Happiness is...

... an encore!

Just kidding. I didn't get an encore. I just found this "Happiness is..." post I'd written back in May on my desktop.

I'm cleaning off my desktop.

Without further ado:

Happiness is… having a permanent travel partner.

When I used to fly to Hawaii each fall for school, I would start getting sad a few days before I even left. The ride over to the Seattle airport was where all the sad feelings compounded. Right about the time we hit I-90, I’d start seriously contemplating transferring to Big Bend Community College for my degree; anything to get rid of this horribly lonely feeling in my stomach. During those years, airports came to be synonymous with misery.

The day I married Ray was the day that horrible feeling left. I now had not only a permanent travel partner, but a permanent best friend too. Slowly, but surely, airports and travel are returning to a state of anticipation.

It also helps that he flies enough for work that he’s developed travel “status” (whatever that means, psshhhh). With his MVP Gold status, we get to go through the “special” (short) security line. Sometimes we get bumped up to 1st Class. We get to check 2 bags for free. Assurance I “married up.”

A Bird Head

And on a much lighter note:

There's a seagull out there without a head.

(Compliments of a walk with Neighbor Jane Payne)

Only keep scrolling down if you want to see a close-up, including the dried out eye sockets.

Happy Sabbath

Sometimes, when you don't do something for a while (or a really long time), you have a hard time doing it again. An example: the last pan of the meal, that doesn't fit in the dishwasher, that soaks in the sink for 2 days. On that note: it took me 45 minutes of stalling (even checking the sports section of the yahoo homepage) before I decided it was time to open up blog-ography.blogspot.com. When I opened her, she said, "Welcome." She didn't even make me feel guilty.

Happy Sabbath.

September’s Fast Sundays:

Today was Fast Sunday. The Sunday where we don't eat for two meals, and we do it with a purpose. Sometimes the purpose of the fast is kept private, but sometimes it isn’t. Ray and I decided to fast for our relationship; more specifically for good communication skills, intuition on how to "take good care" of each other, and patience until we've perfected both. We fasted not because our relationship is in trouble and not because it's safe, but because it's often bouncing around in the middle... and sometimes the middle likes a fast held in its honor.

It was a wonderful day. Ray was exceptionally witty and funny. I was an exceptionally good cook. I made quiche and fruit filled crepes. Ray spoke with a French accent and with a straight face, perfected his phrase, "Oui, oui my li-tell flow-air."* Best of all, I felt undeniably assured that we will have a wonderful life together and that we will be uncommonly happy. These feelings were especially appreciated because last week I cried long enough and hard enough I became thirsty. Ray and I were both astonished and perplexed by the whole ordeal.

Today I felt complete and as if the first Blessing of the Fast was being awarded… for this day, our life was perfectly on plumb.

There was another Fast Sunday in September; the one at the beginning of the month. This first Fast Sunday was equally gratifying. The Saturday night prior, Ray asked me what I thought we should fast for. I was stumped. I couldn't think of a single thing I needed help with, comforted on, or an answer to. As I sat there marveling at how blessed I felt, he quietly suggested, "What do you think about fasting for gratitude?" I thought he was brilliant.

All day long I felt the overwhelming gratitude for what my life was rich in. The top 3 being:

1. The blessings of the gospel; a gospel fully restored with prophets, revelation, a plan of happiness, the Comforter, eternal marriage, and an actively working atonement.


2. An appreciation for this tabernacle of clay. Sometimes I get so mad at this body. It falls apart when I need it the most. It gains weight when I told it not to. It cries when it’s awkward and doesn’t cry when it’s appropriate. It forgets people’s names, which is my right and left hand, secular information I specifically told it to remember, and how to crochet (AGAIN). However, for one select day, I thought this body was splendid just the way it was.


3. A good meal of chili and cornbread when starvation was no longer required.

And with that, I’ll close the way I opened. Happy Sabbath.

*In case you can't tell, those words are French accent-itized "little" and "flower." He called me his little flower. That alone assured that our day would be full of laughing. How can you not laugh when someone who is 6’6” and has a recently shaved skin-head is calling you a little flower? You can’t.

