Would You Rather...?

This is sort of a morbid post I guess, but bear with me (and please, to anyone who may be blind or deaf and is reading or hearing this blogpost, I mean no disrespect by this post in any way). At 3pm today, I’m having PRK Surgery which I mentioned before here (similar to Lasik). I’m excited, but very nervous. And of course reading through the bevy of risks on the consent form doesn't help.


It got me thinking. Do you remember those “would you rather” questions you used to play as a kid? Ones like “Would you rather only eat brussel sprouts for the rest of your life or have no taste buds?” I hated those questions. Since neither choice is appealing, I’d spend way too long weighing the pros and cons of each, stressing myself over a simple hypothetical. 


In anticipation of my surgery, I've been thinking about one of these questions in particular: “Would you rather be blind or deaf?” Now, I can see pros and cons to each, but I really think what you choose says a lot about what you value in everyday life. Are you musically inclined or artistically so? Are you happier seeing waves crashing on the shore, or hearing their gentle rhythm? Last night, I read for awhile, cooked myself dinner, watched a few shows from my DVR and played with the kitten. As I did all this, I reminded myself to enjoy each of these activities, you know, just in case. It got me thinking about the blind or deaf hypothetical. I, the person who loves to read, who skims decorating blogs, is addicted to Pinterest, loves photography and pretty things, if I absolutely had to choose, would choose to be deaf. Prior to yesterday, this question had me stumped, but when faced with the reality and the risks of eye surgery, when thinking of all the things I wouldn’t see again if I were to go blind, the choice became easy. A scary choice for someone about to undergo laser eye surgery that apparently has more risks than a tiger has stripes, but there it is. I would rather be deaf than blind. I would assume the majority would agree with me, but who knows. So here's my question to you Internet: Would you rather be deaf or blind? And why?

Reflecting Back and Looking Forward

2011 was a pretty good year, I’d say. I got married to my love of 9 years. I celebrated with friends and family at the weddings of loved ones. I joined a flag football team. Ran a half marathon. Ran the Broad St. Run. Made new friends. Was asked to be a Godmother (unfortunately, not the fairy kind). Bought a kitten. Watched my baby sister graduate from college. Went salsa dancing.

And then life sent some harder experiences just to keep me on my feet. Hurricane Irene happened and we were “homeless” for 2.5 weeks. A friend was diagnosed with cancer. Good friends moved halfway across the world.

I think no matter what happens, no matter your lot in life, life is what you make of it. Those good experiences at the top? They happened because we make them happen, not because we’re lucky. As for the harder ones underneath? What can I say: life happens. Those are the things that make you stop and take a look at your life. They’re the things that make you want to experience the good, to do more with your life, to make time for the important people in your life.

If you look at those experiences in that way, good can always come out of bad. Adjust your lens and see them differently. Focus on anything other the bad, then give yourself something good to look forward to.

2011 was pretty great, but I’m looking forward to more time with friends and family, more life goals achieved, and even more happiness and love in 2012.

Typography Clock

One of the blogs I check on a daily basis is Apartment Therapy. I like to find decorating and furnishing ideas for the rooms of my future. Hey, it's better than spending money I don't have on furniture that won't fit in our apartment, right? Anyway, yesterday, Apartment Therapy posted this fabulous clock by Doug's Word Clocks.

Yes, I know it's not for everyone, but I am totally in love with it. I love how odd it is. It’s not for those of us who need to know the exact minute at all times (ok, me), but it could go in a room where that’s not totally necessary. I’m imagining it hanging in a cool dining room or living room as a unique piece of art, because at a whopping $363.50 AUD, that's the only way I could justify buying it. One day.

Oversharing: The Secret to Making Friends

Have you ever met someone and hit it off right away, finding yourself sharing way too much information in your first meeting and feeling totally normal about it? Well, this Saturday night, Kurt and I went to my friends’ Christmas party and did just that. We didn’t know many people, so naturally, we stood by the kitchen and intercepted homemade spanikopita fresh from the oven and mini apricot and brie filo pastries that burned the roofs of our mouths from the unsuspecting arms of our hostess. Yes, my friends, I know how to party. (Sidenote: this is also the best place to stand during the cocktail hour at weddings. No more will you be shouting, “THERE WERE MINI HOTDOGS?!” because you will have first dibs. You’re welcome.)

