night: go to the beach.
Watch the sun set.
No matter the span, time with your best friends is time well-spent.
It snows in Texas.
Guys get together primarily to eat beef and make wisecracks at Monday Night Football. Football is just part of the mix.
Hip-hop concerts are a hard sell in Irvine. It's not quite the 'hood.
Tyrone Wells. 'Nuff said.
The Paint Mare remembers me. I love my horses.
The Firecracker Roll at Mosun's is the best Sushi roll ever.
Taking PCH from San Fransisco to So. Cal. takes forever. Pretty, though.
Double-check your keys before you go into a very old, deserted warehouse - or at the very least, take a cell phone.
Sing.
Love people.

Signing Off

2007-12-07T14:41:00.000-08:00

I have a hard time saying good-bye. I'm not much of a crier, but just those two little words are the magic tear-jerkers. I always feel funny saying good-bye, too - like "bye" doesn't quite cut it. Something in my old-fashioned soul swings more towards "Adieu" or "Farewell" - but I always chicken out and say something meaningful like: "See ya."

My idiosyncrasies aside, in my musings about good-byes, I've come up with a few fare-thee-wells worth sharing.

"Go in God's grace, and have a great day." Ever since I was a little kid, my pastor has dismissed us with this blessing. When I came back to my childhood church some 12 years later, he was still saying it, every Sunday. It makes me ready for ham sandwiches on the beach, lunch with friends and mowing the lawn - in God's grace.
"Bye, bye." When my Dad hangs up the phone, he says "bye, bye." and hates it. "Why do I say 'bye, bye'?!" He would say. "Who says that?" The next time he hung up, though, out it would pop again: "Bye, bye." I think he finally gave up.
"LOVE YOU! MISS YOU! BYE!" My roommates and I yell this at each other when getting off the phone. I don't think we ever intended it to be a pattern, but I can't think of a conversation (since we went our separate ways) that hasn't ended this way.
"loveyoutoobye" This is how I know Adam is getting off the phone with a member of his family. It's a Nichols thing.
The sigh. Apparently my mom and I both do this when it's time to get off the phone. Just a little "time to go" sigh to prepare you for the knowledge that we're about to leave you and go do something else.
IM Goodbyes. Yeah, I know, it's pretty bad when you have trouble saying good-bye on IM, but I do. Mine usually go like this: Other person: "Ok, gotta go! TTYL!" Me: "Oh, ok, well, tell me (lists several unnecessary items of note)" Other: "Ok, well, yeah. gtg!" Me: "Ok! LOVE YOU MISS YOU BYE BUT WAIT I HAVE IMPORTANT THINGS TO SAY DONT LEAVE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" It's completely ridiculous, I'm aware.
Flip phones are very satisfying when you hang up. It gives me closure.
Hugs. I'm a hugger. I'm leaving, I have to drive home in the cold, so you will give me a hug. It's how it works.
The coolest possible way to answer a phone call is with your last name, especially if it's "Bauer." ("Linthicum" doesn't have quite the same ring to it.) "Yeah." and a purposeful snap shut is the coolest way to sign off. I'm not yet awesome enough to employ either one.
When you don't know the next time you might see someone, it's always easier to just talk about general things like the weather and real Maple Syrup vs. Aunt Jemima's. This allows us to hold it together until the door closes, at which point we can both lose it out of sight from each other and not feel silly or bad for making the other cry - even though we both know we will. Or maybe I'm the only weepy one and everybody else is debating the maple syrup question for real.

Christmas Time is Here, and so are the Surveys

2007-11-27T12:15:00.000-08:00

In honor of the fact that it is after Thanksgiving and therefore officially Christmastime, and I am having desperate lack of inspiration, I will now fall back on the procrastinator's/uncreative blogger's closest ally: the email survey, this time with a festive twist. Enjoy.

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Depends on what I'm giving and in how big of a hurry I am. Also, I would like to point out that non-traditional wrapping styles (i.e. paper grocery sacks, re-used shirt boxes and even bath towels, can be used in a pinch with great success. It's been done. That's all I can say.)

2. Real tree or artificial? Artificial trees are dead to me. Haha.

3. When do you put up the tree? As soon as humanly possible. I love decorating for Christmas, plus, then I get the Woods inside my house, which is a huge bonus.

4. When do you take the tree down? I dunno. Sometime after New Year's, when the bells stop ringing and the children aren't singing and the world is grey again.

5. Do you like eggnog? I like it in my coffee instead of creamer. So delicious and fattening. Perfect for Christmastime.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? I remember getting My Little Ponies, which was pretty exciting. I also got Samantha one year, complete with a trunk to keep her in, thanks to a woodworking Dad.

7. Do you have a nativity scene? My mom and dad have a Precious Moments one that's really cute. I'm beginning to feel that the Bower needs one of it's own, though.

8. Hardest person to buy for? My Dad, hands down. I'm a pretty good shopper, though, and an intense listener around holidays and birthdays, so I dig for hints and usually come out somewhat close to the mark.

9. Easiest person to buy for? Probably my mom. There always seems to be something perfect for her readily available.

10. Worst Christmas gift ever received? I think I was 16 when my grandma gave me the last baby doll I hope I ever receive. I think it smelled funny, too.

11. Mail or email Christmas card? Snail mail, all the way. I love opening letters, and I figure everybody else does, too. Mom and Dad were dependent on me to write their Christmas letter too, up until last year, and I have a feeling I'm going to get drafted for Linthicum Family News Update Duty again soon.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? It's a Wonderful Life, far and away. Elf also makes me laugh and think of House 9 Christmas, and of course I love the creepy claymation Rudolph.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? Sooner than I probably should.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? Yes. Everybody does. Don't look at me like that.

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Wow. That's like asking a Valley Girl to name her favorite store at the mall. Or boy at the mall. Or shirt at the mall. Or... anyways. Right off, I love Pumpkin Pie, Christmas sugar cookies, my Mom's coffee cake, sweet breads, and ham and scalloped potatoes for dinner. Gosh I like food. Gosh I'm hungry.

16. Clear lights or colored on the tree? I like colors. Mo' color, mo' betta.

17. Favorite Christmas song? O Come O Come Emmanuel is my favorite hymn. Mary, Did You Know? is quickly climbing the charts, though.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? I travel to go home. Makes sense.

19. Can you name Santa's reindeer? When I read this, I thought, "No, because they're already named. I may think Blitzen is a dumb name, but who am I to mess with tradition?" I realize now what it really means, but my original thought is funnier.

20. Do you have an Angel on top or a star? I grew up with an angel up there. At House 9 we had a rather ramshackle foil star. I like it either way.

21. Annoying thing about this time of year? That I can't actually afford to buy all the gifts I would like to. Boo budgets.

Yummy Texas

2007-11-20T16:32:00.000-08:00

I'm in Texas for the week of Thanksgiving. Last Saturday we loaded Bonnie with suitcases, golf clubs and dreams of queso and bbq, and headed East. 21 hours, several Starbucks stops, 5 tanks of gas and a few crazy jokes later, we landed in Fort Worth.

