i'm that sister.

Life is not like Vera & Rosemary: my waist is bigger, and you suck at tap dancing.

2012-01-24T17:15:00.000-08:00

I have these friends, right. They're pretty great. We take blood oaths, finish each others' sentences, call every day, fit stereotypes, look great without makeup, and never go to the gym. Gyms aren't glamorous. Neither is the way you look when applying mascara.

Ooooohh, wait.

The honest truth: I don't just love my friends for their great hair or their infectious laughter, though both are true. I appreciate them for their real-ness, their acceptance, and their shared affinity for G&T. That they are hard-working, loyal, talented, considerate and hopelessly funny, and that when we sit down to play the game of LIFE, I can count on any number of belly laughs. Mostly because by the time it's all over, I'm an accountant with no children, but I'll be damned if I didn't win the Humanibleepingtarian Award and find the cure for the common cold.

I sometimes get to thinking about all the honest reasons why we're friends, and have stayed that way through ugly stuff. It has nothing to do with the aesthetically-pleasing or even what makes a good story. They're so much better.

But. They are that way because the unapologetic reality of it is that we don't always fight fair. We don't function as mature adults when one gets a boyfriend. We don't share a bedside manner (those of us who have one). We complain about 'the skinny bitch'. We don't tell each other everything. We disagree on life choices. We get tired of each other. We are dysfunctional, impatient, and sardonic. We don't always speak the truth in love, especially when it involves boys and how you shouldn't be dating them if you know you'd 86 their ass should someone better come along. You heartless wench.

Sometimes, when crisis hits, we're not there right away. Sometimes we're poor communicators and don't let one another know what we need. We don't always try hard enough, or respond fast enough, or get excited about the same things. We hurt feelings and hold grudges, even if not for long. We give and endure the silent treatment (not the elementary I-hate-your-stinkin-guts kind, but the passive aggressive, I'm-a-grown-adult-and-never- learned-to-cope-with-my-emotions kind) and sometimes we make the same mistakes over and over again.

We move far away and have kids, hoping that with the all-too-often silent distance will be the understanding that with the changing of seasons comes the changing of relationships. We know that despite it all, the door is always open and the freedom is there to say anything we need, without fear of retribution. We accept all of this and we adapt, because it's better than nothing but also because we know it's right. It has to be.

We don't judge each other for losing our cool in really unattractive ways sometimes. We want to be a part of what you're a part of simply because it matters to you. But we don't always say we're sorry. We don't love one another well all the time. Hell, we don't even LIKE each other all the time. We are ignorant and sometimes insensitive. But we trust that our fractured selves will be accepted and that our desire (and hopefully, our ability) to let our circumstances make us better people will be recognized. We don't always know what to do when you call in the middle of the night with bad news, but we find out. We have different definitions for what it means to fight for someone, we sometimes move considerably backwards before we move forward, but we keep moving. When one takes more than they give, we compensate. When one screws up in a big way, we remember that we, too, have screwed up in embarrassing and ugly ways.

When cancer strikes, we sit in the park and don't ask if you want to talk. We go to the viewing AND the memorial and laugh when you almost fall down the stairs and show your goodies to the Catholic church. We cancel plans in favor of sitting at home with you even though you're awful company, for as we've collectively learned one pained experience at a time, the ability to exist in present silence is one of life's great healers.

We argue that just because we're laughing doesn't mean we're making fun. But seriously, if you could only see yourself...

We cry with you over the phone and sometimes on your front porch -- that's called getting down in the mud. We tell and re-tell the story about how we fell off the curb and broke a bone, because we know it will take your mind off the hurt you are experiencing.

We love to hate The Bachelor. We dance with the drunk, handsy guys so you don't have to. We drive great distances, only occasionally complaining about the price of gas. We take 'friends tell friends' very seriously, especially where the need to wax your eyebrows is concerned. And we admit that when you get married, we might complain about the bridesmaid dresses but will wear them anyway, because we love you.

We could probably agree that our high value of friendship came at the price of involuntarily finding the break. That somewhere along the line, we were made to feel unimportant by someone who claimed to have our best in mind. And when we found those who showed us we matter, and continually prove it to us every day, we called them our best friends and threw back a glass of chardonnay.

We're grateful that 'being a good friend' is relative, that nobody can tell us who we are because we already know.

So, it's to these women I say: thank you for sharing your space. You know who you are. Thank you for your consistency, your love for people, your willingness to go out of your way, your genuine concern for the greater good, your priorities, your ability to see the forest through the trees, your devotion to prayer in all things, and your comments about going out in public looking like a hipster even though I refuse to be called one. You have permission to fall apart, hold it together, move forward, move backward, eat empty carbs, fail miserably, put up, and/or shut up -- I will love you as best I can. Fighting for and with you has been one big, fat teaching moment. Given what I know now, I hope I never take it for granted but I'm sorry if I slip. In fact I'm sorry if I've slipped in the past and not asked your forgiveness. It's not my heart, to wound by omission. I'm acutely aware of my failures, though I'm sure I have more, and your grace is humbling. You've made me substantially better, and I thank you.

I could not have put up with me for this long.

When this happens to someone else, I will totally say OH HONEY, SHUT UP AND DRINK YOUR PROTEIN. THIS AIN'T MY FIRST RODEO.

2012-01-11T23:29:00.000-08:00

True story: 2012 is not off to a glowing start. Unless you call experimenting with the food processor to see what retains its flavor when pureed, a good time. I do not.

This will forever be remembered as the time I starved myself and learned all about chompers. I've been unable to think straight for the last week, but here's what I recall.

Around the new year, I began experiencing headaches and jaw pain, for which I took Advil and muscled through. I'm no stranger to headaches, I grew up with seven of them. But eventually I sought out my dentist, who found nothing. I didn't question him, because I've no reason not to. Plus he's funny and he likes to narrate the Food Network, especially when they cook with lentils. Who cares about lentils? I digress. I then went to my MD, who said it was TMJ and gave me anti-inflammatories. At that point I was already having trouble eating, and was on a self-imposed liquid diet to reduce the pain. Leave it to the girl who started her workout regimen in November to avoid looking like one of those people who makes new year's resolutions about getting in shape. Instead, I sat on my couch while my friends ate Panda Express, making myself feel better by saying things like GREAT IDEA! I'LL JUST SIT HERE ON MY ASS AND LOSE WEIGHT. WAY TO GO, SELF.

The jaw pain was like nothing I'd ever felt, a sharp and nauseating pain that I could predict based on how much talking/eating I'd done. (And if you think it's funny to make a joke about how this must've happened because I talk a lot, you can join the club. Then get lost.) Girls night, that was a real kick. A few bleu cheese fries and I spent the next 10 minutes holding my Long Island Iced Tea to my face.

Eventually the pain morphed into an intense, radiating feeling beneath one of my molars. Nerve pain is the worst, especially when you know it's because it's totally getting ready to leave you, and this is their way of making sure you don't forget all the great times you had. Cue a day spent on the couch, my mouth propped open, unable to swallow without pain, watching dumb movies while icing my jaw.

P.S. Dumb movies without fatty and sugary snacks, are that much worse. Or better, depending on which way you look at it. Mandy Moore, eat your heart out.

My roommate is one of those who self-diagnoses every problem by looking it up on WebMD, so her money was on the twin growing behind my ear. Or certain death, in which case she suggested drilling a hole in my temple. No problem, she totally saw it on Grey's Anatomy.

She needs her own reality show.

The next morning was a bit of a blur. It started out in the dentist's office, then I cried, then I saw the endodontist, who broke the news that I needed a root canal and prescribed some strong meds in the meantime. Now, I'm not a huge painkiller person, but these ones were FASCINATING in that they rendered me completely rational, relaxed me to the point of agreeing with everything you say, and unusually tolerant of certain TV shows.

I watched The Bachelor, people.

Of course those same meds also made me nauseous, so there I was: hungry but unable to eat, and also unable to take meds unless I had food in me. A terribly mean trick to play on someone, especially when I've more than paid my dentist tithe in years past. Who prescribes meds I can't take unless I want to vomit? Which is also super painful BY THE WAY. I want to find out in what counter-intuitive vicious world he lives, because I am blowing that shit wide open.

I never thought I'd be so thrilled to get a root canal, but I practically danced into that office. Upon leaving, the assistant warned me that I might experience some discomfort in the form of achy, sore gums but I was all LADY, COMPARED TO THE WEEKEND I JUST HAD, UNLESS I POP OUT A KID OR A HERNIA I'M FAIRLY CERTAIN IT CAN ONLY GO UP FROM HERE.

She said I made an excellent point.

Playing the drum in your own school band.

2012-01-05T17:44:00.000-08:00

Having just wrapped another year, I've concluded that "tough %$@#" is just another part of growing up. Being an adult is hard. Too hard, I figure, not to do what makes you happy. And there are so many definitions of the word, but I think we all know for ourselves. It can be as easy as making friends with someone like Katie, my sister's best friend, who is a walking caffeine pill. Her energy makes her a brilliant sideshow, and we joke that if she ever got pulled over, we'd pay to see the look on the police officer's face when the breathalyzer results come back negative and they realize that's just how she is.

This is the same girl who once thought it'd be fun to fake a mugging in Bellevue Square.

See? Happy.

At the end of the day, I've just put all of my time and energy into 8-12 hours comprised of moments which, if I'm paying attention, are worth their weight in gold. Moments like spontaneous conversations with my professors, who like to remind me that I'm not as old as I think I am. That just because I like the Beatles and can recite Ferris Bueller's Day Off, doesn't give me license to whine about my age. See, I'm stuck between being a young college student and one who teaches them, yet am surrounded by both on a daily basis. And when I get called to the carpet for calling myself old, I feel the sudden obligation to spout a litany of pop culture references to justify myself. Like love is a battlefield... Captain EO...FLOCK OF SEAGULLS!

I digress. I think it's wired into us to know whether or not we're living how we want to live. Unless we're ignorant and/or delusional, which some people undoubtedly are, bless their hearts.

Speaking of ignorant and delusional.

My girlfriends and I were at a bar recently. It's a dive, the seedier the better. And probably due to the fact that we were keeping to ourselves, an inordinate number of guys approached our table. Because we're fun and easy to get along with, we made conversation. But I can only take so much, and after Guy A had brought over his cousin Guy B and started talking about his great job that is just a launching pad to an even greater job where he'll make six figures, I had to stop him. I leaned over the table and said YES, BUT WHAT ABOUT BEING HAPPY? He said of course he'll be happy, he wouldn't pursue something otherwise. I said ARE YOU SURE? BECAUSE IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU THINK MAKING MONEY WILL MAKE YOU HAPPY. I then realized I was about to become that girl who emasculates guys in bars, so I shut up. He never really did answer my question, which I'd hoped would make him leave, but all he did was keep talking and eventually, ask for my number. Apparently buying a girl a drink gives you the open door to talk about yourself for twenty minutes and then assume she'll have your babies.

Tip: rather than talk your way out of these things, just give away the number for one of your sworn enemies.

I didn't get the feeling happiness was his goal. Gratification, maybe. Unless trolling the Spokane night life is your idea of fun, in which case my attempt at meaningful conversation was probably a mood-killer. Maybe he was misguided. I sat there thinking happiness is almost never synonymous with financial awesomeness, maybe that's what he's afraid of. Then I laughed, because who has two thumbs and apparently has to talk herself out of psycho-analyzing the local bar scene just so she can enjoy girls night? Pass the G&T! Cheers to life, love and the pursuit of unattainable women.

I can be agreeable when I want to be.

The older I get, the harder it is to be happy with the small things, but I make it a point to. What reason do I have not to? I'm surrounded by people who love me and want to see me happy. I'm incredibly privileged. The small things are my bread and butter which, if missing, would render my big picture that much emptier. And maturity has its bonuses, self-awareness being one of them. For me, this is key to coming to grips with what life has handed me. Knowing how I react, what I need in order to function, and how to communicate it to others. In fact, I've always thought it would be fun to grab a few adventurous girlfriends and go speed-dating, because by now I have a succinct, to-the-point list of things I would say about myself: about how I'm terrible on the phone, I don't like knives, and I once ran over a railroad tie with my car; that I tend to over-communicate so I hope you can appreciate that; I prefer conversation, books and movies which makes me think, but I steer clear of chick flicks because more often than not I end up feeling like I just lost two hours of my life that I'll never get back, and that Anne Hathaway is mostly to blame for that.

#1-#7, summed up in one very Stillar Christmas

2011-12-31T16:43:00.000-08:00

That's right, I'm cheating.

The beauty of holidays with a swarm of independent adults is that memories and traditions tend to manufacture themselves, you just have to be paying attention. When viewing the world through a humorous (albeit cynical) lens, one always has a story to tell. Because who are we if we don't have stories? This year's holiday celebration was low on the late nights and illegal substances, probably because my nephews were around. Babies ruin everything, apparently. Though one thing that hasn't changed is the noise level -- consider it our contribution to the conditioning process wherein infants learn to adapt to and otherwise sleep through busyness and noise. It's our middle names, bitches! We don't HAVE inside voices. And Kyle, he never learned how to whisper. So those babies can get used to it, 'cause seniority rules.

On that note, some moments worth recalling:

5. Grace and I's spirited discussion as to which Beatles' song can most be attributed to "that one night, on PCP..." = Come Together and Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, to name a few.

4. Alex opening his favorite gift, a golf club that probably has a technical or more accurate term but I don't give a damn, it's a club. He had it in his hands the entire hour and a half we spent opening gifts, handing it off only to open another gift. People, it was the incarnation of the term 'a kid on Christmas morning'. He's 24.

3. Some play football, others sing carols, but our newfound tradition is to shoot guns. At clay pigeons, for lack of any pictures of our ex-boyfriends. And the key word here is "at", as I believe most survived.

2. We didn't actually celebrate until the 27th, so on Christmas Day we went to the movies. Mom always makes Dad and I sit together because apparently we talk a lot. For the fifteen minutes prior we sat in the lobby discussing the best way to refill our one popcorn container and make it stretch across two floors/theaters. Because yes, we are unabashedly cheap. We learned it from my brother-in-law who, on his wedding anniversary took my sister to the local discount theater and brought his own popcorn.

1. Though we're older and arguably wiser, our ability to assemble for a family picture has rapidly declined. It's like herding cats, except these ones have attitude problems and don't know what it means when you say BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS. Sure they can. We do it all the time. Mom wanted an aerial shot, and thanks to my fixed zoom lens, I needed to be a solid 7'-8' above the tallest person in order to fit all 15 faces into the frame. This meant standing atop a ladder, atop the deck, and I got to thinking I have a strong case for increased life insurance. That was shot #1. Then we hustled to change into our new (matching!) shirts, and ran back outside. Only a snowball fight ensued, at which point Erica retreated indoors and Jaleesa walked into the firefight spouting threats turned promises once she'd been hit twice. I stood there yelling out one simple order: line up. In a straight line. You know, next to each other.

In order?

No.

Tallest to shortest?

No.

Oldest to youngest? Are you older than me... I don't think you are...

NO. JUST LINE THE @$#% UP.

Precious, right. Happy new year to YOU.

#8: Slave labor + stupidity = a bloody lip.

2011-12-19T17:08:00.000-08:00

For six years we lived atop a bluff north of Spokane, on a sprawling 100-acre alfalfa ranch. I call it a ranch but it wasn't... we had two dogs until one of them ran into an oncoming car, so really we had just one dog and a smattering of other weird pets, but never anything ranch-worthy. Four horses did appear on our doorstep one day, but they turned out to be locals that had gotten loose. It was fun while it lasted.

I distinctly remember thinking, as a 10-year-old, that I had no desire to ever leave home, because HELLO, WE HAVE EVERYTHING WE COULD EVER NEED. 100 acres? Check. Trampoline? Check. Swingset? Check. Barn? Check. (It had two haylofts, one was designated for girls and the other for boys. CHECK.) BarnYARD? Check. Silo? Check. Not that I know what a silo is good for, but it sounded important.

We also had four or five walnut trees. As a kid, any tree that yields something edible is a source of potential survival if the world ends. So those trees were yet another check on the list of awesomeness -- clearly I've never been a homeowner, or I could've loaded up the 'Cons' column with things like... flooded basement? Check. Second flooded basement? Check.

Anyway. Walnut trees. They drop walnuts. And unless you're bionic or have nothing to do (and we were homeschoolers, we had TONS to do), those walnuts pile up at an alarming rate. So we used to have to pick them up individually, as the lawn couldn't be mowed until they were gone. We'd slap on plastic gloves, form a line, and comb the yard to find them. Then those same trees would drop leaves. Those were a bit easier, as all you had to do was rake. Unless you're me, and you aren't watching where you're going and step right in the way of your brother who has just pulled a big rake full of leaves behind him, and into your face. My lip got really huge, really fast. I ran inside to stop the bleeding, and all of my siblings followed me because they wanted to see, of course laughing the entire time.

I think that's when I developed my ability to cope with pain by way of incessant and otherwise nervous laughter. It would make sense.

#9: The Annual Rave.

2011-12-19T12:15:00.000-08:00

Every family has those stories which are told over and over, whether because they're comedic or embarrassing, or both. Like the time mom was slicing a piece of fruit in the car, opened her window to throw out the core but threw the knife instead. Or when Dad fell off the roof but says he jumped. That probably deserves its own post. I'll think about it.

Christmas 2009 = we opted to stuff each other's stockings, i.e. buy 12 of one thing, and end up with identical and heartfelt gifts. We've seen everything from keychains to underwear to socks stuffed with fruit snacks, Rogue Dead Guy Ale, and scratch tickets. But the inaugural year also turned out to be one where we received alcohol + glow sticks, so we did the only logical thing: turned out the lights and had a dance party. I can't describe what's going on in this photo except that we heard way more Katy Perry than is healthy. And it must've been where Kelsey's patented dance moves got their start.

This was E-Train's first Christmas with us, and the glow sticks were her idea. You can tell by the way she's biting her lower lip that she is totally the one who started this party.

And the bummer sitting in the corner, that would be Dad. He gets points, however, for the necklace.

There may or may not have been some running around outside in the snow barefoot and later, an attempt at the electric slide, but the highlight of the night came when Jaleesa climbed atop the couch and decided the best means of getting back down was to do a toe-touch. Except all we heard was a crash until someone turned on the lights and there was Juju, on her ass. We figure she made it as far as to jump and touch her toes, but never actually executed the last part of that move, which is to land on ones feet. (And understandably so.)

Eventually we went to bed, and woke up to this:

It was, by far, the prettiest sight that day.

A moment of gratitude.

2011-12-16T17:03:00.000-08:00

This is my former co-worker Ashley. She came on board at K | H during my second year there, and we were the babies of the office. Once, when a new gal started, Ashley and I took a box of old business cards, hand-wrote Ginger's name on them and then told her we couldn't afford to order her new ones, so she'd need to revise this box of old ones and use them until further notice, ok? Ashley was always more well-behaved than I, which was further confirmed when I ended up on the Naughty list for laughing at the FedEx man when he fell down the stairs.

Ashley was that person who I leaned on, whether I realized it or not. I was close to everyone there, but especially her. She kept me sane. She is sweet yet sassy, has impeccable taste, and fabulous skin. She's good at what she does but she's also super cool to be around. And when she took the summer off to have a baby, I filled in. K | H and me, we're the cheese to one another's macaroni. I love those people and would give my left arm for them, if that's what it came down to. (Not sure about my right.)

Cheers to her. And them. My other family.

#10: The Letter. That's all.

2011-12-16T09:30:00.000-08:00

Today's post is kind of cheating, except not. Here's a recap of our year.

---

Hello! Another year, another letter, and we find ourselves in the throes of Winter when the last one only ended in July. The Pacific NW has a remarkable ability to abruptly change its mind without anybody bitterly egging its houseor unfriending it on Facebook. And so, in the spirit of bigger and better, we've thumbed our collective noses to the four seasons and upgraded to SUVs, aka urban assault vehicles, aka the Mystery Machine pts. 1, 2 and 3. Turns out they're great for conquering snow but still equally as dangerous if you're a stupid driver, and Dad claims none of us know how to drive under 50mph. HELLO, we know what happens, we saw 'Speed'.

We've grown since you last saw us! That's right, WE'VE BEEN WORKING OUT. And by ‘we’ I mean Kyle, because let's be honest, the last time I ran anywhere it was into a sliding glass door at Molly's baby shower--not my finest hour, but I thought it was pretty funny myself. Another year gone by means another year of honing our respective skills: saving old ladies from burning buildings, imparting our knowledge to young minds, and developing new ways to productively use our free time. Which, by the way, is how we figured out that when you jump out and scare Mom, you absorb the years you just knocked out of her and long story short, that's how Leslie got to be so good-looking.

Enough about that.

Dad & Mom are loving being grandparents, except we're not calling them that because that makes them feel old. Mom prefers NanaGram and Dad seems to be fine with whatever. (We’re lobbying for Papa Elf or Grumpy. Go online and vote! Okay not really.) For this year's vacation they got creative and masterminded a stay-cation which included packing all of us + 2 dogs into their home at Long Lake. No food poisoning, no broken shower doors, and no throwing Grace into the lake at midnight, made for a tame week. We were due for one of those. It was days later that Grace moved out, rendering Mom & Dad empty nesters and Mom discovered the compulsive personality she'd thought had gone out the door somewhere around 1999 had merely been lurking dormant. (Hey! The house stays clean!) As for what they are doing with themselves, the answer is life and death. CooCum (Dad's mother) was diagnosed with cancer in late January, prompting a six-month battle that involved Mom sharing with the aunties in living with and caring for her before her death in August. Our grief was offset by the arrival of the twins, through which Mom has discovered her expertise with the cell phone camera. Dad, for his part, is breaking all the rules (i.e. don't wake a sleeping baby) by pulling the grandparent card, and keeps threatening to retire and become a hermit. We're thinking the twins bought us a few years on that one.

Luke & Erica hit two years of marital bliss and became wine club members. Luke graduates from George Fox mid-December with his B.A. (only took 10 years!), and thus ends his apprenticeship at Fortis Construction (aka the-job-which-took-me-180-miles-round-trip-every-day-for-a-year), and is looking for work. His favorite color is the Beatles, and he has Apple TV and isn't afraid to use it. Erica traveled to Bulgaria, Haiti, China, and Rwanda and only brought back one parasite, to which we say cut your losses, it could be worse: living near your husband's family and bringing home a parasite. We take intestinal discomfort very seriously. And by that I mean not at all. Erica also took a 2-week Caribbean cruise with her mom to celebrate their 30th/60th birthdays, and would like to go on the record as saying that she loves her new decade and you know what else? Her rec league volleyball team is undefeated. So shut up.

Molly & Isaac delivered twin boys (Grayson Randal and Blake Richard) on October 4th, an event heavy on the smoke and lights. And that was just the family's pre-funk. Come induction day there was much anxiety on Molly's part, whereas we tromped around the hospital touting pregnancy flash cards and shouting words like EPIDURAL and MEMBRANE then telling everyone we're homeschoolers. Blake's 8lb2oz + Grayson's 7lb5oz = C-section, a fact they will never live down. Molly complains that ever since getting married, Isaac steals all of her Christmas letter ink. As if having two babies at once doesn't already crown her the Thor of Mommyland. I say beggars can't be choosers and we can't all marry a total dish. But fair is fair, so here you go: Molly worked full time at the VA until the twins started slowing her down, at which point she setup camp on the sofa and played Angry Birds. (Happy? No? WHAT.) Isaac still fights fires and works on cars and stuff. Boring.

I (Annie) did nothing this year but work a lot and burn a few bridges. (A rapier wit will do that -- I'm not sorry.) One of these days I'll take advantage of working for a private University and enroll in classes, but for now I do things like teach dance (still), over-commit myself (still), and take Mexican vacations. I spent a week in Cabo San Lucas and returned with a tan just this side of jaundice. (Milky white is the new bronze--thank you, Twilight.) That was followed up by a sailing excursion wherein bets were placed on which roommate would be the first to go overboard, and Robin has since applied for sainthood. Over the summer I pulled a temporary relief stint with the Graphic Designers I Used To Work For, spending nine weeks being reminded of the differences between doctorates and artists. (It's mostly the usage of big words vs. Apple products. Also, the occasional F-bomb.) And I continue to work with CYT, most recently prompting my students to coin the phrase 'the fear of Ms. Annie' after one particularly rough rehearsal. Again...I'm not sorry.

Alex & Jaleesa moved into a new house in August and have discovered the joys of digging sprinkler ditches and landscaping your very own corner of paradise. They also added a dog to the mix, a chihuahua conveniently the size of your foot. Her name is Lilo, and Alex says she requires more attention than the house. Though once the babies arrived she went (more) bizerk, and don't get us started on what happened when Jaleesa's parents gifted Alex (right) another dog for Christmas, this one named a black lab named Lucy. Alex continues at Principal Financial, and in his cynicism claims that once you start working, life gets more lame. Jaleesa teaches for the Riverside School District, and enjoys whipping the next generation into shape. We like to think our maturity and lack of manners prepared her to work with children, so JUKES, YOU’RE WELCOME. She says she kicked all of our butts at tubing during family vacation but that's just 'cause she drew blood by nearly breaking Grace's nose. (It made for great pictures.)

Kelsey had a big year on the employment front, moving from working with juvenile delinquents to dispatching for Spokane County Sheriff’s Department. (But it's fine, her family of delinquents keep her busy.) She works 50 hours a week and has forgotten what two consecutive days off look like. She said some other stuff too but I'll stop there. KK has managed to fix all of our cars this year, which she says (along with family sushi nights and her proven ability to organize an awesome pub crawl) keeps her sane. Her goal and determination is to be the coolest aunt, which will probably happen because when have any of us beat her at anything? She gives them til age 8 to learn how to snowboard and cliff-jump, at which point they'll be trained as mechanics and we'll see if they can be the first to pass the "tell me what this tool does" test. Oil, brakes, you know, the basics. (I didn’t know that. So…) It's gotta be passed on to someone, her back won't last forever.