Anyway, after awhile, another couple came over and introduced themselves. They were our hosts’ neighbors and in the first 15 minutes we covered birth control, vasectomies, periods, and poop, without irony, or shame. Forget the weather and what you do for a living; apparently, the best way to make friends is to delve into those really, deeply personal and awkward topics. After realizing what we'd been talking about with, let's face it, perfect strangers, we laughed and moved on to more “appropriate” topics as more people joined our conversation. Meanwhile, I contemplated how to make these people our very best friends, because really, how often do you meet people right off the bat with whom topics like these surface naturally (outside of a doctor's office, of course)?

Tangerine Tango

Each year, pantone announces the color of the year. 2010 was turquoise, 2011 was a bright red called Honeysuckle. The official announcement for the color of 2012 came on Thursday: Tangerine Tango.

It’s so bright and energetic, exactly what we need to revive ourselves this coming year. I’m ready to paint something, anything this zesty color.

A Few Things That Have Nothing to Do With One Another

1. I just discovered an amazing thing: DayQuil and NyQuil LIQUIGELS! No more disgusting liquid NyQuil. Whenever I’m sick, I swear by NyQuil, but I dread taking it. When it’s time to take a dose, I prepare myself and get out a full glass of water and a piece of bread. The bread is the only thing that gets that awful taste out of my mouth. But now the geniuses over at the NyQuil Company have made it so I don’t have to use an entire loaf of bread each time I’m sick. Plus, it’s way easier to carry a bunch of liquigels in your purse than a bottle of medicine.

2. Our wedding video is now up on vimeo. When we first started planning a wedding, I didn’t want a videographer. The main reason was I didn’t want to have to watch myself on video. I didn’t want to see the awkward dancing or bad angles. Friends of mine (one of whom is a wedding videographer herself) encouraged me to get a videographer. “You won’t regret it.” “It’s totally worth it.” And I scoffed and stood my ground. But at the last minute, a man Kurt works with offered to do our video for a very reasonable price. The price was so reasonable, we just couldn’t pass it up. And boy am I glad we didn’t pass it up. He did a beautiful job. I was so impressed with this video (and it’s only the “short” version). I love watching it, something I never thought would happen. Ok, I still don’t love the awkward dancing part and look away every time it comes up, but still. I think my favorite part is when one of my bridesmaids ducks the bubbles. So, if you’re into watching wedding videos, click here. It’s only 8 minutes long. If you’re not and feel like you’ve wasted an entire 2 minutes of your life reading about wedding videos and feel like you haven’t gotten anything out of this post, click here to see the biggest insect in the world.

PS - if you're looking for a videographer, Bob Beebe is your man.

Mr. Gobbles

During my Senior year of college, I interned at a company in Kendall Square in Boston. The building I worked in was more or less a "U" shape, with a small courtyard where the smokers would gather. For weeks, I drove to work, swiped my access card, parked in the lot, swiped my access card again, and entered the building; each day like the one before. Then, one morning, I walked into the building and happened to look into the courtyard to my left. There stood the largest, proudest turkey I have ever seen. It was standing in the courtyard, staring at itself in the reflection of the windows, its colorful feathers puffed out. I practically ran to my office to share the news with my officemate. This was, by the way, February in Boston, the temperature rarely above freezing. "DID YOU SEE THE TURKEY IN THE COURTYARD??" He barely looked up from his computer. "You mean Mr. Gobbles?" "He has a name!?" "Sure, he's been here for years. He just looks at himself in the windows all day long." My mind swam with questions. Where did he come from? Where does he live? Why is he in a city of all places? Is he someone's pet? Isn't he cold??