It's been terrific. Adam's family is terrific, my friends (Val and Megan!) are terrific, the weather is terrific, the food, of course, is terrific.

And that's what I'm here to talk about. Texas Food.

Texas Food is unlike anywhere else in the world. It's massive, delicious, and filled with beef. No, seriously. I haven't eaten so much beef and cheese since... well, since I left Texas. Texans are not as concerned with quality as they are with quantity... if there's a block of gourmet cheese at Tom Thumb or a tub of kind-of gourmet cheese at Wal-Mart, Wally always wins.

Texas Food is also all about being big. The drinks are veritable water towers of Dr Pepper - which is awesome for me, because I practically need an IV of Diet Coke just to maintain daily sanity. Route 44's are my best friend. :) Also, the burgers are huge, the fries are huge, the LouAnn platter at Luby's is for sissies, and the queso is so cheesy awesome good that I think I might need to go eat some. Right. Now.

I've been temporarily distracted by... anything.

2007-11-09T09:30:00.000-08:00

I can be a rather staid person, sometimes to the point of being so responsible that I forget to have fun. (You're thinking: we know you're no fun, and now you're Captain Obvious. Wow, Dani, this is really boring. If I wasn't stuck at work, I'd leave this awful blog and never come back... Well, fine then. Nobody is making you stay. Shoo. You and your mean thoughts. Anyways.)

Lately, though, I am completely distracted at the slightest provocation. Actually, the above paragraph is a perfect example. I started out telling you that I'm very grown-up and responsible, and ended with a snarky conversation between myself and my reader's imaginary thoughts. This imagination thing takes distraction to a whole new level.

Because of my complete inability to hold one thought for longer then a minute at a time, (My hands smell funny. Is that the keyboard smell? Wait, blog? Ummm, yes.) Anyway, because of the short-attention-span that is plaguing my life lately, today's post is in bulleted points of whatever random thoughts fly into my head. Enter at your own risk. (Mmmm. Blueberry muffin. This is definitely blueberry muffin weather. I wonder if Starbucks still has those lowfat-but-not-really ones? That sounds so good right now.)

Oh yeah. Blogging. First Bullet. GO.

It's blueberry muffin weather.
"Blueberry muffin weather" is when it's the perfect blend of stormy and fall-ish and we all (my family) hung out cooking (and eating) eggs and muffins until late morning, at which point we all just wanted to go back to bed thanks to our distended tummies, but instead would foolishly go chop firewood or something.
Christmastime is here! Well, not really. But the mall and Starbucks are sellin' the Corporate Christmas Scene and I'm buyin'. I can't help myself. Something about the red ribbons, twinkle lights and eggnog just makes me happy...
Naps are amazing. I've taken to getting home around 4:30 and crashing for at least an hour before my nightly activities begin. It's one of the best things about my entire day. Which is actually a little sad when you think about it...
I need to work out more. Lately naps have had priority over sweat, so my fat has had priority over my muscles. Yuck.
Speaking of working out, I work on the 6th floor of my office building, and can often be found running up and down the stairs following particularly aggravating projects - it doesn't work so well in heels, though. Frustration management and traditional business wear don't mix. I almost tumbled to my death last week.
Hence, today I am taking advantage of the fact that it's Friday, and am in baggy pants and sneaks. I've already run the stairs twice and it's only 10 a.m.
Friday. Just the name brings a smile to my face and a sparkle to my eye.
I have to work this weekend though. Boo that.
Diet Coke doesn't have the polar bears on their Christmas cans anymore, and this is very sad. They've replaced caffeine-addicted fuzzy characters with generic holiday-ish patterns and I am not a fan. Way to lose your edge, Diet Coke. At least Original Coca-Cola stayed true to Saint Nick.
I got involved in an interesting discussion of facial hair last night. OK, so I wasn't really involved per se - I didn't have a whole lot to add as far as my facial hair growth patterns - but I was fascinated. How do bristles just sprout out of the side of your face? All six or so guys standing around had funny stories about shaving too often or with a wild boar tusk or something. That would actually make a great book. "Not by the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chin - Manhood, boyhood, the first shave and the quest for beardedness" Nobody steal this - I'm sensing a Bestseller here.
One of my good friends is having a black and white birthday party tonight. I realized I don't have anything black and white. Nothing. So I bought a white shirt and will get away with pin-striped pants, I hope. If I still lived with Val some serious closet-raiding would be happening tonight.
I cut my hair. Just cut it all off. Kirsten and I went to dinner the other night and were both complaining about our hair, so we decided to fix it then and there. We went to SuperCuts 'cause we're classy like that, and paid $18 for incredibly smokin' new wigs. Anyway, I cut about 5 inches off all the way around. Shorter in the front, longer in the back - but not a mullet. Just so we're clear.
White-Out is so fun. I've pretty much mastered the White-Out on Post-It Note art form. Wait, what? I don't know who that girl is. I'm working.
I bought a table at a garage sale for a buck and then spent $30 on paint and stuff to re-finish it, because that math makes perfect sense. Actually, though, "working in the shop" has been super fun, and I'm really looking forward to getting grubby again this weekend.
Speaking of the shop, we've transformed Adam's fun garage into a SUPER fun garage, with two kayaks, a mountain bike, fishing gear, body boards and now, woodworking projects. His neighbors love us.
Since the woodworking craze began, I call Adam's garage "The Shop", FYI.
And, he's building me a chest/home for a very small, very naughty person who needs to be locked up in a box. Actually, I jest. It's gonna be awesome and I can't wait to fill it with stuff and set my hot cocoa on it on a winter evening. We even found the perfect hardware for it.
I need to go kayaking.
I need to quit making a random list and get back to work.

Commute-a-licious

2007-11-01T11:22:00.000-07:00

As I have now joined the proud ranks of road-raging California commuters, I would like to add my horn to the noise. Here are a few tips on driving on the California highways, byways (hat tip to Steven Moore) and side streets and on being a good driver/pedestrian/commuter, or at least not a completely comatose one, as so many apparently are.

The likelihood that anybody who shares the roads with me will ever read this is incredibly slim. I know this. But writing out my woes is cathartic, and you are stuck at work, blog-surfing, and thus a captive audience - so you will read this, no matter how dull the story of my commute may be.