Kyle is this year's bummer, said only because when I asked him what he did this year, he suggested I recycle his info from last year and see if anyone notices. But I'd much rather make some of it up, so you be the judge. Kyle earns a decent living being a referee, spending his time keeping basketball players in line while simultaneously telling their parents to sit down and shut up. Ah, power. He is also the proud owner of a Subaru Outback, which Auntie Pretty says is a girl car. (And then all the Portlanders rose up to defend its honor.) Kyle's 22nd birthday, while a celebration of maturity and also achieving his second recorded palindrome, wasn't nearly as awesome as his 21st. After all how can you beat taking a dozen people to Vegas? Did I mention he got married? Yep. In other news, Kyle moved in with Auntie Pretty and recently learned how to play the piano on his iPhone. Must have been how he wooed that lovely wife of his.

Leslie is in her second year at WWCC, racking up all kinds of awesome memories including but not limited to beating Spokane (at Spokane), developing a mysterious rash, and pinching a nerve in her face. The latter which prompted us to believe it had finally stuck like that. Other milestones include earning 2nd Team in the NWAACC eastern region, 1st Team during the tournament in March (where her team took 2nd overall), and getting her first speeding ticket. That's right, the self-proclaimed 'most lovable child' finally caught up with the rest of us, and it was a lukewarm reception at best. Leslie blames her Hoopfest loss on Molly's inability to play, and claims that she showed me up while tubing during family vacation. Because it's oh, so impressive to beat your sister whose arms resemble Ramen noodles and who, thanks to many failed barrel rolls, can kiss her chiropractor-free days goodbye. Leslie loves being an auntie and enjoys Walla Walla even though they won't let her visit the State penitentiary (whaaaaat the..?!)

Grace moved out of the house, and in with Kelsey. It's a good fit -- Grey cleans and Kels fixes. WHAT MORE DO YOU NEED?? She says it's not her fault that her year was extremely boring. She attends SFCC and is in love with a kid from her Sociology class, but has yet to learn his name. (She can corral an entire gym of unruly children but can’t eke out a ‘hello’ to the object of her affection. I’m so confused.) The big news is that she got her license back, making it that much easier for her to work her butt off and make the rest of us look bad. Grace is this family’s indie sensation, sporting impeccable taste in fashion, music, and assuming total knowledge of everything. She loves her nephews but maintains that she won't be having any kids, which I suppose is better than the gratuitous advice everyone else offers. We've decided the reason rooming with Kelsey works so well is because they share an affinity for death by fitness, and should you ever decide to join them for a workout, be forewarned they are not above name-calling. They also use this technique on their sisters' (and heck, their own) potential suitors.

Aaaand that's our year! This is us taking a collective bow and wishing you the very best in 2012. Thanks for loving us and caring enough to read til the end; your selflessness is admirable and your focus remarkable. Next year we'll plan ahead and have door prizes! Until then, we love you, have a Merry Christmas, and don't do anything we wouldn't.

Love, The Stillars

#11: The Time Mom Locked Us out of the House

2011-12-16T09:18:00.000-08:00

Most moms threaten any number of things should their kids act out, namely pain of death. You know, they brought you into this world, they can take you out. We didn't really get that one a lot. Ours were more labor related... doing everyone else's chores, running alongside the car because you started a fight on the way to Chuck E Cheese, etc.

But. And I'm not bashing Mom here, that's the last thing I'd do. Partly because she reads this blog but also because the woman didn't even have to apply for sainthood, they just took a look at her credentials and shooed her in.

It was on a day probably 15 years ago, when we pushed her a little bit too far. We did it often, but this was the first and only time it garnered this kind of response. I think it was the culmination of several small things, mainly our ungratefulness, which spawned the swamp witch. She was making dinner (grilled cheese) and somewhere between the bickering and not doing what we were asked (WHEN she asked, that's her pet peeve), she snapped. Sent us all outside. Doesn't sound so bad, right, except she marched out with our cups & plates and announced we were eating outside tonight, and when we said thank you she turned around, marched back inside and over her shoulder yelled YOU ARE NOT WELCOME!

I can't convey the force with which that door slammed. Then she locked us out.

Dad was outside too. Not sure he'd done anything but ya know, you don't want to be stuck indoors with that.

It was one of those mommy moments I'm sure we will all think of in ten years and say OOOOH. SO THAT'S WHY. And I don't tell it to make her look bad, rather to show her enormous restraint. What a remarkable display of self-awareness, like I'M LOCKING YOU OUT BECAUSE IF YOU COME IN HERE, I WON'T BE RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT I DO.

Not unlike the time Luke & Molly got into a knock-down, drag-out fight--(which happened often, for there is a tribe of antagonists somewhere out there and Molly was their queen)--and Mom, having gotten tired of it, locked them outside to have it out. I remember peering out the window thinking someone was going to die that day.

They didn't.

As for dinner, I have no recollection of ever going back inside that night. Not that it matters. I'm sure we learned our lesson and never did it again.

#12: How We Survived Ice Storm '96 (with only a few casualties)

2011-12-14T22:38:00.000-08:00

When Ice Storm '96 hit, we were living in a rental on top of Orchard Bluff, north of Green Bluff. That's code for WAY UP THERE. I always thought we got more snow than everyone else, but now I'm thinking it's just because I was short. It's a little disappointing, not gonna lie.

We were like a modern day Little House on the Prairie, though my dad never had quite that much hair.

What isn't an exaggeration, is how long we went without power when Ice Storm came through. Our house was already sans central air so every day we chopped firewood for the stove. That's right, mom and dad gave us an ax and said TIME TO EARN YOUR KEEP. I have no explanation for how we're all still here today. To add to that madness was the fact that we were on well water, and for those of you not versed in all things irrigation (aka those who think plumbers are just guys with long butt-cracks), it means where there's no power, there's no water. We were already living 10 in a house with only one bathroom, but suddenly we didn't even have that. Dad brought in a generator but we still had to follow a 3-step process whenever flushing the toilet. Anyway that's not my story.

This was back during a time when we actually enjoyed playing in the snow. Never mind that it took you 20 minutes to bundle up and by the time you were outside you were already tired... we were going to ENJOY IT, DAMNIT. We would build fortresses and have snowball fights, we even once built an igloo by filling recycle bins with snow and water, freezing them and stacking them one on top of the other. It was worth the work for the few days we had of a 3'x3' crawl space, despite the constant fear that we'd be buried alive if it were to collapse. And at the back of our 100-acre property were some hills, where water would accumulate and freeze over. It was our very own skating rink, which we took to every day in our tennis shoes.

But our favorite game was the climb atop the garage, and jump into the feet of snow below. This particular roof was constructed of long and narrow steel plates, and by the end of the day our snowsuits were near ripped to shreds. I distinctly remember our amusement at jumping (falling, let's be honest) so hard that we'd get lodged in the snow, and have to dig one another out. It's for this reason that come Springtime, we found a number of boots and gloves sitting next to the garage.

And then there's the time I went to climb onto the roof (accessible via a smaller side roof) and Luke pushed me. I rolled right off, dropping about 3 feet and onto the wheelbarrow. Would've been great if it'd been INTO the wheelbarrow, but I missed it by about a foot. It was a picturesque ricochet.

12 Random Stillar Facts, one for each day til we're all together again. Hallelujah! Amen.

2011-12-13T21:28:00.000-08:00

Any day now, the Annual Stillar Family Christmas Letter goes to press. Unlike past years, my siblings didn't get editing rights on this one. Due to time constraints, they weren't even allowed to fact check. I half expect a barrage of hate mail. To that I say, next year you should try being less noteworthy (Molly), ignorant (Kyle) or easy to make fun of (take your pick) and see where it gets you. It's a thin line, and let's be honest you'll probably lose, but hey -- if you want to spend hours being a contributing writer, knock yourself out. I'd welcome the company.

Oh, and BYOB.

The closer Christmas gets, the more excited and anxious I become at the thought of all 15 of my family members under one roof, prompting the gush of nostalgia from Christmases past. I had the cutesy thought to make a list of 12 memories and post one a day from now until Christmas Day, culminating in the ultimate story about how one year we found out that we're Santa's long-lost relatives, so we donned our turtlenecks and took a trip to the North Pole, and someone inevitably found love, and the elves weren't as freaky as in the movies. Festive, right!

Except then I began feeling totally schmaltzy, like when did I become a middle-aged mother of small, impressionable children? No. I'm a self-righteous, unapologetic female with too much time on her hands and with a mind like a steel trap. So we're skipping the feel-good semantics and instead going with this: The-12-Days-of-Stillar-and-Other-Related-Stuff.

Much more fitting. Saves me from having to stick to Christmas stuff.

A warning: if you've ever met us, dated us, worked with us, friended us on Facebook, or seen us on the street, it's possible you could be passive-aggressively mentioned. I won't name names, but ten bucks says I won't have to.

And to tide you over, here's a bonus bit, but it's a classic. Because why not make it a bakers dozen.

#13: The Trampoline Years

My parents discovered early on that if they were going to homeschool us, we needed some incentive to get us out of the house every now and then, and what better way than a giant metal contraption which catapults you into the air? Fun Fact #284 about homeschooling: you can do whatever the hell you want and the fun police can't tell you to stop it for liability reasons. My sister and I, probably around 8 and 10 at the time, made it our life goal to learn the art of trampoline gymnastics. I still remember the 1996 Olympics when Team USA took the gold thanks to Kerri Strug's awesome vault, as seen here. She so deserved it. Also, John Tesh narrated my formative years.

Anyway. Molly and I loved the trampoline, eventually teaching ourselves to execute double front flips. I have to believe Mom didn't know anything about it, because who lets their kid do that? It's a spinal injury waiting to happen, and that's if you actually know what you're doing. We just kinda jumped, tucked, and hoped we woke up. My sister, bless her heart, shares my imminent laughter in the face of others' pain, so whenever we'd injure ourselves (as we often did), the other would laugh their ass of. Then came the day I didn't quite make it all the way around, and landed on my neck. I was in so much pain except I couldn't cry because I'd had the wind knocked out of me, and I tried to walk to the house except it hurt too much so I stood there gasping for air while Molly laughed. Then she tried to hop off the trampoline and her leg got stuck in the springs so she fell over, smacking her tailbone on the metal piping, and promptly tumbled off backwards, landing on the ground with both feet in the air.

There we were, both unable to breath or laugh or cry, but not willing to help the other.

Really we are fabulous testaments to the fact that kids are versatile and will bounce right back, pun absolutely intended. I think I'll print up little tracts of this story, so when I see those germaphobic moms in grocery stores who lather their kids up with hand sanitizer every ten minutes, I can walk up and hand them a copy then say OH P.S., YOUR KID JUST LICKED THE SHOPPING CART.

But really. In retrospect, I probably should've gone to a hospital. I think I turned out okay.

Reflections: How Post-Generation-Y landed me in therapy.

2011-11-29T22:22:00.001-08:00

Walking out of the HUB the other day, I came upon one of my professors' 3-year-old sons, there for lunch with his mom. I had the super fun experience of babysitting this kid once, and it was life-changing. I'd forgotten how enlightening toddler insight can be. There he was, picking all of the bobby pins out of my hair and thinking he was doing me a favor. We read books, we played with sidewalk chalk, and every so often I'd ask if he needed to go to the bathroom. He finally looked right at me and said if he has to go, he'll tell me. I wasn't ready for that.

So there he is walking along, when he stops to take in the scene which is a massive construction site. I pointed and asked WHAT'S THAT THING CALLED? and I'll be damned if he didn't say A CHERRYPICKER. What 3-year-old knows how to identify a cherrypicker? His mom said it's because in his alphabet book, C is for Cherrypicker. E is for Excavator. Get with it, homeschooler. All I could think was that in my alphabet book, C was for Cat. We've come a long way, apparently. Yet I had a hard time reconciling this knowledge because it was this same 3-year-old who, moments after naming complicated machinery, almost kissed a pole because he wasn't paying attention (and also because he's at that height where everything is at eye level). I guess it comes down to priorities.

I've thought about it since, and realized that I'm totally one of those who wonders why we can't go back to the days before Baby Einstein, battery-operated devices and hell, THE INTERNET. (Said like one who thinks she could get anywhere without Mapquest. Although I did successfully navigate the auto parts store without having to ask for help, and then I rewarded myself with a jumbo margarita.) Last month my sister and I were walking through IKEA and saw parents who had planted their kid in the cart, couldn't have been more than a few years old. Sitting there, iPad in hand, watching a movie. We thought that was pretty clever until we saw the kid swipe through the pages like any tech-savvy nerd. We were all WHAAA, DID YOU JUST SEE THAT?!

Maybe I'm bitter at being schooled by a 3-year-old. Or maybe I'm just that person who thinks we've totally swung wide in the overachiever spectrum when really, it's completely relative. I didn't think those little wax pieces you melt together to make coasters were that big of a generational game changer, but I could be wrong.

And I'm not one to talk about not raising overachievers, my siblings were athletic machines who had never seen the dark side of a 3.9 GPA, who have worked their asses off to get to where they are in life, and paid their own way. People say I joke about overachievers because all of us were exactly that, when really all my parents did was never tell us we couldn't do/try/achieve anything, be it big or small, and in doing so implied that the sky is the limit. You say why, we say WHY NOT? I'm convinced it's why we know the value of a good job with good people, loving what you do, and taking time to experience life. They also went the way of trusting us to make wise decisions, and thus never imposed a curfew. In fact the only restrictions we had growing up were related to the amount of food we consumed as a household, and the size of our water bill. Translation: you may have three peach slices at dinnertime, and are limited to 4-minute showers. No exceptions, unless you've just run yourself down a ditch and into a barbed-wire fence. Which totally happened. More than once.

Really, my beef (if we can even call it that) is not with parenting -- I'm not THAT obvious an idiot. Rather, I find it fascinating the culture we find ourselves in. I'm not even calling it wrong, just interesting. Big words and lots of knowledge up front are harmless, unless it's of the anatomical nature or sounds/looks/is at all like 'Snooki'. I tend to think most kids will pickup the important stuff when they're ready. Some are ready sooner. As for parenting... well, I can't pretend to have an ounce of valuable insight in that department. The last time I stayed overnight to help with my nephews, I turned a corner and ran Blake's little head right into the wall. He's fine, and I suppose of the two, better his thick head than his brother's fragile one. But still.

My extent of any paternal knowledge goes about this far: expectant and new moms should treat the internet like celebrities treat tabloids, and not read any of it. Ever.

Proof that I retain helpful information every now and then.

2011-11-21T11:26:00.000-08:00

Spokane got our first major snow this past weekend, and while I enjoy the four seasons, my affections for that which brings out the worst in people and causes a lot of unnecessary accidents is (much like it's counterpart the Trip to the Mall to go Christmas Shopping) lukewarm at best. But I've lived here long enough to know it can't be helped, and incessant whining does not get you anywhere except a tad closer to being forced to run alongside the car. So let's do the best we can with what we've been handed, and thank God we don't live in North Dakota.

Dad always said that when car trouble hits, walk into Napa and beg stupidity. Except I never really had to beg, as my knowledge (or lack thereof) went on fine display the moment I walked in and said I needed a headlight and when they asked what for, I said MY CAR. But sometimes ignorance is to ones advantage, because they assume you need all the help you can get and that includes cheap parts, just in case you decide to burst into tears. (Which, for the record, has never happened.) And that's how I got a steal of a deal on repairs, prompting my brother-in-law to inquire who I had to sleep with to get that?

They say nobody likes a girl who knows everything, even moreso the one who thinks she does. I've never been in danger of knowing too much, unless you count my experience with teenagers who like to push buttons. Put me in a room full of kids who can't follow directions and I spew control. It's one of my God-given natural abilities, commanding the attention of dramatic children and the occasional pageant mom.

Back to what I don't know. Cars: what makes them run, what fixes them, or what is good for them. (After spending a night helping care for my nephews, I'm thinking it wouldn't be wise to give me that kind of responsibility either.) Then my battery and alternator both died within a few months of each other--twice--and though I'm probably stuck in the 'hopelessly helpless' category, I figured it best to learn some universal need-to-knows. You know, that list of things everyone should know, like how to store bread, write an effective grocery list, walk on ice in high heels, and, how to jump start a car without blowing it up. (Save your comments, it's the small victories).

Part of any good learning process is practical application. This is how I learned there is a mid-20's, Christian male demographic who still believe that women are not capable of anything. I'd call it a theory, but that seems generous.

In Bible study yesterday, a friend of a friend walks up and announces her car, which was parked in the lot overnight due to a dead battery, has been broken into. Can any of us jump it? Yes. So I drive up, attach the cables and she's preparing to start her car when two guys approach us. They're with a nearby church and noticed our trouble, can they help? I look at the cables, do some quick mental work to assess my options, and say DO YOU WANT TO CHECK MY WORK? They nod, and thus inspect, remove the cables and stare at/fuss with them for a few seconds before ultimately putting them back exactly where they were. (Translation: I was right.) We get the car started, and I ask the girl if she has a garage or if she wants to tape over the window until it gets fixed, and the guys are all OH, THERE'S A GLASS PLACE UP THE ROAD, to which I reply that I think few places would be open on a Sunday. They both whip out their iPhones and go to town looking up phone numbers and calling around, only to find out everywhere is closed. (Translation: I was right.) Then the poor girl says she's worried about her battery, and one of the guys says NOW THAT WE'VE JUMPED IT, YOU SHOULD BE FINE then she clarifies that it's died several times in the last few days, so I tell her she can have it tested to know for sure, but that it probably needs replacing. Then I look at the guys and say UNLESS YOUR IPHONE DOES THAT, TOO.

It doesn't.

But Happy Thanksgiving, Jesus loves you.

And then, the world got just a bit better-looking.

2011-10-05T22:33:00.000-07:00

A tribute to the new men in our lives, Grayson and Blake. Because their father has his hands full and their mother probably won't remember anything.

--

Dear B & G,

I was to meet friends for drinks tonight, but after a day of bragging about how beautiful and smart my new nephews are, I was exhausted. Even though all I did was sit on my butt and wait for you to get here. But any activity involving this family is borderline exhausting, as you will soon find out, so tonight I laid down for a 'quick nap' and woke up two hours later. Thus, I'm in for the night and it's just me, my laptop and my friend New Amsterdam.

Yesterday was the big day. You're the first grandbabies, which means the cavalry was called in for your arrival. Be grateful, I'm sure your cousins won't get the same reception. In fact I'd say its already lost its novelty, which means by the time I get around to having kids the family will be all OH HEY, CALL US WHEN YOU GET HOME. TWEET AS YOU GO. STAY BEAUTIFUL!

You were induced, then you wouldn't budge. Which probably means you're stubborn, like your mama. She was a champ throughout your labor & delivery. But then she's always been that way. When she was born (back in 1983, that's a year before the floppy disk was invented, IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING), my dad told his in-laws that she'd been dropped on her head. And they believed him. She grew up to be strong-willed, determined, loyal, and incredibly loving. Her siblings admire and look up to her so much. She's knowledgeable, gracious, and she looks great in sweatpants. Your dad, he's tall and handsome, full of integrity. We really lucked out with him. I've seen him love my family better than we ourselves know how to, all for love of and commitment to his wife. You scored in the parental department, don't you ever forget it.

Your mom is a nurse, I remember all the years she spent in school and how we used to bring eachother coffee. Despite the fact that Mom says we hated eachother as kids (and I believe it), we became close friends in our later years. When your dad came along I pretended to hate him (I was only half serious) and when he got the idea to propose, I was the only one he told because he needed me to find out Molly's ring size. I kept that secret for weeks and it almost killed me. NEVER AGAIN. I still remember the message he left me the day he asked my parents' permission. He was nervous and excited and apparently flustered because he kept repeating himself... OH MY GOSH I'M SO NERVOUS! OKAY SO... GOING TO SEE YOUR PARENTS TODAY AND...UM...YEAH, GOING TO SEE YOUR PARENTS...JUST HAD TO TELL SOMEBODY...NERVOUS! I'M NERVOUS! He's since recovered and now works as a firefighter for the City. Which means he knows every street in town, in case you ever get lost and don't have a GPS handy. But we're pretty sure you're already outfitted with tracking devices. Precautionary measure.

Back to yesterday.

I arrived at the hospital around 530p, and my sister was hunched over the bed looking miserable. Soon the waiting room was full, and we resorted to filming ourselves in slow motion to pass the time, until finally your Aunt Kelsey asked where the hospital bar was? Wait, there isn't one? I feel like that would be a good idea...

The doctor came in, and ordered a C-section. My dad arrived just as Molly was being wheeled through the doors, gave her a kiss, and then you were gone. Your dad scrubbed up, walked the catwalk for pictures sake, and went back to the O.R. to meet you. And then the waiting game began, which was really only 45 minutes or so because your doctor was a total rock star and had you out of there in no time. You were moved to the nursery except we didn't get the message right away, so when the nurse came around the corner and said ARE YOU GOING TO GO SEE THEM?, it launched a mass exodus which totally broke the 'quiet' rule. And suddenly, there you were. On the other side of the too-small, very sound proof glass. You are tiny and amazing and remarkably un-wrinkly, weighing in at 8lbs 2oz and 7lbs 5oz, which is insane for twins. I hope you know you owe your mother like, a hundred lattes.

Your daddy, he stood there and cried with you as the rest of us stood on the other side of the glass. Precious time alone with you, and he had eyes only for you. We've always known he would make a phenomenal dad, based mostly on his keen eye for bullshit and also by the way he treats his dog. You're two very lucky boys.

We stood there and stared at you for what seems like forever. My brother Luke and sister Leslie were on the phone, both having been in the middle of night class (college--psh), and it killed them not to be here to see you. You were being measured and manhandled, and you looked really unhappy about it. It was a classic play-by-play as we attempted to describe your little bodies and faces and hands... HE'S YAWNING! NOW HE'S CRYING! YAWNING AGAIN! and nobody cared, we were positively transfixed.

Now that you're finally here, you have so many people who just want to love on you. That's the great thing about our family -- we love well. It doesn't always look conventional or traditional, after all not everyone thinks it's funny (or loving) to sit around the dinner table "helping" you get over a break-up by discussing how glad they are he's gone, that it doesn't get more awkward than having to explain to some people (i.e. your grandma Cheryl) what "metrosexual" means. Oh, and they never liked him anyway. Then they run into him a few weeks later and decide that yes, it can get more awkward, but I will be happy to know they handled it like mature adults and hid their derisive remarks the only way they knew how, by being total bitches. We're talking the no-we-don't-hate-you-why-would-you-think-that routine, followed by everyone whipping out their cell phones to text nobody, and capped with a collective hair toss. AS YOU WERE.

I digress. Here is what you need to live a full and happy life, the rules are few and strong:

- Surround yourself with quality people and love them well.
- Know who you are, and wear it with confidence; don't be afraid to screw up, the experience will change your life.
- Never leave the house without your pants.

I'm tempted to go into how it's all downhill from here, but Molly would probably kill me. So.

I can't wait to spend more time with you, to gift you battery-operated toys and to impart the virtues of tall americanos. To teach you everything there is to know about flirting with girls, and how important it is to always open doors. You have a lot to learn, but for now, you're a mere 24 hours old and I'm sure you have other priorities. It's okay, I can wait.

Love you,
Me

p.s. News of your arrival got a whopping 47 'likes' on Facebook, which doesn't seem like a lot compared to the 750+ quote-unquote friends I have, but look at it this way: recounting how my roommate told an entire table of unsuspecting people that she and I are lesbians, only got 7 'likes', and if you knew my roommate you'd know how likeable she is. Perspective is everything!

Consider our party potential thus discovered.

2011-09-26T19:33:00.000-07:00

To top off my 2011 Weddingpalooza was last weekend's soiree, the story of Maggie and Ethan. It was been a much-anticipated labor of love, all things considered: tissue paper pom-poms, a bouquet made out of 150+ button flowers, and a paper flower garland which a group of us full-nelson'ed one night after a few glasses of wine. I half expected to see the finished product spell out a subliminal message. As it turns out, I'm not that talented.

Regardless, it was an event where we found the tables mysteriously turned, for after two years of working with PhD-holding intellectuals I was finally able to show them the awesomeness--we'll even go so far as to say my hidden talent--which is that I make a stellar wedding guest. Two hours in, one Prof said PHOTOGRAPHY...THRILLER...WHAT DON'T YOU DO? and I was all WELL, I DON'T DO WHAT YOU DO. AND, I CAN'T PLAY SPORTS.

I've always thought that last one rendered me universally incompetent but then I realized just because your family tells you something your whole life doesn't make it true. Bastards.

Of the stack of reasons why I miss working for these guys, one such is because they threw (and still throw) awesome parties. Like when they rented a bouncy castle then fed everybody cotton candy, which turned out to be the day we learned the Stillar sisters are aerodynamic. But I guess it goes without saying that artists make great partiers, as their brains are naturally so hyped up on something. Plus they're quirky and they look the part, so they make excellent conversation pieces.

It's a different world, working in a sea of Doctorates. They joke about totally different things, usually over my head. Although, I can appreciate when the start of term rolls around because they don their regalia for Convocation and as they make their way out the front door, somebody inevitably congratulates another on achieving a successful defense against the dark arts.

When I get married, I'm going to design a Rube Goldberg machine ending with an elaborate GUESS WHAT, HE'S CRAZY! AND YES, YOU'RE INVITED! and then bust into a rap. University faculty seem, as fate would have it, the hard sell of all hard sells.

Okay, not really. But wouldn't that be awesome. I'd be all HEY LOOK, A CONTRAPTION! OK GO!

There's never really a dull moment. Like, ever ever.

This weekend was no different. I ran the photo booth, allowing me the freedom to embarrass said faculty with my collection of hipster 'staches on a stick and really annoying feather boas. (Naturally I have all those things.)

They didn't really need my help.

The gang, looking completely normal. Really.

That's Liam. He's my favorite.

This would fall into the category of "what they don't tell you for fear you might re-enact 'Carrie' during your middle school Tolo".

