scenes from this weekend: the haze and the days

 

 

 

  

this weekend was actually quite foggy. and muggy. but when the blanket of haze wasn't covering the space outside our windows, it was breezy and pretty enough for two long walks through the country. we passed a sweet neighbor who, upon seeing us, quickly ran inside and brought out a gift bag filled with homemade chow-chow and a kind note that mentioned, "we need more young folks on this road." another neighbor, sweet crazy ol' jerry, walked to greet us, among his used tires and puppy dogs and piles of split logs, and declared that he was carrying the best flu medicine available in his little silver mug. we smiled and kept on down the road. bless his country-blastin, western-watchin, kind-as-can-possibly-be old heart.

it was a weekend spent indoors, behind gas log fireplaces and dark rooms filled with only the television glow. inside church fellowship halls. at one point, i had my entire family around our farm table, with the lamplight illuminating their pretty faces and i felt my heart swell with gratitude. for this time. for this place. for this season.

but when the sun did peek her pretty head out and cover the back yard with enough glow to take some pictures, i ventured out with some new treasures ready to be added to my shop. and how good it felt to pose again. to slip on the beautifully preserved pieces and think about the women who wore them first.  who thought and dreamed and wished and yearned and worried and loved just as i have.

hope your weekend was equally blessed and beautiful.

a covenant for today

i've been thinking a lot about covenants lately. in my earnest and heartfelt attempt to understand, truly understand, the Bible, i've started again back at the beginning. deep in the language of genesis, there's mention of these sacred promises. to never again send rain to cover the earth. that all the land, as far as abraham could see, would be his. that his family would be fruitful enough to cover that land with babies and women and love. that sarah could have her taste of miracles, even though by any other standard than God's, she was too old for such dreams.

they were big, these covenants. huge. they were a declaration that things would be OK for you. that there would be long days of gray and heartaches, but there would also be sunshine. so much sunshine that the dove would never come back and you would forget the flood.

reading it, i rejoiced for these people. these early foragers plowing their way through life, guinea pigs of the most fantastic kind. and i, too, ached for a covenant. an assurance.

but i was reminded this morning, driving to work with my hard boiled egg and favorite song, that such a covenant does exist. it exists when i sneak a peek at pablo asleep on the pillow, his little paw tucked under his chin. or at robert, putting his folded clothes into the old dresser. it exists when i hold hands across the table with my family, like last night at mama's. and on my favorite two-second walk to the mailbox at the end of the day.

the same promises that were made to these ancient ancestors hold true for us today. the flood won't last. there will be sun. there will be redemption. there will be mercy. there will be babies. there will be life. there will be forgiveness. there will be joy.

waiting on the dove

and the waters prevailed upon the earth a hundred an hundred and fifty days. (gen. 7: 24) 

after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated. and the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of ararat. and the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth month, on the first day of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen. (gen. 8: 3 - 5) 

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i read this yesterday and stopped in my tracks. as i dove into the story of noah, i realized something i'd never before understood. 

after the rain stopped, the waters still rose.

there were still oceans of fury and seas of torrent. it was 150 days before they stopped and the ark came to a rest. before the jostling and rolling and slamming against rocks came to an end. all this time, i thought it was only forty days. not that that's any better. and even then, even when the sun peeked its meager head forward as if asking, is it okay now? can i come out?, all was not safe. there was another period of waiting. of sending a dove back and forth, back and forth, until one day he didn't come back and that's when they knew. the gate could be opened and they could walk on the dry land.

sometimes the hurts don't come in thunderstorms. they don't always wash over you and threaten to drown you in their weight. sometimes, they just toss you around a bit. a snap from a co-worker. a plan changed unexpectedly. a phone call that leaves you nervous and worried. yes, the waters often rise even when the rain has stopped. and what's hard is that sometimes its those little waves that hurt the most. those little nags that weave their way into your life without your consent.

my sweet nanno is still not home from the hospital. there are bills to pay and my cherry red desk isn't making them any prettier. i haven't had a deep sleep in days and my nights have been spent twisting and turning between rest and  prayer.

but there's a morning, too. if we just wait for the dove. the mountains have been there all along. we'll see their tops soon.