It appears to be a law that if there is one large, weighed-down, slow-moving, repair-man-type truck on the road, there will be another, taking up the other lane and slowing everybody down. Repair men of the world, listen to me. WE LOVE YOU. We do. You fix our plugged drains, unrattle our rattling doors, and fearlessly stare down the bad circuitry demons. However, our love fades every time you go 35 in a 55... and especially when you team up to make passing you impossible. We respect that your trucks are big and weighed down and you get paid by the hour. Just let the rest of us by... and our love will remain untarnished.
Same goes for moms. I salute you, moms. You guys work hard and have some of the toughest jobs in the universe. However, I also know that when I am behind a mini-van with "Honor-Roll Student" stickers on the bumper and shades in the windows, I am in for a slow drive. Unless, of course, Junior spits up in a big way. In which case we must always be prepared for the quick exit to the nearest parking lot/bathroom/wherever moms go to make do. Not really having much experience with the whole kid scene, I can't really hold a grudge here though. Just... good job, moms. Keep it up, and... well, you could move into the slow lane now and then. If you think about it.
Nobody in California waves. EVER. Megan and I perfected the art of "Dallas Driving" (one hand on the steering wheel, one hand waving frantically out the back window at everybody whom you're cutting off as you cross several lanes of traffic for an exit that you should have noticed a lot earlier, but were too busy jamming out to the sweet lovin' sounds of Plus One...) So I wave. I think as I get into somebody's lane and give a cheery wave, they must think "Aw, how quaint. She waved with her whole hand! She must be from the South." This, I assume, makes their day better because they start thinking about Grandma Hazel's Sweet Potato Pie and not the thousands of dollars in debt they racked up last night in South Coast Plaza. At least I hope so. They're probably just wondering what the heck I'm doing.
STEREOTYPE ALERT. When someone is driving incredibly poorly, if I finally get up next to them, I always look to see what kind of person has been so blissfully wrecking my morning. 99% of the time they are women, and 80% of the time they are on cell phones - typically very bling-y ones with large jewels stuck in conspicuous places. Girls, girls. Throw woman-kind a bone here. Silence is golden. Or the radio. Or maybe just watching the road instead of discussing your eyeliner application with your girlfriends. Or maybe you could talk about driving, and that would keep you focused. Something has to change, though. Please.
Pedestrians. Walking is good for both body and soul. I am completely in support of walking, and think everybody should walk and use cross-walks and all that good stuff. I would also just like to remind the foot-traveling population that crosswalks are kind of a favor on the car-bound people's part. Really. We have agreed that while you're walking in-between the white lines from sidewalk to sidewalk, we will not run you over. However, that does not mean that you can abuse the privilege. The cross-walk is not the place to begin deep discussions, check out your manicure, or drink in the scenery. I join your ranks almost every evening, and I KNOW that the street can be crossed before the light changes. Please endeavor to do so, and we will gladly continue not running you over.
Honking. Really, guys? Honking is to driving what "How to Save a Life" is to music. Overdone. Overplayed. Worn out. Please stop.
When people think they're being sneaky, they're really just being rude. There's a place right by work where you can get onto the 55 going either North or South. The southbound lanes are always clear, Northbound are always packed. So certain sneaky people think they can blaze up the Southbound end until just before it splits, then gracefully merge, with no one the wiser and their own selfish tushes a few hundred yards further down the freeway. It doesn't work. For reals. All that happens is the Southbounders get slowed down and annoyed by the unsuccessful merging attempts, the Northbounders get righteously indignant at "sneakers" lack of courtesy, and everybody is honking and tailgating and nobody is better off... and it happens EVERY DAY. Oh, dumb Californians.
If you're a guy and you pull up next to me, this does not mean that the Freeway Gods have ordained that we are destined to be together. It does not mean that I think you're cute. It does not mean that my window is down in order to talk to random guys, including you. It does not mean anything. Go away and learn to not be creepy.
If you tailgate me, I want to slam on my brakes. I have not done it yet, but be warned. No bueno.
Finally, be NICE. I seriously believe that people get in their cars and assume their mean driving alter ego. Wave. Smile. Take a sip of your $10 latte. Commuters are people too!

She was a small town girl...

2007-10-31T08:47:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday morning I got up blissfully late (it’s sad when 8 a.m. is sleeping in nearly 3 hours, but such is my great job,) and wandered down to the local coffee house. It’s called J.C. Beans (although for a long time I thought its name was “Coffee House” as that is what’s emblazoned most prominently on the side. It wasn’t until I heard a barista answer the phone with a perky “J.C. Beans, good morning!” that I realized the truth.)

Being a small-town-ish girl, I’m always endeavoring to do small-town things, so J.C. Beans is the perfect scratch for my community itch. The baristas are friendly and remember their regulars, the decor is perfect mix of C.S. Lewis’ earthy leather study and eclectic girlishness, and everything reeks of fresh ground coffee and hot apple strudel.

Leaving the coffee house, I continued walking down PCH, savoring my hot triple 1% vanilla latte and the foggy morning air. I smiled at the jogger with her high-maintenance pooch and was quickly reminded that is still Orange County after all, as she looked at me with a “what do YOU want?” glare.

A couple of blocks later found me in Dana Point Plaza, a little grassy park in between Hennesy’s Tavern and the Chevron station, where the Farmer’s Market appears every Saturday.

There’s one booth there that I love - and it’s mostly because of the lady who runs it. I don’t know her name, but I imagine it’s something romantic, like “Rose”, but I’ve never asked, just in case it happens to be quite the opposite, like “Pat” or “Marge”.

She always has a variety of fruit and hand-written squares of cardboard telling her customers that it’s “Very Sweet”. She is probably in late fifties, with long, wavy gray hair and a soft Latino lilt to her voice. She obviously loves her job and her customers, cutting large wedges of Asian pear for her favorites and smiling gleefully as they bite in, waiting for the happy “mmmm” that inevitably follows.

“It’s so good, yeah?” She says, already offering a bag and another sample. “Try the peaches, kind of small, but so sweet, too, honey. Yes... and you want a plum? Here, I give you one.”

Of course, probably 9 out of 10 people who stop end up buying fruit from her, partly because it is incredibly good and partly because she is so captivating herself. As I wander away, licking peach juice from my fingers and carrying a few pounds of fruit in my hand, I hear her, happily offering her wares to more Saturday looky-lous:

“Here, honey, try this. So delicious... good day for fruit, yeah?”

I wander by the flower stands and the bakers, only stopping because it most certainly is sweet bread season and I can’t resist. (Okay, so I stopped by the flowers, too, but firmly told myself “no” before-hand, so I was safe.)
My latte was almost gone and the fruit was feeling heavier, so I started back for home. On my way up the hill, I saw a sign for a “Giant Plant Sale” and knowing a Certain Someone’s wanna-be green thumb, I had to peek in. A crusty old fella was smoking a cigarette and lovingly trimming a fern when I walked up. A couple of palm trees and a some other tropical-looking plants sat on the curb with him - so maybe “Giant” Plant Sale was an exaggeration.

“Hey there,” he said, smiling at me as though I were a good friend. “Need a plant?”

I chuckled a little - I need a plant like I need a hole in my head - but I still reached out to touch a giant palm leaf.

He turned his mouth down and gave an approving nod. “Yep.” He pulled in a hefty draft from his cigarette. “That’s a good choice.” He squinted at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows, waiting.

We chatted a little about the price - and it became pretty clear that he was just a lonely old guy who loved growing things. He nursed plants back to health or grew them from little shoots in his alley, and every now and then he sold them to clueless people like me in “Giant Plant Sales”.

I told him I had a pick-up and would be back. “You’d better hurry,” he urged. “There might be a run on these babies.” Looking down the sleepy street, I doubted it, but I hustled home anyway.

I came back a few minutes later and he was petting a palm tree as he set in the back of a blue mini-van. “Take good care of him - found that one on the street on trash day a few months ago...”

As the van drove away, he turned to me. “Hope that wasn’t one you wanted,” he said, shrugging.