2011-09-23T13:30:00.000-07:00

I recently had someone, applying for a job similar to my own, ask what I consider most important to doing the work that I do. I said flexibility = being willing to adjust and change, while still maintaining quality of work and an attitude that doesn't make people want to punch you in the mouth. You know what else really helps? Being an honest communicator. Because who doesn't love a well-placed "truth bomb", as my roommate would say. Tact is nice, though a tad overrated.

But flexibility, now that's paramount. Which is kind of funny, as growing up I wasn't what anyone would call easy going. Responsible, efficient and smashingly articulate, yes. But flexibility got lost in there somewhere. I was just that kid who needed to know exactly what I was doing and where I was going. My sense of self and security was directly related to my ability to see down the road. I don't always consider this to be a detriment to others, but it was to me, as it was my way of ensuring I felt safe. It's really not remotely difficult to see how I became a control freak, but I plead not-half-as-bad by saying you should meet my older brother who, as a toddler in daycare, was handed back to my mom with the strong suggestion that she get him evaluated. Turns out he'd colored outside the lines and thus, went postal. (And if you've never read up on that term, you really should.)

This is the same kid who had a complete meltdown whenever he heard the song Happy Birthday, which as you might imagine became a source of free entertainment to the rest of us, for the first ten years of his life. He hit his teen years thinking everyone gets five birthdays a year. Let's not go into what it takes to undo that crap. In retrospect, we're thinking it was probably just his innate brilliance surpassing his childhood capacity to handle it all. You talk to him now, and he's one of those people who walks that thin line between funny-ha-ha and funny which causes you to be all I'm-laughing-on-the-outside-but-inside-I'm-not-tracking-so-I'm-actually-kind-of-intimidated sort of way. Then you realize several minutes later that it's because he totally served you a backhanded compliment.

As I was saying. I find it fascinating that I've discovered flexibility to be so key, because it didn't come naturally to me. I used to plan my days out, including what I was eating for lunch. And sometimes, I worried that I'd forget overnight, that I'd write reminders for myself and tape them onto the ceiling so they'd be the first thing I saw when I woke up. I kind of want to meet the 13-year-old me so I can slap her a little. What in the world.

Remember the Chicken Dance? You know, the one they used to play at the roller rink and thus was born the most embarrassing moment of every 5th grader who was too uncoordinated to roller skate much less bawk like a chicken at the same time. Turns out that song has lyrics, which I didn't know until two days ago. It was a jaw-dropping moment, that altogether dramatic realization that a staple of my childhood wasn't what I thought. Pretty sure I would've remembered being told to wiggle my butt, that's the kind of thing you wave over your parents' heads as being someone else's idea. Dodging blame is learned at a young age.

My point is, as a kid I wouldn't have taken the news well. Talk about tightly wound.

We're glad I've grown out of that. I maintain that the more you learn grace with others, the more they have with you, and so goes the cycle. Which, all niceties aside, is good because the people I work for also take an ungodly amount of abuse. I say every department needs a snarky PA. Why do you think things get fixed so fast around here? I know the system and hell, people like me. So tell that to the professor who, when I walked by his open office and glanced inside, said WHAT WAS THAT LOOK? YOU JUST GAVE ME A LOOK! WHAT! WHAT! and I said no, I didn't give you a look, why would I do that, and for crying out loud stop acting like a woman.

So. With the untwisting of my shorts came the ability to put you in your place using cynicism and a sharp wit. I think it was a pretty good trade.

Other things I wish I'd have had the wherewithall to accept? The fact that no amount of butt-crack is ever enticing, tasteful, or cool. Some people think so. Mostly girls, but not even the feminine mystique can excuse or otherwise glorify that shit. This could also be filed under the category "The Visible Thong, and Other Fashion Fads We Hope Never Make a Comeback". Let's see...metabolism is a privilege, not a right. So is spandex. Ooo! Boys are really easy to figure out. Like, super easy. But they're also smarter than you think, and it's never a good idea to tell them you think they're "safe" just because you assume they know you don't like them back.

I know. Goin' to hell on a fast cart.

Kevin Costner, be still my beating heart.

2011-09-15T18:28:00.000-07:00

I turned 26 this month. It's been alright so far. I'm not much of a birthday person, and people say that's all well and fine until they realize I'm still not a birthday person even when theirs rolls around. Then they're all butt-hurt that I don't give gifts or want to celebrate with a four night bender. I'm sorry, but until you pop out multiple kids (at the same time) or run off with Prince Harry, I'm not showering you with gifts or kissing your hand. Come talk to me when you invent something awesome. Like a bottomless Baileys fountain.

In short: I don't think birthdays are a big deal. Who has time for that? I grew up in a household with seven other children, we thought birthday parties were only allowed for the first six years of your life and after that, SOL. You try throwing eight parties a year then doing it all over again. And so, I'm a cheap date. Give me pizza, good beer, and The Bodyguard on Blu-Ray. Preferably without my roommate's self-led sing-a-long, but such are the hazards of living with a product of the 80's.

Not all of your friends will buy into this un-birthday routine, but to that I say you can't go wrong in asking for what you want. You can trust me, I work next door to a tenured Communications professor. One whose anxious advisees came looking for him and found a locked office, so I tracked the guy down to discover that his appointments were being held elsewhere. Apparently he'd told everyone that. I said I'd relay the message, and did he want me to include a caveat about how your advisor the Doctor of Communication Studies says to tell you that you got it wrong? Does nobody catch the irony here...

Anyway. When your friends ask what you'd like to do for your birthday, the most annoying response one could give is the cryptic ANYTHING IS FINE. Because we all know anything is not fine. Another thing that is not fine? Expecting them to read your mind. Ask my former boss how that worked out for him when he solicited my help on something (yes, that's what he called it) and when I looked him in the eye and said "What do you need from me?", he replied, and I quote: I DON'T HAVE TIME TO GO INTO THAT! IF YOU COULD JUST READ MY MIND ON THIS, THAT WOULD BE GREAT.

Don't be that guy.

I told my friends I wanted to spend my birthday in good conversation with good people. We planned an evening out at a new pub in town. Nice and unassuming.

The week leading up to it wasn't exactly easy. Easy is heating up last night's leftovers or 'dealing with' clingy people by claiming to have dropped your phone in the toilet. I'd had difficult conversations and made difficult decisions, then had what we'll call a mild run-in with someone who has mastered the art of (intentionally) toggling between my good graces and my shit list. The thought of fielding attention on a day I didn't consider worth the hype, exhausted me. Come 1130pm, I was sitting on my front porch, having convinced myself that as long as I didn't go to sleep, the day wouldn't arrive. And yes, these reasoning skills have gotten me far in life. All the way to 26, in fact.

To add insult to injury, the previous two birthdays were both preceded by untimely break-ups, prompting the day to be more about drowning my sorrows than celebrating another year. The Stillar girls mark such dismal occasions with the comprehensive "Break-Up Kit", complete with lots of sugar and alcohol and presented with just enough fanfare to remind you of what a total and pathetic wreck you are. But good news, one day your prince will come.

(Why tempt fate? Leave it to me to make it three times the charm when I don't even have anyone to break up with.)

Alas, the day dawned and God graciously allowed me the energy to face it. Three flower deliveries, one jazz-handed musical revue by my cheeky faculty and a host of text messages later, I was feeling quite blessed. What is more, I added to my tiara collection an inflatable creation which I was forced to wear, tolerated only by reminding myself it could double as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.

Perspective is everything.

Moving on.

Before any of that, and before I returned to school full time, I spent a week at CYT as choreographer for our 2nd Annual Show-in-a-Week. That's right. Let's get all of you who-knows-if-you're-talented people together and put on a show. Every night for four hours, it was dance dance revolution on a bad batch of crack. By the time it was all over, I was sporting a fresh pair of shin splints and a few extra butt-aches. Wouldn't you know, the jump from 25 to 26 is so not the same as 24 to 25. Nobody tells you that, either, so you have to wait til you're running a rehearsal, like you've done in your sleep for seven years, working up an awesome sweat and BOOM, your body tells you it's bedtime. Which I can handle, but not very gracefully. As in I almost ate a small child. And so, we learned that I should never attempt an extra 30 hours on top of an already full-time schedule, as it causes me to use my powers for evil instead of good.

The other piece of excitement these days is the impending arrival of my twin nephews. Blake and Grayson, or as we like to call them, Thing 1 and Thing 2. Not the cute Dr. Suess kind, but rather the shape-shifting alien circa 1982. These boys don't kick like normal babies; they drag their little fists along Molly's stomach and probably gnash their teeth and foam at the mouth and stuff. We always know when it's happening because she jumps up and starts pacing and jiggling and stomping, like that's going to help. Meanwhile the rest of us are sitting there all OH HEY SIGOURNEY WEAVER, DRAMATIC MUCH?

Part of the nursery decor is several pictures, including the ultrasound originals, which Molly wanted laminated. Fast forward to my standing in the middle of Kinkos, having just applied extreme heat to several delicate pieces of plastic. When I realized what I'd done, I dissolved into a pool of tears in front of the nice man who was desperately trying to figure out how his offhanded comment about liking my boots, could've been taken the wrong way. I made it to my car and called Molly in a panic, leaving a confession I'm sure she has saved and will bring out when she needs a good laugh. Thankfully she reminded me that the very day prior, we'd scanned in all of the originals. Ultrasound pictures included. Translation: All is not lost, you psycho. And take a Xanax.

When my department chair asked why the traumatized face, I gave him the story about having assumed I could laminate them just like any other picture. He laughed at me, said OF COURSE YOU CAN'T and I sat there silently berating him and thinking how does that help me now, except to make me want to staple your lips together. Then he walked away, only to come back later and announce that he'd broken the website, and when I asked how he said WELL I JUST ASSUMED I COULD UPLOAD THAT FILE BUT APPARENTLY I WAS WRONG. I asked do you know what happens when you assume?

You fry your sister's ultrasound pictures, that's what.

This, friends, is God's outrageous sense of humor (and His cultivation of mine).

2011-09-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

I've said for years that I'm going to write a book. It will be chock full of important things to know, including but not limited to growing up in a large family, sharing bathrooms (and showers), how eating dirt won't kill you, and a slew of other helpful hints, mostly pertaining to interpersonal relations.

Some find it ironic that I'd have anything to say on the subject, given my family's notorious irreverent behavior especially where personal boundaries are concerned. At least we keep it in the family! Meant to imply that if you visit us, your closeted skeletons, jokes about your junk, and the playful poking of your jugs are no longer off-limits.

I digress. Outside of my home, I am wildly protective of my space. And as I've gotten older, it's become harder to hold onto. I think it's that people just don't know what to talk about, so they go for the obvious circumstances. Which brings us to Things Not to Say to a Single Woman: How Marriage Didn't Make You Any Smarter.

Warning: you'll only find this funny if you're single. If you're married, try hard to remember what it was like before that.

Call me hypersensitive, call it a sore spot -- it's honestly none of those things. It just gets old, being the subject of speculation and, most often, the one you live vicariously through because your glory days are over. (Which, BTW, is the most common answer people give but I think it's a load of shit. I admire your efforts.) I'm sorry to deprive you of joy, but you'll live. I rather enjoy my singlehood and I'm in no hurry, though you seem to think that's wrong. I seem to think you shouldn't wear horizontal stripes but you don't see me waving that opinion around, now do you...

I often wonder what makes people think it's okay to say what is on their mind. Everyone talks about how teenagers are missing the part of their brain which, when an idea fires off, is supposed to come back and tell them it's a bad idea. My theory is that a lot of people are missing the part of their brain/psyche which filters their speech and tells them whether or not something is about to make them look like a total ass. The irony is, most would never consider themselves one of 'those' people and are hereforth about to be positively mortified when they realize what I really think of their casual comments about my personal life.

(Note: I do love you. Really. Sarcasm is my spiritual gift and you unknowingly made yourself a target. So, thank you.)

Married people are the worst at unsolicited advice and remarks pertaining to all the reasons why someone is single. Apparently marriage renders you brilliant in this arena. Though you'd rarely hear comments about relationship status coming from the single people, and why? Because we know how annoying it is. And we wonder if you know how annoying it is. But we assume that you don't. And we don't like you for it.

Over the years, I've gotten every comment in the book. My personal favorite came from a friend I've known for several years, worked with very closely in many capacities, and just recently he gave me an incredulous look and said WHY AREN'T YOU MARRIED?!

I was tempted to say I DON'T KNOW, WHY HAVEN'T YOU LOST WEIGHT but I kept my mouth shut. Silence never gets you in trouble in a situation like that.

However- of all the things you could say that would garner a reaction, 'I have a guy you need to meet' is one of the most popular. Not because I'm enthusiastic, per se, but because I'm curious as to your reasoning. Also, I hope I don't turn ignorant like you when I get married. Most think WELL YOU'RE SINGLE AND HE'S SINGLE -- I THINK IT'S A GREAT FIT! and usually I just stare for a second until they start to get all shifty and uncomfortable and then they say I MEAN... YOU ARE SINGLE... RIGHT? WHAT...DO I HAVE SOMETHING IN MY TEETH...

If I could demonstrate a bigger eyeroll, I would.

I've come to realize that a lot of people are audacious, as if they don't realize the depth of their own presumption. I usually end up saying I'M GONNA LET YOU THINK ABOUT THAT ONE FOR A MINUTE and then I wait for it to dawn on them that comments about my personal life, along with those about how I turned out exceptionally normal for having been homeschooled, aren't always welcome. (If I'm feeling especially bitchy, a flat comment about how you went to public school and look how wonderfully you turned out, is generally what slips out.) Maybe I'm too private for my own good. I'm calling it now, I'll make a terrible pregnant lady because the idea of perfect strangers asking about my personal life (and, God forbid, touching me? Who ARE you?) makes me want to carry a shank.

Comments are one thing. Setups are another. I've had my fair share of setups/blind dates over the years. There was the guy who showed up on my porch one night, blindfolded, and spouted a custom-written (and memorized) Shakespearean-esque sonnet as an elaborate way to ask me out on a 'blind' date. Or the guy who I went out with as part of a group date to the local giant corn maze, and given his engineering background, he studied that thing so hard and found his way out in no time. I took that as a sign. Or the time I was asked to go out with a guy not because they thought it was a good pairing, but nobody really knew his type so it was my job to figure it out. (Never mind that I totally failed covert operations.) He called no less than five times and hung up every time, so by the time I actually spoke with him I was already a little weirded out. Then he decided a good first date would be to sit on the floor at an Indian restaurant and eat with our hands. Fantastic. (My Papa always says when people say fantastic, they really mean bull shit. I would have to agree. Now you know.) Except we never even made it to that point, because he stumbled upon my family's Christmas blog (complete with the tongue-in-cheek annual letter, loaded with vehement sarcasm) and needless to say, he didn't think we were a good fit. My friends were livid, whereas I laughed uncontrollably.

What I'm trying to say is this: do us all a favor and think before you speak. That would be fantastic.

I can't decide if this calls for an attitude adjustment or a playful butt slap.

2011-08-17T17:17:00.000-07:00

Such is August. Rather fickle and well, kids, I've really done it this time. I jacked my body up, acquired an enviable suntan, lashed out irrationally and almost face-planted in front of a Catholic priest, all in a matter of days. Some people might be worried, but not I. This is me playing a game of chicken against life and can I just say, WINNING. However, I'm getting ahead of myself.

This month's update is nice and punctual, partially because I'm awesome but also because the first two weeks have been crammed full of stuff...great stuff and sad stuff, enough for one post. Aaaand also because it's probably better that someone write it down as documentation. Insurance reasons, we'll go with that.

We began our month with Stillar Family StayCation, shoehorning all 13 of us + two dogs into Mom and Dad's house at Long Lake. We'd taken a poll and decided to tent it, everybody will pitch in and work like the responsible adults that we are, no water balloon fights like last year... The only one who might not want to participate is Molly, but she's over there playing Angry Birds while the twins try to judo chop their way out and she isn't really in the mood, if you know what I mean. The decision to sleep on the ground was a naive mistake, certainly not the brightest idea I've ever had. But this is the real reason why I keep my siblings so close, they're full of "great ideas".

And so began our week of bliss, aka the day we discovered I'm getting old. I'm serious. First day in, I was playing tube wars with my sister the hot toddy, and came home with bloody canvas burns and a firm I WILL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN. I woke up the next morning convinced that I needed to go to the ER like, right now. The days wore on, we boated, we swam, they fished, we played volleyball and games and ate lots of food. Then mom sat on the small dog, Alex threw a live fish at his wife and we officially declared mutiny.

Some days are just a lot like a hormonal woman. I would know.

In typical fashion, Mom assigned meals and chores across the board. Aforementioned mutiny fell on my day, in fact I kicked off the opening ceremonies when Grace stared at the food on the counter in front of me and said WHAT IS THA-YUT? so I told her: turkey, pear and brie for paninis. And she said OH MY GOSH THAT'S DIS-GAAAWS-TING! Well, you can make her own damn dinner and also, go away. She declared she was only there to help, the chore chart says so, and I was all HUH. WELL, YOU SUCK. GOODBYE. And that's how I got to preparing dinner all by myself.

I'm only good at sharing the kitchen when you offer to help and also to cut the running commentary. My ex-boyfriend was perfect at this. He also loved to cheat at Bananagrams by making up words and never telling anyone, and it never occurred to us to question him. Sneaky bastard.

Things we learned:

- 25-year-old bodies do not bounce (or bounce back) as well as 15-year-old bodies.
- "Poop" smoothies, appropriately named for the damage they cause, should not be consumed by 13 people all on the same day.
- Women who are seven months pregnant with twins are much easier to get into water than they are to get out.
- Dogs will throw up when they want to. It doesn't matter if you are in the way.

Overall, this year seemed much less eventful. Maybe it was a sign of things to come. We'd no sooner resumed normal life when Coocum (my grandmother) began to go downhill fast. She'd been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer in January, was given months to live, suffered a series of strokes in June, and had been in and out of hospice and various care facilities ever since. We lost her on August 12th. I've grieved many things, but this version is a first. In fact, it would seem there are various breeds, each their own form of difficult and beautiful all at once.

As with everything in my life, I knew from the start that I was to let myself feel it. Nothing terrifies me more, for while it means less trouble down the road, it also means being misunderstood, falling apart at inopportune times (all over unsuspecting people or worse, those who can't handle it), and making some really poor decisions in the meantime. I have never been able to weather difficulty with grace, in fact it ends up being most unattractive. While I know I need to do it this way, I never claimed to know how. Flying blind, as it were, is scary shit.

Maybe it's the artist in me, or maybe God just lost a bet, but I feel in very great capacity. I use lots of adjectives, I express myself, and thankfully, I'm also self-aware. Feeling colors life in deep shades but also makes it very hard. People are always telling you to calm down, this isn't a big deal, you should be over it by now, the list goes on. And I can confess, I try to do just that. But like anything, there is a plus side. I am able to experience life, art, laughter, celebration, successes, and also pain... all at once. And much more radically. While I am gradually learning to be okay with this truth about myself, I find that I can't ask people to wrap their mind around something they will never be able to see. It is, I am convinced, my greatest privilege and blessing in life, but also the thorn in my side. It's what allows me to worship the way that I do, dance the way that I do, make creative things with my hands, teach my students and make them laugh, and feel insurmountable pride at the things they accomplish. I know, by the grace and peace of God, that I was not created to feel any less than I do. Problem is that people want part, but not all of it. They appreciate and respect the way in which I worship, but they don't understand how and why my feelings are hurt so deeply by a careless individual. I don't have a choice in my circumstances, I can only control whether or not I will live at a higher level of living. So despite the fact that I desperately want to endure this loss without distraction - it's not happening. It was never meant to. What I want, what I desperately strive for, is that He be well pleased. My failures outnumber my merits but at the end of the day I am still desperate for Him, and through His grace I am learning.

But that is my own piece. The family, they are handling it an array of ways. Good and bad. They are learning via trial and error, just as I am. And though it still remains to be seen, I am so encouraged by their reflex ability to take one step that much closer to eachother, and feel with eachother just what this situation means.

I am reading 'A Severe Mercy' (S. Vanauken), and just as the shit hit the fan in our life, I read this. 'Grief is a form of love... I was having to bear the unbearable. If I must bear it, I would...find the whole meaning of it, taste the whole of it. I was driven by an unswerving determination to plumb the depths.. to understand why she had lived and died, to learn from sorrow whatever it had to teach.. I would not run away from grief.. Let all be according to His perfect will.'

And later on: 'It had never occurred to me that I was having a right response to death by being merely, though of course immensely, sad. Grief unalloyed.'

I am so thankful, so utterly thankful to be surrounded by people who love my family. Those who, when they heard the news, came in swarms to be with us for the services and the final goodbye. Not because they knew her, necessarily, but because they know us. Friends attended the mass and were treated to our own adaptation of Death at a Funeral as my cousin's phone went off, I was kicked off pallbearer duty for not being buff enough, and Molly's dress was hiked up her butt as she stood to take communion. We are, however, convinced that Jesus loves us too.

Cue the few days of family time, overshadowed (and yet redeemed in that it brought us together) by the death of Cook. We ate fried chicken, drank our weight in 14 Hands, and called it a day. Then cousin Jen had a birthday.

Some backstory: your great-aunt's are certifiably insane. Ask anyone. They love to do things like stick maxi pads to their foreheads. Or walk around the house with a camera and take pictures of everyone's cleavage for a fun game of 'Name Those Jugs'. Once, when they were younger and also before the invention of 911, they pranked their friends by leaving my newborn cousin on various front porches with a note that said I'M AN ORPHAN. MUST BE BREAST-FED. So it should come as a shock to nobody that they only got weirder once you throw in the need to cope with death.

As we speak, they're on their way to North Dakota, where they will lay Coocum to rest later this week. On their last night here, we hit the local dive bar scene, which though disgusting and probably the cause for its fair share of venereal disease, is culturally entertaining and also makes for excellent stories. My roommate the hypochondriac started hyperventilating before we even made it inside the first complete wreck of a joint. (BUT -- they had Jaegermeister on tap, gold star for them.) My aunts were toasting the world, Riley was regaling the bartender with stories (I don't know, all I really caught was the occasional F-bomb) and Jen was showing off her signature dance moves. Then the karaoke began, and I consider my horizons sufficiently expanded. It started with Total Eclipse of the Heart, turned into Sir Mixalot's Baby Got Back, and you have no idea how upset I am that I can't share with you THAT audio assault. Best hour and a half of my life.

And that's how we do it. We party, we grieve, we party some more. We stick close together and we discover new levels of obnoxious. Just another month.

Because sometimes, SOMETIMES I get kicked down a notch.

2011-07-29T07:57:00.000-07:00

For the near ten years I've been active in worship ministry, I am learning that it's the simple things which sometimes take awhile to register. I would imagine this is one of those life quirks designed to keep us on our toes, because if we knew everything right away, our egos would swallow us whole. I don't know anybody who that's worked out for, though I know many who like to think it has. I've decided they must be Decepticons.

I remember taking a personality test a few years back, the one where it tells you what color you are and then lists your dominant traits. Then they stick you in a room with everyone else like you, and suddenly all is right with the world. It's a semi-awkward yet enlightening situation where everyone nods their head and says I KNOW! I KNOW! and then you all group hug.

The results: I'm a Perfect Melancholy. We value quality, and we'd much rather be the legs of an operation than the face. We care more about a job well done, than receiving any credit for it. And, we are primarily introverts. I have fought tirelessly (actually, that’s just a term – I get tired often) against myself and the habits of my personality vs. the things ministry has demanded of me.

(SIDENOTE on the topic: Adam Young of Owl City---I'm not a fan, but maybe imitating Ben Gibbard spikes your IQ too?---reposted a blog entry recently which explains introversion quite well: http://owlcityblog.com/2011/06/27/10-myths-about-introverts/ )

It’s not often that I write about the things so near to me – I write about the follies, the hilarity of life. But underneath all that, is a deep thinker. So bear with me here.

My introversion has been a hindrance for as long as I can remember. Over the years, I've become so uncomfortable that people presume to know me when really they've just consistently seen me onstage. I perceived it as a gross violation of privacy. Like I'm sure you mean well, but I'm not all shits and giggles and I'd rather not set you up for disappointment. IF YOU DON'T MIND.

Don't ask me where that comes from.

A few weeks back I was leading worship at my church, as I do quite often. Afterward, several people approached me to say thanks for the morning. But the one who stood out, was the woman who could hardly say anything at all, she was so overwhelmed.

It's not out of the ordinary, it's happened many times. I very often won't know how to take these sorts of exchanges, though I've learned to say 'thank you' (as 'you're welcome' seems self-righteous, but going into a spiel about how it's not me, seems no less so). And in the quiet of the afternoons that followed, I realized something else. I've spent so much time resenting people's attention because I feel they are mislead, instead of acknowledging the weight of it—which is, the Spirit at work in me. Irrational as it sounds, for me to say I've blessed someone, seems awfully presumptuous. But in my attempt to downplay it, I've overcompensated and probably invalidated a great many people.

And it brings up the point which is, I think sometimes we are trained to think that any acknowledgment of Christ’s use of us, is in itself terribly cavalier. (Like even if you know it, you don’t SAY it. That’s just manners.)

I've hoped people will lower their standards, instead of accepting the challenge to be the person they perceive. And if I truly believe my ministry is HIS ministry, to be at all offended by the attention and the perception of those I am ministering to, is arrogance. I say I understand this, but I've really not understood it at all. Every instance I've taken personal, has produced more faith in myself than in Him. It rendered me silent, to realize that God would use an ignorant vessel who thinks she understands, despite the fact.

Inadequacy is humbling enough, but when it's staring you in the face with a giant I TOLD YOU SO, it’s hard not to realize just how merciful our God is. I'm a remarkably protective person -- protective of my time and my trust. And if I feel they are being invaded, my fists go up. I have allowed myself to believe they are mine. Leave it to my unassuming and gracious church community to show me otherwise.