To say Mr. Gobbles was the largest turkey I've ever seen is not hyperbole. I would never want to be face to face with that thing. But he intrigued me. He seemed to completely ignore all the people, cars, and concrete surrounding him, and focused only on his reflection (presumably thinking it was another male). I've never known a turkey to be described as regal before; clumsy, awkward, even tasty, sure. But Mr. Gobbles was a regal bird. He'd strut around the courtyard, flashing his colorful feathers, putting on a show for anyone who would watch.

He had become somewhat of a mascot at the company. At some point, long before I'd arrived, he stopped being "that turkey in the courtyard" and became Mr. Gobbles. Everyone at the company accepted him as part of the landscaping, walking by without a second glance. Everyone, except new people like me, that is, who took every opportunity to watch him. Eventually though, he became just another part of my workday, his presence no longer novel. He was still an anomaly, a great story to tell, just not something to marvel over each day. 

I stumbled across this article today. It seems his mate and offspring have made Kendall Square their home. I know Thanksgiving is a day to be eating turkeys, not reminiscing about them, but every year around this time (ok, yes, fine, while I'm eating one of his brothers (or sisters)) I think of Mr. Gobbles and wonder how he's doing. 

Have a happy Holiday, Mr. Gobbles and may you never end up on a Thanksgiving table.

Some thoughts on Sunday

Sundays are sleeping in, bagels, long runs, brunch, bellinis, lazy, two-hour naps, getting lost in a good book, recuperative, relaxing, sunshine, errands, football, no makeup, dinner with the family, dreading Mondays.

What do Sundays mean to you?

An Overdeveloped Sense of Empathy

Have you ever bought something just because you felt bad NOT buying something? I've been there. Too many times. I'm too nice. I know I am. I want to please everyone, all the time. So, when I'm shopping for something in particular, I usually refrain from asking for help or advice in a store because I end up feeling terrible if I don't buy something. In May, I was looking for a dress for my bachelorette party. We were going salsa dancing, so I wanted something fun, but not too restrictive, different, but not weird. I went into a store on my way out of the mall after a particularly unsuccessful shopping trip and was met by a sweet, helpful salesgirl, about my age. I explained to her what I was looking for and she came back with piles of dresses and shoes. I was overwhelmed by how genuinely excited she seemed to be helping me, but let's just say we didn't have the same tastes in dresses. Most of the dresses she brought over were matronly, or more flamenco, and less salsa. Or just plain ugly. I tried my best to hide my feelings about the dresses and thanked her profusely for her help. Each time I told her I didn't like a dress (or rather that it "was super cute, but didn't really look that great on me"), her face seemed to fall a little more. She was actually breaking my heart. It wasn't one of those "Oh no, I'm not getting a commission" sort of look. It was more "she doesn't like my taste. Maybe I don't know what I'm doing" looks. I swear, I almost bought something just to make her happy (and then return it later to another location). Has this ever happened to you? Please tell me it's not just me who avoids salespeople at all costs just so I don't have to hurt their feelings. I'm sure I read WAY too much into this and these people end up forgetting about me the second I leave the store, but I always worry that I'm hurting someone's feelings.

This overdeveloped sense of empathy is most problematic at craft fairs, or farmers markets, where the merchandise has actually been made by the seller. Typically, at these places, I follow the crowds, never going up to a stand by myself. This way, I avoid being singled out, having to smile politely, apologetically, and leave empty-handed. Normally, I hate crowds, but in these situations, I welcome them and the anonymity they promise. 

There is a seasonal farmer's market in the next town over every Monday in the Spring, Summer, and early Fall. Two local farms have large stands, piled with watermelons, peaches, radishes, tomatoes, corn. One farm stand has lower prices than the other. Logic and simple math would tell you to buy from the cheaper farm stand, thus saving money. What do I do? I buy from both, every time. I tell myself it's because I'm trying to support local farmers and really, how could I choose between the two? But really, it's because I don't want to hurt one farmer's feelings by passing over their stand and going straight to the other. So, I buy peaches and tomatoes from one, watermelon and potatoes from the other.