I assured him that it wasn’t, and as he loaded my chosen beauties into Rocky, he told me that he considers himself an abused plant shelter. “People just don’t take time to care about anything anymore,” he said sadly. “If it ain’t a video game, or computer somethin’, it ain’t worth their time.”

After we chatted for a few minutes, I started to get back in my truck. “Anything else catch your fancy?” he said as I turned to go.

“I only have $30.” I said, thinking he was just loathe to let such a silly girl out of his sight without taking some more cash off her hands.

“No, no.” He said, putting a fern and lacey-leafed plant in the back of the truck. “Here’s a couple more. Take ‘em and love ‘em... and bring ‘em back if ya need any help with ‘em. I’ll nurse ‘em back to health for ya or give ya tips if ya like.”

“Okay, thanks.” I said, looking happily at my truck-load of greenery.

I pondered as I drove away how I find it so much easier to strike up a conversation with these older characters then with my own generation. I think it’s because we’re not in competition. When I see a woman roughly around my age, we automatically size one another up - who’s more beautiful, who’s more successful, who’s got the best jewelry - whatever. It sounds so horrible and shallow when I write it down in black and white - and it is - but it still happens, subconsciously and constantly.

With “Rose” and the Plant Guy - it’s easy to talk and connect because we’re not checking out each other’s bling or body or boyfriend - we’re just understanding one another at the most rudimentary level. We connect because of a common love for good fruit or plants or foggy mornings in Dana Point.

There are so many surprisingly beautiful things in the small slices of Life. The world is cast with a broad spectrum of characters - interesting because of their beauties, quirks and imperfections. I hope that I can learn to look into people rather than past them - to see their soul rather then their stereotype. The fingerprints of God cover all of us - even the guy who cuts me off or the stylish woman who makes me feel inferior for a moment.

I need grace to see and appreciate these divine smudges, and to savor the moments rather than rush through them. So here’s to sweet peaches, “Giant Plant Sales” and Saturdays - and to the Roses, Plant Guys, and small-town folk of the world.

Walkin' in the Woods

2007-10-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

We went to a costume party on Saturday, and allow me to clear a few things up. No, we are not Adam and Eve, no, we are not Ents.

It's an inside joke, and we are basically WAY too clever for our own good. Enjoy!

California in Flames

2007-10-24T08:52:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna go ahead and state the obvious: there are about 15 wildfires blazing throughout Southern California - considerably closer to home than I like thinking about.

Last night, Adam and I drove the 5 South a few miles to see the Camp Pendleton fire. Giant flames leaped up into a eerily ruddy night sky, throwing red and orange shadows as they chewed up the hillside. We stared in frightened fascination, watching the instant destruction of countless acres, and imagining our homes in its path.

Funny; how I've been so focused on "nesting" and making a cute little bower that could easily be gobbled up in minutes - thanks to hot winds or an arson's match. It makes me feel so small now, like all of my striving doesn't really mean much in the big scheme of things. When faced with disaster, we start thinking about the keepsakes we would grab and the people we would call. Our legacies and relationships are so much more valuable than the meaningless "stuff" that "moths and rust (or fires) destroy."

It's easy to get distracted with everyday worries, bills and to-do lists until the moment of truth; when I find myself looking at a blazing hillside - feeling in awe of my insignificance and thankful for what I do have.

Hell in a Handbasket

2007-10-19T11:08:00.000-07:00

I've taken to listening to the news on my way to work in the morning, but I'm thinking about stopping; as I'm either irate, depressed or wanting to move as far away from idiots as possible by the time I get to work. Here are a few lowlights of how far we've fallen:

Drugs are OK - in fact, let's provide a "safe" place for you to de-rail your life

80% of City Workers in Orange are illegal. ILLEGAL. Yet we're supposed to feel bad when they explain to a translator that they'll have to move.

Child abuse, anyone? No one else seems concerned by the fact that in order to need Birth Control, you must be sexually active. These girls are 11-13 years old.

Our troops are fighting and dying for our freedom - and President Bush's personal amusement? What. The. Hell. This is one of the most asinine and unjust statements I've heard in a while.

Speaking of asinine, AAAAAAHHHHH!!!!
Since when do we have a "right" to a "healthy future"? Why do our fellow tax-payers owe us our health care? Since when does making ANYTHING government-run make ANY situations better?

{huff, puff...} This is why I'm done with the news. For today, anyway - God save us all.

Life's Just a Vase of Flowers

2007-10-16T07:33:00.000-07:00

There's a bouquet of Sunflowers on my windowsill that grin cheerily at me every morning, brightening my bower with inherent sunshiney-ness and the recollection of the great guy who gave them to me. I love sunflowers and daisies - they're so uncomplicated and friendly. They don't need a large portion of my paycheck or long talks or anything other than a little water and a stem-trimming every few days. Sometimes I wish my life had the same simplicity as my short-lived bouquets.

I'm a worrywart. Anyone who's known me for any length of time knows this. I have a tendency to over-think and take too much responsibility, assuming that my every step out of line indicates a uncontrollable downward spiral.

Lately I've been feeling particularly weepy and last night, I realized just how far I'd gotten. After a good night of Small Group and Monday Night Football, I got home and instead of feeling joy, was overwhelmed with worry for the umpteenth time.

Some of this is normal, I know. New job, new apartment, new expenses. But what is truly at the root of this worry? Why do I isolate myself in my own misery and assume I'm alone in this?

"And who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" This reminder I scrawled on a Post-it and stuck to the side of my monitor in a particularly lucid, desperate moment this week. But I fight every day to remind myself of it. I think what really gets to me is my powerlessness. That I can't add hours or turn things around.

So today I am "seeking first His kingdom and His righteousness," and clinging to the promise that all other things will be added. I am wadding up my Kleenex and accepting my life for what it is - for the beautiful things I have been given and the challenges I don't face alone.

So, please, next time I start whining and worrying about what I will "eat and drink, or what I will wear..." remind me that my Heavenly Father knows what I need. “But if God so clothes the grass (Sunflowers and Daisies) of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown away, will He not much more clothe you?"

Maybe my life could be as sunshine-y and worry-free as my Sunflowers, if only I would let go and trust Him.

Haunted Thoughts

2007-10-11T08:38:00.000-07:00

This week I went to Knott's Scary Farm with Adam and some friends from work. I've never been a big haunted house fan (I'm a total wuss about scary movies too) but I was willing to try it. Adam said he'd protect me from any monsters, so I felt adequately brave.

I started to wonder about the wisdom of this plan as we stood in a mob of people for nearly an hour waiting to get in the park. No one said "Excuse me" or stepped to the side, no one had anything pleasant to say. A thousand lost souls awaited impatiently to get tickets, every man for himself as we fought to get in and sufficiently terrified.

When we finally got inside the park, I realized that the cute name of "Knott's Scary Farm" was hiding something very different - but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"The actors can't touch you," Adam assured me as a bloody corpse growled at me menacingly. I laughed nervously and just grabbed his strong hand tighter, telling myself it was all just for fun, so what was I getting so worked up about?