We stepped right out of the J. Crew catalog.

2011-07-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

Dear Ones,

For my June update, I have to admit that technically, what follows happened in July. But I'm not a legalist nor do I know anything about theology or philosophy so for the longest time I thought it was a major political party. Like, in this corner we have the Republicans, in that corner the Democrats, over there are the Legalists, and finally sitting over there pretending not to listen are those who will Mock Everything You Say, aka The Bloggers. Regardless, they were all invented by the devil to give people something to argue about.

My month began with a refreshing trip to the coast. Robin has wanted to go sailing since forever, in fact she's been sitting in the corner with her hand in the air yelling ME! ME! PICK ME! And so, for the 4th of July we road tripped the Olympic Peninsula to visit my aunt and uncle. Robin had never been sailing, this is just so EXCIIIITIIINNG AND OH MY GOSH I NEED BOAT SHOES!

Hello. We're going to Sequim, not Banana Republic. Chalk that one up to the fashion industry. (And in the interest of free entertainment and vindictive feelings, I almost didn't say anything.)

Despite living together for two years, we've only taken one trip together than didn't include anyone else, and it was a raging success. Some lady thought we stole her purse, and let me tell you, we are so not the ones to accuse of doing something like that, not when you made such a big deal of slinging it (and your bad perm) over your shoulder then marching your high-waisted denim getup to the other side of the bar. Such was our jet-setting, wannabe-roadies, I-think-we-missed-our-calling bit back in September. Good times.

Road trips and subsequent every-moment-in-one-anothers-presence is a different story entirely, but when all was said and done we decided it wasn't half bad. In fact we're going to start gauging all of our relationships based on whether or not we could survive the Amazing Race without killing each other. (Never mind the fact that we probably couldn't survive the Amazing Race despite each other, but that's not the point.)

So there we were, bobbing on the bay with our snacks and our tricked-out life vests. We threw out the crab pots and spent the next four hours drifting around the bay before making our way back. And while I'm not as high-maintenance as some, turns out I'm a total girl when it comes to things that crawl and snap then scream when you drop them into boiling water. Like so.

The following day was no less risky or dangerous, you see Robin got ahold of the fireworks. Assuming you're convinced, I'll move on to the next big thing which was A DAY IN BEAUTIFUL PORT ANGELES! We both wanted to find a coffee shop and sit. It took us awhile to locate what appeared to be the only one in town, after we'd mentioned our coffee craving to an antique store clerk and dropped the S word (Howard Hughes, that one's for you). She stood up straight and said OH THEM? WE'VE NOT HAD ONE OF THOSE SINCE... then she trailed off and I was all SINCE WHAT?? SINCE THE MANAGER OVERDOSED ON BREAKFAST BLEND AND NOW THE TOWN REVEREND HAS BANNED EVERYONE FROM DRINKING IT?! (SERIOUSLY, DOES THIS MEAN KEVIN BACON LIVES HERE??)

We found the Itty Bitty Buzz, but not after loading up on awesome antiques. NOTE: I have learned that most people do not think your awesome is at all awesome, and they will tell you so. I've gotten good at shrugging my shoulders and saying FINE WITH ME, which for some reason doesn't sit well with everyone. I don't understand this mindset, as I think the ability to agree to disagree is key to most relationships. I kind of want to say IT DOESN'T AFFECT YOU, WHY YOU DO CARE and most won't have a feasible answer, though God knows they'll try. My favorite? Joseph Smith says so.

Where decor style is concerned, I am allowed to do my thing. I happen to love vintage, old, ugly, broken, dirty, and otherwise crappy stuff. It has so much character. I'm sure in twenty years you'll look at your grandparents and think so too. In my opinion (and isn't that all we are, big piles of opinions), the old-timers had it figured out. And I really hope that this isn't a generational thing that one day you look back on the 80's and say HEY LOOK, (insert "great" idea for use of retro stuff). Unless of course it involves a flamethrower. In which case, you can knock yourself out.

When all was said and done, we made it home in time to catch the local fireworks show from a downtown rooftop, which I don't condone because rooftops are a hazard, they're high off the ground and also, they are snake-infested. For reals. You don't mess with that shit.

As for my sweet decorating skills, I put them to good use when throwing your Aunt Molly's baby shower last weekend. She's having twin boys. It was a fabulous affair with lots of ooh's and aah's, individual mason-jar lemonades and tissue paper pom-poms. That last one, I learned, does not lend itself to working out your frustrations by 'making something'. But it's okay, they turned out great and I single-handedly provided the day's entertainment by walking into the sliding glass door. If you've ever done it then you know exactly what I mean. And if you've never done it, I will probably try to rig it so that you do. I love to laugh and as my kids it will be your job to bring me lots of laughter.

And to burn the 80's.

Love,
Me

a word on the summer at hand

2011-06-29T10:40:00.000-07:00

Ooooooh, glorious summer! With it's 40 MPH winds and 20 degree temperature drops in a 24-hr period! We love summer! We'd like to kiss it on the mouth! Why? Because the Bible says you're supposed to love the hormonal ones too. We're hoping our affection pays off in the form of a no-snow Winter. In fact, Portland can have our share, it's always fun to listen to them bitch about how unfair it is that somebody heard a rumor about possible snow in the mountains and GOOD AND MERCIFUL LORD, PLEASE COME BACK BEFORE THEN. Cross your fingers.

And so, a word about my quote-unquote summer. A few years ago I never would've agreed to such a change in my schedule. I needed continuity and predictability, which now that I think about it probably had a lot to do with my unexciting love life. I recently caught up with my ex, who when I told him how much I'm enjoying the change of scenery, looked at me like I'd sprouted a third eyeball. With teeth and hair and cute little fingernails. He said YOU HATE CHANGE and I was all YEAH WELL, TWO YEARS IS A LONG TIME. I'D ALSO NEVER TASTED MUSTARD. OH, AND DID YOU KNOW I HAVE A KID NOW?

To get serious for a brief moment: I've thought many times over the last several weeks, how fortunate I am to do the work that I do. I bounce between two easy-going, fun, low-stress jobs. My bosses are flexible, they ask about my day, sometimes they even buy me lunch. Have you noticed the smell of Taco Bell follows you everywhere?

It's Week 3 of my stint at the old stomping grounds. I feel like I've come up to speed on how things work, all the way down to the techie vernacular and remarks about how your logo is really ugly. I like to think my six years there was boot camp for the real world, actually. My boss? Jeff Goldblum meets Will Ferrell. He sits five feet from me, and likes to talk over the dividing wall. Every now and then he'll start listing off all the things he'd like for me to do. Why? Because he can. So I say YOU SHOULD REALLY HAVE AN EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT and he says no need, I've got it handled. He keeps talking, figures why not just come tell me to my face, jumps the wall to sit right next to me, and continues. I say ONE THING AT A TIME PLEASE so he waits 5 seconds then starts talking again, pausing for a moment to say YA KNOW, I NEVER WAS ABLE TO FIGURE OUT WHY YOU LEFT. Then he starts looking over my shoulder to make sure I'm taking all of his notes, which wouldn't be so bad if he weren't smacking his lips because he wants to see how long til I snap, and finally I yell I DO NOT MISS THIS ABOUT YOU!! And then the intern gets all wide-eyed, like somebody's about to die.

That's just our rapport. And really, he's a fount of knowledge and good advice. Take the time he told our pregnant co-worker (three days past her due date) to just jump on the trampoline.

Bias to the insane ones aside, these people get me. So much so that when I start whining that today can kiss my ass and can I just go home because my feet hurt and I have a headache, the response is one of two things: 1) "Here, have a beer," or 2) nobody pays attention. So I sit on the floor and wait for someone to validate me.

It would be so easy to say I didn't sign up for this. Except I did.

Also on my summer list? Weddings! Seven, in fact! Of those, I'm missing four (not too broken up about it) and singing at one (it should be magical). Two weekends back I flew to Portland, got on that plane at 6am with my sister the pregnant lady -- tell me you aren't jealous. One long day later, this girl is married:

Given that it was in Portland, naturally it was magical. Her new husband has seven brothers. One of them fell down the stairs during the processional -- also magical. And we discovered that E-Train is a great asset where there is food + large masses of people. No need to divide and conquer, everyone stay here, SHE'LL BE RIGHT BACK. And that's how we ended up sampling the entire buffet.

As for that great, big, generous, awesome family -- we used to take spectacular camping trips (think 15 kids + an RV + lots of muscle relaxers) which I think started to taper off somewhere around the time Mom got food poisoning from the lunch meat and the entire state of Montana went up in forest fire flames during our trip to Glacier National Park. The dads would take us on hours-long bike rides to historical sites, which doubled as entertainment for other tourists because HEY LOOK, HOMESCHOOLERS!

We've all grown up and are considerably better-looking. Which doesn't really mean much because the Conzattis have video documentation of all the ugly years combined. We kind of hate them for it, but not really.

For the future ones: I've discovered all-inclusive vacations.

2011-06-08T10:57:00.000-07:00

To all of you,

So May was probably my busiest month in awhile. Someone should find the guy who invented the academic calendar, so we can take him out back and shoot him. Right next to the dumbass who said APRIL SHOWERS BRING MAY FLOWERS. What about May showers? 'Cause we've sure seen a lot of those.

I reached the end of my second year at Whitworth, which basically means things went a lot smoother this time around. Let no one say I don't learn from trial and error. I'm a frickin' mastermind. But what I never seem to be prepared for, are the goodbye lunches and coffees and breakfasts, the seemingly endless trail of notes and HAVE A NICE LIFE's and promises of I WILL SO COME BACK AND SEE YOU! And of course, gifts. Like the garden gnome who now travels with my students to conferences. His name is Orlando. He had a plush lawn and several picturesque backgrounds but I think those were thrown out during a rare fit of rage that resulted in some impromptu spring cleaning. Those don't happen often, but watch out when they do. My job is so stress-free it should be illegal, but my last week of work had me stomping around and slamming drawers. It's amazing how therapeutic that is. Free entertainment for my faculty, who know my smiling face to be the only one I have.

CYT's show opened and closed in a week and a half's time, a delightful rendition of 'Alice in Wonderland' except with more music and less hookah. Those kids amaze me. Period. I have come to love long hours spent at the theater, and can count on a handful of colorful experiences. Like the drunk who tried to get in by pounding on the windows, much to the dismay of the 9-year-old standing on the other side, whose mother tried to play it off like YOU'VE NEVER HEARD THAT WORD? WHAT? then ran off in search of someone who could tell her what in God's name kind of operation do we think we're running here.

The moral of this story is thank God for double-paned windows. Also, you're never going outside. You can stay indoors until you're 18, which won't be any detriment to your complexion because unless I marry a hot Latino, you're getting pasty white skin anyway. As in Twilight vampire white, minus the sparkles. You're welcome.

My parents celebrated 35 years of marriage on May 29th, so we ordered a sinful amount of fry bread and plopped it on the table family-style. The out-of-towners were visiting, and for a short time we were all together. As such, we can always be certain of a few things: sarcasm, spilled drinks, and somebody making fun of your Aunt Erica for that time she used to be in a sorority. You should ask her about that someday. Really. The last time Dad laughed that hard it was in reference to my sister, age 6, executing a Peter Pan off the swingset which, thank God, was caught on tape. (It's the gift that keeps on giving.)

And then. THEN I went to Mexico. Cabo San Lucas, to be exact. You get a lot of wide-eyed stares when people find out you're vacationing in Mexico, of all places. Kind of a dangerous place to be these days. Dad said AREN'T THEY SHOOTING TOURISTS THERE? and I thought that was almost as good as when I backpacked Europe and people kept asking if I'd ever seen the movie Taken.

This was my first all-inclusive vacation, and it was positively divine. My days (doesn't matter which one, they were all the same) looked like this:

- Wake up
- Go to breakfast
- Lay by the pool
- Go to lunch
- Lay by the pool
- Go to dinner

Here's a photo diary:

There were a few extracurriculars, such as water volleyball (I took a dig to the face, it was really fun), movies on the beach at night, and taking pictures of our food. Like the heart-shaped raspberry mousse, because isn't that what three single girls need? To be perfectly honest, if given the choice of vacationing with my celebrity crush versus the two girls I went with, I'd choose the latter. Girlfriends are good for the soul. We read books, watched movies, made great conversation, ran around in our underwear, and took the occasional field trip along the beach where I was almost swept away by the giant undertow. Not a joke. Very serious. Your mother has a mortal fear of open water. It would be unwise to read any humor into that statement.

I've decided that there's nothing wrong with taking a vacation just because you can. Most people don't ever go all-out because there's not enough reason, but I say to hell with that, relaxation does the body good and it might as well be poolside with a posse of good-looking, coiffed young men who call themselves the Entertainment Team and have an inordinate amount of confidence in their milkshake's ability to bring all the girls to the yard.

However, and call me crazy, but I was ready to come home. I am a worker bee, and I enjoy what I do. It's my first week on the summer job, incidentally, at the firm I used to work at. It's a great blessing, I have tremendous love and respect for the people there. My trove of memories includes chair races and practical jokes, a severe hatred for Microsoft Office... It's there that I first learned how to read minds, and could tell from the way my boss said my name, exactly what he needed and when. And then there's the time a client made me cry, aka the day I became a man. Shit. I can admit to being an emotional time bomb but this was out of control. My boss was so upset, she called him right back and said he could take his Devil Wears Prada dragon-lady act somewhere else, oh and P.S., HELL CALLED, THEY WANT THEIR GOLDEN BOY BACK.

Ok, that's not true. But she did get upset, and I never had to talk to that guy again. Good thing too, 'cause I might've played the martyr and said WHY YES, LET ME BUST MY ASS FOR YOU. ALSO, I'M SORRY YOU DIDN'T GET ENOUGH LOVE AS A KID.

My co-workers were (and are) dear friends. For all of their madness, they virtually raised me. I started there at 17, left at 23. They still create drama, still try to marry me off, and still count me one of their own. Although, I am beginning to realize most of the craziness may have been caused by me. When I began to feel the need to move on, I got so anxious over leaving them even though I knew it was right. My last week there, I was so stressed and altogether sentimental, sleepless nights and somebody-get-that-girl-a-Valium, I holed myself up in the bathroom an average of 5 times a day and cried my eyes out. They must've known, but nobody let on.

We're going to hope for less tears this time around. Cross your fingers.

What I'm trying to say is, I'm substantially better because of them. I don't think I knew it when I started out, but by the time it was all over I knew I'd been a part of something much bigger. I would encourage you to listen with a still heart, to know where the Lord is guiding you. Don't make up your mind that understanding is a must, you will never acquire it and are better off just trusting (as we love to say that we do, and so often don't) that it is right.

And that's another thing: defining 'right'. It's amazing what you can learn with a little shift in perspective. 'Right' becomes less important when you consider experience as more valuable. In fact, 'right' means little -- 'good' means more.

No matter what, it's all better when there's work involved.

And chair races and practical jokes.

Love,
Me

#9: Run Bloomsday. And by run I mean leisurely stroll.

2011-05-11T10:45:00.000-07:00

Spending a Sunday morning with 50,000 people is not my idea of a good time. I'm not a runner, and I really don't like crowds. I've never been able to understand how parents can freak out about safety and germs and keeping their kids on a leash so they don't get taken, then bring them to Bloomsday.

It has less to do with the fact that I could contract a rash than it does my need to feel like I have control over my surroundings at all times. Yes, I can admit that.

I might've given some thought to the fact that it landed the morning after a dance benefit I'd been rehearsing for these last two months. As if my bod weren't sore enough, I decided TO HELL WITH IT and walk 9+ miles.

I went with my aunts, both of them in their 60's and still spitting fire. That said, being the life of the party in no way corresponds to the ability to walk a 12k in under 2-1/2 hours. I didn't think about that until after I'd successfully roasted. Oh well, last week's burn is this week's golden tan, even if it IS only half my body.

Last time I did this walk, the story goes dark at the top of Doomsday Hill. This time around I was tempted to take a detour and just walk home, since it was about a half-mile away. But no. One thing that hasn't changed? Bloomsday entertainers are positively obnoxious. I'm glad I was never a high school/college boy who thought it was cool to be in a band. (Because yes, coolness is everything.)

Welcome to hell: we eat glitter and flip the bird to the King of Pop.

2011-04-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

Ah, high school. There are few things I find more pointless than formal dances, water features being one of them. And I can only lip off so much before I overshoot my knowledge. But despite managing to graduate without ever having attended, I did go to my junior prom. It was at the local Masonic Lodge. And it was magical. I learned two things that night: 1) breast-fed babies have better teeth, and 2) AquaNet for life. (Coming from the theater kid who only ever used it to stop runs in my nylons. Shut up, it holds what??) I went with a group of friends and we didn't really know anybody, as evidenced by the kid who asked if we were at the right prom? There's another one two floors up.

Then partway through the evening my date went on a curious quest to find a real live Mason and ask if they perform human sacrifices. He did. And they don't.

Anyway.

Last weekend, I went back. Because isn't that just what I needed, a reminder of all the reasons why I chose to skip high school. Except my parents never made me pass a cool breathalyzer test. Dang.

I didn't want to be there, but a deal's a deal. The story goes like this: I shot a wedding, at which my baby sister spent 6 hours running a second camera. (More on that later.) In return, I attended her would-be senior prom to take yearbook pictures. It's been a much-talked-about topic of discussion that she refused to actually GO to the prom itself. We offered up our friends, even our boyfriends, but she says prom is stupid. Apparently she found out some guy was gonna ask her so she told her friends to dissuade him, only by the time they got around to it, he already had the flowers waiting in his car and now she's that girl who rejected the poor bastard and cost him $20, all in one day.

At least it wasn't $200. Not like all the other suckers, and look what they ended up with? The dinner bill and a glitter hangover.

Standing there, I realized I've yet another reason to label myself old and crotchety for my opinion that boys must not know how to find a girls waist and for the love of God, SOMEBODY GO HELP THEM OUT! Then Thriller came on and everybody cheered, sparking a would-be redemptive moment until they all turned and walked off the dance floor. It took incredible will power not to pipe up with something along the lines of THAT'S RIGHT, TAKE A BREATHER. I MEAN, YOU ARE SO RIGHT, THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST EXPERIENCES YOU WILL EVER HAVE IN LIFE. AND P.S., YOU WILL TOTALLY WEAR THAT DRESS AGAIN.

And then I jumped onstage and performed a stellar cover of "What a Feeling" from Flashdance. In my pointy bra.

Enough about that.

Saturday, in all it's sunny Spring glory, was the wedding of an old CYT friend and fellow teacher. She'd asked me to take pictures back before I swore it off (and we all know who to thank for that), so I was locked in. That said, it went ten times better than I thought it would. Emily's vision for her wedding day was positively exquisite, and she hand-made her dress as well as those of her bridesmaids. The details were creative, the venue inspiring... it was a fun day. To say the very least.

Oh, the Ides of March: a word about busyness, birthdays, and playing nice with the other kids.

2011-03-17T13:23:00.000-07:00

A note for my kids, the lights of my future life, my pride and probably constant headache -- on my life at the moment. And then some.

Installment 3: March 2011.

-----

Dear you's,

Today I am feeling good about myself. No reason. This usually means either a) I'm ignorant, or b) I'm hormonal. If I burst into tears on my drive home, I'll let you know.

Well, so, I've over-committed myself once again. I do this mainly because I know one can't die from over-commitment, and anything short of that is fair game. I'll sleep when I'm old enough that people think it's natural. Translation: I've taken on a Spring show plus not one, but two specialty dances for the benefit in April. They pair choreographers up with local 'celebrities', kind of like Dancing with the Stars only without the double-sided tape. (And if you've never heard of that show, please call up your grandparents right now and tell them I've gone out back to work on my shrine and could they please send my old Hanson posters and Keane CDs? Just do it.) My partner is this mid-40's guy, and let me tell you, his sense of humor compensates for any lack of dancing skill. Which, while it's not as lacking as he thinks it is, is still a challenge in that I've had easier times getting a room full of screaming 1st-graders to sit down and shut up. Whether a bunch of hooey or not, I always think this propensity to over-commit will leave me one day. So far it hasn't, but I figure it's one of those things that regresses with time, like perky boobs. One can hope.

It's March, which means Grace turns 18. Kind of weird. Who she is now is a far cry from where she started, precociousness notwithstanding. She's always had that. Despite growing up with seven older brothers and sisters, she was independent from a very early age. That hasn't changed either. Twenty years from now, she'll have written a book about growing up the youngest in a family of overachievers, feeling like there was no path somebody else hadn't already blazed. That might explain why she played soccer. Her college years will probably turn into a one-woman uprising, and to that I say MORE POWER TO HER.

But for now, she's just 18. Which means she gets her license back, after the State took it away last year. New law that says if you have three infractions, your license is suspended. This whole experience has only furthered her cynical outlook on life, as every time we invite her anywhere she says OH SURE, I'LL DRIVE. So we explain that had the law been in effect when the rest of us were teens, Mom & Dad could've opened a chauffeur service and retired early. Probably to Nicaragua, Dad has always wanted to go there. And it's not our fault the government intervened, but guess what? SAT scoring has changed too, and despite what the numbers say, your 1900 does not beat my 1310.

All that to say, happy birthday. You little punk.

Moving on.

Robin and I got a new roommate. He's a boy. I have three brothers, living with boys isn't new to me, it's just been awhile since I had to live with one. Either this guy is the exception, or I've gotten a bit too set in my ways. Boys don't think it's weird to leave the trash can lid up or leave dishes sitting for days on end. They'll get to it eventually, just not now. They do things like overload the washer, failing to realize that just because it fits doesn't mean you should actually put all your clothes in at once. (Kind of like how just because the toilet bowl is that big... oh wait. Never mind.) They are all about belches and farts and awkward testosterone-induced moments. Then again, so are a few of my sisters. Meant to imply that girls have equally as awful habits. Take Robin, who leaves her hair in the sink and generally requires about 3 times the space and time as guys, doesn't matter what she's doing. Me, I like to leave things all over the house, like marking my territory. There's a water glass on my bedside table that's been there for over six months. I have probably three pair of shoes currently underneath the dining room table. And I will always turn most lights in the house on, just because. I blame Dad--all those years he spent telling me the turn the lights off really backfired.

This is the other thing about roommates: being friends is tough. I know few who have succeeded this side of somebody prematurely and/or covertly moving out because they "just can't live with that". They say you can't live with your best friends. I've had friendships-turned-roommates-turned-ex-roommates that took a few years to resume, though by the grace of God they did and we heaved a collective GEE, LET'S NEVER DO THAT AGAIN, YOU ARE ONE CRAZY TRAIN IN THE MORNINGS. And it took me several years to realize that the worst ingredient for any relationship, roommate or otherwise, is passive aggression. I do this a lot, but I'm learning not to. I am teaching myself to take people at face-value, and not to let myself suspect or wonder. If they can't say it to your face, it's not your problem. Know yourself and be honest, it will get you a lot further than operating out of fear.

Over the years, I've come to see how easy it is to mistake selfishness for independence. It's MY time, MY car, MY house, MY commitments, MY stuff. No really, it is. Not yours. Not theirs. Probably the worst is time -- I only have so much of it, and I sure as heck don't want to spend all of it with you, I LIVE with you for crying out loud. If I wanted to talk to you all the time, I'd marry you. But this reeks of entitlement and I'm not sure which is worse, thinking I got here all by myself or burning bridges because I can.

In other news...

The 20's are an interesting age range. Probably the best I've had so far. I like that I can say that. I do miss my teen years, mostly because it's the last time I saw the number (see: size) 6. But there's so much to love about not having to worry about taxes and grocery shopping and what people think of you. I think that's one of the real reasons why I love working with kids so much -- they don't give a crap. That's an admirable thing, if you take into account how much energy goes into not stepping on other people's toes.

Grown-up's worry too much about what we're doing with our lives, perhaps more about what we're missing, or could be doing and aren't. The more I ponder it, the more I realize the importance of the things I do. I have my job -- it's great. I have my family -- they're great. But the thing thing I cram and stretch and pull my schedule to accommodate for, is time with kids. Specifically, teaching and dancing and hanging out. I never regret it. I need breaks, but I think about how much better I am because of them, and I realize that what I do there, matters. And what more do we need? It's a good reminder, to remember that I've have been given so many blessings.

That said -- being an adult is hard. Because people are fragile. Because you can't go through life doing whatever you want and expect it to work. This goes back to the roommate thing. Sharing life with people, is hard. We are to love them and share their weight, but not take it from them. I struggle with leaving people to their own devices. It's something I am learning this very minute.

So, to you: I hope you never pass up the opportunity to learn something new; that you are willing to be honest with yourself no matter the cost; that you learn to discern Godly truth; that you stick to your guns, can separate conviction from preference, and learn to differentiate between your shortcomings and other peoples' insecurities. So much damage could be avoided if we only knew that others' uncertainty of themselves and lack of confidence or happiness in who they are, is not a reflection on us.

Which brings me to another important point - never let anyone belittle you. How you respond to other peoples' insecurities will tell a great deal about your character. Surround yourself with people who will remind you when you can't do it yourself; they will be warriors for your heart. You need that wisdom in your life, they will see the things you can't. They will also tell you when you're in the wrong, and keep you from taking credit for the things God has gifted you with. Like amazing hair, or the ability to wear brown with black. You may be bohemian now, but just remember you were once an awkward kid who wore blue velour pantsuits. Because despite what they say (that 'classic is ageless'), trust me, classic is nasty.

As I was saying.

Hurt is inevitable. This is one thing I will never shield you from, no matter how much I want to. I know God's grace will do the work I'm not equipped to. And when you are hurt, I hope you remember to step back and give rationale a chance to hit.

Even after you're playing King of the Roof and your brother pushes you off, causing you to land on the wheelbarrow. Rules are rules.

Love,
Me

that one time (I almost died) in Greece.