regrets of the dying: a nurse's perspective

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over the weekend, i read this interesting blog post.

the essay is written by bronnie ware, a former palliative care nurse. during her time in this position, bronnie had a chance to speak with many patients who were facing the end of this beautiful life. they often voiced their regrets. things they wished they had a few days, months or lifetimes to correct.

the post details the reasons behind the regrets, but here is a summary: 
 
1. i wish i had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
2. i wish i didn't work so hard.
3. i wish i'd had the courage to express my feelings.
4. i wish i'd stayed in touch with my friends
5. i wish that i had let myself be happier

man. my gut fell to my knees. because i am young. and in many aspects, just starting. i'm still a rent-paying, stay-up-late because i can, take-a-roadtrip-down-the-pacific-coast-highway-whenever-i-get-the-fancy newlywed trapped in the chasm between student and worker, teenager and adult. it's hard to think about my plans for this weekend, much less my long-term plans for life.

but i can relate to almost all of these five regrets. already.

this summer will be the summer of staying outside longer. feeling dirt under my nails and playing in the grass. closing the laptop. doing more of the things i did before i discovered facebook, and the wonders of computers in general. when all i knew about the bulky machine on our office desktop was how to access microsoft encarta to look up information for school papers.

when i called my friends daily, and played with them often. when i cried deeply and laughed without sound.

i'm headed back there again, if that place still exists. even if it doesn't, i'm determined to recreate it. to live again in my world of exploration. so when i reach the end of it, i can tell God, in the same way erma bombeck did: i used everything you gave me. every single day was used. every day.

a lesson from dolores: a meaningful life

"he just looked at me, on the stoop in front of his parents' house, and said, 'well, dolores. it looks like we're in love. you reckon we ought to get married?' and i said 'well lewis, i reckon so.'"

we sat side by side on her couch last night, our thighs touching as we embroidered. i've been coming to see robert's grandma twice week for four months now. and while she has almost completed an entire set of pillowcases, i'm still working on the same dresser scarf. but we gab. we sit. she feeds me yams and chew bread and banana pudding, green beans with corn and apple fritters. and as lewis sits in the recliner cracking walnuts, an hour or two passes. then, she pulls the curtains forward and hugs me close, breathing me in and telling me how much she enjoys our visits. i tell her the same.

i asked her about courting. about her favorite movie stars (clark gable) and where she met lewis (walgreens. he stepped on her foot.)

she sighed. "you know, life sure is meaningful."

and we talked some more. and i completed a few more back stitches. but that sentence stuck with me. for its simplicity. its honestly.

it's meaningful, what we're doing here.

every corporate memo you type.
every time you fix the paper jam in the office.
every time you stretch against the kitchen counter waiting for the coffee to drip.
every early morning and late night meal prepared against music.
every phone call you make to encourage, to check in.
every time you're tired and just want to eat cereal, take a bath and go to bed, but you swipe on the lipstick and go dancing anyway.
every time you eat cereal and take a bath and go to bed.
every handshake you give and nod or tilt of the head.
every time you sit on your bed in the middle of the afternoon and watch the sun dance across your quilt and think about when you were young, and your parents were invincible.
every time on your knees, in a group, in your car or under the covers, you whisper a prayer.
every time you look someone in the eye and say i really, really love you. 

they mean something. they are vital to your story. the story you build, shape, tear down and remold. until one day you find yourself in your eighties, sitting beside a woman you won't know until your children are older. i pray our stories are as colorful, detailed and bright. and sweet enough to stop someone mid-stitch.

mistaken

driving home from work yesterday, i realized something.

i've mistaken the lyrics to my favorite song. for six years now.

and it's not a huge difference. just a pronoun.

but it filled me with a profound sadness and slight case of mistaken identity. who am i if not the girl who knows every word to passing afternoon? who turns it on when the clouds hang low in the sky and the highway is gloomy with the sad stares of people going home?

suddenly, even the melodic hum of the radio and the spin of the tires beneath my wheels wasn't enough to comfort me, and i rode the rest of the way in silence.

for silence never betrays.

the rock candy's melted, only diamonds now remain

 