This is why I started shopping more online. I actually prefer the tactile shopping experience of retail shopping, feeling the clothes, trying everything on. But online, there's no salesperson or vendor to disappoint. Although, now I return items much more often (usually in-store because it's easier), which causes another issue: that awkward situation wherein the cashier asks why you're returning it. I never know what to say. "I just didn't like it" just sounds mean. What is wrong with me?

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Everyone has certain things, memories, people, places, that bring back warm, happy, childhood memories. Mr. Rogers is one of those things for me. And if you grew up in the States and were allowed to watch tv, chances are, he is for you too. (Unless you're Kurt who thinks, and swears he always thought, Mr. Rogers was creepy.) Watching television was allowed at my house, in moderation of course. Most of my memories are of playing outside with the neighborhood kids in all types of weather. But the tv was on, tuned to PBS or the Disney Channel, whenever I was inside. And I loved Mr. Rogers. I can't even begin to tell you the many things I learned watching his show. Even now, seeing old reruns brings me back to a simpler time when the biggest decision of the day was whether to play freeze tag or TV tag.

I came across this article today (thanks Ruth!) that only solidified my warm and fuzzy feelings toward that kindly be-cardiganed man. These days, it feels like we too often find that our childhood idols were less upstanding citizens and more flawed, dishonest people, nothing more than actors playing on our emotions. It's comforting to know that somone I admired and loved as a child was truly everything he seemed to be, and more. Let's face it, we could all stand to be a little more like Mr. Rogers, a little more neighborly.

No Real Than You Are

Does anyone else find this hilarious? And perhaps a little creepy? Just me? Ok, then.

Apparently, a giant Lego man has washed up on the shore of a Florida beach. I really don't know what to say about this. Where to begin? First of all, the grammar nerd in me is writhing in pain looking at that sentence fragment written on his shirt. If you're going to go through all that trouble to make a giant Lego man and find a way to have him wash up on a Florida beach, causing a national sensation, wouldn't you want to make sure your grammar is correct? 

I honestly thought I had mistakenly stumbled across The Onion website when I saw this. The headline is the best part. I love that he's being held "in custody." As if he were real. Or is he?

One thing's for sure; it will be haunting my dreams tonight. The sentence, not the giant Lego man, in case there was any question.

Rules for Trick-or-Treating

We live on Main Street in Small Town, USA, where parades, Civil War reenactments, and knowing your neighbors are the norm. Here, Halloween is an experience. At 6pm, every Halloween, Main Street is closed, fire engines, police cars, and the high school marching band slowly make it down the street, followed by hundreds and hundreds of trick-or-treaters. I've lived on Main Street for 5 years. The first 3 years were spent living in a tiny apartment above a shop. Our apartment number was something straight of a Harry Potter novel: 18-1/2. Since people who knew where we lived could barely find our apartment, it should not have come as a surprise that we got zero trick-or-treaters. Zero. The first year, we bought tons of candy, excited to see the kids dressed up. That candy sat in our living room, not one single piece having been given out to trick-or-treaters. I'd like to say that candy lasted us until Christmas, but that would be a lie. It lasted maybe three days. The last Halloween I spent in that apartment, I stood outside with a bowl of candy, determined to participate, dressed like a creepy twenty-something girl eager to give out candy to little kids. Oh. Wait.

When Kurt and I moved in together, in an apartment across the street, I had no idea what we were getting into. Halloween came, we bought candy. A lot of candy. It lasted 45 minutes. I ran out to CVS to buy more and rushed home. (I'm pretty sure they marked up the Halloween candy at the last minute since those few bags of candy cost me what seemed like an arm and a leg) It lasted another 45 minutes.

This year, we were more prepared. We went to BJ's and picked up four huge bags of candy. We sat on the porch with our neighbor handing out candy to the kids. After tonight's experience, I have come up with four rules for trick-or-treaters. That's right, kids. Your night of fun now comes with a side of rules. As an aside, I'm really not as grumpy as this will make me sound. It just really bothers me that some kids (and parents) think they are entitled to EVERYTHING FOR FREE and feel no need to even say thank you. So here goes:

1) If you don't dress up, you shouldn't get candy. Put cat ears on, paint whiskers on your face, anything! (more to the point, if you are a parent, you do not get candy. you can buy your own, you don't need the free stuff from strangers. leave some for the kids, huh?)