2011-03-01T14:18:00.000-08:00

So this is Loni, and in a few months she moves to France through Christian Associates International to plant a church, kick ass and take names. There are few people I'd consider more qualified for or passionate about missions; she's been in Spokane for a month, and tomorrow she goes back to San Diego before lifting off for good.

Nearly two years ago, we backpacked Europe together. At the time, I was too tired to attempt a written rundown. Then time got away from me and I moved to Portland and back and girlfriend, you don't even wanna know what happened after that.

The only word to describe my first experience abroad would be 'traumatic', as Loni should've had a hurricane named after her long ago. You couldn't have picked two more opposite people to spend an entire month together, on foreign soil no less. This served us well, but not before nearly killing our 10-year friendship. Granted, she was remarkably savvy and knew a thing or two about how to catch departing trains and/or get handsome foreigners to buy you potent drinks. Our personalities and preferences clashed when you take into account that one (see: me) was on vacation after quitting a job of six years, and the other was all about cramming in the sights, swimming in the fountains and eating sugar cubes for breakfast.

In Ireland, we rented a car and spent three days driving through the countryside, stopping at obscure chocolatiers, sampling Irish whiskey, singing along to the Backstreet Boys, stalling the rental car... it was a good time. What makes Loni a smart world traveler is her confidence. 95% of the time this was fine, til it got to be too much and after her millionth assertion that this is the way, I know this is the way, I was all OH REALLY? I DIDN'T KNOW YOU KNEW EVERYTHING and then it went to hell. Like when she couldn't figure out how to put the car in reverse and spent 10 minutes trying to force it. Or when she thought she could read the Greek alphabet just like the English one. That led to our wandering around Athens at 2:00a, fresh off the ferry with 25 lbs strapped to our backs, looking for our hotel -- we were lost for over half an hour, which now that I think about it never did make it back to Mom & Dad. (Hey guys, guess what? I'm fine. Also, Kelsey and Kyle used to shoot eachother with the BB gun.)

Speaking of Greece -- send me back! Le sigh. Somewhere on that small island is a man waiting for Loni to make his wildest dreams come true. He was the owner of the hotel we stayed at, and boy did he fall hard. On the way to catch our ferry he held her hand and told her to come back soon, and please email a picture in the meantime so he can frame it for the front desk and when people ask, he can say THAT IS MY WIFE! He had the entire wedding planned out, from the breaking of the plates to the shooting of the guns. All this, based on two days and a few shuttles around the island. Loni was mortified; I asked what color the bridesmaids would be wearing. Then she hit me. Then we sailed into the sunset, never to look back. I sometimes think we should feel worse about this than we do.

And let me just say, riding a donkey up the mountainside is a lot harder than it looks. I have no pictures to show for it, as I'm not ashamed to admit I was hanging on for dear life (and screaming at the top of my lungs) the entire time.

I almost died that day. It was very serious.

And so, to Loni Marie, I say Bon Voyage, godspeed, and by all means, give 'em hell.

this is maggie.

2011-02-23T10:42:00.000-08:00

She's getting married in September, and she's positively one of the happiest brides-to-be I've ever known. She's one of the faculty members I so happily manage on a daily basis, and she also blogs for the Spokesman-Review, fun crafty things like button flowers and paper flowers and THIS WOMAN KNOWS HER FLOWERS. She is creative and confident, and she's waited a long time for the person perfect for her. This guy is priceless. Moments before we shot these, it was snowing like mad. You can see a few flakes, which is validation for me as my fingers were frozen solid..

my real parents were yogis.

2011-01-31T14:11:00.000-08:00

25 mentre 25, item 16: take a yoga or kickboxing class.

Attempt #1: yesterday.

So I've always known I'm the least limber person in the room. Doesn't matter what room. There was a brief period where I attended PiYo on a regular basis, back when I was dating a guy who was all about nutrition and fitness. He also routinely told me to push back my cuticles. It was around then I started thinking maybe we weren't a good fit; hell, I didn't even know what a cuticle was.

It was inevitable that each week, he'd get hit on by someone - and really, who could blame 'em. The man was in perfect health and with a body to die for, I'm sure half the women in the class secretly hoped he would scoot to the front so they had something to look at other than the annoyingly zen instructor. All that to say - I actually really enjoyed PiYo, even more for its awesome name. Then Mr Perfect and I broke up, and I surrendered the gym membership mostly because it had his name on it. And I didn't really mind.

Robin works at the Y and invited me to a Sunday evening class, so I wiggled into my yoga pants, left pretense at home and jumped on the bandwagon. My inordinate self-confidence comes in real handy for times like these, surrounded by spandex and arms that are actually toned. The trick is to remind myself why everyone else looks so good - so I focus on the college students. They're 20 years old, hello. College is like, the freebie of the fitness world.

Of course, there are a few exceptions. Like the gal next to me who, when we moved into a forward lunge, lent a sympathetic ear to my complaint that normally this kind of thing would be a total breeze, were not my stomach in the way. She was all IT'S OKAY, WE CAN COMPARE, except I happen to have known her for the last seven years, including that time she popped out two kids.

And then there's my roommate who (second only to myself) is God's gift to the athletically-inept, in the sense that she wouldn't be caught dead taking herself too seriously. The instructor last night leaned more towards the search-within-yourself-and-remember-your-yoga-is-YOUR-yoga school of thought, which is a little schmaltzy but whatever. To my credit, I wasn't too much of a distraction until she started walking around saying things like THERE IS NO COMPETITION HERE... NO JUDGMENT... and right then and there, I gave mental props to my parents for never pushing me into the things I didn't want to do. In fact, I never felt judged until I moved in with Robin...so I was all DID YOU HEAR THAT? I'M MAKING NEW HOUSE RULES and she came back with WELL MY YOGA IS MY YOGA, BITCHES!

I'm not too sore, which must mean I was doing something wrong. I am determined to touch my toes when all is said and done. For me, this would be an accomplishment. I'm the reason they say things like LISTEN TO YOUR BODY and DON'T FORCE IT. Why do you think I have such a healthy sense of humor, if not for laughing at myself and others. You should try it sometime. Robin has a habit of comparing people to animals, when it comes to resemblance. We have a friend who looks like a cricket, it's really quite accurate. So before class, as I was consoling myself for looking like a beached whale, she said DON'T LOOK NOW, BUT THERE'S A LIZARD BEHIND YOU.

He totally was, too.

I can't wait to go back and meet more new people. I'm going to have so many friends by the time this is all over.

The official 25 mentre 25 list can be found here. Godspeed.

We felt it in our fingers. And our toes. But mostly our butts.

2011-01-12T11:29:00.000-08:00

It's snowing again. I've come to expect a buttload whenever the weathermen don't say much. I quit believing them after they totally missed the 3' of snow we got in a single night. Snowplow drivers must hate their jobs. ANYWAY -- I left my house 45 minutes early to avoid the messy commute, which unfortunately means I also missed two graceful displays by my roommate and best friend, respectively. It seems both underestimated the presence of ice underneath the 4" of fresh powder, and lucky me got to hear all about the ensuing snow angels. YOU GUYS CAN BE TWINS! REALLY UNCOORDINATED ONES!

And yes, I'm aware that I'm probably next.

I got so busy with my list, I never did get around to reporting Christmas. Heck, I didn't write much at all last Fall. We did so much! We...we, we ran a marathon, we sailed a sailboat, we planted a fricking church! And by we, I mean I was present. Here's a quick photo tour:

Cakes and I standing in the pouring rain watching our bro run the Portland marathon.

The dear boy after finishing in 3+ hours. He was exhausted.

After PDX we spent a few days in Sequim, sailing on the sound with my aunt & uncle. And nobody fell out! Fresh fish, stargazing, and cosmos in the hot tub made for a great time. Pretty sure we need to go back.

I was born ready. And I'm on my cell phone.

Grey's volleyball senior nite. Also the very last home game of any Stillar sports season. Ever.

The kids of Seuss during dress rehearsals, CYT's Fall show. They were magnificent.It's my favorite thing to stand in the wings and watch them.

Luke was gifted a machete. Sigh.

My mother, the flying nun.

This is Coocum. She's a lot sharper than she looks.

While I never thought I'd hear myself say this, I'm all familied out. The promise of a quiet month has been my saving grace. I think I'm the only one who, when I arrived on campus for Jan term, kissed the ground and had a virgin martini. 2010 spoiled our family, in that we got to spend an obnoxious amount of time together. Hoopfest, Al's wedding, a week of family vacation on the lake, Thanksgiving, Vegas, Christmas, plus a handful of small trips to Portland. Eventually it was all YOU'RE HERE AGAIN? WHAT?

We love eachother, just in moderation. And I'm pretty sure the reason they ousted "epic" as a word for 2011 is strictly on our account.

Here's to a quiet year.

To the twinkles in my eye, you know who you are.

2011-01-09T19:35:00.000-08:00

I don't plan to post these every month, just one or two along the way. I've always wanted to write to my kids, as I've kept a running journal to my one-day husband for going on five years now. That’s a lot of reading, and let’s be honest, the guy is probably gonna pick it up and be all OKAY, BUT I’M SKIPPING THE PARTS ABOUT YOUR VISITS TO THE LADY DOCTOR. All that aside, I don’t expect anyone to stay with me through all that. My true hope and intent is that they know I was thinking of them even now. Though they probably won't read and/or appreciate it until they're past their teenage angst and have been out of my house long enough to admit I was right about everything, I have faith. Just as (I hope) my parents did of me. That, or they just got really lucky. Who can forget the day Mom called to say Leslie had pierced her belly button without permission, then blamed her older children for being the reason she was unprepared for rebellion.

Not that I know a thing about parenting; I suppose that's what makes my parents so amazing. And not to imply they're amazing due in any part to me, for not even I could feign such arrogance. When you're young and selfish you take for the granted the fact that being an adult is hard enough without kids who wouldn't know a rational decision if it kissed 'em on the mouth. I have no idea how my parents managed, both practically and emotionally. All I know is that when I reached the age when I had to fend for myself, I looked back on my upbringing and noticed two glaring facts: 1) I never questioned them, whether out of naivete or childlike faith, and 2) it took 20 years for me to see that they weren't full of crap. Not that I thought they were, but I didn't really see it. It's difficult to describe the overwhelming realization that hits you, not unlike the feeling of being slammed onto the ocean floor by a wave you never saw coming. You don't know what to do with yourself, then you recover. And the next time you see your parents, you want to kiss their feet a little.

But enough about that. I have no plan for how this will go, just that I will spill what's on my mind and hey, I'm sure in 20 years when I'm icing my pride because someone called me old, it'll be a great read.

---

Dear you (and you and you),

As I write this, you (and your father, for that matter) are nowhere to be seen. Some think it odd, writing to someone you've never met, but I've done it for years. The thing is, before I can write about how magical marriage is and what charming children you are, I plan to let you in on my life so you can't ever claim I didn't warn you.

I’m told I have the bad habit of telling people what to expect from me, before they have the chance to find out for themselves. That it's my way of controlling the situation. Valid as that may be, I don't intend to shield you from how screwed up I am. Maybe because I know that despite my efforts, you will experience things exactly as you are intended to. God has a way about that, which I can only hope to have figured out by the time you come along. You will find out that I'm far from perfect, and if not, I will remind you daily. Witnessing my parents’ humanity has encouraged me greatly, while at the same time sustaining great respect for who they are. I was never steered clear of failure, only pushed to embrace my gifts and do the things I wanted to do. This made for a bit of an overachiever complex the older I got, but real life slapped that right out of me.

I write not to express my wishes and expectations. Ask my mom how that worked out for her, back when she said she was going to be a model and have no kids. I write to give you a glimpse into my life as it was and is, with a few morals thrown in here and there.

We'll start at the beginning.

What was:

I was such a good kid! If you ever want a story, ask my parents about how I entered the world. It was one dramatic debut, exactly what you'd expect. Just don't ask at the dinner table, because they'll totally tell you and if you've any decency, you won't want to talk about blood and guts and placenta. Just cut straight to the part about the chorus of angels.

I don’t remember much before the age of 5. Mom homeschooled the eight of us while Dad worked as a teacher. Our childhood was centered around routine that rivaled the military. We cleaned the house daily, had the same meal plan every week, shared showers, chopped wood to heat the house, half of us lived in the attic, and our house didn’t have a TV. I taught myself to read, and I used to sit on the swings for hours and talk to myself. My favorite book was Little Women, I listened to Carmen and the Beatles, and went to church every Sunday. Calvary Chapel of Spokane. Those people had it together, let me tell you. Mom worked there so we walked around like we owned the place. I once performed in the Kids Ministry dance program, MC Hammer’s “2 Legit”, and my job was to sit on the edge of the stage and bounce. Until the end when we spun around, except I fell right off the stage. Shockingly, that’s what kicked off my career in performing arts.

I have always loved to write. I hated math almost as much as I hated science. Although, I once made aspirin in chemistry class, and the instructor was all NOW CLASS, I WOULDN’T ADVISE THAT YOU ACTUALLY CONSUME THIS AS IT MIGHT DO MORE HARM THAN GOOD. It was community college, they might’ve had that problem before.

Growing up, we were in a homeschool group with several other families. Our moms loved to teach us things like paint-by-number, except instead of pictures we painted sculptures of human organs. I got to paint the inside of an ear, and the other kids were wicked jealous. We went on all kinds of field trips just like ‘normal’ school kids, except way cooler. And once, we had a real life, honest-to-goodness drill sergeant come give us a talk about I don't even remember what. That’s when we discovered who knew their right from their left. We went on campouts, learned how to make clay by mixing bread with glue, and when I was in the 7th grade I learned how to quilt. Sewing machines are fascinating things. Also -- all of this knowledge has since left me.

When I was 13, I enrolled in CYT and learned how to dance. I already knew how to sing, in fact it's one of my favorite things. I am more at home behind a microphone than I am anywhere else. I spent the next four years acting onstage, making some of my best friends and memories, not the least of which was running up the center aisle and catching my dress on a chair, then watching it rip to shreds in front of 300 people. Funny thing is, that was the second time. The first, nobody was sitting there so the chair was thrown across the auditorium. I remember thinking THANK GOD, THAT WAS A CLOSE ONE. In retrospect, I might've figured that one out a bit sooner.

I never wanted to go to school, so I stayed home through my sophomore year in high school. I graduated from college and went to work full time for a graphic arts firm, or as I like to call them, 'the crazies'. Those people were the best. They taught me how to buy beer, pull pranks, crash a computer and break the printer -- all in one day! I would work for them almost six years, leaving only to backpack across Europe and pursue whatever came next.

I moved out of my parents' when I was 19. I've lived with roommates ever since, which I like to think has trained me for marriage. Moral #1: know your microwave, nobody likes burnt popcorn. Robin and I like each other's friends and we have no problem sharing the bathroom. I am very much an independent and I like doing my own thing, when I want to... I'm sure this will have to change eventually but for now, I'm enjoying it. Sometimes I think I could spend most of my time alone and be perfectly happy. It's important that one know how to be alone. Knowing yourself and knowing Jesus isn't possible without quiet; the only thing stopping us is faithlessness. I've learned a lot about myself and the vital nature of confidence and content. Plus, it's a lot more acceptable to eat the entire bag of M&M's when you're by yourself.

I love people but I hate crowds. And the question most people ask, is if a) I'm mormon, or b) I want a large family. No. And I don't know. I am emotional, sensitive, and expressive. I'm that girl who goes on long drives to clear my head, it once scared my boyfriend so badly he called my mom and my sister and needless to say, we didn't work out. Which brings me to Moral #2: heartache is necessary. In fact, I'd encourage you to steer into it rather than clear of it. It will give you so much insight, it will grow you up, and prove to become some of the most valuable experience you'll ever have. You must choose it, though sometimes it undoubtedly chooses you; and you must always remember that no matter what, God's grace is sufficient for you.

I digress. For all my grievances and emotional breakdowns, I was nothing compared to my siblings. They were walking accidents who loved to throw things and sit in the back of patrol cars. Of course, now that we're older talk about all the trouble we got into, occasionally putting Mom on speakerphone so we can ask her again why it is she spent a night in jail when she was a teenager. Unfortunately I don't think I'll have any such stories for you, so you'll have to settle for hearing about how the most dangerous thing I've ever done is get in the car with your Aunt Grace.

What is:

I work for a private liberal arts university in Spokane, and I love it. The story of how I got there, is a great testament to the Lord's faithfulness in my life. Just one of the many. My boss stops by my desk every day and says SO WHAT'S NEW AND EXCITING? and I never have anything to tell him. I think I'll make something up and stretch it out for a few weeks, just so I don't feel so boring.

My mom is a crazy train, in all the best ways. She loves her kids, she loves her husband, she loves her house, and she loves to workout. I did not inherit that gene. She also loves Jesus, and has given me a lot of wise council, including the bit about not worrying about others because who wants to be that guy who shows up on judgment day with a giant chip on their shoulder. Sigh. My dad, he's a lot like me. Or I'm a lot like him, I suppose. He's all about his kids and his princess, he's taught woodshop for 30 years, and he cut his thumb off when I was 14. He was due to take me and my friends on a camping trip the next day, and I think he might've decided it was the lesser of two evils to lose a digit than teach a bunch of girls how to pitch a tent. But for the record, we could've figured it out. Dad loves old movies, and used to rent them on his way home from work. That was til he got the same one like, three times in a row then we didn't let him do that anymore. He is without a doubt, fully and completely the only one of his kind, and I'm his biggest fan.

Your aunts and uncles, they are the reason I get out of bed in the morning. They are cheeky, irreverent, and fiercely loyal. I'd drive a 1000 miles to support or otherwise be there for them, and they'd do (and have done) the same for me. If you love sports, it's on account of them. I will drive you to the emergency room if I can see a bone, or if you’re swollen to twice your size. Otherwise, we won’t be going anywhere. You can walk it off. My brothers and sisters are my heroes, for all that they are capable of accomplishing and their incredible raw talent (though Molly would tell you she had to work for it, but I could've blown that shit wide open). It's our favorite thing, to be together and watch movies, eat sushi, play cards, hold happy hour, and challenge one another to a battle of strength and wits. Like the time my brothers dragged Leslie down the front porch and she ended up with road rash on her face and sweatpants around her ankles. Oh, and she wasn't wearing underwear. Joke's on them. Then again, she showed up to Christmas 2010 with a black eye from kissing someone's elbow so we're beginning to think she's just not very coordinated.

I've taught dance for the last three years, and I love it. You learn a lot from kids, when you can get them to pay attention. Although, sometimes I prefer their energy to their attention. It's more real that way. Of the things they've taught me, most prominent is the importance of loving who you are, what you do, and who you're with. The rest will work itself out.

So there you go. That's me in a nutshell. Now we move on to the fun stuff, like what I'm learning and who I saw today and if I had any lightbulb moments. I'm looking forward to growth. To knowledge. To knowing others. To meeting you. I'm excited for you to know my family, to learn all about what happened before you came along, and I hope you don't hold any of it against me or ask any questions I don't know have the answers to. At least not right away. There are sure to be things I can't explain, in fact I guarantee they are a fact of life and I'm not sorry. I'd rather own up to the truth which is that I no more will have figured out life than the next person, except to testify to God's goodness. As for any questions you have, I'm an open book. Unless you're curious about what happened the first and only time I puked up the result of a good time had by all on our 2nd Annual Vacation at the Lake. In which case you can ask my sisters, they saw the whole thing. (You'll understand when you're older.)

Love,
Me

Yes, of course I remembered Dan Akroyd's advice to SAVE THE LIVER!

2011-01-06T12:30:00.000-08:00

Do you ever have those things which, in all your glorious disillusionment seem too difficult to attempt? So you think about it, maybe talk about doing it, but give up the day someone says OH THAT'S EASY and then outlines the entire process in 17 'easy' steps.

I've never been one to make a fool of myself in front of an audience, having been scared into my shell as the only one of eight children who wasn't bionic. I grew up with a completely warped concept of what mattered in life. Fortunately, I've always had a healthy ability to laugh at myself. I once totally smashed my boobs in a sliding door (I always knew I had poor depth perception), and my co-workers still talk about it.

Despite my affinity for the Food Network, I've only begun to love cooking in the past year or so. Post-Europe really, when I realized God never intended for certain things to be fried. Like most kids, I was averse to food if I knew what was in it. I was also the kid who refused to eat PB&J. To this day I don't eat condiments, though I've come a long way from segregating the food on my plate. My journey of discovery is slow and my methods are simple. Nothing terribly fancy or even sharp, not since the last time a Stillar wielded a Cutco and lost. Mom ended up in the emergency room without a fingerprint, so remember kids, mandoline minus a hand-guard = painful, yet effective.

I might've manned up sooner, but my roommate likes to joke that I have no domestic abilities. Which is funny, because the last time I checked, I was the one constructing a gourmet sandwich while she snacked on last night's popcorn. At any rate, she'll walk into the kitchen and be all YOU'RE COOKING? LET ME CALL HELL, IT MUST BE FROZEN OVER.

And she wonders why I never share.

Some people are placed on this earth strictly to give us humble reminders that we are not, in fact, the shit. I happen to live with the queen bee. Go me.

I'd bought a bebe turkey, which once thawed and sitting in my sink I then stood over for a few moments before chastising myself for having long fingernails. Totally disgusting I know, but I'm pretty sure our parents ate paint chips and look how they turned out. I gave it a patdown, threw it into the roaster, stuffed it with an orange, poured in some wine and popped it in the oven. Then Cassie showed up and I was all YOU MISSED IT, I JUST SPENT THE LAST 10 MINUTES DOING A PUPPET SHOW WITH THE DARN THING!

I'd read that cooking it breast-down allows the juices to seep into the meat, so we'd flipped it over after that picture was taken. At that point I had a few hours on my hands, since the rest of the prep required all of 5 minutes. Cranberries from a can and mashed potatoes from flakes. I'd made such potatoes for my ex-boyfriend once, he'd never had them before and kept saying THESE CAME FROM A BAG? And let me tell you, I've never felt so accomplished in my life.

Once it came out of the oven, I stared at it for a bit. Like, that was too easy. Something had to be wrong. Remember the scene from National Lampoon where he goes to carve it and it splits down the center, completely hollow? THAT WOULD HAPPEN TO ME. Yet despite my fears, it came out delicious. The gang came over, and we rounded out the feast with green beans fried w/ garlic, rosemary bread w/ parmesan, and...of course...wine. Isaac carved, I poured, and everyone shared and laughed. I'd cook a homemade dinner every night if it meant my family around the table, laughing as they do so well.

And yes, anything to do with hot wax gone wrong is worth telling.

Gobble gobble.

The official list.

2011-01-04T21:46:00.000-08:00

I know I've never been 25, but I figure this is an okay place to start. I have every intent of living to tell about each one of these tasks, but should anything happen to me, Leslie gets my clothes and Molly gets my roommate. Unless she doesn't want her, in which case...well, I don't know.

Here we go.

25. Refinish a piece of old furniture.
24. Learn to change a spare tire. For a girl who's had more flats than birthdays, this will come in handy.

23. Make a time capsule.

22. Try 5 "exotic" foods. (I need your suggestions on this one, people.)

21. Go to Canada. I've spent my whole life in Spokane, yet never been. You can blame my parents, I was raised in a box.

20. Learn to knit.
19. Research then do a cleanse or diet.

18. Learn woodwork + make something. Something usable, like a wine rack. A big one.

17. Go rock-climbing. After watching "127 Hours", I promise to leave a note. But who am I kidding, Isaac is going to be with me the entire time and I told him if he kills me, Mom's gonna be pissed.

16. Take a yoga or kickboxing class. This is so I can kick my brothers' asses. And my sisters', for that matter.

15. Kick a field goal.

14. Sew an article of clothing. Headbands don't count.
13. Send a snail mail letter once a week, to 26 different people.

12. Get a body wrap.

11. ~~Cook a turkey.~~ (Good news: nobody died!)

10. Go paintballing.

9. Run Bloomsday. But the term is used very loosely.

8. Go skydiving. Uncle Rick will be with me for this one, and if he kills me, Mom might be willing to let it go. But probably not.

7. Plan and host a multi-course dinner.

6. Learn to drive a stick shift.

5. Make homemade sushi.

4. Create 3 great outfits using only thrift store finds.

3. Write a letter to my kids, once a month.

2. Go geo-caching.

1. Road trip to Alaska.

Why Alaska? The reasons are twofold. 1) This list needed a few big goals to make it legit. As much as is possible in nine months and a short budget. 2) Because I've always wanted to drive somewhere far away with cool things to see along the way, even if 'cool things' means 'the same thing for three days' - don't judge! One day I want to drive through the lower 48, but that'll have to wait until I have the time and the funds to do so, not to mention a traveling companion who can not kill me for 48 states. I've always said that there should be a list of Things To Do as a Couple Before You Get Married, and that's one of them. Add babysitting, perfecting the art of fighting fair, and participating in a colon cleanse and you have a tried and true solution for weeding out the faint of heart. But anyway.

I'll document as I go, whether by blog, pictures, video or all of the above. Turkey post forthcoming. I also hope to have witnesses to each task; Mom has volunteered for #12. We have no shame. So if you feel like volunteering, let me know. I can't promise you won't suffer bodily harm, but I guarantee something to write home about.

Because what the hell, carpe diem.

I turned 25, and sat under the lotus tree.

2011-01-02T14:01:00.000-08:00

I've never been superstitious, as I have enough faith in my ability to live in such a way that flips two middle fingers up to the so-called quarter-life crisis. But I've come to realize something about myself these last few months, and that is that I'm a procrastinator. Not with day to day things, but with "life" things. Learning new skills, doing the things I've always wanted to do... the minute, everyday things which require a mere commitment and desire to do them. Instead I wait. For not only am I a procrastinator, I'm a justifier. I'll do it later. Or when I feel like it. Or in five years.

It would appear I possess a certain (and stubborn) fear of being found mediocre. I think most would say they do. Not to put too fine a point on it, but how awful would it be to get older and realize THAT SHIP HAS SAILED, MY FRIEND. Okay, not likely. These are things I could just as well do later in life. Yet the proverbial lightbulb exploded over my head when I realized that, fear aside, I don't know what I'm waiting for. So!