 

let it be known that i love sleeping in. this is a new-found phenomena, one gently and slowly revealed to me through marriage to a man who relishes his rest. who, with one arm draped over his head, will sink into the mattress and soak up all the deliciousness that cool sheets and a warm quilt can offer. and for a girl used to going to bed with the sun still draping himself over the countryside, and rising before he pokes his head up over the hills, i have truly learned the beauty and importance of a deep, sound sleep.

but sometimes, oh sometimes. there's just nothing quite like a morning in the country. with shed lights peeping on with the wind and oak branches spinning outside. with frost on the ground and over the lampposts.

this morning, i woke at five and made country ham. i sat in an old farm kitchen and warmed my hands on a coffee mug as the meat simmered and spat in the skillet. and i drug mr. sleepyhead himself into the bright yellow chairs. the morning still black, we talked and ate. and slowly, ever so slowly, we awoke. to the day. to ourselves, to each other. and i declare, it was almost better than a late morning snuggled next to the window. almost.

wednesday night discord

it was a computer night. robert tucked into his walnut corner desk, plumbing tickets organized and spread across the smooth wood. and i behind my cherry red table, the one we painted ourselves that hot august, with scratches and dings along the side, battle scars of moving.

and we sat there and stared. into the black hole that is the internet. microsoft word. etsy. pablo nudged my heels and i looked down to see his little squishy face, tennis ball in his mouth. i wish there were some sort of tennis ball machine we could get that would just shoot out balls for him to chase, i found myself saying.

and as soon as the thought made its way from my crowded mind to my loose, sleepy mouth, i regretted it. regretted asking for silence. for peace and quiet. for a still, resting home.

give me the noise, the hectic. that floorboard in front of the guest room that moans when work boots hit. give me cereal bowls in the sink and curlers on the bathroom vanity. i want to revel in the mess of it all, the lived-in feel of a  house turned home. give me late nights on the linoleum in the kitchen, dog face mashed into my own. robert's tennis shoes under the coffee table and plants overflowing on the windowsill. give me the underbelly of the beast of chaos.

i don't want to miss it. this fleeting bubble i can almost tangibly feel drifting higher and higher toward the heavens. of all my loved ones still here. a pup who still wants to play, and can hop onto the bed. able arms that can throw toys, stretch into child's pose and wrap around my husband. it's brief, this life. a whispered breath, really. and to wish for it to be any easier, any less involved, is a pity. for discord, i've found, is the mother of dreams.

what to do when it rains in carolina

 

this weekend was spent under a cloud of mist. like a warm blanket straight out of the dryer, the haze hung against us, cocooning us. in our beds. our homes. our shopping malls.

and when it rains in north carolina, especially after a particularly dry patch of sunshine that lasted into the evening, there are only a few things left to do. we beat the sludge by staying indoors, ushering in a new season by letting our senses go amok, wild even.

we went to the local county fair. this fair is small. the kind where you don't even want to think about how quickly the rides were put up and you can easily tell the hoops on the basketball toss are ovals, skewed so no child can win that illusive inflatable baseball bat. we ate country ham sandwiches as the sun set, and learned way more than we ever needed to know on the art of beekeeping from our local chapter.

then, on saturday, we indulged in live music. in .75 iced lattes sipped in a dark bookstore basement. listening to a band who wore flower garlands in their hair and on their mics. we ate frozen yogurt too heavy to finish, with hot fudge like i haven't had in years.

it was a good weekend, this rainy one. a good scrubbing of september to make way for the wash of october.

modern family, interrupted

pablo won't eat unless i sit with him. unless i'm rubbing his back and whispering that it's okay, that no one is behind him, that his kibble will still be there if he trots around for a bit. some time in the past, some long ago forgotten memory is lying latent in him. the awful idea that someone might take his food, hit him for eating, or try to nudge him out of the way of the bowl. i'll never know what happened to him those five years he wasn't mine.


but i do know how it is now. how i can't sit down to watch modern family without him nudging me, reminding me he is hungry. i've sat on the floral linolieum in that old farmhouse every single night for the past two years. i've learned the crevices of the squares, the intricate pattern of the sage green and buttercup yellow motif.


but it's a good thing, this being needed. being depended upon. even if it's just by a 13-pound ball of fluff. and when babies come to bless our days, as i pray they do, i'll feel just an inkling more prepared. it's ironic. all this time on the cold hard kitchen floor, and i've become softer.