Our friends wanted to go to a Haunted House, and I held on to Adam even tighter as we entered "Axe Murderer's Mansion". Typical Haunted House stuff leered from the darkened corners, and I squealed at every boogey man who jumped out at me.

"It's just a guy in a mask," Adam gently assured me, but he couldn't help laughing at my inability to walk more than a step without a shudder. I started to feel rather foolish for my anxiety, but I couldn't shake the feeling. It just wasn't right - and the little voice in my head was begging me to listen. We snuck past a silent banquet table of mutilated manikins, through a bloody child's room, all the while peeking with morbid curiosity into corners filled with traces of violence.

By the time we came out the other side, my skin was clammy and I was feeling foolish for being so adversely affected; by an event treated trivially by literally thousands of people. It was all fake, right? Just people in masks and make-up having innocent fun at our expense - right?

The little voice in my head was screaming by this point. No, it was not innocent. No, it was not fake. In this imitation blood and plastic gore, there was a sinister reality that I couldn't shake. At the time, I couldn't explain why I felt so strongly. When our friends went toward another Haunted House, I just stood and shook my head, feeling foolish but resolute. Adam gently tried to coax me, but I stood my ground. I think he was vaguely surprised that his normally easy-going girlfriend was suddenly so unyielding, but after a second of indecision he told our friends we were going on a roller-coaster and would meet them after.

We went on the ride, and all the while I was warring with myself. Why was this so disturbing to me? I'd like to think that I'm not a complete wuss, but this was one area where even my typically competitive nature was not overriding the voice in my head. It didn't matter what anyone thought or how I was perceived. My spirit was not letting me rest, and it was battling my ego for every inch of ground.

"Just try to be brave," Adam advised. "It's all just for fun - it's fake."

I couldn't explain then, so I just stayed quiet and thought about it. What was getting to me, was not the lack of spiritual things - the fakeness of it all - rather it was from the presence of something deeply spiritual. For why are we drawn to these things anyway? Why do normal people - grocery store clerks, software engineers and steakhouse waitresses - paint their faces and come out in black for a night in celebration of death and dismemberment?

My argument is that people are drawn by the thousands because it speaks to the deepest, darkest parts of our souls. We are spiritual beings, drawn to either darkness or light. We come out in droves to see carefully engineered depictions of death and torture because there is an evil side to us that craves it.

But, Dani. Seriously? You're taking this a little far. It's Halloween. You're just too chicken to enjoy a good scare and understand that it's strictly for entertainment. What's the matter with Knott's Scary Farm? Sounds innocent and fun and a little frightening - but everybody needs to get their blood pumping now and then. Lighten up.

OK. Granted. And I don't take issue with a decent "boo!" or even pranks pulled on us more timid types. There's nothing inherently wrong with that. Here's what really scared me: there is something inherently wrong with the celebration of evil. The combined efforts to get every actor in makeup to appear like a tortured ghoul, every stagecoach in the park to appear as a hearse, every place we turned to be filled with the fog and cold of an unholy fear, took hours upon hours. Innumerable talents and skills - God-given gifts - used for creating representations of violence and dark forces at work.

In Phillipians 4:8 it says:

"Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things." -NASB

The King James version tells us to "think on these things," and Webster's translation calls it "cherishing the thought".

The Tyndale New Testament puts it: "Furthermore brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things pertain to love, whatsoever things are of honest report, if there be any virtuous thing, if there be any laudable thing, those same have ye in your mind."

These words are powerful descriptors. We are told to dwell on, cherish the thought of, and have on our mind anything "pertaining to love, beautiful, true, honest, just, of good report..."

The only thing at Knott's that even came close to being a part of this list was Adam's arms around me when I jumped and his graceful attitude when I announced I was not stepping foot in another haunted house.

A couple of weeks ago our pastor gave a sermon on calling bad things by cute names. He talked about how we rationalize the dark parts of ourselves - simplistically accepting our vices as "perfectionism", "exaggeration" and "shopping a little more than some, but less than others..." rather than a lack of Grace and Love, lying and greed.

In God's Law, however, I have yet to see any "cute-ifying" of sin and ugliness. It is hard for us to see such awful hatred of evil coupled with such beautiful love. We are not accustomed to a power equally given to two opposing passions - so we ignore His anger in favor of the warm fuzzies granted by a loving Savior. While His grace is beyond what any us of deserve; His hatred of sin is also far past our imaginations.

So we flirt with our dark sides, calling them by cute names (Knott's Scary Farm, anyone?) and under-estimating their grip on our spirits, while He cries from heaven, begging us to see the evil around us for what it is and not wallow in our own complacency.

Hebrews 10:19-24 says:
"Therefore, brethren, since we have confidence to enter the holy place by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way which He inaugurated for us through the veil, that is, His flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a sincere heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful; and let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds..."

It's hard to seem like a wimp at Halloween. It's hard to "not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind..." (Romans 12:2) It's hard to live in the "new and living way" when the old, dead one is so titillating and widely accepted.

But we are called to "hold fast". To "cherish" the noble thoughts. These would not be commands if they came easily. It takes courage to call bad things bad, and I am as guilty as any of wanting to fit in - to shut off the voice in my head and just throw myself into the moment. It's hard when these words come up: "perfect," "honorable," "praise-worthy" and those uncomfortable ones: "evil" and "sin".

However, I think it's worth it to abstain. I think it's OK to seem a little wimpy and get a couple of weird looks for the reward of obeying the little voice in my head. Besides, when I get scared, I squeal too loud anyway.

Bullfrogs and Comfort Food

2007-10-05T20:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I woke up with a bit of sniffle, a slightly hoarse voice and just enough sickness to make me feel adequately sorry for myself on my way to work.

Today I sound like a very unhealthy bullfrog and got sent home after three hours of moaning at my desk. After a stop at the store for the necessary sick day items - (O.J., soup, and graham crackers) I came home and crashed.

Honestly though, I have an incredibly hard time with sick days. It feels like such a waste to get a day off to sleep and eat runny food and wish you could do something more interesting besides think about how sick you feel. I have to say that having a nest made it a great deal better though, and I was able to really enjoy having a place all my own to come in and recuperate.

Why is it that we have "sick food" anyway? For me, my comfort food is graham crackers dipped in milk. Whether I'm sad, sick, lonely or just have the munchies, that always sounds good. I'm not usually a big soup eater, but when I'm sick it always sounds good, which is kind of weird. Wouldn't you think that you would crave things that you normally like when sick, instead of reverting to a nasty menu to make being sick even nastier?

I don't get sick that often, but when I do, I'm a total wuss about it. I don't know how to go on with daily life and a sore throat. Really. It's actually quite pathetic.

So there's my running commentary on sickness and Dani and how the two intertwine. Aren't you glad you tuned in?

The Danger of "Nesting"

2007-10-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

A lot of things have changed in my life lately. I started a new job, moved into my own apartment after nearly a year living with my grandma, and played flag football all in the space of one week. (OK, so I know that playing football isn't really life-changing news, but every good writer knows the "list of three" concept, and football was all I could think of on the fly. Sorry.)