Translation: 25 mentre 25. A list of things to do before I turn another year older. They're not outrageous, nor are they out of the ordinary... they are simply things I have always entertained doing and opted to sit on my ass instead. I've lost a few months, but still have another nine to go. And so it begins.

Today's task, #11 on the list: cook a turkey. This is part of my ongoing quest to become a domestic goddess. For some reason whenever I think about cooking/baking, it all comes back to the fact that other people will have to eat it. I know I'll eat it, but I have low standards. I should spend more time around college boys, they'll eat anything. At any rate, a turkey always seemed the holy grail of cooking. I can just see myself in ten years, chatting up my mother-in-law about Thanksgiving dinner and she'll be all LET'S HAVE IT AT YOUR PLACE, DEAR and I'd be all LADY, I ALREADY GOT WAY MORE THAN I BARGAINED FOR. I CAN BRING CRANBERRIES IN A CAN, THAT'S ABOUT IT.

But who wants to disappoint their mother-in-law before I've ever met her. So today I am cooking a full Thanksgiving dinner. Minus the stuffing, I hate that crap.

I figure I can document these things as I go, including the one that entails jumping out of a plane. TOTALLY stoked about that one. My uncle is a skydiver and said he'll take me; this after he said the last person he took was his girlfriend's 80-year-old mother. (Great. Now I HAVE to go. I digress.) For now, you will have to be content with hearing about how I stuck my hand up a turkey's butt and probably gave all of my friends food poisoning. But at least it will be memorable!

The fact that this list falls around New Year's, is a coincidence. I've never been one for resolutions, which may sound contradictory given what I'm about to commit to. No, this is because I figure waiting is for those who are willing to forego experience in favor of familiarity. I got over that the day I stepped off the train in Italy and knew not where I was staying the night. Loni said WE'LL SLEEP ON THE PORCH IF WE HAVE TO, and that was right about when we discovered where I draw the line.

Dear Vegas, you're a dirty bird. Love, Me.

2010-12-16T17:05:00.000-08:00

Soooo, yeah. Usually when I predict how awful something is going to be, it ends up being better than I thought. Not the case here. Vegas was... yuck. I'd claim a victorious "I told you so", except I doubt anyone would argue with my previous case.

I realize now that when they say "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas", it's because NOBODY REMEMBERS WHAT HAPPENED. Not that we partook in any scandalous behavior, nor were we at all responsible for the $2M heist at the Bellagio Hotel & Casino. But the rate at which that city moves (and doesn't stop) creates a black hole. Once you return to reality, it all becomes a blur. And that's if you were sober.

Call me old fashioned, but if you don't want any stories/pictures/etc. leaked, don't give people anything to talk about. In layman's terms, DON'T BE AN IDIOT. I suppose it's arguably relative, but abandoning inhibitions because it's only for a few days? Isn't that like sticking a knife into the light socket because it only lasts a few moments? No? Not the same thing?

I'm going to be that mom who says "If your friend jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?" and my kids are going to roll their eyes, so I'll be all HAVE YOU MET YOUR AUNTS & UNCLES? YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO DO BETTER THAN THAT.

When I write a book, there will be an entire chapter on Mom-isms. It'll be a fatty one, trumped only by the chapter poking fun at people who lament about how their parents won't pay for grad school. You're barking up the wrong tree, I didn't even go to high school.

As I was saying. There is nothing remotely endearing or redeeming about the Las Vegas strip, in fact it was altogether creepy, extravagant, overwhelming and excessive. I was telling my pastor about it -- he and his wife are two of my favorite people, I've spent hours in fellowship with them, whether to talk ministry or just for a beer around the campfire. I've never known Ryan to climb on a soapbox, unless it's to knock me off of mine. It's taken him no time at all to figure me out, which is off-putting and relaxing all at once. When I voiced my distaste for Vegas, he was all "You mean you didn't like a city built on a) taking people's money based on their greed for more b) taking people's emotions based on their desire for sex and c) taking people's souls based on their desire for meaning? What's WRONG with you?"

If you've ever visited a third world country, you know the complete poverty some people live in. I can't even claim to know a fraction of it, but when you've seen it firsthand you never forget. Most choose to ignore it; easy to do when you live in comfort. But for two days in Vegas, all I could think about was the depravity some are forced to live in, while we spend money to "improve" a place already the definition of gratification.

Perspective is a bitch sometimes. But I'm convinced it prevents ignorance, even if in small proportions.

Once there, we made the best of it. Anywhere my family goes is a guaranteed good time, and this was no different. By the time I'd landed (a full 5 hours later than the rest), they were exhausted and in need of naps, which was in my favor as all I wanted to do was sit and stare at the wall. We made dinner in the hotel room, cut Kyle's 21st birthday cake, then made our way to the MGM Grand where I won $45 playing Blackjack and decided that was enough. From there it was New York, New York and Coyote Ugly, where I may have insulted a guy who kept asking me where I was from. We then moved the party downstairs to Rok Nightclub, where the sisters danced the Stillar's equivalent to the Hokey Pokey (stand in a circle and don't let anybody in), which was more our laughing at each other than it was actual dancing... We got a kick out of ourselves, modestly dressed in jeans and scarves, looking fresh off the compound. Who cares, WE'RE IN VEGAAASS!!!!!

We tried to leave a few times and lost Kelsey, would turn around to find her surrounded by a crowd of onlookers clapping their encouragement, and she's all HEY GUYS! THEY THINK MY DANCING IS 'CONTAGIOUS'!

You don't say.

We visited the Venetian, Bellagio, Planet Hollywood, Bally's (where we found sushi then $1 margaritas), and our personal favorite, Fremont Street. Known as 'old Vegas', it ended up being a much better experience than it's celebrity partner. We hailed a stretch Hummer to take us there (an experience in its own right, see below) and this is where the story goes dark. Actually, I remember everything, I just don't like it. By the time midnight rolled around, I was tired and cranky and the Vegas vibe had long since gotten to me -- I sat down right there in the middle of the Golden Nugget and cried my eyes out. Yes, I'm 25 years old and I still cry when I'm tired. I wanted out of there, and my family (for all their sit-down-and-quit-bitching tendencies) were first to put their arms around me and say WE UNDERSTAND, NOW LET'S GO HOME.

Longer story made shorter, we all made it back in one piece, though a bit worse for wear. I don't know what it is about that place that makes people disappear. Night #1: we were in our beds and near sound asleep before someone realized Kyle wasn't with us. We spent all the next day listening to him harp on about how I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU GUYS JUST LEFT ME THERE. (Reminiscent of the time we took a vacation to Montana and left Alex at a rest stop. 3 vans, 14 kids, who can blame us?) Night #2: we arrived back at Polo Towers, shuffled everyone into one elevator and then noticed Jaleesa was AWOL. Great. She was just here. Everybody check your phones. No. What? She just TOOK OFF? Turns out she'd returned to NY NY to be with Alex, who was keeping Kyle company at the tables. But good lord, not telling us where you went is pretty jacked up. We may be irreverantly and seemingly careless, but 1) we don't advise walking the Las Vegas strip past midnight, alone albeit on a mission, and 2) being a Stillar only renders you invincible within the Spokane city limits. God knows what sort of creeps are out there looking to pollute the nearest gene pool, DO YOU KNOW HOW VALUABLE THIS DNA IS?

We don't either. But still, I hope her parents don't ask what happened.

I gladly boarded my flight home on Monday and spent the entire last leg chatting up the nice man next to me. He's a retiree who lives in Coeur d'Alene, and fascinated me with his stories of 30 years spent as a juvenile corrections officer in Alaska. It all started when the flight attendant hopped on the all-call and said LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, WELCOME ABOARD FLIGHT #2071 WITH SERVICE TO SPOKANE, ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE YOU TO YOUR MINNEAPOLIS-BASED FLIGHT CREW: MY NAME IS PATRICIA, AND IN THE AISLE IS MY CO-WORKER AND GOOD FRIEND, DAWN. We took one look at eachother and, in unison, said THEY'RE FRIENDS.

And from that point on, so were we.

I may have a chip on my shoulder but at least it matches my baggage.

2010-12-10T17:07:00.000-08:00

A few words about me, on the eve of the Last Great Vacation (of 2010) This Family Has Ever Seen.

Irrationality towards being 'the different one' is something I have never understood about myself. It reeks of a victim complex, but I refuse to admit it. Not yet. You can call me unathletic or take away my indie music, but for the love of god just give me my ignorance -- it's about all I have that relates me to you! (Aaaaand, scene.) I've always managed to be content to do my own thing and not care that anybody join me. I've adjusted to the fact that artistry, a singing voice and a witty pen are not marketable skills in the Stillar family. I've accepted that one of these things is not like the other. I have just never understood why it should bother anyone else but me.

Huh.

A couple of months ago my family decided our resume could use an epic trip. We'd given ourselves time to recover from the overwhelm of family vacation, and were tossing around some possibilities when Auntie Pretty suggested her timeshare at Las Vegas' Polo Towers. December, we thought. Kyle's 21st birthday, we thought. Fast forward to today - I'm printing my boarding pass for a weekend in Sin City.

Sigh.

We have 3 suites, 14 people, probably not enough beds. Guess who gets the floor. Woe is me for being single. Happens every time... we talk about it, I say PLEASE DON'T PUT ME ON THE FLOOR, everybody says UH, IT'S NOT THAT BAD so I say WELL GOOD, THEN YOU CAN HAVE IT. And then they blink, look to one another for help, and play the married card.

I told you so.

Everyone's been talking about how unforgettable it will be. I have no doubts. But here's the thing: it's no secret to anyone that I share no common interests with my siblings. And I've learned to do my own thing out of necessity, which truly doesn't bother me. I never think it will be a problem, then we get there and suddenly it becomes a massive deal that I'm not joining "the fun". My interest in french impressionist galleries and exhibits with human cadavers will become the exception to the weekend's agenda and they'll feel bad that I'm on my own so somebody will bite the bullet and volunteer to go with, but eventually we'll end up in the same place and they're trying to teach me Texas Hold 'Em...come on, it'll be fun, just give it a chance... and I'll be all YOU KNOW WHAT GUYS, I'M KINDA ALL FUNNED OUT. I'M REALLY JUST INTERESTED IN VISITING THAT EXHIBIT TO SEE IF I CAN STEAL A KIDNEY OR SOMETHING.

My plan is to wear a sign around my neck that says I KNOW I'M DIFFERENT, DO YOU? CARRY ON so that when they gripe about my not participating, I can kick them in the shins and say YOU WERE WARNED, BITCHES!

I have this hidden anxiety that I'll get there, hate it, and have to drag my butt out and about all weekend just to keep from being the bummer. Let the record show, I know myself well enough to know I can't party all the time and not kill someone, so when we booked this trip, I opted out. Mom and the girls are staying here, I was happy to keep them company. I don't gamble, though get me in a cocktail dress and I could pass for a fox. At any rate -- I figured it was best to admit my homebodiness before it was too late. Then Kyle called and said he wanted me there, it's his birthday, he'd even pay for my airfare. I had to smile, call him cute, tell him I loved him and ookkkaaay, if you want me there I'll go and you don't even have to pay my way, I work for the Presbyterians, remember?

And just like that I was back to planning my strategy towards the naysayers. What have I gotten myself into...

Let's talk about the last time I attempted a family outing and found myself vastly outnumbered. Everyone started a mass game of volleyball and I opted to sit out. I'd played in all the others, figured this wasn't a big deal. But let me tell you something about my family: they are absent the sensitivity gene. I, on the other hand, got it all. This means two things: 1) I make a mistake, they roll their eyes or yell or tell me to leave or whathaveyou. 2) I make a mistake, they roll their eyes or yell or tell me to leave and I get my feelings butt-hurt. I hate this about myself, but there's no changing or denying it. I choose not to let on that my feelings are butt-hurt so I keep going. I survive. Nobody dies. Then the next game rolls around and I decide ya know, I think I'll pass. Props to me for trying, though, I gotta hand it to myself. Well. Mom tried to get me to play anyway, in fact got upset that I couldn't just get over myself, and before you know it I'm bawling about how nobody understands me and isn't it just like them to expect me to join in just because I'm the only one who doesn't actually LIKE it and I'm not pushing my preferences on yooooouuu, what on God's green earth gives you the right to care if I don't play and OMG LIFE IS SO UNFAIR!!

It was a much-needed meltdown, albeit poorly-timed.

So. This weekend will be interesting. I'm the self-proclaimed loose cannon. They're my family and I adore them and love them and think Southwest Airlines will never be the same (in a good way) and we all know their lack of understanding will never cause me to love them any less. So when sleeping arrangements come up, I will say PLEASE DON'T PUT ME ON THE FLOOR and they'll roll their eyes and say NOT AGAIN, so I will simply point to the sign and say CAN YOU EVEN HEAR ME OVER THE SOUND OF YOUR EYES ROLLING BACK IN YOUR HEAD? CARRY ON.

getting older, and all that it implies.

2010-11-27T20:31:00.000-08:00

Whether out of ignorance or just because, I'm that girl who rarely does anything for herself. My boss says I'm an expert at using my feminine wiles to get what I want. Anything to do with my car or my house, somehow always gets done and usually without too much pleading of stupidity. Most people just assume. ;)

I've not had to work for my voice, my body or my naturally yet not too curly hair. I have always possessed a healthy (and somewhat astounding) self-esteem, a confidence that seems to defy much reason. I've embraced my natural creativity, and learned to love the way I am wired. I am surrounded by people who love all these things about me, and have never compelled me to change.

I have, over time, grown and learned to confront, to discern truth, and to allow myself to feel pain. Working things out from within is an ability in its own right, but the more I live on my own the more I recognize the need for practical know-how. And Wikipedia doesn't count.

In October I watched my brother run a marathon. He'd trained for months, and one very rainy Sunday he took to the streets of downtown Portland. I never would've thought watching from the sidelines would be exciting, but it was one of the most incredible things I've ever beheld. And I took away a deep desire to work for something. Don't get me wrong, I've spent over seven years in the corporate world and I didn't get there without hard work. But those gifts and abilities, are what came natural to me. I've rarely taken something on if I didn't have a good idea what I was doing. The things I didn't know, someone else did. This was/is my backwards way of walking the fine line between playing the part of a princess, and succumbing to complete independence.

Not that I'm against being helped. But as I get older, I've realized there are things I want to know. Like how to use Adobe Lightroom, cook good food, and how to replace my windshield wipers. The latter of which I had to check the manual for, but it's a far cry from my usual response which is to wait and see if I can't figure it out based on logic and a heavy dose of pride. Eventually you begin to value the efficient use of time over bragging rights. Most of the time, all those do is make you look an ass anyway.

This weekend I decided I wanted to learn canning. What has ever stopped me except the inability to read, or the impatience associated with reading a cookbook? I grabbed Robin and Cassie and, in the midst of the biggest snowstorm of the year, drove to my parents house. Thankfully Robin is driving an urban assault vehicle, a rental compliments of a unibrowed college girl who ran her off the road (her words, not mine) and that baby handles like a champ. It took us two hours, after all was said and done: a stop for coffee, a stop for snacks, and a stop for rum after Mom called to say Dad had shoveled the driveway three times and needed a pick-me-up. We made it to the house, had unloaded half of the supplies (though not the ones we needed, i.e. fruit, canning pot, etc.) when the Tahoe locked itself. In theory, this is a good idea most of the time, and usually as long as the keys aren't inside. We waited an hour and a half for AAA to show up and passed the time by bundling up in my sisters' sweatpants and fleeces to jump off the back deck.

Exhibit A:

Then they showed up. Then we got to work. And it was enlightening. I now have 9 jars of pear-raspberry jam, am impressed with myself and don't care who knows it. I'm no Suzy Homemaker, but it's a step up from lighting the stove on fire. Which, for the record, has only happened once.

I almost kissed him on the mouth, but figured a "Your mother raised you well" would suffice.

2010-10-07T16:27:00.000-07:00

I would like to say a word about chivalry, and the distances it goes on a Monday.

I work on a college campus. Most guys that age have no problem shouting at you from thirty yards away and it would never dawn on them to actually hold the door instead of letting it go once you've had the chance to grab it with your foot. Yet despite seeing hundreds of them on a daily basis, my interaction is limited. My boss might beg to differ... he started a tally of how many guys stop by my desk and linger for longer than a minute talking about anything non-school related.

Sigh.

As I was saying. Interaction is limited! Then a year ago I began leading worship and landed three said college boys in my band. And not just any three. They were best friends, altogether irreverant and adorable and juvenile. They called themselves Annie and the Perfects, and I was their diva. Involuntarily, I might add. But behind closed doors, I was the mom... the responsible one, the fun nazi, the smile stealer, the fall guy.

I like to think that through it all, I've learned a thing or two about parenting. One can hope.

A lot has changed in a year. Of the four of us, three are worship leaders at our recent church plant. One is an intern at another local church. That sellout.

He's the quiet one. I affectionately call him The Dish. I've prayed for a long time that he'll marry my sister.

He was the one who seemed in tune to people, had a real gift for worship; he left the team in April. We all went out for drinks only to end up arguing for hours because that's just what happens when you get psychology, business and theology majors in the same room with the girl who doesn't like to be psycho-analyzed, has worked a full-time job from the age of 17 and is REALLY curious what you're ever going to do with your life. Respectively.

I digress.

He paid me a visit the other day, walked in with a vase of flowers, and when I asked WHAT ARE THOSE FOR he just shrugged and said MMMMM, 'CUZ.

(And then I was all 'use your words'...)

Apparently he'd found out through the grapevine that I'm now an ex-girlfriend instead of a girlfriend, and he knows that sucks to deal with so he felt I deserved the pick-me-up. And for my reaction, you'd think he grew them himself.

It was then I realized, with what I admit to be a kernel of validation, that these boys care. While I've always figured as such, reinforcement in the form of hand-delivered roses is a surefire way to redeem yourself for any and all indescrepencies as well as those of your wingmen.

What is more, his guessture seemed one of those "how loved am I?" moments that God chose to give me, not that I ever deserve them. And I'm reminded often (and sometimes painfully) of how bad I am at loving people. This has been on my mind and heart in great capacity. I do try, I'm just reaaalllly bad at it. And the reminders have come in the form of burdens to pray for the people I really don't care for. I've been both humbled and blessed.

So. I assured him I'm doing well... then he shared his story. Of being strung along... of attaching his heart, then being disappointed. I don't think there's any way he could know how well I can empathize (from a breakup past, not the one most recent), and all I could do in the moment was clutch my heart dramatically and say things like HHHOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO and EEEECCCCHHHHHH. I hope he got the point.

Later on I was able to put my feelings into words and promptly gave him a lecture disguised as a thank-you:

"I think you're choice. Top-drawer, preferential, all that. You're it. I love my flowers, and I miss your sweet face. And what you are going through absolutely sucks. There is nothing you can do about it except trust that God's grace is sufficient, although pizza and beer helps too. A little disappointment now is bearable if it means avoiding the crap from having pursued something you knew you wouldn't want to work for later. Emotions are rough but they work themselves out in time. Seek the Lord -- He'll give you His heart. By all means, take it personal and be thankful that it's already a part of the strong and exceptional person you are turning into. Recognize that you are just as capable of letting people down. And remember that if you ever do to someone what that girl did to you, I will end you. I love you, but I'm serious."

On another note, me and my posse are personally gonna kick THAT girl's ass. Get your popcorn.

How to make a one-hour flight a fun-hour flight.

2010-09-17T10:24:00.000-07:00

Robin and I fly to Portland next week to catch one of our favorite bands in concert at the Doug Fir. Having been roommates for a year now, we've developed a love/hate relationship that involves it's fair share of passive aggressive tendencies and a lot of wine. We fight like an old married couple - imagine the dynamic when you put us both on the same plane.

She proposed a roommate meeting last week to chat about said trip, because what happens if we board without knowing where the other prefers to sit and then have to stand in the aisle and fight about it? Except I don't have to ask in order to know she prefers the back: you can see everything from there. It's a control thing. Robin loves control, she'd never deny it. I love control too, but I've got nothing on her. Therefore it entertains me to no end, knowing it freaks her out to sit there and have the flight attendant sneak up behind her with the drink cart.

We've taken road trips, day trips, hiking trips, happy hour trips, but this is our first plane trip. Somehow my 20+ hours en route to London seems like cake in comparison to the airport shenanigans Robin is bound to cause. This is a woman who takes Wet Wipes with her wherever she goes, swears she will never have children, and who on the morning of my 25th birthday, walked out of her room in her bathrobe and said SINCE IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY, I'M GOING TO SHOW YOU MY BIRTHDAY SUIT.

We had dinner last night and within minutes had taken to calling our whirlwind trip ANNIE & ROBIN STORM PORTLAND: CARPE DIEM, DAMNIT! A few brilliant ideas fresh from our noggins...

- Sit in the same row, at opposite windows, and talk over the four individuals + aisle between you. When they offer to move and allow you to scoot closer to one another, say MY, YOU ASK A LOT OF QUESTIONS.

- Wear a mask and earplugs, and ask for a pillow and blanket.

- Every few minutes, inquire as to when the in-flight movie will begin.

- Speak in a British accent. The entire time.

- Turn to the person next to you and say YOU GOING TO PORTLAND TOO? HUH.

- Stand up and ask for a show of hands, who here is traveling for anything other than business. Just us? Really? Suckers.

We don't get out much.

The only thing missing was the breakfast bell. And by bell I mean airhorn.

2010-08-18T23:05:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Gong Show.

Family vacation. It's the endangered species of the Stillar Animal Kingdom.

Believe it or not, we are all in agreement that this is how we want to spend our coveted time off.

It's rather nuts, if you think about it. Or if you know us. Or if you have any sense at all. And so, we set our standards high. Got to make it worth everyone's while. 2009 was a raging success, maybe more accidents than were necessary, but what's a few casualties in the face of old-fashioned fun? Dad unearthed his sense of humor, Kelsey learned how to replace a shower door, it was all good.

I don't know when we started liking eachother's company so much. Then again, our story is less about growing up sworn enemies who stole eachother's boyfriends, and more about a bunch of homeschoolers growing up stuck under one roof and who didn't know hating your siblings was the cool thing to do. Given as much, we genuinely like eachother. And we obsessively anticipate this time of year. Probably due to our size and the fact that it's just not the same without all of us present. We're like the Pirates of the Caribbean, only with less eye makeup. Get us all in one room and the whole damn world flips upside down.

Some people think us crazy but secretly they're just jealous. The week before was packed with preparation and email chains and excitement, enough to make our friends be all I WANNA COME! except Mom went all legalist this year and it was by reservation only. Come the week of vacay we were booked, and I'm sorry, your name isn't on the list. I'm also sorry you're a loser. We know you can't help it.

This year was even more organized than last. It was planned much like the Olympics are...years in advance, lots of money spent, and exploitation of labor.

A rundown of this year's activities and workshops:

(NOTE: an oversight, though already on the list for 2011.... scheduled entertainment. I call Boys vs. Girls Butt Charades.)

Roasting the Perfect S'more

How to Execute the Perfect Underwater Sneak Attack

How Not to Execute a Tantrum

Hula-Hooping for Skinny Bitches

Catching Fishies. Here fishie fishie fishie.

What Happens When You Disturb Someone Who Doesn't Want to Be Disturbed - I Don't Care If You Just Showered and Put On Dry Clothes.

Floating the River (Pre-Funk included)

Volleyball, Volleyball, Who Has the Volleyball?

(This is pretty much what I did the entire time.)

The girls celebrating their win. Their one win.

Dad went for a dig.

Kicking Ass at Tube Wars

NOT PICTURED:

- Poker for Die-Hards (we saw a whole new side of Erica, let me tell you)
- Surviving in the Pacific NW Bush (Kelsey may or may not have seen a snake)
- Hunting for Snipes (Ashley, we love you)
- Skinny-Dipping 101 & 201 (no comment)
- The Riveting Game of Bananagrams

And more! But not watching the Food Network because apparently that's not allowed on vacation...

Meals were assigned, each one a buffet affair. It reminded me a lot of summer camp, lining up when the breakfast bell rang and filing through to fill our plates. Except without the quietest-goes-first rule. Around here, the quickest goes first. Classic entertainment was watching Erica work herself into a tizzy that culminated in kicking Luke out of the kitchen... Apparently cooking for large groups intimidates her. Somebody suggested casserole and she said COOKING CASSEROLE INTIMIDATES ME so I was all JUST PRETEND IT'S A HAND OF TEXAS HOLD 'EM AND OWN THAT SHIT!

Speaking of friendly competition...

This is one vein which runs deep. Minus the friendly part. What is more, I am without question the least athletic of my kin. Coincidentally enough, I am also the only one to possess an ounce of sensitivity. Combined they rendered every volleyball match a mere matter of time before somebody turned to me with YOU ARE THE WEAKEST LINK! GOODBYE!

The physchological repercussions of these circumstances, are another story for another day. I'll need a few beers first.

It should come as no surprise that by the last day, we were more than ready to come home. Vacation is nice, and family is priceless, but too much of a good thing is always dangerous. We are already stocking up on ideas for next year's epic adventure.

I arrived home and remembered, a week too late, that Kelsey hadn't brought along the slip 'n slides, so I was all WTF?? She said she'd left them at home on purpose. Something about re-evaluating the effects of hard ground + gravity combined with a bunch of twenty-something's who aren't exactly spring chickens and well, weren't we sore enough from water sports and volleyball?

Who cares about that, I just wanted a good story. Mom's best friend still loves to recount the time we all were playing on the slip 'n slide as kids and mom, in her spry early 30's, said STEP ASIDE KIDS, LET ME SHOW YOU HOW IT'S DONE and proceeded to give us a demonstration. To hear her tell the story, she'd say the moment her feet left the ground, she realized two things: 1) I am way too old for this. 2) I am moving way too fast.

She covered the length of the slide in a few seconds and, propelled by sheer momentum, slid across several feet of grass only to face-plant into the chain link fence.

