waging a war

Readers, it's been a full-out war over here. It's nature versus the Wilsons. And nature has been winning.

My allergies have been hellish--think puffy, itchy eyes; runny, itchy nose; and itchy itchy throat hell. It's been awful. And then when I tried to pick up some Alavert-D at the pharmacy counter, Oregon denies me saying that in Oregon I need a prescription. I may or may not have teared up at the pharmacy counter and then proceeded to vilify this hippee-dippee state throughout the weekend.

And Asher fought an on-again-off-again fever for a week, finishing up with snot and coughing. And then on top of my allergies, I just picked up Asher's bug. So now that my allergies are finally under control (because you can bet your daily fountain drink that I got that damn prescription) I have sinuses full of never-ending snot. (TMI? Maybe? Nah.)

This whole past week has been full of children's TV programs, Cars, and too many tissues. (And does anyone else choke up when almost all of Radiator Springs shows up as Lightning McQueen's pit crew? And then when Lightning pushes the King to the finish line? Anyone? No? Well.)

And no one tells you that when your kid is sick for a week that you'll end up spending the next week reteaching all of those things you had previously conquered. Like falling asleep on your own. And not watching TV all day. And keeping the pacifier and blanket in your room. So pretty much your toddler's whole world falls apart once he's not sick enough to transcend Mom's house rules.

So.

What wars have you been fighting lately? Are you winning? Because I'm not sure I am.

*face palm*

that time I got a black eye

I wish this story were cool. It's not. I was up early on Memorial Day, because, you know, the boy doesn't bother to sleep in on holidays. We were playing and the TV remote fell from the couch onto my face. I probably let loose a mild expletive.

I'd include a picture except that the best way to see it is when I'm not wearing makeup, and, frankly, I'm too vain for that. It's not the worst black eye. But it is the kind of injury that mocks you because it's so stupid, the kind that even hurts your feelings a little bit.

Like I said, I wish it were a cooler story.

what to do with a vat of curry

{Marriage lesson #1: When your husband offers to make Sunday dinner, say yes.}

On Sunday, Josh made us a vat of curry. A vat. He volunteered to make us (i.e., the two of us, his dad, and our friend Ian) dinner, and who was I to say no? I wish I'd taken a picture of it, because I don't know if my descriptions will do it justice. Josh made this giant, bubbling, savory tub of curry. 

Whatever possessed him to make so much, I'll never know, but I won't complain. After we stuffed ourselves silly on Sunday, I spooned a third of the leftovers into a container for the fridge and the remaining two-thirds into a giant Ziplock for the freezer. 

So what do you do with the vat of curry your husband makes you for Sunday dinner? You pack it for his lunch twice during the week, have it for dinner another night, and freeze the rest so you can do it all over again in a few weeks.

That's what you do with a vat of curry. Enjoy.

that time I lived across the street from a rock star

Once I lived in Provo, Utah, and I lived in an apartment complex called The Colony. It was like a neighborhood, with separate apartments making up little houses all on its own secluded street. And when I lived there I lived across the street from a rock star.

I should concede, however, that at the time I didn't know he was a rock star, or at least that he would become one. He lived in the building across the street and sometimes practiced with his band when I was trying to read George Eliot. The thumping bass made it very hard to read Middlemarch. I certainly thought him more a nuisance than a rock star.

He went to church with me and was in my assigned Family Home Evening group. And after those weekly get-togethers with our apartments, I would head over to his apartment where I would watch 24 with his roommates.

I'll make no pretense that we were any more than acquaintances. I was friends more with his roommates than I was with him. And frankly, all I knew at the time was that he was in a band that would sometimes play at the local music club, The Velour. Oh, and we were at least somewhat legitimate Facebook friends at the time. (We're still Facebook friends, but I doubt he remembers this girl who lived across the street once and watched 24 with his roommates.)

Four years later I'm driving up the I-5 in Portland, Oregon, and hear the radio host introduce the rock star's band. I listen to the song and think to myself, You know, that's pretty good. And then I think, Hey, I lived across the street from that guy. That almost makes me famous.

You've probably heard him and his band. Imagine Dragons. That's the band: Imagine Dragons. Their most popular song right now is probably this one.

So one day when I'm making my kids listen to stories about my life, I can tell them that when I was in college I lived across the street from a rock star. And they better think I'm awesome for it.

wifely conundrums

And he wonders why he can never find matching socks.

Heavens.

leftovers

:: Naps have been a little better this week, except for this afternoon when Asher chatted in his crib for an hour. It was adorable.
:: Now he's cranky. Super.

{circa 3 weeks}

:: We gave Asher his first bottle this week. While initially dubious, he drank almost three ounces. We tried another bottle last night and he would have none of it. He freaked out.