If I Were a Kitchen Item... I'd Be a Roaster Pan

Mom,

Remember that pillow I got in college that had embroidered upon it the phrase:

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
I am my Mother After All

Well, I've known for a while that I was progressing in that direction (proudly), but today I hit an all-time low. I began finding similarities between me and my roaster pan. The minute this coherent thought skitted across my brain, I realized (in horror) I was playing your favorite game. The game we tease you so badly for loving...

"If you were a fruit, what would you be and why?"

Or, "If you had to be a building, which would you be and why?"

Or, "What animal do you most identify with and why?"

Sad day; but oh well, at least I know what kitchen object I relate with (and why).


Dear Roaster Pan,

Today I shared two major similarities with you; I roasted and I was speckled.

(mid ceiling painting)

That's all,
Cali

ps. On Sunday morning I heard the news say that Seattle was getting ready to have a heat wave. They warned us all to be VERY CAREFUL, because temperatures were going to be in the high 80's to low 90's. I laughed out loud. Seattle calls that a heat wave? Well, today I ate a large slice of humble pie. I am officially a Seattle Pansy. Ninety degrees sure felt like 110... thus the roasting.

pps. I took a picture of my eye ball because even it was speckled. Well, my contact was at least. But, looking at a picture of a giant eye ball freaked me out, so I thought it would only be worse for you.

Happiness is...

… having an experienced, cool-calm-collect chauffeur.

This week Ray was in charge of driving us all over New York, and he did it with grace. I never, not even once, saw him get stressed. Not when we missed multiple exits because we were so busy talking about our future plans (it was a blow to his ego though, because he never misses turns). And missing an exit in NYC is a big deal. It takes at least 20 minutes to get back on track. He didn’t get stressed when he was responsible for getting us to 7th and 53rd (Time Square) where we were going to stay with two of his grad school friends. Not even when we were driving to the airport the next day. As we exited the Lincoln tunnel, on the way to the Newark airport, we noticed a big, black blob in the road ahead. It was a bag of trash that had come out of a garbage truck. Soon enough we were dodging bags of trash every 100 yards. Some of the bags were even more exciting because they had already been hit by a car and had thus exploded… everywhere. We both giggled as we drove along (Ray says he didn’t giggle… that he never giggles… you decide). Ray would say, “I feel like I’m in a video game.” I thought, “I hope this is the kind of video game where you get points for NOT hitting the objects… not vice versa.”

Maybe I’m giving Ray too much credit. All he really had to do was follow the trash to Jersey (no offense Garden State). Even he didn’t think his driving skills were anything exceptional. However, I KNOW they are, because I once saw him parallel park in a space that left less than 4 inches in between the front and back bumpers and the other two cars. It was an Austin Power’s moment that required 11 back-and-forth shimmies. I’ve also seen him write an e-mail on his laptop, while having a conference call on his phone, while checking his GPS on his phone, while driving on a crowded freeway.

Happiness is just plain having someone else do the driving.

Happiness is...

… a DO NOT WALK sign.

(thank you gettyimages)

I started running regularly again about a month ago. It’s been brutal. How can a person get SO out of shape in SO little time? The only thing saving me from a spectacular syncopal episode right there on the sidewalk is the 2 busy streets I have to cross (or more accurately their crosswalks). When you’re running, there’s nothing more glorious than coming up to the crosswalk and seeing the flashing red hand and DO NOT WALK. Never mind that it would only take me 4 seconds to cross and the count down says I still have 22. Never mind it’s rush hour traffic and I’m wearing spankies. Never mind I’m standing there grinning, sucking oxygen, and tapping my foot to the music. You see, this little crosswalk break has given me 105 seconds to rest and recoup. It’s the only way I can legitimately take a break. If I stop for any other reason, all those passing cars and the other runners will know. They’ll know I’m out of shape. They’ll know I need a break.