2) Say "trick-or-treat." Really, how hard is it? They're three measly words and you get FREE CANDY. No "trick-or-treat," no candy.

3) Take ONE piece of candy. There are hundreds of kids behind you and I'm not made of money. (I couldn't believe the number of kids who grabbed handfuls and ran - because they KNEW THEY WERE WRONG.)

4) If you've come to my house once, I remember you. No double dipping. (PARENTS, this one is for you as well. It's time to teach your kids honesty and integrity. Saying "Ooo look guys, candy!" doesn't fool me for a second. I remember you from the first time you came around and encouraged your kids to take handfuls of my candy.)

There. Four simple rules that really shouldn't even need to be enforced. I honestly don't think that's too much to ask. Is it? Am I a grump?

Truthfully, most of the kids said thank you and "trick-or-treat" and at least put on a Phillies jersey as a costume. Some teenagers even went all out (one kid was Max from Where the Wild Things Are). The parents stood behind the little ones, nervous, waiting to correct them; "say trick-or-treat!" "say thank you!" I love these kids and these parents. I appreciate their manners and enthusiasm. A little effort and kindness really go a long way.

And yes, I gave candy to the ones who didn't dress up, who didn't say "trick-or-treat", who took a handful of candy, and who came twice (a couple kids DID ALL FOUR of these things). I'm all talk. I "jokingly" scolded the kids whose parents encouraged them to come back for seconds, but that was really more for the parents to hear than the children. The truth is, I love Halloween, I love the costumes, I love handing out candy, and I love making just one child's night, even if a thousand didn't appreciate it. My only regret from tonight? Not getting the chance to watch the movie I watched every Halloween as a child: Hocus Pocus. I guess there's always next year (when I'm printing these four rules on a piece of cardboard and posting it on my porch). Kids, next year, at the Bernhard's, you get a piece of candy AND a lesson in manners. Bring your parents!

The Bumbershoot

I have a love/hate relationship with umbrellas. I love that they keep me dry. I hate how awkward and annoying they are to carry. I have at least 4: one in the car at all times, one in my purse, one at the office, and one at home. Every time I walk past an umbrella stand, I have to stop and look at them. Have they invented a more ingenious way of keeping me dry yet? I’ve debated buying the huge, cumbersome golf umbrellas (surely those would keep me, and ten other people dry), and also the clear, bubble ones. I can’t decide if they’re super cute or super ridiculous.

In college, using umbrellas was just too much of a hassle. I tried wearing hoods or just putting my hair up and pretending not to care that I was soaked to the bone. Boston wind ruined every umbrella I had, except one: the fundraiser Lawrence High School Cardinal umbrella we sold my junior year. I guarded that one with my life.

While studying in Rome in college, I learned never to carry an umbrella. As soon as the first rain drop fell, men would appear from out of nowhere with tiny umbrellas hanging from their wrists. We were usually able to haggle them down to 3 euros a pop. Genius. I wish that would happen everywhere. How great it would be if you were just walking down the street in Princeton, you feel a raindrop, and poof! there’s some random man ready to save you with a $3 umbrella? The Italians have so many things right. We Americans have so much to learn.

As a commuter to NYC, I learned quickly that I needed to prepare for the elements. I bought snow boots, two pairs of wellies (one with a wedge heel and one without), a trench coat, a warm, puffy coat, gloves, etc. The umbrella became that useful, but annoying friend again. My one requirement for a new handbag was that it could fit my umbrella. Trying to juggle a handbag, work bag, coffee, and umbrella and still stay dry is not easy, let me tell you. I’ve tried in vain to find a cute trench coat with a hood (if anyone finds one, please send me the link), and so the umbrella has remained ever present in my wardrobe, mocking me. "I’ll keep you dry", it seems to say, "but I won’t make it easy for you."