leave it there

 

i hold onto things. it's what i do.

it's the reason my basement is cluttered. why the little shelf above my closet is crammed. why every drawer in our home is filled to capacity. i hold onto things in secret. under beds and behind desks. but, at the same time, i have this irrational idea that one day martha stewart or oprah or someone might stop by our little cottage, so i can't leave until every dish is dried and put away. every pile straightened. every magazine rolled up into the wine rack in our  bathroom.

it's a crazy thing, this chaotic order. that in the same space, within the same whitewashed walls, there co-exists an enormous pile of assorted greeting cards and a freshly washed counter that smells of lemon.

but i hold onto other things as well. things that can't be cleaned out when the next yard sale comes into town.

things like hurts. and worries. and fears. stories on the news. doubts and insecurities. hidden by a new high-waisted skirt. fresh cut bangs. and new lipstick. just as my office drawer is laden, absolutely laden, with old folders, so i store things inside. and so i mask them.

but i've got a little tree outside my bedroom window, and at night its  branches are illuminated by the shed light. and from my bed, i can see the outline of leaves. it's become my worry tree. when everyone's asleep and sometimes when they're not, i hold my hand against the blind and send my worries out to it. into Heaven. into the hands of the only one that can make any order whatsoever of it.

and then, before lifting my fingertips

i leave it there. 

via

no i've never been convicted of a crime. i could start this job at any time.

i was in civics class that day, ironically.

my teacher dismissed us to second period and i looked back to see him covering his mouth and looking up at the television. i went to keyboarding class and watched from behind an old computer monitor as September 11 unfolded in real time.

a few days passed in stunned silence. in muddling through assignments and busy work and everyone in a state of half shock. then, my civics teacher brought a boom box in one morning, and a mixed cd. i'll never forget as he looked around and said, "please don't talk for the next three minutes. i was driving yesterday, and this song came on the radio. i had to pull over on the side of the road and cry." he then played alan jackson's "where were you (when the world stopped turning)."

that civics teacher is a basketball coach now. for another school a few cities away. ten years passed, and i only saw him once, in a movie theater. but i'll never forget the idea that he gave me. that songs can impact us so much that they shake us. render us unable to drive. hit a nerve so deep you can't even find the volume button to turn it up.

i was driving on monday, and this song came on the radio. and i watched as gas stations, traffic and shopping centers passed by in slow motion around me. i pulled into work and just sat to listen. i played it again at work  yesterday and had to lean down and pretend to get something out of my bottom drawer to wipe away a tear.

because this song is so honest. and true. and heart breaking in that ordinary, soft way. it's not about war. or about killing or fighting or even death. but it reminded me of a man i used to know at work. who hasn't worked for two years. and for that, i wept.

the starring act

 

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i went to the movie theater twice this weekend. twice! the theater on main street where i went on  my very first date. the one that used to have a line out the door every weekend. it's now been reduced to showing older, $1 movies. which makes it even better, though it's attracted quite a following of tweenage loiters, and you shouldn't go to any 9:35 p.m. screenings lest you fear for your life a little bit.

for me, one of the greatest feelings in life has to be those five minutes when leaving the movie theater. stepping into the dark parking lot after being in a room full of strangers for two hours. when you're still in that half-dream state and everything is glowing. where, for a little bit, it seems that anything at all is possible.

that you can run away from the love of your life and turn to find him standing in the rain where you left him. or walk away from the same man and turn back to find him walking away too,  but with his head turned back at you. that you can ride elephants in the circus and fall in love with the stable boy. or break up an ill-fated wedding just in time to rescue the groom from a life of splendid, unwanted riches, and flash forward a few months later, and you're picking up his dry cleaning.

but perhaps the second greatest feeling is snapping out of that haze. driving home on the highway, and it hits you. that you don't have to paint your lips or plan a covert mission to capture the man of your dreams. you don't have to wear chanel or louboutins to stand out. you can be yourself, in a little honda. in sweatpants and no makeup and a bun. and you're still the star. of your sweet, simple, beautifully undramatic, little life.