I'm here to discuss the "nesting" concept. Somewhere in-between the fascination with play houses and her first burnt batch of cookies, every girl realizes her overwhelming need to "nest". We are drawn into the Home section of Target without trying, buy cute homey things that we neither have room for nor can afford, and are constantly attempting new concoctions in the kitchen. And buying soap. ...or maybe that last one is just me.

Anyways, I have my own place now... as in, MY own place. As in, no roommates, just me. As in, paradise/kinda scary at night/very creatively stimulating and nice to come home to after a long work day.

It's a gorgeous little studio in Dana Point, about 20 miles south of where I was living. I have an itty-bitty kitchenette, bathroom and "common area" which will eventually be organized to the point of cuteness. Right now I feel like I'm sleeping in the corner of a storage shed, but I have only lived there for three days. Shelves, sunflowers, and horses will all soon be in their places, never fear.

And after it's "cutified" I will post pictures. Promise. :)

But anyways, now that the details are out of the way... about nesting. My brother Denver says nesting is dangerous, because the next step is "baby fever". I think I'm safe on that front. However, I can definitely agree that nesting is the girlie version of when a guy walks into Home Depot with a project in mind and a list of "but I need this to do that...". Shark-infested waters, baby.

I have wandered dazedly through countless home stores, sighing over adorable hutches to keep all the dishes I don't own, and agonizing over my sad lack of cash. I hold ceramic dishes in my hands in the store, wishing I had an excuse to take them home, idly pet hanging curtains and try out couches that would take up roughly 60% of my apartment if I was stupid enough to give in and buy them.

I get warm fuzzies just by sitting on the couch (thanks, Adam,) and looking over at my kitchen, itty-bitty edition - complete with toaster oven for baking tiny things, (thanks for that, too, Adam, :) a four-cup coffee pot for half my daily consumption, and a microwave to heat up all that my tiny, delicate appetite can handle. (Haha...)

When I'm at work, all I think about is going home, folding clothes and putting up pictures, and when I'm at home, all I do is fantasize about how awesome my bower will eventually be.

So maybe nesting is dangerous, but what's life without a little risk? So what if I spend a little too much on the perfect curtain or buy another mug that I don't need? Give a girl a break... at least I don't want a baby.

Running Observations

2007-09-18T15:48:00.001-07:00

So I run almost every day. I say "run" because it sounds so much better than jogging and panting. I usually run the same route, because I'm a creature of habit and I like it, so why change a good thing. Here are some random things I notice along the way:

There are two cute little houses on Tustin Ave., that when I first started running here about 10 months ago were nothing more than foundations. Now they are live-in-able. That's incredible to me, having spent the better part of a decade building my parent's house in Oregon. Guess things move faster when you have more than a part-time contractor (my dad) and a couple of teenagers (my brother and I) working on a building.
Open garages are funny to me. I like to peek in and see what people like to do with their spare time. Some people, apparently, just like to clean things. There's one garage in particular whose shop-vac I am constantly tempted to run away with. It's very big and industrial and it even has rollers for the easier rolling up the street and using to clean my car. I'd return it, I promise.
Another open garage that intrigues me is the Woodworker's. This old fella is constantly sawing, hammering, sanding and talking to his cats. It smells like sawdust and sweat and childhood memories. He always waves at me, and it's one of my favorite houses along the way.
I don't understand people with large yards and no flowers. Why would you waste a yard with concrete or crab grass or anything but flowers?
I also don't understand people who keep their blinds closed all the time. How can you stand to be in the dark on beautiful days? And don't you know that looking in is how we get entertainment when we run by?
Eventually I get out of the neighborhoods and into the Back Bay Wildlife Preserve. This is where I spent much of my childhood, imagining that I was exploring unknown wildernesses, rollerblading, bike-riding and rambling to my heart's content. I still get deja vu sometimes.
There are a few wealthy people on the hill above the bay who own horses and ride them down the trail. Smelling the distinct horsey smell and hearing the clop of their hooves raises a longing in me I can't describe. Sometimes it makes me homesick and lonesome, sometimes it fills me with euphoria. I always watch as they go by and I'm sure they think I'm just another "slicker" staring out of idle curiosity.
Men are friendlier joggers than women. They almost always nod, women almost always glare.
Whenever I see someone running with their dog, it makes me want one. Until I see them stop to clean up said fuzzy pet's business. Then I'm glad I don't have one.
I think being pushed in a stroller must be the most relaxing thing ever. I have yet to see an even halfway alert baby on the trail. I really wish I could go back and try it, because every little chubby face I see looks supremely content.
I love my iPod shuffle. Best $75 I ever spent.
When I finally head back towards home, I run by a house wherein resides a misbehaving little boy named "Danny". His mom is always yelling at him, and I feel like I'm in trouble. Every time.

Muddy Waters

2007-09-14T16:03:00.000-07:00

I have fought with myself long and hard over this. I’ve never thought of myself as a work-a-holic, but the strange stagnation of unemployment has assured me that I am one.

When I look through my old journals and into my dreams, I see so many longings. Some that could have been allayed by simply doing something rather than staring misty-eyed into the dusk - some that are just vague longings that I still fear to capture - lest they poof away like a spritely fairy in my hand.

I am always thinking that something should change - that I would be better, more creative, that I would be more beautiful, if only - fill in the blank. As I look back at my life, these mere 23 years, I’m increasingly convinced that all of my blanks have much less to do with my success than I give them credit for.

I have also realized that I am far too focused on my success in the first place. Greatness is not to be grasped. While I suppose it’s accurate to refer to myself as a work in progress, am I relishing the work or just hanging on, hoping, straining and longing for progress - the end result?

I am always gazing around the bend, never content to drink in the joys of this moment, this sunlit stream, these pauses for laughter and reflection. Without even realizing it, I heartlessly rob myself of today because of my lust for tomorrow, and don’t grant myself the pride of a job well done because I always think I could have been better.

I have fought for inspiration for months now. What was once a clear-flowing stream has become a muddy trickle, so full of weeds and contradictions that I’ve grown tired of even looking for the source, the spring-water, but have simply turned my back, leaving my fields to parch and my soul to burn.

I feel so inadequate, even admitting to people out in the world that I aspire to write. “I think I’m kinda creative,” I say with a shrug, and think condescendingly of the many nights I have sat and stared at a blank sheet - or worse, given up completely and zoned out to the mindless blare of the TV.

Every night that I have failed to create I find it harder to go on. I recently read somewhere that men most of the time already know what they are thinking or feeling, and talk about it only to communicate if they feel it’s necessary, where as women often don’t know why they think or feel something and talk about it to figure it out. I suppose I do this from time to time, ( I was recently informed that I talk a lot - I suppose “a lot” being relative.) But I think the deepest part of my “self-discovery” to use a disgustingly narcissistic word, comes from a deeper place than my tongue. Writing and art - for all its challenges and the self-loathing that it inevitably produces - reach the deepest parts of me. I can find places there, with my journal or trusty laptop, that I couldn’t find without sitting down at the blank sheet and opening a vein.