But, with all positive things, there’s also a negative. Nothing is more devastating than reaching the street, anticipating your mini-break, then having the DO NOT WALK immediately turn to WALK. No break… and I really needed that break.

Happiness is...

... enjoying another's generosity.

(chaos)

(more chaos)

One of the most humbling experiences of my life was coming back from my honeymoon and seeing a room filled with gifts; seeing love and generosity in a tangible form. It made me cry because I didn’t know how to adequately thank everyone for being so kind (and because I’d recently started birth-control and I was on an Estrogen/Progesterone tidal wave… TMI? Sorry).

Ray and I were nervous about people giving us wedding gifts. We didn’t register for that very reason. Our thoughts were, “we’re older, we both have careers, we know our way around Target and Walmart.” True, neither one of us owned a single kitchen utensil… not even a cereal spoon.

When we were planning our reception, our main goal was to give our communities a “Thank You” party. Thank you for caring about us. Thank you for supporting us. Thank you for being an influential part of our lives.

However, I had no idea a gift could strengthen a bond. As I pull out our new cookie sheet, I think of ____. When I use the cheese grater I wonder how ____’s garden is doing this year. When I put my apron on I’m reminded of ____’s advice. And, I’m only seeing this process get perpetually more touching, because I know my mom has things in her kitchen from her wedding reception that still remind her of people from life past.

Happiness is (more accurately) having a daily reminder of another’s love.

(chaos getting organized)

Happiness is...

... being wished "Many Happy Returns."

Actually he didn't say that.

Instead he made me a treasure hunt while I was in the shower, instructed Rob to bake a cake, and made sure the present didn't escape. We don't call her Houdini for nothing.

And now we spend hours watching her hide in her shell in the middle of the floor. Then we turn away for a 11 seconds and spend more hours searching for her. She is REALLY fast.

Happiness is...

... having perfectly watered plants.

Ray and I got these Aqua Globes for our wedding from my friends Katy and Kendra.

Katy, Kendra and I served together in church when I lived in Tri Cities. When we had our monthly organizational meetings, we would often get distracted talking about the National Whistler's Convention documentary we had just received from Netflix; or the Dairy Queen's Blizzard of the Month; or how to get all the free guys in the original Nintendo Mario Brothers (jump on the turtle shell at the stairs). We also talked business.

Happiness is seeing these Aqua Globes every day and recalling a memory about these two girls.

One Christmas Kendra's gingerbread house started falling apart as she made it. She just kept adding frosting and candy until the whole thing collapsed. After cursing soupy frosting and weak gingerbread, she set her gingerbread man on the roof and declared it "Christmas with Katrina" (New Orleans Style).

One night at a meeting I saw Katy taking notes with her left hand. I commented that I didn't know she was a south paw. She looked up and said, "I'm not. I'm becoming ambidextrous." I about died laughing. "How come Katy? Do you plan on severing your right hand?" We all started brainstorming on why it is a person NEEDS to be ambidextrous. We all came away sure that Katy was on to something, natural selection was suggesting a specimen was superior if it could use a sword with both hands. I started blow drying my hair with my L hand the very next morning.

I also get a kick out of ACTUALLY owning something advertised on an infomercial.

Happiness is...

… not needing words to explain (but giving them anyway).

LILACS
(pronounced "lī-lək" or "LIE-LUCK")

Trust me.

I could have just put the picture and everyone would have known what happiness is.

BUT...

Since I was born in May, I used to be sure they were “created” for me. I always promised myself I’d get married in May so that I could have them at my wedding. Some good things don’t wait.

I’ve been ______ (more than bummed, but not quite despondent) that this year I would be missing the 70 feet of lilac bushes, lining my parent’s yard, in full bloom. I found console in sighting one VERY OLD bush in our jungle-ous Seattle backyard, and now no one would know it’s a lilac bush. I went-to-town on it.

However, the crop was worth it. So worth it.

(they're not even blooming yet, but I couldn't risk our neighbor reaching over the fence and stealing them)

And when the blossoms no longer have the ability to overpower our home, I’ll resort to this.

(it says "lilac blossom," and it's not lying)