 

:: After Netflix finally added the newest season of 30 Rock, Josh and I blew through it in about two days.

:: I made another batch of chocolate chip cookies last night, but for dessert this time.

:: Last Friday night one of our neighbors mistook our apartment for hers and walked in. Yes, that really happened.

 



new peeps

So the crown for my root canal is gold. Yes, gold. I'd show you but the cortortions required to get a picture that far into my mouth wouldn't paint me very pretty, and my vanity gene is too pronounced to allow me to post such images.

Just know that now I can hang with the gangsters and the pirates. Obviously.

a styled break-in

Imagine me:

:: Greeting Rachelle at the airport in my new favorite outfit, a plaid wool skirt (that I sewed myself) with a simple mustard cardigan

:: Automatically locking the car door because that's how programmed I am now

:: Realizing that I locked my doors with the keys still in the ignition and the car still running

:: Relieved that I remembered to pop the trunk before locking the doors

:: Thinking that I can probably break into the car through the trunk--Nancy Drew does it all the time

:: Climbing into my trunk still wearing the cute skirt

:: Disregarding the weird looks I'm getting from fellow airport-goers

:: Calling Josh for help on figuring out the trunk break-in strategy while still sitting in the trunk

:: Finding the tabs that push the back seat down

:: Crawling through the trunk and into the car as gracefully as possible, trying hard not to flash the other airport drivers

:: Turning off the car, unlocking the doors, and exiting the car through the doors and not the trunk

:: Feeling awesome because I just pulled a Nancy Drew

Did you imagine all that? Good. Because it wasn't made up. That really happened. And it was probably one of the funniest things I've ever done.

two words

Squeaky cheese.

things you never thought you'd hear me say

At Nicholas's Lebanese Restaurant in downtown Portland with Karen, Josh, and Rachelle: "Oh, this hummus is my favorite!"

PS--My best friend Rachelle is visiting me, and it's been a blast. I still have a few days of quasi-vacation and will resume regular blogging mid-week, including my 12-on-12 grid!

legitimate, sort of

At the behest of my darling sister-in-law, I present you documentation of the first official Wilson family climbing night. If we're going to climb with Nicole and Josh Snow, a.k.a. climbers extraordinaire, we needed to establish some semblance of climbing regularity and legitimately.

The rock gym where I've been a few times with Karen was having a screaming deal on rock-climbing passes, and Josh and I decided to commit and buy some. Our commitment furthered when we invested in legitimate climbing gear (and seriously, it's an investment). We bought shoes for Josh (Karen let me have her too-small-for-her pair) and harnesses.

So Thursday night after dinner at Jimmy John's we Wilsons, along with our friend Ian, headed over to Club Sport where we tested out our new gear and made our first steps toward becoming rock climbers. (Yeah, you heard me right--I'm calling myself a rock climber.) I'm even belay-certified now. I know.

The boys loved being photographed for the blog. Obviously.

This time rock climbing I worked more on my pivots and leg work. (Take it from a seasoned climbing novice--get that, a seasoned novice?--the work should come from the legs and hips.) We climbed for two and a half hours and were completely beat by the end of it. We have plans for many more climbing excursions, and I'm looking forward to getting better and more confident in my ability.

 And really, how could I turn down a sport in which you wear stretchy pants?

much belated proof

Remember when we got in that accident at the New Year? We came away without a scratch, but our poor car didn't.

We've been driving around with our car having a seriously battered bumper, and here's the thing: we aren't going to fix it. It would cost thousands of dollars to remedy this, and we don't want to claim cosmetic damage on our insurance. So yeah, the maiming stays.

Last night we were talking about it, and Josh concluded that since no mechanical damage was done to the car in the accident, that really, all we sustained was a bad scratch.

Whatever makes us feel better, right?

perhaps a little too ambitious—a post in which I use many italics

The end of my work contract comes at an interesting time. I'll have one job-less week before heading to Disney Land with all the Wilsons, so as far as job hunting goes, it might be hard to get going before the trip. I mean, some job searching needs to happen, but still.

All of a sudden I have this open week in which I know that I won't have to go to work. (Plus I've earned a week of paid vacation through the staffing agency that they're willing to pay me for after the contract ends, so really, I will be getting paid next week. Score.) And that week is becoming more and more magical the closer it gets.