Because of this infernal desire to be perfect, to succeed at the cost of contentment, the blank sheets have piled up and the simple joys of doing what I was meant for has dwindled down. The blank sheet pile has gotten more and more daunting, the water’s gotten muddier, the parched field is looking increasingly desert-like and I am blaming every circumstance and my own ineptitude for what really amounts to a lack of courage.

I don’t have the courage to sit down and write something less than amazing. I am afraid to dip my hand into today’s flowing stream and not compare it to yesterday’s or tomorrow’s, or to bask in the joy of “my best” - at this moment, anyway. No, I cruelly hold myself to the best ever - my best ever. I have to do more, be more, write more - and when my longings are more than my capabilities, or a little more mud gets into the stream than I was hoping for, I lack the strength and courage to dive in anyway. Why can’t I create something a little off-balance? Why can’t I spend an hour writing and let it amount to nothing more than this?

This is not the stuff of great novels. It is not even something that is particularly lucid or inspired or even well-written. But it is awakening.

Something within me has stirred in these last few months. I have realized my inability to live up to my own expectations, and after several wrestling matches with my personal angel, I have learned this:

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch of mine that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.”
~John 15:1-6

Isn’t that beautiful and freeing? It’s not my responsibility to be great, I have no one to impress, no future or past to live up to. I am abiding. To abide is to reside in, to sojourn. These are words of rest and peace and contentment, not contention and perfection.

So today I make a promise. I am abiding. Today. This day’s sunlit stream, this day’s tasks, this day’s challenges, this day’s creativity. Knowing that as a lone branch, all of my striving is pointless, but as a branch connected to the Vine, I am of great value.

All of my blank pages, all of my hopes, fears, and longings are connected to that Vine. That is where I find my contentment and the courage to face the less-than-perfect - the muddy waters.

A Tale of Two Jobs ...er, wait, it's been more than that...

2007-09-11T10:07:00.000-07:00

Ah, college. When you're in those dear old halls of higher learning, all that seems to matter is the getting of great grades and getting out. We are assured regularly that as soon as we step out, beyond our campus - with our funny-looking black hat and hard-won diploma in hand - we shall want for nothing. Great jobs will fall from the sky, and employers will be dying to hire such bright and shining new grads, with a gleam in our eyes and the world at our fingertips.

OK.

So maybe nobody ever said exactly that to me, but subconsciously, however much I talked the tough talk of a hard-knock life, I expected something awesome to just kind of... well... happen.

So I packed up my little couch and endless pictures and punching bag and memories, and waved a tearful goodbye to House 9... knowing that as much as it hurt, something great was just around the bend. A year and a half later, I'm still straining to see around the bend, and still hoping against hope for something great.

Today I am stuck in the middle... in-between my heart and my wallet, my dreams and what makes sense, the idea of a career versus being fulfilled in daily life. None of these questions have been answered for me. I have found with certainty what I absolutely do not want to do with my life, (Thank you, LA Times...) but beyond that, I swing strangely between the desire to do something great and memorable, and the simple desire to get off early enough to go kayaking before sunset.

This week I'll be making a choice about which direction my life goes. I know that I'm being rather dramatic, but I believe that all of our little choices affect the big picture. I also know that He hasn't led me this far to leave me... and no matter how many other jobs I take, or where this bend leads, I can rest in knowing that, ultimately, I'm not really in charge here.

And once you get past the scary part, that's actually a comforting thought.

The Wonderful Thing That Is Escapism

2007-09-06T00:04:00.000-07:00

The TV blares the evening news from the next room, informing us all of the earth-shattering new discoveries that exercise is good for you and politicians lie. My cell phone goes off, again, reminding me that I am not as hard to find as I wish, I hear the teenage girl next door giggling to her boyfriend, and the neighbor’s dog lets out a lonesome howl that was rather pathetic a month ago and is now just annoying.
When I leave the house, I am reminded, (as though I could ever forget,) that I share this place with a gersquillion other people, and some of them aren’t very nice. They honk and do the one-fingered “California wave” (haha) in the car, glare at you in line at the store, and talk loudly on their cell phones in public places, as though you really want to hear about their “f***ing ex”.
I’m a country girl at heart, so sometimes I get a little over-stimulated by so much noise. Sometimes I just need to get out and away... which is why Monday (Labor Day) was the best day EVER.
As the aforementioned country girl, I am also a total morning person, so I was really excited to start my day relatively early with a big travel mug of coffee and a pretty drive to Dana Point. Adam and I loaded up his kayak and went to Dana to rent one for me... and proceeded to spend the next couple hours kayaking from Dana Harbor, out beyond the Jetty (and into some pretty big swells, mind you - Thanks, Henriette.) and back in. A couple of guys from Adam’s work and small group came too, and it was beautiful, sunny, idyllic... and balm for my poor over-stimulated soul.
After having our kayaking itch sufficiently scratched for the day, we had to have fish tacos. It was just the thing to do, after having been on the ocean all morning, to feast from it’s bounty. :) And oh holy jeez. Pedro’s Fish Tacos might just be the best I’ve ever had. After a full tummy and the lull of the FedEx Cup... (Adam likes to watch golf, which to me is the equivalent of watching grass grow - but nice to nap to.) I promptly fell asleep.
However, we couldn’t sleep for long with the knowledge that the Pacific Ocean and its accompanying sandy beaches were waiting all of a block away - soon we had towels, magazines, sunglasses and a body board in tow and were headed for more sand and surf.
After enough hours in the sun and salt on our bodies to make us human jerky, we headed back home for showers and clean clothes and the Bourne Ultimatum, which was a fantastic finish to one of my all-time favorite book/movie storylines. Thank you, Robert Ludlum, for being a genius, and thank you, Matt Damon, for being insane. Wow. I had been waiting for this for a while, and it was so very worth it.
So that was my Labor Day. Probably the best 12 hours of the whole summer.

100 things about me

2007-08-31T09:59:00.000-07:00

The whole point of lists like this is to tell people things that they don't already know. Seeing as my best friends will probably be the ones reading this, that will be tricky. I'm sure you know most of this already, so hopefully I'm either entertaining enough to keep you reading, or it's just been a long day and you're bored. I'll take either one.