I am aware umbrellas are cumbersome and sometimes ridiculous. But they’re useful. At least I think so. For as long as I’ve known him, Kurt has never used an umbrella. “Real men don’t use umbrellas”, has always been his mantra. I’ve always thought it was silly. “Real men” would rather be soaked all day, or ruin a good suit, than be seen carrying an umbrella. I thought he was just being stubborn. But today, I saw this: http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/04181/338865-154.stm. This writer makes some hilarious points about umbrellas and machismo. Good to know I’ve married a “real man.” I was worried.

Chasing Rainbows

On the way home today, I saw a rainbow (believe me, it was much more beautiful than this picture shows. God, my photography skills are lacking. Can you even tell there's a rainbow there? There is. I promise. It's in the middle. Look close.). I love rainbows. They always make me feel a little nostalgic. For four glorious years, between ages 3 and 7, I lived next door to my best friend, Eric. Most of my memories from those years include him; like the time we chased a hot air balloon that was landing in the field behind our building, or when I told him I wouldn't be his friend if he didn't tell his Grandmother (a die-hard Mets fan) that he liked the Phillies more (he did and she chased us around the yard, tickling us, until we submitted). Some of my favorite memories with Eric are when we tried to find the pot of gold at the ends of rainbows. We had enough freedom, and our development was large enough, that we had plenty of room to run. Each time we saw a rainbow, we'd run as fast as we could, to try to find the end of the rainbow, where surely, treasures awaited, not to mention Leprechauns. There were even a few times we convinced our parents to drive us on our mission. No matter how far we ran or how long we drove, we never made it to the ends of the rainbows. They always disappeared after enough time, nothing more than light and drops of water. But the sense of adventure, the excitement of what we might find if we ever made it in time, was enough for us. Seeing rainbows, even now, reminds me what it's like to be a kid, to believe in magic, and let imagination take over.

Long Live the First Amendment

In honor of Banned Books Week, this post will be a listing of all the banned books you should read.

By censoring books, we tell our children that it's wrong to think differently, to dream, to question, to disagree, to challenge a way of life or an idea. I've already written my thoughts on censorship and book banning here, so I won't repeat myself. Happy reading!

His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
Blood and Chocolate by Annette Klause
The Giver by Lois Lowry
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie

Here's a great resource from Random House that offers a more extensive list of banned books: The First Amendment First Aid Kit

Why Mother Nature Will Smite Us

Conversation regarding renters insurance:

   ME: "We should think about getting renters insurance."

   KURT: "Renters insurance is a sucker's bet."

   ME: "This flood proves we should. We could've lost everything!"

   KURT: "Are you kidding? We rolled the dice and WON! We DEFINITELY don't need it now!"

The appeal of a broken ankle and hooker heels

My sister and I went shopping two weekends ago and, as always, spent about 3 hours in the shoe department at Macy's. I think if I had all the money in the world, it would be spent on shoes. And then those shoes would sit in my closet, unworn, forever. I love shoes. I hate uncomfortable shoes. The problem with this is all the shoes I love seem to be uncomfortable.

I try to control myself. I only buy heels of a "sensible" height (no more than 3 inches), with a chunkier, '40's style heel, rather than a stiletto (thank god chunky heels are in style). I tend to spend a little more on heels because they're usually made better and thus (slightly) more comfortable. I try not to buy patent leather since they don't mold to your feet the way leather does. I promise, I'm not Amish. My heels are actually pretty cute. And fashionable.

However, finding cute, classy, "sensible" heels is made next to impossible since all the heels at Macy's, and most shoe stores for that matter, look like something only hookers wear (no offense to those of you who are able to walk in these shoes. I envy you, I do). And I'm not talking the classy, Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, prostitutes. I'm talking the trashy, wouldn't touch them with a 10 foot stick hookers (no offense to those of you who might be hookers, though I do not envy you).