I have many plans, the most important one being turning into Super Woman so I have a chance at actually accomplishing everything I've dreamed in my mind. My to-try-to-do list for next week includes but is not limited to the following:

:: exercising every morning
:: reading by the pool
:: finishing season 7 of 24
:: sewing two dresses—one dressy, one casual
:: making dinner more than once
:: starting and finishing at least three embroidery projects, all gifts for other people
:: cleaning the whole apartment from top to bottom
:: going to HomeGoods
:: going to the temple
:: thrifting
:: taking the car for a tune-up and oil change

:: finishing The Kennedys with Josh (thank you, Allison—we're hooked)
:: planning my cake buffet birthday party
:: and writing the great American novel (obviously)

So, yeah, it's going to be a full week. And I know, I won't be able to do all of these things. But I can have fun trying, right? (Really, though, don't worry—finding a job is still very much a priority here.)

And yes, I do really want to finish both dresses.

reunited with 30GB of entertainment

Remember when I mentioned that my iPod was fried? I went for most of July without my iPod, and it was a colossal bummer. I do realize that unplugging myself is good every once in a while, and so I tried to take advantage of the new quiet in my life . . . and ending up lugging the laptop in to the bathroom with me while I got ready in the morning so I could have some company, courtesy of Netflix streaming.

I found a refurbished player on eBay for a reasonable price, and as soon as it came I sent it off to Emily so she could restock it for me. (My laptop with most of my music won't run iTunes, so really I had nothing.) She sent it back promptly, and it arrived yesterday.

I've spent all morning looking through my stocked iPod, recompiling my playlists and rediscovering music I'd forgotten about. And of all my listening options—options that include Ingrid Michaelson, the Weepies, and She & Him—I'm currently jamming to "Entering Bootytown" from the Music and Lyrics soundtrack, because that's just what feels good right now.

I know.

If you're needing some Tuesday ear-candy, give "Pop Goes My Heart" a go. And then maybe just go watch Music and Lyrics to get the fix I know you're really dying for.



You're welcome.

so, I bought a bike

The last time I owned a bike I was ten. On top of that I can't remember the last time I even rode a bike. But I bought one.

And really, how could I not when it came in such a perfect orange?

So we picked it up on Saturday in Jeff and Karen's Explorer. Then when we got back into Wilsonville, we decided to ride our bikes back home instead of having someone drop us off.

It had been a very long time since I'd ridden a bike. Like, really. And so I thought that when my legs had to work so hard to pedal that the burning muscle in my thighs was just manifestation of my out-of-shapeness (despite my workout dates with Jillian). So I kept pedaling (most of the time in the lowest gear), lagging behind Josh as we took the back way home.

Soon I had to stop every couple of minutes to catch my breath, because I was heaving so bad. And by then I was feeling stupid. In the extreme. My thoughts went something like, Who was I kidding when I said I could ride a bike? I'm probably the biggest wimp in the world! Let's just return the damn bike! Is this entire ride uphill? And I ended up crying. All my dreams of biking to and from the library all summer were fast disappearing.

Josh was kind and stopped when I needed to and waited while I caught my breath and summoned almost nonexistent strength to keep going. He kept giving me pep talks the closer we got to home and reminded me that we were coming up on the final leg, which was largely downhill. He stopped me, though, when he realized that I was having to pedal downhill. Need to reread that? I had to pedal downhill.

And here's the thing: it had been so long since I'd ridden a bike that the possibility of something being wrong with the bike didn't occur to me. It turned out that one of the break tubes was stuck under the front reflector. So I'd been riding the whole time with my front wheel fully braked. At that moment I would have laughed if I hadn't still been crying. Don't worry, though—I laughed later. Lots of laughing. You can laugh too, if you hadn't started laughing three paragraphs ago.

And really, the last half mile home was a breeze. Because, you know, I wasn't pedaling a bike that should have been stopped.

Wondering how to recover from such an inaugural ride? Shower, put on stretchy pants, and laugh about it over and over while eating a brownie–ice cream sundae.

lesson learned

This morning before I hurriedly left the apartment, I tried to gauge how much I had left in my book. I had about 100 pages (a thirdish) still to read and inwardly debated on whether or not I should bring my next book with me. (No need to comment on how crazy it is to consider bringing a back-up book when I still had 100 pages to go. I already know.) Anyone who knows me remotely well knows that my go-to choice would be to bring the second one. Just in case. You never know if you're going to be stuck in traffic or waiting in a too-long line or stranded somewhere (anywhere) where you could be bored for who-knows-how-long. You just never know, and my theory has always been a just-in-case-you-never-know-just-bring-another-book theory.

In a moment of uncharacteristic reader recklessness I opted to bring the most recent issue of BYU Magazine instead. I think I'm a little book paranoid, I told myself. Chillax. You still have 100 pages to read.

And here's the thing. I didn't know that I would end up reading during my lunch hour because the TV room would be occupied. I didn't know that finishing my book this afternoon was inevitable. And I didn't know that I would not really be in the mood for BYU Magazine when it became my only reading option.