Electronic publishing was one of the worst classes I took in college. I hated it. I mean, like fire-breathing hatred oozing from my pores. Now it's what I do for a living, and I actually enjoy it. Weird.
Every morning, I drink about 4 cups of coffee, read my Bible, and journal in my little nook in the corner of the living room. Start the day off right.
I really miss my punching bag.
Daisies and Sunflowers are my favorite flowers.
Early morning is my favorite time of day.
I drink obscene amounts of coffee and Diet Coke daily... so much so that it's possible for me to have a splitting headache by 10 am if I'm deprived.
I copy edit everything. Church bulletins, billboards, newspaper ads, emails from less grammar-crazy friends...
Never thought I'd say this, but sometimes I really miss Texas.
I knew I'd say this: I miss Oregon.
I hate horror movies. Honestly, I really don't see the point.
My favorite drink from Sonic is a Diet Vanilla Coke. Close second is a Strawberry Slushie. Sometimes I dream about it...
When I've gone rock-climbing, coming down is way scarier than going up.
I still like it, though.
Horseback riding is probably my favorite thing in the world.
Swimming in the ocean is a close second.
I hate text-messaging talk. OMG! r u gonna b ther 2? ya! bff! lol! ur cool! i cant spell!
I love country music.
The Adobe CS3 package is probably one of the best things I've ever owned.
My laptop's name is Clark.
His Hard-Drive is "The Fortress of Barnitude" (If you don't get this, you should watch Smallville and than read Television Without Pity. Fantastic.)
My removable HD is named Mac Daddy (aka Bo Duke)
My Flash Drive is named Sneaky Pete (are you getting the sense of theme, here?)
I name everything, even things that aren't technically mine.
My pick-up's name is Rocky.
My iPod shuffle's name is Mickey, because he's my trainer/work-out buddy. He's never told me that I'm an Italian Monster, but we're workin' on it. Baby steps.
My phone's name is Enrique. I'll stop with the names, now, as you either already know all of this, or are incredibly bored, or both.
I lived with my best friends for almost 3 years in college.
I hate brussels sprouts. It's the only veggie that I can honestly say I despise.
I have a Superman fetish.
I'm a great kisser.
But a horrible test-taker. However, all things considered, I'd rather be the former. ;)
Three Musketeers is my favorite candy bar.
Followed closely by Baby Ruth.
I love Golden Spoon frozen yogurt.
I spent a semester in Oxford, UK.
My biggest regret from that semester was never going to Austria and Germany.
I've never been to New York, but I can't wait to go.
That goes for DC, too.
Speaking of DC, I have a song named after me. Well, not really, but I'll claim it anyway...
I love Philadelphia.
I'm a good cook, but not as good as my mom.
I love pictures, but I never remember to actually take them.
I love hiking/backpacking/camping/adventuring.
I've wanted to buy a kayak since I first went down the river. I still don't have one, and it's getting rather desperate.
I'm currently co-leading a hip-hop event called the Son of Man Soul Jam.
It's kinda taking over my life.
I'm scared of riding bikes. I haven't ridden one since I was 14 or so.
I hate bananas plain, but I like them chopped up on cereal or baked into things.
My favorite store is Nordstrom Rack.
Close second is REI or Barnes and Noble
I love Lucky Jeans. They are the only jeans I will pay over 30 bucks a pair for... and they're worth every penny.
I've wanted a Spyderco knife for years, and I finally got one this spring.
Which I almost lost a couple of months later. I bounced over a large rock in an old pick-up with some Wranglers in Training in the back... oh, never mind. Anyways, thanks again for finding it, Adam.
I'm addicted to Craigslist. "A desk for $25 in Fullerton!? No way!" It's garage-sale-ing for the 21st century.
I was in AWANA as a kid, and I still remember many of the verses.
I took piano as a kid, too. Too bad that didn't stick quite as well...
My first mare was a tiny 15-year-old Quarter Horse/Arab cross named Majesty. Whoever named her had an ironic sense of humor, because she was short and fat and not majestic at all. Good horse though.
My two favorite books of all time are Les Miserables and Jane Eyre
I love magazines. I love looking at their page lay-outs, reading their articles, critiquing their designs, editing their copy, paying their ridiculous newsstand prices and imagining myself on their staffs.
My favorite magazines are Real Simple, Backpacker, Equus, and Los Angeles.
My hair is not that thick, but whenever I use bobby pins to hold it I have to use about eleventy-jillion. Okay, so maybe more like 50, but still. One time I made the mistake of wearing my hair that way through an airport... I would've probably been better off to put a bloody Koran and a bomb in my pockets.
I know how to operate most tractors. I have also gotten several stuck, but that's a story for another day.
I don't know how to drive an ATV. Or a motorcycle. I'm not opposed to learning, though.
I love popsicles.
I hate having a dirty car.
Or a dirty kitchen.
I love sending and receiving Snail Mail.
I love playing cards and board games with my friends.
Probably my favorite is Speed Scrabble - especially with a House 9-esque twist. :)
Robin Hood is my favorite cartoon. I love the hotttt fox.
I just snowboarded for the first time this March. Actually, let me re-phrase that. I strapped a wide piece of plastic to my feet and careened down a snowy mountain, causing large amounts of bruised-ness to my rear and soreness to my limbs, for the first time this March.
I hope someday to write a book. It's currently in progress.
I love poetry.
When I was little, my dad would read stories to my brother and I, and he always changed his voice for each character. One time he got so into it with a gravelly old man voice that he made his real voice hoarse for a day or two.
I've worked in Christian camps, horse-based and otherwise, for a total of 5 years. 4 as a cabin leader, 3 as a worship leader, 4 as a wrangler, 1 as a program director, 2 as a horse instructor.
I love working on a ranch. It's hard and satisfying in a way that few things are.
Someday I want to own my own coffee house.
I did own a drive-thru coffee place as a teenager. It was called "Dani's Coffee Cottage" and was probably the best job I've ever had.
I am Eowyn of Rohan.
Leading worship is one of my passions.
Star-gazing is an under-rated and awesome activity.
When I worked in downtown LA for the Times, I walked about 10 blocks every day at lunch-time to go to Subway. Every day, someone commented on why the hell I would do such a thing when the over-priced and bad-smelling cafeteria and gossipy co-workers were right there to enjoy - right there within the building. They didn't get it. Every day since I quit I'm glad I did.
I've only had one pedicure in my life... and never a manicure.
I didn't start wearing make-up consistently until I was 22 years old. I still get bored or forget about it a lot.
The entire time I lived in Texas, I fought against saying "y'all". Now, I don't even try to hide that I use it way more often than necessary.
Dr Laura is my homegirl.
Jesus is not my homeboy, as much as the cheap lousy t-shirt industry would like me to believe. He's my redeemer, lover, savior and Lord.
I vote for Kate and Sawyer on LOST. I think they get each other.
My favorite beer is Carlsberg, followed closely by Sam Adams Boston Lager and Heineken. I need to branch out and try more kinds, though. I have a tendency to stick with the safe old faithfuls.
I milked Nubian goats twice a day for a year in high school.
I know how to frame a structure.
I can use a chainsaw.
I'm a pretty good shot, although I've never killed anything bigger than a ground squirrel.
I'm very affected by smells. Old, bad, good, clean... my mood can change with one whiff.
I hate being late. I'm usually late at least 25% of the time, though.
My favorite old hymn is Come Thou Fount, followed closely by Be Thou My Vision.
Sports fascinate me. However, unless theres people in my life who care, I eventually lose interest as well. If there's nothing else on, I will watch SportsCenter though.
Home stores, like Pier One and Pottery Barn, hold a weird fascination for me. Maybe it's my thwarted nesting instinct, who just wants to make a mad grab for candles and dishes and pillows and homey things...
I've hauled and unloaded about 4 tons of hay in an afternoon by myself.
My right eyelid droops a little more than my left, and I have a scar there - thanks to hauling hay and the accompanying hooks involved.

Annnnnnd.... we're done. I tag Val and Julie, because I like to read their responses to stuff like this, and because I can. Haha.