And to think we missed our shot at a re-enactment.

We're affectionately calling it Dr. Stillar's 100% Natural Good-Time Family Band Solution.

2010-07-29T16:10:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had so much going on and not the time to appropriately process it all, so you move on and before you know it the summer is half-over, you still don't have a tan, various appendages are twitching (which the know-it-alls would tell you indicates a vitamin deficiency) and you've started to notice there's a cute girl who has a ring on her finger and (oddly enough) the same last name as you do.

Oh, her? She just started following us around one day.

I remember thinking this summer was to be one of relaxation. Perhaps the occasional insane run, but nothing I can't handle. I'm aware of the fact that I will suffer routine meltdowns. It's for this reason my mother advises me to always schedule in my good cry, because nobody wants to be that person who totally stops the action with their drama.

We'll start with HoopFest. Every self-respecting friend of the Stillars knows this is our Christmas. Except bigger, and with more road-rash. This year it was the four brothers and the four sisters, and both ended up in their respective championship games at the exact same time. 30 seconds in, Luke smacked his head... STOP THE GAME, WE HAVE A MAN DOWN. Mom kept asking him to blink...again...again... again... YOUR EYES AREN'T DIALATING, WE'RE GOING TO THE MEDICAL TENT and even at the age of 28, he was all MOM, I'M FINE, SIT DOWN. All the while, I'm texting his wife going YOU MARRIED AN IDIOT.

He suffered a concussion, which really should be worn as a badge of honor except he doesn't think so 'cause all he remembers is that his brothers won the HoopFest Championship without him. Welcome to my world, you non-contributing sucker.

When all was said and done, both teams took the titles and by early PM, we were done for the weekend. So we crammed into the hotel room and ordered pizza.. Luke was still batting below average so every few minutes he'd say THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST MOVIES OF OUR TIME (said about Transformers, mind you) and we were this close to backhanding him until he jumped on the bed and konked his head on the wall. Then he shut up. It was around then that Kyle inhaled helium, and Kelsey mooned the innocent balcony bystanders that we decided HECK, WE SHOULD WIN EVERY YEAR.

July 10th - Alex got married, marking Child #3 to take said plunge. Hard to believe we made it, given from the time he proposed to the time they got married, Luke popped the question, tied the knot and logged eight months of marriage. Kinda stole his thunder. But no worries, the weekend was swingin' and as soon as they tapped the keg of Blue Moon, so were we.

Mom had her heart set on a new picture for the livin room wall. What you can't see here, as thankfully we're past the age of not cooperating, are the red ants making their way up our legs. It was the only place I could find shade, some red ants I was willing to brave. My siblings were not so willing, but nobody asked them.

That evening, the Conzattis joined us and we split up into teams to embark on a late-night video scavenger hunt we'd entitled (and appropriately so) Alex & Jaleesa's Excellent Adventure. When all was said and done, only 10% of participants ended up forever banned from the downtown mall and it was midnight the night before the big day... we convened for a short viewing (competitive spirit was rampant -- we ended up agreeing to disagree) then hit the sack.

My wedding responsibilities meant my day looked like this:

- 10:30a = shoot candids of the preparation, bride and her bridesmaids, etc.
- 2:00p = drag the groom/smen outside into a nearby field to pose for formal pictures.
- 2:20p = run all the way inside to see what the hell is delaying the bride. Tell somebody to find me a walkie talkie, for crying out loud.
- 2:25p = first look, bride & groom formals. Witness Jaleesa soundly smack Alex in the face with her parasol. Laugh hysterically.
3:00p = bridal party formals. Ringbearer had a meltdown.
3:30p = family formals. I'm perched on a chair, camera in my hand, another over my shoulder, barking orders as best I could to a group of people dressed to the nines in sweltering heat. I compare it to trying to get a bunch of 5-year-old's to line up and all sing the same song, on-key, WHEN they're supposed to. And yes, I would know. They were cranky, I was cranky. And before I could stop myself, the tears started... mom saw it from a mile away.. it was one of those slow-mo scenes, she started pushing people out of the way and hurdling over rows of chairs...ordered me inside to change clothes and apply my makeup. Oh that's right, I have to be IN these pictures. Damn.
3:40p = I emerge looking like a dream.
4:15p = Everyone else goes inside, I sound check for my turn as wedding singer.
5:00p = go time. Shoot, shoot, sing, shoot, shoot... repeat.

As we setup the reception, I was once again ushered inside to SIT DOWN AND TAKE A BREAK before the party started. So I snuck out, asked my sister-in-law to find me a beer, and set out to make some friends. It was about then that I thought WHY DIDN'T I START DRINKING AT 10AM, THIS IS SO MUCH EASIER...

I've never considered myself a wedding reception partier, though I'll break out the funk for Stillar weddings. This is one of my favorites, taken during a rare moment when I didn't have a camera in my hand.

The very next morning I'd arranged to lead worship at NewComm, a team comprised of three Stillars (myself, Molly on BGV's, Luke on lead guitar) and three Conzattis (Jamie and Leanne on cello, Leslie on violin) in addition to my other band members. I've led all the same musicians for so long that working with new ones took some getting used to, as spoiled/inexperienced a musician that makes me...and by new ones, I mean Luke. It was bad enough that both he and my drummer were trained sound technicians (like any room is big enough for their snobby heads) but add the last-minute flare and the primadonna in all of us came out. Nevertheless, it was a fabulous morning of worship and a healthy reminder as to why we don't have a family band.

In the midst of it all, I've been working for CYT as the dance teacher at our summer camps, and am dangerously close to burnout. Working with kids is exhausting, however rewarding it can be. I've received all kinds of comments on our evaluations, from "She has mad dance skills" to "She yells a lot"... somebody needed to explain to that child that Miss Annie wouldn't HAVE to yell if there weren't 30 of you running around the room screaming like a banshee, now would she...

The last in a long line of summertime events to date came last weekend when I sang at my dear friend Karli's wedding. She'd asked me to sing the first dance, a bluesy take on The Way You Look Tonight... I was doing fine until her brother (the guitarist) let it slip that he was nervous. My brave face went out the window and I began to seriously question the exclusion of alcohol at this reception. A nightcap at The Elk fixed everything and I decided a career as a wedding singer would be bitchin.

Stillar Family Vacay 2010: T-Minus 9 days and counting. Wait for it.

grad #7: the one we weren't sure would make it.

2010-06-16T11:47:00.000-07:00

But don't let her hear me say that. At any rate, it's with a mouth full of crow that we acknowledge that of all of us, she's the one who made high honors and is actually GOING TO COLLEGE. Apparently that's what you do after high school. Here I thought you went to work and earned a living and maybe something about the meaning of life. I would've had to have been paying attention to know for sure.

Graduation ceremonies have never been high on anybody's list of fun things to do, but I'm convinced most people would change their mind if given the chance to accompany my family. All you need is snacks, and since we're a built-in peanut gallery the entertainment is provided. I apologize in advance if you were that kid who performed the trumpet solo for your senior class... you're about to be made fun of by association.

So we're sitting there, right. This girl walks onstage to play her clarinet piece, which turns out to be way too long. (Who knew.) Mid-way through dad leans over and whispers LIFE-CHANGING, which dissolves me in all my juvenile glory into a fit of giggles. Then mom loses it laughing at the man behind us who is snoring. It's at about this point that Kelsey and Alex start squirming in their seats... I text Leslie to say that Dad thinks he just saw the unabomber and she's all WHERE?? and I was all OH WAIT, IT'S JUST SOME CUTE OLD MAN. NEVER MIND, YOUR FATHER IS PARANOID. Sit down, dad, you're embarrassing me.

The best part is always when the class-appointed speaker gets up there to impart their (usually canned) knowledge and wisdom to the grads. We kept count of how many times the words "journey" and "path" were mentioned; in hindsight, we should've included "legacy". It's much easier to sit through a boring speech when everyone is counting on their hands.

This is usually the one and only time I regret my last name, because it starts with an S. We wait and wait, finally her name is called... we cheer, we whistle, we cat-call, Grace whips out the airhorn... Mom says I FORGOT THE COWBELL, and we were all DAMN. OF ALL THE THINGS TO FORGET.

One more to go. Gracie's will be epic.

Moving on. I am thrilled that summer is here! For three weeks I've worked a mere 10 hrs/wk, relaxed the rest of it. I think by day 2 I was ready to be done. What I find so interesting, is that it's taken only three weeks for everyone to become convinced I've forgotten how to put in a full day's work. They fail to remember the six years I spent with a prosthetic limb, also known as my laptop, in the interest of staying on top of the the stress. Those were the days of panic attacks and frustrated rants because my unofficial job description was having all the answers to your questions, yes yours, and staying composed in the face of neurotic artists. And while I don't miss the stress, I miss knowing people so well that I could help them with just about anything. Of course it created some problems when I was thinking about quitting and my co-worker said YOU CAN'T QUIT, YOU'RE THAT PERSON EVERYONE TALKS ABOUT WHO IF YOU GOT HIT BY A BUS, WE'D BE @%#$ OUT OF LUCK.

They've survived just fine. I stopped by the other morning to deliver donuts to the Monday morning staff meeting, and in honorary fashion, read aloud the weekly calendar. I miss those days. I miss the madness. (Now kids, this is what we call being a glutton for punishment...)

I don't miss no summers, though. Yay for summer.

Next week I begin week 1 of 8 in what I'm affectionately calling My Sassy Summer of Fun. I am the Choreographer/Big Cheese of the Green Team for CYT-Spokane's musical theater day camps. At our last camp staff meeting we chatted about key things, including what to do when you can't tell if a camper is male or female, and sending everyone to the bathroom doesn't work because they say they just went... so you take a chance and send them with the girls...and they turn to you and say I'M A BOY.

Can't win em all.

It's going to be an awesome 8 weeks.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes.

2010-05-25T14:53:00.000-07:00

I would like to say: I have come a long way from flipping out when someone moves my cheese. Somewhere along the way I decided it was better to let life happen than to prevent it. This could be because I experienced an enlightenment. It could also have something to do with the fact that I still bear the skid marks from the last time I fought life and lost. One tends to live and learn. As I've proven, one can still be a stubborn ass. But I say that makes for a better story.

Working in education lends itself to change, as it's transient by nature. And despite my tentative approach towards the relationships which can only go so far and so deep, I have thoroughly enjoyed knowing these students. The last two weeks of school were a flurry of activity and events -- it meant insanity for me, but I loved it. The Hot Dog & Book Sale? Smashing success. In fact I've decided next year we're calling it the Hot Dog & Book Sale & Dance Party. We're going to print screen tees and burn a music mix entitled strictly "Awesomeness". Because who doesn't love browsing poetry while the student BBQ masters are dancing to Tearin' Up My Heart...I had to tell them not to get too provocative. Like they needed the attention. One had already singed off his arm hair and the other was busy loudly promoting the inclusion of tofu dogs in our diverse menu. (And yes, people actually ate them.)

Graduation weekend we held the Senior Breakfast, and I sat there as each one introduced themselves and their family, then announced their post-graduation plans. And I realized I didn't want them to leave. I started sulking, even. WHY IS EVERYONE LEAVING ME? Sigh. I hate my life.

There were a few to stop by prior to leaving campus for good; one gifted me a miniature garden gnome, a reference to the time I sent him (and six others) off to a conference in Utah and told them to have fun storming the castle, keep a travel blog, and take something with which to document their journey in photos. Like a garden gnome.

I've named him Orlando.

With the students moving on, I've also had to say goodbye to a few of my worship team members. We all went out for drinks, talked about what's next but mostly we talked about the obscure, silly things. The things only a shot of 151 can elicit. Like HEY ANNIE, DO YOU MISS YOUR EX-BOYFRIEND? Or the even more entertaining impressions of one another. Pretty sure mine included a broomstick. In my defense, somebody has to be task-oriented and responsible. They love me for taking that fall for them.

Every Sunday I can count on sitting in the back, laughing til I cry because someone misspelled "clever" on the overhead and instead it reads "cleaver", so someone leans over and says WELL IT LEAST IT DOESN'T SAY CLEAVAGE and before I know it, we're all crying silent tears of laughter which yes, probably means we're going straight to hell. Or the even more ironic instance of someone in the sanctuary totally dropping a bomb during the sermon and amazingly, I'm the only one to laugh and one of the guys turns to me and, with a straight face, says OH GROW UP.

Please. I tolerate your juvenile antics for upwards of a year and all you have to say is GROW UP?

I have two words for you: Double. Standard.

You make me sick.

(Okay, that's six.)

Lastly, I have been cranking out finishing Leslie's announcements for her impending graduation and in doing so, going through a lot of old family photos. Very suitable for the topic of change, wouldn't you agree?

Thank God we don't look THAT anymore.

I've been accused of using my feminine wiles to get what I want.

2010-04-28T15:47:00.000-07:00

Until recently, I didn't know I even had those. Imagine my delight. This is what we call armed and dangerous.

I'm not one of those whose most exciting stories come from reporting the busted office equipment. But this particular instance happens to be a solid one, very much what a day in the life looks like. Consider this your window.

Today the copier/printer ran out of staples and refused to work. While I always knew it could staple, I never made the connection that the staples have to come from somewhere. I just assumed there were little elves who took care of it. I digress. Upon the absence of staples, the copier then ceased even to print the non-stapled jobs. Which, in my mind, makes no sense at all. (CANON! Do you hear me? Get it together!) Caused a major hiccup in the departmental flow. Replacing the staples means obtaining a special cartridge that, as it turns out, one person on campus knows how to install. Answer me this: if he were to be hit by a bus, where would that leave us?

SOL. Royally.

My co-worker and I executed as good a solution as we're capable of, only to have it break again. I attempted to remove the cartridge (and was planning to just blow on it, like we used to our old Sega tapes; sometimes ignorance is bliss) and in doing so, spilled the hundreds of staples all over the floor. I then slammed the copier door shut and began chattering to myself right as two students rounded the corner… two of my favorites...these two always travel in a pack, act as one another's proxy, etc. So they’re all WE’RE SENSING SOME TENSION and I said THIS IS WHY I DON’T WORK IN INFORMATION SYSTEMS and proceeded to stomp back to my desk (with them following after, saying OH IS THAT WHY...)

They said they had good news for me, and announced they'd be volunteering to work the Annual Hot Dog & Book Sale…I was all OMG, I LOVE YOU! CAN YOU RUN THE BBQ’S? and they said they’ll bring their bikini aprons. Then I asked if they actually know how to run the BBQ without losing any facial hair (or worse) and they said they’ll send me their references. Then I said CAN YOU ALSO HELP HAUL BOOKS and they were all WHAT? WHY? and I said it’s because they’re men = grunt workers. They needed to talk about it and proceeded to turn their backs and start talking like cavemen. Great. Just then another student stops by… I ask if he’s helping and he’s all WHAT? and the other two say IT’S GONNA BE GREAT, DOWN HOME SOUTHERN COOKING so student #3 says SOUTHERN COOKING?? WHERE?? And I’m sittin' there going NO, IT’S NOT SOUTHERN...NO…IT’S..IT'S THE HOT DOG SALE, RYAN and the two amigos first die laughing then hit the Easy button and let’s just say, I have about had it. Next kid to hit that thing gets a stapler to the forehead. And yes, I catch the irony.

However. I have proven once again that my feminine wiles do come in handy. We are going to have SO many volunteers. You can thank me later.

I weep for today's youth, for they know not the B-52's.

2010-04-23T14:07:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'm performing in a dance benefit at the Bing Crosby Theater, for an organization I'm deeply invested in. The trick: my brother-in-law, City of Spokane Firefighter, is my dance partner. He's never danced in his life, save his own wedding reception (and we prefer to use the term loosely), though what he has going for him is his desire to, if he's going to do something at all, do it damn well. He's spent three weeks learning and rehearsing our routine, all so we can go onstage and perform as 1 of 10 couples in CYT-Spokane's 3rd Annual Dancing With the Celebrities. It's for a good cause, remember! Eyez, of course, is the celebrity; he has jumped in with both feet and I couldn't be prouder of him. I, in all my sassy glory, am the instructor.

The rehearsal process has been rough. Unforgiving, if you consider my schedule and the rate at which I go about my day. I haven't had to perform stunts/lifts in years, and needless to say, I vastly underestimated the world of hurt I was in for. Sore muscles mostly, though there were a few hard checks. Unfortunately none were caught on film, including the time I solidly landed on my head and saw little silver specks for the rest of the evening. Robin kept asking me what year it was and I said 200...9? Then she freaked out. Then she asked how many fingers, and I was all I DON'T KNOW, THE MIDDLE ONES?

I didn't start dancing for the love of it, I'm not even sure I was inclined to such a thing. Even now, I don't consider myself a dancer. Something about the word just seems too generic; strips it of its value. (Thank you, Las Vegas.) I teach it, I have for years, but I moreso fell into it than anything else. I wasn't trained, I have no technical knowledge, I'm armed only with a natural ability to hear and move and make it look like I'm doing it on purpose. People will ask me how I manage to make up an entire show's worth of choreography (this is after they're made aware that not all shows are canned) and truly, I'd never stopped to think about it. I just...do. I love the freedom of doing whatever I wish, the responsibility of dreaming up the ways in which these talented kids will express themselves outside of the lines they recite and the songs they sing. I never think it's as good as it could be or that anyone is even going to like it. Even still, that doesn't bother me. I enjoy it, I love working with kids, and somewhere in there I was able to hone some skills that keep the phone calls coming.

Until recently, it'd been years since I'd danced onstage. I have been the man behind the curtain, and happily so, ever since picking it up. As I'm sure is the case with most people, I'm quite good at telling YOU how to do something, but turn the tables and I'm all but inept. It gives me a much greater respect for the scads of kids I've barked choreography to over the years. In recent years, I've taken on the advanced classes, oftentimes several at a time. This semester I asked if they'd let me teach a Beginners course. Just one. So this Spring I am the Core Dance teacher, and I've decided if I could teach this class every semester I would be the happiest woman on earth. So far, our routines are mostly to Michael Jackson, with some B-52's, Scissor Sisters, and Bangles thrown in. I like to think I'm doing them a favor in exposing them to the awesomeness of these artists, in the hopes they won't get beat up on the playground for being uncultured.

You're welcome.

Don't be a jerk and we won't have any problems.

2010-04-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

Lately I've felt convicted (and I hate that word, by the way, but sometimes it just says it best) of loving people better. I am a classic cynic, though maybe not as much as some. Particularly my 17-year-old sister, the queen of snide comments about how life is one massive joke and nobody's immune and heck, you're all just stupid! Then mom gives her a look and Grace says I KNOW I KNOW, DO I REALIZE HOW MUCH HAPPINESS I'M MISSING OUT ON?

She is a product of her youngest-child upbringing. How else does one become so jaded at such an age? Unless it was all that dog food she ate as a kid. Such is the neglected fate which befalls those who fly under the radar simply because they are inconspicuous. And by inconspicuous I mean not as obnoxious as the rest.

I am remarkably skilled at hiding my cynicism. I'm not sure how that happened, though I choose to blame it on Robin. Why? Because everything is her fault. She became the fall guy when I woke up one morning to find the back door wide open, having been that way all night long after she'd been the last to use it. I could've been bludgeoned in my sleep and it would've been all her fault. It just makes sense that she shoulder the rest of my problems. The only time anything was ever my fault (and I'm more than happy to own it) was the time I stopped by my house after housesitting for three weeks, dropped off my stuff, packed more stuff, then left again for a road trip.. and the sweet old man from the Lutheran church next door asked if we were still having issues with our plumbing and I, suitcase in hand, said YOU KNOW, I'M NOT SURE... I HAVEN'T LIVED HERE FOR THREE WEEKS.

And I may or may not have added BECAUSE WE BROKE UP.

I think my skills of masking are fed by the fact that I'm 1) personable, 2) confident, and 3) visible. I have learned that people like talking to me because they feel they know me when, in reality, they don't at all. And after awhile, I have developed the conclusion that they must like me for what I can do/have done, as opposed to who I am. I am immediately cynical of their motives, as I am convinced if they took the time to dig deeper, they would change their mind.

Or if they met my family. One of the two.

I realize it's not fair to other people that I'm like this. And maybe that's what sparked my need to change. To be more open-minded. To love even if I see no reason why. I am addicted to having a reason.

You learn a lot about people when you take the time to approach them for no reason other than you care, or want to be Jesus to them, or just want to bask in their aura. I have always been one to let people come to me, not vice versa. It's easy to do when you stand in front of hundreds of people on any given week. Yet there are Sundays when I walk offstage and to my corner just so nobody will try to talk to me. I crave quality, relish in investment, and casually talking to a dozen people who know my name though I don't know theirs, has always been considered a waste of my time. Brutal, I know. And the Lord has chipped away at this resolve I have to only be where I am most comfortable and seems most logical.

The idea: I am here to be used. In ways I may never be aware of, but that should not stop me.

One of my favorite words is tattooed on my back: UNDONE. In light of all that I am not and all that He is. This state where it's all I can do to claw for grace all the while knowing I don't deserve it. Knowing it has already been granted.

So I go back to the reminder which is, of myself I am not able. Of myself I cannot possibly love someone best. CHRIST IN ME. Right.

Don't judge my methods. They are unorthodox at best. If I make you jello shots, it means I love you. If I laugh THEN tell you about the major booger you've had dangling out of your nose all morning, it means I love you more.

Perhaps most rewarding are the things I learn from observing others. I am surrounded by people who love deeply, in great capacity, despite themselves. It is vastly underrated, having someone speak truth in your life. You can tell it's real when they stick around for the certain spontaneous combustion resulting from your having just been reamed up one side and down the other. All in the name of love, of course. They know truth, while it may take time to sink in, will always trump deceit. God will always show up.

Do I trust that God is Who He says He is? Yes. Then love. And love. And worry about myself. Crap.

Happy Easter to yooouuu.

2010-03-27T14:33:00.000-07:00

(a recent visit back to the crazy factory)

If you've followed me at all, you know I used to work for some pretty awesome people. And by awesome I mean crazy. If we're going by age and number of years worked, I virtually grew up there (though the term 'grew up' might be pushing it). Don't get me wrong... it was a stressful job. It taught me a lot about people, business, and politics...but it also provided the deep belly laughs and mischievious outlets that kept me in constant trouble. You think I learned how to be this quirky on my own? I was once young and innocent. And very boring.

When I turned 21, they made me buy the drinks for Beer: 30. I was so embarrassed, was all I KIND OF HAVE WORK TO DO, PEOPLE. Or what about the time my boss was in the mood for some ice cream, so he said LET'S GO GET SOME and I was all LET ME FINISH WHAT I'M DOING and he said NOOOOO, RIGHT NOW!!! I dropped everything, snuck out the front door so nobody knew we were leaving, all the while saying PRETTY SURE I FAILED COVERT OPERATIONS just in time to see him Rambo-roll to his car.

April Fools Day was always a fun one. Being programmers and designers, our practical jokes were always pretty nerdy... taping over ones optical mouse, or the Option+Control+Command+8 trick. (You know you want to try it.) But when you're nerds together you really don't care.

The first time I ever lost my temper and swore in front of them, my boss inducted me into The Swearing Club. I don't know what's worse... being frustrated due to a project, or knowing your boss doesn't take your frustration seriously. So I learned to just go with it, and instead of demanding validation, I demanded better club benefits or I bail.

Every now and then I visit them. Because I miss the laughter. These people, they know me so well. I miss the comfortability of knowing no matter what I did, business or personal, they cared fiercely. Sometimes it meant not being afraid to get in their face..I never thought twice. You could say I learned a lot about communication, relationships and conflict resolution. Naturally. Sometimes it meant melting down right there in front of all of them, because it was just a hard day. They knew how to take it. And sometimes it meant being called to the carpet. When they promoted me to Project Manager of the Web Development department, first project out of the chute was a nightmare. One of my co-workers was in my face sooner than I could bat an eye, challenging me to step up to the plate... her exact words were IF YOU DON'T TAKE INITIATIVE, YOU WILL FAIL AT THIS JOB. DECIDE RIGHT NOW IF YOU CAN DO IT. From there I didn't look back.

When I left in May 2009, I wrote them a goodbye letter. It was a roast, a tribute, a humorous way of remembering all the fun I had over six years time. Read on.

---
If you were to ask my friends about my experience here, they would say one of three things. 1) "She gets to drink Beer at work. BEER. AT WORK." 2) "Those people...they're weird. But a fun weird." 3) "They tolerate her bad days because they know if they don't, all hell will break loose." And it has, a time or two. Moreso, those near to me (and even those who hardly know me), have and can testify to the fact that here, I've endured severe growth... learned how to operate under pressure... grown into myself, out of my bad habits, into other bad habits, made friends, obtained mentors, and given every one of my friends and family a reason to envy me. I've been the one in a thousand people who truly LOVES their job.

I learned a lot here. How to operate pepper spray, how to scavenge for buried 'treasure', how not to organize files (ever), how to stay sane (thank you, Melanie), how to go insane (thank you, Darin), how to wash a sink full of day-old dishes, how to catch snowflakes with my tongue, how to smash my fingers in the conference room door, how to smash my assets in the conference room door, how to swear with passion, how to make a grown man run for the hills (i.e. turn on the tears), how to spot a corrupt font from a mile away, how to drive my friends crazy with snotty remarks about how THAT logo is absolutely hideous, how to write a proposal in 15 minutes flat, how to smile when I want to scream, offer my assistance when I really just want to wring your neck, and how to do all of your work for you because you had to leave, something about your kid having backed the car into a stationery object. (That apple never falls very far from the tree.) I've come dangerously close to spontaneous combustion, learned valuable lessons in delegation and scheduling, I've thrown a stapler or two, sabotaged your computer (yes, yours), developed a coffee addiction, and lost every ounce of innocence I ever thought I had. And I've had instilled in me a severe hatred for two things: the all-call, and Microsoft Office.