Lesson learned: You never know. So bring the second book. Just in case.

a fringe benefit

I've received lots of feedback and questions about my free Nike Frees I mentioned in my 12 of 12 post.

I don't think my feet have grown since the ninth grade. My feet are just small enough to not fit into my mom's and sister's shoes—and trust me, you wish you could wear their shoes too. While I normally wouldn't complain about size-7 feet, I sometimes feel excluded from shoe sharing.

We deal a lot with shoes at work. In fact, Nike is one of our key clients.* And Nike's sample size? Size 7. Last week I had a project manager come down to my desk with two brand-new pairs of Nike Free shoes just for me, the leftover shoes. Two pairs. One in hot pink and one in aqua. Sure they're running shoes (and my relationship with running is rocky), but they're cute enough to be real shoes. So I've been wearing them with outfits. {I have been using them to work out in too—I feel like I'd be disgracing the real athletes out there without using them for some form of exercise.}

Size-7 isn't feeling so discriminated against anymore.

I wonder what I'd need to do to sign Steve Madden as a client?

*We're a retail design firm. I know—that tells you next to nothing.

an epilogue

{The story didn't end with the teenage boy assuaging my concerns about the
leftover lunch in the parking lot.}

The kind boy told me that he worked nearby and that I could use the bathroom at his job. I was extremely grateful and started following him down the street. I started to turn into an arcade, thinking that he was employed there. The teenage boy, probably thinking that I was anticipating another wave of nausea and needed a bathroom ASAP, said that he worked somwhere else. He thought that the arcade probably had a bathroom too and then wished me well.

Inside the door of the arcade was a brusque man who asked for my ID.

{Yes, readers, I was being carded to use a bathroom so I could wipe the vomit from my nose.}

I tried to explain my situation, that I had absolutely zero intentions of staying--I really just needed to clean myself up before boarding the train. Yet, he insisted on seeing my ID. After clumsily groping in my bag to find my wallet while trying to best keep my nose and mouth covered, I showed him my driver's license. As I made my way back to the black-lit, seedy bathroom, the employee instructed me to "not make a mess."

Another low moment.

why I couldn't eat my dinner tonight

A couple of weeks ago I had some leftover Kraft mac and cheese for lunch. It did go for some time unrefrigerated, but it was only a day old. It should have been fine. Should have.

When I was eating it, I thought it tasted a little funny, but operating under the delusion that really it was fine, I kept eating. Eventually, after I'd eaten about half of it, I quit. Then my stomach hurt all afternoon. I left work as soon as the clock said I could, still feeling ill.

On my way to the train stop a few blocks away, my stomach started feeling more upset. Panicking, I realized that I was too far away from my office to run back. I looked around as my stomach ran out of time, and then I did the only thing I could think of: I vomited in a parking lot in downtown Portland. Not in a planter or trash can. A parking lot. A parking lot.

That was a low moment.

***

Fast forward to tonight. Last week we bought one of Costco's prepared food items to keep on hand for dinner. We had a steak-and-mashed-potatoes option last month and were impressed. Tonight when the chicken alfredo finished heating up in the oven, we tucked in, ready for some easy and tasty food. After only a couple of bites, however, I commented that the seasoning tasted a little funny. Then after another bite, the funny taste found definition: my mac-and-cheese disaster flashed in my mind, the picture of the soiled asphalt appearing clearly. I spat out my chicken and refused to eat another bite.

And that is why I couldn't finish my dinner tonight.

{To end on a funnier note, when I got sick in the Portland parking lot, a nice teenage boy stopped and asked if I was okay. I expressed concern about the state of the asphalt and asked if there was any city officer I could notify of the mess. I felt so trashy leaving my lunch there. The boy didn't look too sure of my question, but kindly answered, "Well, it does rain a lot here." Let's be so glad for that.}

mashed potato season

I was in our local Target not too long ago, and I thought to buy some Idahoan Instant Mashed potatoes, which really are pretty good and quick to whip up. So I looked where the other instant items were. And nothing. After consulting one of the employees, I learned that it wasn't "mashed potato season." My first response? "When is mashed potato season??" See, to me mashed potato season is any season.

Apparently mashed potato season coincides with the holiday season, and come January, Target won't stock it.

Fast forward to last night when I wanted to make angel biscuits and surprisingly found myself out of powdered buttermilk (so much easier than liquid buttermilk). So Josh volunteered to go to Target (which is literally two minutes away), and I told him that if they didn't have powdered buttermilk to just get regular. Then I got a phone call from him saying that after talking to a Target employee, he learned they don't have any buttermilk anywhere.

I guess it's not buttermilk season either.