What is up with these heels? Who can walk in them? No, who can walk in them and manage to look NORMAL? If I were to put those things on, I'd forever look like I was trying to walk a tightrope. They look like they could be used as a very effective weapon. I do not understand this trend. Granted, there have been some trends that I was fully against in the beginning, but then got used to until I came around to them, and then gave in and replaced my previously trendy (and now Salvation Army material) clothes. You know the ones: Uggs, skinny jeans, high-waist trousers. But these. I don't think I could ever get used to these heels. Not only because I KNOW I wouldn't be able to walk in them for more than 2 steps, but also because I can't get past the images of hookers they bring to mind.

If any of you out there wear these things, please enlighten me. What is the appeal? Are broken ankles and bunions THAT in demand? And HOW DO YOU WALK IN THEM?

Old, drafty houses and antique typewriters

The other day, Kurt and I were driving through Lambertville, NJ. For those of you who don’t know it, it’s an incredibly picturesque town. There’s a main street with shops and B&Bs that look like they haven’t changed in the past 200 years. Outside of town is the countryside – rolling green hills, dotted here and there with old homes and sheep. It’s this Lambertville I love. I challenge anyone who’s ever made fun of New Jersey (you who think The Jersey Shore is an accurate portrayal of the Garden State) to come here, drive the tiny, winding dirt roads and not fall in love. It’s impossible.

When we drive out there, I prefer Kurt to drive so I can take in the scenery and dream about one day owning one of the old, historical farmhouses. I am, you see, a realtor’s dream. I love old homes. The older, the better. Once, while passing a gorgeous stone farmhouse, I remarked how much I’d love to live there. Kurt, being the practical fuddy duddy that he is, scoffed and replied that it would be too “drafty”. Charming is what I’d call it. I can just imagine the conversations with our future Realtor. “This beautiful stone farmhouse was built in 1865 and has crown molding in every room and 18 foot ceilings.” “Ok…” Kurt would say, waiting for the “but”. Little would either of them know she would have had me at “crown molding”.

Kurt and I would argue about the practicality of it. Our realtor would begin with the “buts:” “It’s drafty and there’s barely heat,” she’d say. “It’ll be just like college when I slept in sweats because I couldn’t afford heat! It’ll be great to relive those years!” I’d reply. “It’s only accessible by a one-lane, but not one way, dirt road…” “How charming!” “…that often gets washed out during storms…” “I’m sure they have hybrid SUVs now!” “…and is completely inaccessible when it snows.” “I’ll talk to my boss about working from home on the 100 or so days a year we have any sort of precipitation. I’m sure that won’t be an issue.” “There’s no air conditioning and window units will blow a fuse.” “How quaint! I've always wanted ceiling fans!” “There’s a resident ghost that rips blankets off people in their sleep.” “I love a home with character!”

What I don’t understand is why new houses can’t be built to resemble old ones. I would love central air and a finished basement that didn’t flood during a drizzle, but in my opinion, new homes lack character and attention to detail. Where’s the crown molding? The molded plaster ceilings 18 feet off the floor? The tall windows? The antique doorknobs? Yes, ok. Some of those things MIGHT be a little inefficient when it comes to energy use, but still!

My love of things "old and shitty" as Kurt so eloquently puts it, does not end with houses. In fact, on this same trip to Lambertville, we stopped at an antiques flea market. Now, I am not usually much into flea markets and I don’t like knick knacks (clutter makes me uncomfortable). However. This place was amazing. I wanted to buy everything I saw. There was a $3,000 antique double bathroom sink that I fell in love with at first sight. And Kurt actually had to DRAG me away from an antique typewriter from 1911. “But it’s only $90!” I argued, unwilling to tear my eyes away from its beauty. “And what are we going to do with it? You hate clutter!” He had me there. But I resisted. “It’s art!” Eventually, I walked away, sadly looking back every few steps like a forlorn lover, trying desperately to find a practical reason why I needed this antique typewriter that surely I'd never use. I never did find a practical reason. But, as we all know, love is anything but practical.