I've been hit on by the creeper delivery guy, heard "I love you" from one photographer's assistant, and been told by one client that surely I must've come straight from the Princess Factory, for the ability I possess to make my boss admit that he needs me, that I know he needs me, and that everyone else knows I know he needs me.

I've learned nothing comes easy to those who want it. It's hard to look this good all the time...don't hate us because we're beautiful. It's even harder to make other companies look good, yet somehow we manage. But really, I should be saying YOU; I've just been the legs of the operation. I've witnessed some harrowing times, some less-than-perfect processes, some messy projects and even messier billing previews... I've seen firsthand the cost of running a joint as high-maintenance as ours.

I thought you were all weird then, I think you're all weird now, and I can't imagine fitting anywhere as well as I fit here. You will never be replaced, not even close. A sizeable chunk of, let's face it, my childhood -- was experienced right here in this office.

Here I have sweat blood, cried real tears, lost tremendous amounts of sleep and all for what? A website launch. I've laughed my royal ass off more times than any single one of you can count, and poured my bleeding heart into a company more worthy than any I could ever imagine. I deserve a medal, but suppose a frame will do.

So. For taking in a 17-year-old, flip-flop sporting, home-learned, slapstick-comedy loving theater geek -- you are all saints. You have my thanks, my admiration, my respect, my love, and many of my best memories. I will never again have a family like the one I have here. The pleasure, the blessing, the enjoyment and the utter privilege...has been, and will remain, entirely my own. I promise to remember you when E! writes my True Hollywood Story.

Repost: Why I Hate Moving.

2010-03-22T14:59:00.000-07:00

I read this post and had a good laugh over the fact that, though almost two years ago, this post prefaces the huge change my life was about to go through. And though I didn't know it at the time, I was being prepared. I'm glad I haven't lost my sense of humor.

---

(August 2008)

To my credit, I have a better attitude than I did last time around. The two years prior to that, I'd moved four times. I don't recommend it unless you're fixated on getting rid of crap that you can't seem to bring yourself to get rid of until you actually HAVE to and by then everyone knows it's just because you have to move it anyway.

For hauling the large furniture, I called in the big guns. And by big guns, I mean my 20-year-old sister.

Little brother committed to help, only to back out due to wisdom teeth surgery. What an eye-roller. When I had mine pulled, I took a nap and woke up with no numbness or pain. However, I've since been told that I 'scar very nicely' which now that you mention it, sorta makes me wish I'd been more into contact sports. Back to Kyle: the drugs made him loopy. He asked where he was (the recovery room) then wanted to know where President Bush was (the next room over, they said) and he responded with NOOOO, HE'S AT THE OLYMPICS. He sang a chorus of DUUUN-DUN-DUN-DUN-DUUUNNNN-DUNNNN which we're assuming was the Olympic theme song, due mostly to his enthusiastic fist pumps.

Mom captured it on video, sent it to the rest of us. I have nothing else to say except that on that day, Kyle's Christmas Letter paragraph single-handedly wrote itself.

But I was telling you about my exciting move.

Cassie bought a house and has spent the last month doing renovations. As we all know, these things take longer than expected. I moved into a bedroom with no door, the bathroom in pieces (the basement one is functional but it's a God-forsaken shade of pink - aaaand, little spiders live there), a kitchen nearly tiled & grouted but not enough for the sink and stove to be in place so they're sitting on the back patio, plastic covering the floors where the walls are being painted or stripped, and a huge ladder propped over the stairs. Every morning it's like summer camp all over again, wearing flip-flops to the shower with my towel around my neck. Except instead of being a scrawny 10-year-old giggling because the boys' counselor made them stand outside our cabin and sing "Girls, You Are More Precious Than Silver", I'm a grumpy 22-year-old who talks to herself until she gets her morning coffee. And who has way too many shoes.

There are no curtains on my windows. Which means the neighbors have been flashed approximately 12 times since I moved in. Good for them. They'll have to live with it until I go to IKEA.

For a while there, I was a tidy individual. Never in one place long enough to warrant piles of stuff and half an inch of dust. This time around, the dust wasn't quite that heavy but the piles were definitely there. Thankfully I paced myself in preparation, allowing a day to haul the big stuff and then moving the rest of my crap over the course of several evenings, given my work schedule. It's a good thing I don't have a life, I guarantee you all this would've proven quite the chore.

Try moving your livelihood from one house to another, cleaning both, working a full week, living out of boxes, occasionally sleeping on the floor, maintaining good hygiene, and all on a diet of cheerios and amaretto sours. (Don't judge me, it's all I had available.) I justify my absence from the gym by claiming that packing & hauling four carloads of crap is enough of a workout.

Sunday evening in the midst of the melee, we went furniture shopping. Currently there exists a mish-mash of random chairs and shelves that make us look like a legitimate college frat house. Being style-minded women (or maybe just women?), a living space that looks and feels like home, is right up there with eating chocolate and talking about our feelings. We strolled through Furniture Row, trying out sofas of all shapes and sizes. We rated them based on comfortability, easy of maintenance, etc. Consensus is that deeper is better, more room to MAKE OUT WITH BOYS. We settled on red, because it's bold and girly and chances are low that it'd be stolen by college guys, were any to break in.

Obviously.

pdx done right

2010-03-18T16:59:00.000-07:00

Ahh, Portland. I take this trip often, a few times a year at least. It's the perfect length, given you choose the right company -- the possibilities for adventure are endless. But let me back up.

There was a time when moving my cheese would've sparked major dramatics. I've learned a lot about myself in the last year. Namely my ability to go with the flow and embrace the not knowing, a trait previously undiscovered and/or presumed dead in the water. I had every intention of writing a poignant and intuitive post about the significance of these changes but even my own powers of forethought failed me. This should tell you where my priorities lie.

CYT's Winter show, for which I was choreographer, wrapped March 7th. Classes, of which I taught three, wrapped last week. I found myself once again faced with free time and NO IDEA what to do with it. Actually that's not true, I knew exactly what to do with it. I was just so shocked to have it at all. It was overwhelming, but I pulled it together.

Thankfully my powers of forethought had come through for me this time, and I'd planned a road trip to beautiful PDX with my friend Topher. (Imagine Luke on a considerable dose of speed. And wearing skinny jeans. 'Cause we all know Luke doesn't wear those.) I'm sure Meyers Briggs has a depth of important-sounding insight, but I'll go with the watered-down and probably more accurate descriptor, which is "glass half-full vs. glass so pathetic it may as well be empty". I am the severe latter, whereas Topher's foremost concern was whether Portland would have any 7/11's. (We found several.)

He is one of those people who loves everybody. Being a cynic, naturally I consider there to be major holes in his methodology, but the beauty is that he's far too laid-back to care. My disagreeing with his relational tendencies simply means I don't have to adopt said tendencies for myself, but do I have the right to tell him he's wrong? It's all relative. So let's take a road trip and hug it out.

Spring term at Whitworth is insanity in its sincerest form. Though I'm wired for this kind of fray, I am also not discerning enough to keep my whinging to myself. (And yes, whinging is a word.) I'm aware I overcommitted and got myself into this, yes I know I could just say no every once in a while, and yes I like to drink - why do you ask?

We'd mapped out several road rules, i.e. no pork rinds in the car, no shopping (exceptions: Powell's and Urban Outfitters), must go geo-caching, no visiting the same coffeeshop twice (unless it's Stumptown), and most importantly, for every veto you get, I get one. And no vetoing my veto.

He vetoed show tunes. I vetoed Tupac. Turns out he cheated.

The blanket rule for the weekend was this: no planning. I was a little bitter at first, but can admit to a few moments throughout the weekend when I thought PLANNING IS SUPERFLUOUS. It was a fleeting thought, if any, as then my Type A reared up and kicked B's ass.

Friday dawned bright and clear. And so it began.

Official travel journal entries include but are not limited to:

#1 = I packed lightest.

#5 = So far we are very intrigued by the small lake in the middle of nowhere, and the prison just outside of Connell. I can't wait until we hit The Dalles.

#12 = Stopped at a viewpoint, Topher ran down the cliff. Then he ran into a barbed wire fence. I didn't think to check on his immunizations.

#17 = He's monopolized the music mix. But I don't care.

#18 = We're listening to Party in the USA. Get me the hell out of this car.

It was discovered early on that I must be eating at all times. I'm a grazer (and somewhere, my dad just rolled his eyes), which I've convinced myself is healthy. The irony is that every time we stopped, it was not on my account. Apparently I was in the company of a pregnant woman. Wasn't Miley Cyrus punishment enough...

Once there, our next few days looked as so...

- Manchester Orchestra @ the Hawthorne Theatre
- Stumptown
- Powell's/Urban Outfitters/Buffalo Exchange (note: the happy-go-lucky types make good book store shoppers, i.e. they don't complain)
- photo shoot of Topher with his fixie. I've never seen him so happy, save our stop for a slurpee.
- Thai Lahnna w/ Luke & E
- Rogue Nation for a nightcap
- Solid Rock, where I decided after not one but two awful sightings that one should never trust a man wearing a bigger scarf than you
- Townshend's Tea Co + Grilled Cheese Grill with my beautiful sister-in-law
- photo shoot in the trash cans!

Only too soon we were homeward bound. I'm one of those the-drive-is-half-the-experience types... even when your car buddy sings out loud the entire way... So I found it hilarious when we stopped in Arlington to fill up on gas, then Topher took the on-ramp westbound back towards Portland. WHERE'S YOUR TRUSTY IPHONE NOW???

And then it was back to reality. The reality of students and classes and departmental madness, the events to plan before graduation, the Easter element to choreograph and rehearse, the dance class to prepare for and teach, the worship team to wrangle... my head was swimming before we even left PDX. There is something severely wrong with me. So when my boss stopped at my desk on Monday morning, as he traditionally does, and asked me the question he always asks (to which I never have an answer for): "So what's new and exciting?," I said "Well, not much. But I do have one question. I was asked to wave my magic wand over this stack of papers and turn it into an electronic file, and I was just wondering, when do I GET my magic wand?"

He said it's on back order.

The five steps of recovery: You don't suck at life. Not yet, anyway.

2010-01-25T11:26:00.000-08:00

A month back, my roommate announced she was quitting coffee. Amidst the various withdrawal-induced rants and attempts to understand that which can't be understood, I sent her an email documenting the necessary steps towards recovery. Here I've expounded to give the full effect.

--
My friend, you will go through many stages of grief, some more than once. The key is to let yourself feel it, and to lean on the people who don’t judge you for being an emotional train wreck. (That would be me. You can pay me in Reeses Pieces.)

1. Shock: Disbelief, inability to process the change, unwillingness to accept they could possibly be so ignorant and clueless. Denial is understandable; you trusted them. It's a virtue. Getting bitten in the a$$ is not ideal, but it won't kill you either. The good news is, you have reinforcements who are more than willing to drive home the honest facts. Plus we aren't blind like you, so we're probably more reliable.

2. Anger: There are three parts: a) pure, unadulterated and passionate rage towards their inconsideration, which you will cycle through then spit out, b) now is also when you will find yourself most willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, for reasons you can't figure out.. not to worry, I am here to slap that bold-faced lie right out of you, and c) part of this anger will be towards yourself, for letting it get as far as it did. You will find self-loathing to be the worst kind of anger, and the hardest to get over. Channeling your rage via the effort to be grateful for those in your life who are both genuine and worth the work, is a far more efficient use of your time and energy.

3. Realization: Here you will likely have to eat some crow upon realizing part of the blame is yours. Lots of sighs and eyerolls in this stage. It's okay, it's healthy. You will also learn restraint, as you come to grips with the fact that they will never know or care to acknowledge what they did, and you are left to move on without answers. Which is fine, because when you come out the other end of this love-fest, you'll realize you didn't need those anyway. You will also realize the many merits of Bailey's Irish Cream.

4. More Anger: Though the majority of your anger will have been dealt with by now, this stage will be more frustrating because by now, you’ve chewed on it longer and the fact that you’re still dwelling, is a sign it must've been pretty bad. That, or you're just stubborn as rocks. Hence the fits and giggles this second time around.

5. More Shock/Pure Annoyance: This will be amplified by anger, when they-who-shall-remain-nameless decide to reach out in all their glorious denial and extend the unsolicited olive branch (I'll stop you right there and say that how they ever got it in the first place, I don't knnnoooow) which is, "Let's be friends". You will want to vomit any number of responses, but instead will offer the legitimate I HAVE ENOUGH FRIENDS, THANKS BUT NO THANKS and leave it at that. They won't understand, and they'll try a few rebuttals, but trust me, you don't care.

6. Acceptance: You will do what you should’ve done all along, and accept that it happened then move on. Face it, your stubborn will to see vindication is the only reason you’ve held on this long.

I guess that's six.

Why not keep going? The seventh step is the best because when all is said and done, you are left simply with what you've known all along: that the God you serve is looking out for you, that this whole thing happened because He considered you able to persevere. What is more, His allowance means that no matter the packaging, little or lot of pain, it's still good. Be thankful. Count your dang blessings. And recognize that you will one day look back and see the growth you endured, the lessons you learned, and you'll have a newfound appreciation for the people who loved you through it all.

Because trust me, sticking by someone when they're quitting coffee is not a short order.

I should’ve been a counselor.

-your roommate

Three day weekends were made for abusing the cat.

2010-01-20T16:43:00.000-08:00

This past weekend was a much-needed and somewhat relaxing one. I need those every now and again. I'm currently in the busy-with-no-room-for-error mode, and for a holiday to come along was glorious.

Fri/Sat = Munchkinland. No, really. We rehearsed Munchkinland. I yelled a lot. But I love them. And it's getting there.

Sunday = I spent the morning at church, on worship duty. I may or may not have bribed the boys with coffee if they showed up on time (though the breakfast of ding-dong's was not my idea). I sang a special during communion, accompanied by my talented guitarist... after we'd rehearsed it once, mindful to watch one another for the sake of timing, one of the other's lipped off with SING IT AGAIN, ONLY THIS TIME SING IT TO JESUS. So I turned around and said NOBODY ASKED YOU, prompting the Children's Ministry Pastor to assert that my, aren't we sassy today? After a first service of technical difficulties and team miscommunication, we set out for the traditional get-together-at-the-bagel-place and I attempted to set the record straight with my amazing executive decision-making skills. I think I got my point across, though it's always hard to tell when their only response is to spend ten minutes showing eachother a dozen different ways to fist bump. Never have I seen so many college boys giggle like so many college girls.

Family dinner was low-key. We were short half the crew, and the other half of us took naps. It was then pointed out that any day which includes Dad singing the Star Spangled Banner every five minutes, Kyle swinging the cat in circles then sending it down the stairs, and me holding a cup to my mouth and making farting noises, is better described as 'entertainment'.

It's relative. No injuries and less than 10 people = low-key.

Monday = slept in. Had coffee & game-time with Cassie. She shut me out in Farkle, which was embarrassing. So I came back to kick her butt at Bananagrams and this, my friends, is how it's done:

Because we all need some Sexy Beer.

I am this close to implanting a flag and declaring it The United States of Annie.

2010-01-12T11:36:00.000-08:00

I would like to say something. For the record. So that a month down the road when my always-right-and-never-wrong roommate decides to crown herself Queen of Everything because I lit the stove on fire again (and isn't that exactly what she said would happen?), I have documented reminders that she, too, is human. I've long maintained that she can contradict and complain with the best of 'em, though she claims lack of proof. Until now. Watch out, you're about to bear witness to the #1 reason why living with this woman is the very same reason why I plan to have only sons. No daughters. Just sons.

I have to be very careful when calling Robin to the carpet, as if she doesn't have a legitimate statement of defense, her default fallback is: what would you know? You're just the skinny roommate. You live life in a bubble of fortune, where your foremost complaint is being liked by too many guys. Poor, poor you.

Despite how much I'd love to show her my cottage-cheese thighs and that yes, I can too get my arms to flap in the wind, it's of no use.

Screw relevance. She is the one-upper of victimdom. Does it get more annoying.

To give you some background: since October, Robin has begged for snow. Everything was I LOVE WINTER and I LOVE SNOW and IT'S JUST SO PRETTY.

FF to yesterday. Robin is sitting on the couch, I ask about her day, and she says (quote):

I HATE WINTER.

*blink*

*blink blink*

I'm sorry. You what?

She went grocery shopping, found the cost of fruits and vegetables was through the roof. Out of season, hello.

Well now. What would you like me to do about that?

ALL I HAVE TO SAY IS: MEXICO, GET IT TOGETHER.

I, for one, genuinely hate Winter. I hate icy or otherwise salty sidewalks. My only consolation is watching the students walk or bike across campus, and fall on their butts. First substantial snowfall, the church nextdoor plowed our driveway and yard, but failed to take into account the gravel. We now have a beautiful mound of dirt and gravel, smack in the middle of our yard. It begs to be addressed. I'm inclined to strap on my backpack and summit that baby.

I knew there was a reason why I've never met the neighbors.

I digress. I decided to give Robin what she's asked for, so I went outside, collected said snow into my hands, marched into her room and threw it at her sleeping face.

I WANT SOMETHING I CAN SHOVEL, she said.

This too, I will be sure to remind her of.

Apparently I'm not as tech savvy as I thought.

2010-01-08T13:38:00.000-08:00

So. In an ill-fated attempt to adjust my settings (and those of the family's Christmas blog), I locked everybody out. If it makes you feel any better, I've not posted in three weeks. If it makes me feel any better, it's been years since I was the only one capable of programming the VCR ('cause who even owns those anymore), therefore the fact that my technical skills have left me should be no reason to pout.

I'm over it.

Christmas came and went, leaving behind the residue of busyness and mayhem. The masses couldn't assemble together until the 28th, so we waited to celebrate. The days prior were filled with hot breakfast, movies and card games. We didn't have a white Christmas, unlike last year, though none of us were complaining. I, for one, did not miss the baha of a car ride every time one wanted to escape the house, not to mention the collective hours of snow-shoveling needed in order to get in and out of the driveway. I still remember thinking to myself HOW CAN ONE BE EXPECTED TO LIVE LIKE THIS?? then kindly konking myself on the head for being such a wimp. I digress. We had no such problems this year, save the nostril-freezing wind chill, of which we were more than willing to tolerate.

We had an epic family celebration, and our friends are beginning to think less of the word because apparently everything we do is epic. Said celebration culminated in a lights out, everybody-break-out-the-glow-sticks dance party once all the gifts had been opened. Mom and Dad arranged the traditional Scavenger Hunt to find our stockings, and I will go on the record as stating how impressed I was that Erica jumped right in and fought the good fight. This despite running into Molly who, instead of mowing her over or kindly moving around her, proceeded to pick her up, set her aside, and kept running. Being the family historian, I hung back and took pictures, the majority of which include headlocks, several bodies on the ground at any given time, or the more creative de-pantsing.

We'd each contributed something to the stockings this year, so it was entertaining to pick through and determine who had given what. I gave underwear to the six girls, but the ones I'd picked only came in a 5-pack so E received a lovely red & white fur-lined thong. (Merry Christmas to HER.) Luke contributed erasers in the shape of a cube puzzle, which we then proceeded to spend hours trying to solve. Kyle gave scratch tickets. Pretty sure I lost. And E gave tubes of glow sticks, which...well, you already know that story.

Holiday injuries include but are not limited to Kyle throwing poker chips at Kelsey (see Page 3 of the Family Diary, entitled "Poker: The New Paintball"), Molly's throwdown (which she claims was not the result of her ever-present antagonistic tendencies), and Alex chasing Kelsey around the yard for reasons we have yet to figure out.

Ekes of movies were had, the likes of which include: Avatar in 3D (gave me a headache, not to mention bred disgust over the fact that the first weekend's earnings could've solved world hunger in one fell swoop...suffice it to say, I am not proud of myself), The Blind Side, District 9 (good, albeit graphic), (500) Days of Summer (sooo glad I didn't see that one right after my beautiful breakup), and Julie & Julia (could a person's voice BE more irritating...).

The New Year was rung in quietly and with little ceremony. Jan term began & CYT picked up all in the same week, and my life is back to being one big organized mess.

On another note...

I feel very loved today.

Not in the fuzzy, cloud-nine kind of way. Though there is something to be said for said feeling.

Today I feel appreciated. Well-liked.

It's been a year and a half since I began teaching for CYT again. Since then, I've worked on back-to-back shows and taught a class every semester, sometimes two. It was never my intent, it just sorta happened. I always said I didn't have the energy for that. Yet it's corresponded with a time in my life where I've purged a bit of stress, easily the biggest contributing factor in my decision to limit my involvement with CYT. Last night as I drove home from my first day of class, I got to thinking about how it doesn't feel like work. I was so hyped, so excited to have just spent 4 hours with a CRAZY talented and funny group of students. It was cause to realize once again, the reward that comes from doing what I love, for an organization I love.

Somewhere in there, over the last year, it became a dire need of mine to spend time with those kids. Vital, if you will, to who I am.

Before I knew what I was doing, I committed to teaching three classes + choreographing the Winter show. All in a 10-week span. I am insane.

I can't help it. I get there and they are all full of hugs or smirks or whatever it is they use to show their affection. And to quote Sandra Bullock in one of the best films ever made: "I fell in love with you. Yes, you. Well...all of you."

This week I began teaching two classes. Advanced Dance for CYT-NI (my reputation preceded me and let's just say I'm more than a little intimidated at having 'all the good kids' in my class...), and Musical Theater: Chicago for CYT-Spokane. The latter I am also teaching an overflow for, as the original class filled up in three days.

It just feels good, to know they like me. It sounds elementary and silly to say it out loud, but I don't think anybody ever tires of feeling good about themselves. And while I don't condone the practice of only surrounding oneself with those kinds of people, a little positive reinforcement every now and then is good for the heart.

This weekend we have auditions for our Winter show, The Wizard of Oz. I have huge plans and dreams for this show, particular the Jitterbugs. This week I spent two hours in the dance studio with a friend, choreographing a combo Lindy/Jazz routine for callbacks. It kicked even my butt, which likely means we have our work cut out for us but at least it'll show us what the kids are made of.

It's these kinds of long days and nights that I never tire of.

It feels good to feel good. After the upheaval and change of 2009, positive as it was now that I'm on the other side of it, I am excited to be pulling ahead and pursuing the things I truly enjoy.

My one New Year's resolution is to keep it up. All of it.

Some people just ooze coolness.

2009-12-21T15:49:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I had the privileged delight of shooting one very photogenic and wildly intellectual family, friends of mine for over a decade. They claim to be nothing special, though everyone knows you don't go up against a Lewis when death is on the line. They're world travelers, independants, and activists...a mix of sociable, passionate debate-lovers, and quiet thinkers who are content to keep their brilliance relatively covert...all are wicked smart despite what they may tell you...college professors, mathematicians, and artists, the lot of them. We sat in a coffee shop for almost four hours talking. Sharing. Arguing. But mostly laughing. And as I drove away, it took me a minute to realize how SIMILAR this family is to my own. The comfort of sitting around for hours in one another's presence is vastly underrated and rarely understood, but they get it. It's a hard dynamic to rival, given the loyalties I was born into. Until yesterday I'd quite honestly never met another family who enjoyed one another as much as my own. Except instead of playing cards and calling names, they read history textbooks and debate the most efficient way to evangelize Saudi Arabia.

The matriarch of said family, claims to be the non-confrontational wallflower. The one who can't/won't stand up for herself in an argument because she says she's not quick or smart enough. This is the same woman who, when she got bored, enrolled in a Statistics course. Just for kicks.

This family, their brains are far too big for their own good.

And yet they can sit in a coffee shop for an entire afternoon talking about people and events and politics, and when the one doing their crossword in the corner pipes up with A FALAFEL HOLDER?, stop what they're doing and think, before one shouts PITA!

Spending the afternoon with them, only furthered my firm belief that family, in all their unique and sometimes impossible glory, is a deal-breaker. I'm given the occasional eyeroll from those who don't understand how I could possibly want to spend as much time with my family as I do. (Uhh...because they're awesome?) One day I turned to my sister and said IS IT OUT OF THE ORDINARY THAT WE'RE TOGETHER AS MUCH AS WE ARE? and she wasted no time in saying OH YES, WE AREN'T NORMAL.

I'm allowed to lean on them, use them for defense, and hold bi-weekly drinking parties (regardless of any specific sorrows in need of a good solid drowning). Everyone jokes about the family dynamic when it comes to those who marry in, but underneath the banter is the uncontrollable truth which is: either you fit, or you don't. If the former, embrace it. If the latter, we can't help you.

While one such BF of mine could claim many virtues, likeability among outside parties was not high on the list. He dealt with a lot of problems, the biggest of which was named Molly.

After long it becomes apparent that most think family was/is one of two things: 1) an unaffordable luxury, or 2) competition for one's affections. I've seen both ends of the broad spectrum: those who fit, and those who really don't. Everyone says when you marry a person, you marry their family. Mom has three criterion for any interested parties: 1) Do you love Jesus? 2) Do you love my kid? 3) Do you love my family?

Simple, right. You have no idea.

However, and this is the depressing portion of our program, it's also true that when you break up with a person, you break up with their family. One guy exercised a healthy dose of inconsiderate ignorance when he made his exit, landing himself on a few #%$& lists, then continued to act like everything was fine. I enlightened him to the fact that his reputation was in the toilet, said DUDE, YOU MESSED WITH THE SPOKANE KENNEDY'S and I'm pretty sure he didn't think that was funny. (In fact, I know he didn't think that was funny. He told me so.)

All that to say: when you disregard one, you disregard them all.

Why Big Families Are So Awesome, Reason #278: No-Questions-Asked Loyalty.

Partiality and bias aside, I'm thankful this family is on my side. They're the first to stand up, slap the dirt off, heave a collective LIVE AND LEARN and keep walking. And though you can know it for a long time, you're then reminded that while it may be hard to find one you like, and even harder to find one who not only likes you but also likes ALL the rest, it's harder still to first find, then obtain, one whom the collective unit approves of.

I know three people who can claim the title. And they had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Apparently they've decided if you can't beat em, join em.