Ready for the Rapture

1. If you aren't on the East Coast, don't have Facebook, or otherwise live under a rock, you might not know that we had an earthquake today. At around 2pm, everyone in my office building came out of their respective offices and cubicles and started talking about earthquakes and evacuating. Having felt nothing, nada, zip, AT ALL, I thought they were talking about some past experience they had all shared elsewhere. Not so. Virginia experienced a 5.9 earthquake and we felt it all the way up in Jersey. Well, everyone except me, apparently. Is it bad I'm disappointed I didn't feel it? I am fully aware that earthquakes are major deals and usually cause mass destruction and casualties and I am grateful it was small, so small in fact that I didn't feel it when others around me did. I am not making light of earthquakes or victims of earthquakes. I know how scary and dangerous they can be. But it was my first earthquake, it was small, and there was no mass destruction and casualties, so I can be focused on something trivial right?

2. Kurt was working from home today and saw a horse and carriage passing our house on Main Street. I know we live in a small town, but this is highly unusual. And, the horse was RUNNING, like going as fast as the cars. And on the carriage were 3 or 4 Amish men. And did he take a video of this sight so that I could share this strange occurrence with you? Nope! Did he stop them and hire them to drive me around until midnight like Cinderella? No. He didn't. I mean really, would that be too much to ask?

3. Rumors are circulating that Will and Jada are breaking up.

4. There's a hurricane headed our way this weekend.

I'm ready for those Rapture people to claim they made another mistake in their prophecy, and that the Rapture is actually this weekend. Given these four factors, I think it's pretty safe to say the world is officially ending, right? Also, that maybe I'm not Cinderella. It makes sense. I suck at housekeeping.

I guess you could call it a work in progress.

I started getting my eyebrows waxed about 3 months ago. Until then, I had plucked. Every morning. Yes, I was a 27-year-old eyebrow waxing virgin. It wasn’t the pain that kept me away (although it did frighten me a little), it was having to put complete and total trust in a stranger that petrified me. I spent years perfecting the shape of my brows and I wasn’t about to let someone ruin them with one yank of a wax strip. I am a control freak. I tend to prefer to do things myself because at least then I know it'll be done right. I am fully aware of the "teach a man to fish" philosophy, but then I wonder: "How will he know exactly which lure to use and how far to cast the line and what if there's a storm, how will he know what to do then? What if he catches something that's too big for him to reel in? What if it's too small and he should throw it back? Will he know to do that?" Yes. I am aware I have issues.

I feared for my brows, but I got to the point where I was just tired of spending those few minutes every morning plucking the (many) little hairs that seemed to spring up overnight. (Please tell me someone else’s eyebrows grow as fast as mine do.) So, I finally decided to take the plunge and get them waxed. Now, control freak that I am, I didn’t just go to any old salon willy nilly. I researched. For weeks. I googled, read reviews, asked friends for recommendations until I found the one place to which I could feel (a tiny bit more) comfortable giving over my eyebrows. The first time, I was nervous and sweating. It felt like she was putting the wax WAY too high. “Not too thin!” I squeaked as politely as possible (she was, after all, armed with burning hot wax). “Just follow the shape please!” I’ll tell you one thing: the anticipation and fear was way worse than the stinging pain. As I sat there fretting the state of my brows, I realized something; getting your eyebrows waxed is a lesson in trust. One might argue that a haircut also requires a certain level of trust, but really, you can see what the stylist is doing to your hair. You can correct them, change their course if need be (told you I was a control freak). But with an eyebrow waxing technician, you have no idea what they’re doing until they’re done. Those excruciating few minutes are excruciating precisely because you have to allow yourself to trust a complete stranger and to put your life (ok, maybe just your appearance - did I mention that I'm also dramatic?) in their hands. It’s nerve wracking! I’ve been going about every 2 weeks for the past 3 months. I am now on a first name basis with just about everyone in the salon, and still, each time I go it’s “Not too thin! Just follow the shape please!” and I sit there in the reclining chair petrified that I’ll have to resort to drawing on my eyebrows every morning. And each time, the technician (it’s almost always the same one, by the way) replies, “I know. I did your eyebrows last time.” and perfects the shape of my brows better than I ever did with my tweezers. And while I’ve learned to trust her more, I still have a mini panic attack every time the wax goes on.