me on a tuesday

 
by the time we got to bed last night, the half moon was high in the sky, an early morning storm was blowing the pin oaks around, and pablo could hardly keep his eyes open. it was a long night of grocery shopping, weekend planning, and trips to my grandpa's house in the bus.

and as we often do when we're tired and have a mind full of things to talk about (an overwhelming amount of things to talk about), we were silent. we laid in the bed, he with his hand over his head and me on my side, and just took in midnight.

i asked him if he was okay, and he turned to me.

yeah, babe, i'm fine. this is just me on a tuesday.

and those sweet words hung there in the air between us, right in front of pablo and the glow of the shed light outside our window. what intense comfort. this is us. just us on an ordinary, nothing special day not quite in the middle of the work week.

with bills on our desk and squash in a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter. with twelve rolled white t-shirts on top of the washing machine and more laundry in a basket by the door. with stresses and blessings and the never-ending search for those little moments of glory between the chaos.

i've known robert in jamaica, with cerulean waters lapping his ankles and jerk chicken on his cheeks. i've known him at an alter, barely into his twenties. i've known him in high school, standing at my front door as just a stranger with his dad's old BMW waxed up. and i've known him in a tiny dorm room, with a twin bed and futon, bulky television set and a sofa from goodwill.

but last night i knew him best of all. on a tuesday. and if every tuesday from here on is just holding hands under the covers without speaking and letting our worries cast themselves up to Heaven without voice, i'm a lucky girl.

for to know him is to love him.

my 24th birthday

i turned 24 on sunday and spent the whole weekend with family. my sister came home from college and my brother took time out of his high school prom weekend to spend with me. and when i blew out the candles, every milestone in my life was by my side. from my first steps to my first kiss, these people have seen it all. and i am so deeply in love with each of them.

 

robert, the sneaky little angel he is, has been setting aside money from his paycheck since christmas to buy me a new laptop. the best part about it was the wrapping. after i fell asleep one night, he cut out words from magazines to spell out an odd, yet endearing message. it read:

"just inside, we've raised the bar. contact us every tuesday for the view on how this is the shocking present."

bless his heart. i love that guy. that message makes no sense, but i guess when all you've got to work with is entertainment weekly and us weekly magazines, you are a bit limited.

another fabulous part of the weekend was the cake that mama got. a girl at my old high school makes cakes, and she created one based around my and pablo's Best Friends Club:

so life is beautiful. and next year's birthday might bring a quarter-life crisis. but joining hands with my loved ones yesterday, around a cake flaming with candles, i knew that whatever this year brings, i'll be more than okay.

a heart that's too small

newspaper, newspaper. can't take no more. you're here, every morning, waiting at my door. and i'm just trying to kiss you and you stab my eyes. make me blue forever like an island sky.

-conor oberst, milk thistle

 xxx

my co-worker shares his rolling stone magazines with me. once a month, i come into the office to find an issue waiting on my desk, usually heralding the latest pop culture phenomenon, or new summer album release. two days ago, he shared something different. his newsweek.

and between a feature of rhianna and a never-before-seen interview from liz taylor, there was an article on the war. one single glance and i was done with for the day. because my heart can't take it.

i am ruled by conscience. and purity. when i was younger, and a bad thought would sneak its way into my mind, i would write it down on construction paper and slip it under my mama's bedroom door. sometimes i would be dramatic and circle the place where my tears hit the paper, with an arrow and the words "here is where i cried." because through the act of writing it down, of getting it out on paper, i was subsequently releasing it from my spirit. and until i told someone, i felt awful. guilty. maybe that's why i blog now. to share with you my happiness, yes, but also my demons. my struggles. 

and i internalize things. like the news. like magazine features with awful images unfit to print. and they stay with me and embed themselves so deep into me that i can't distinguish myself from the muddle.

and i'm not naive. i'm not so blissfully happy or innocent that i don't know the terror that's going on overseas. or here in our home country. or one city away from me. some people have big hearts. they give and give and are so beautiful. but sometimes mine feels too small. it's not that i don't care, i just care so fervently that i render myself immobile. and thus ineffective.

so i tucked the newsweek in my office drawer. chiefly because rhianna is splattered on the cover wearing something between underwear and shorts, and i did not think that proper workplace fodder. but also because i know what's inside those pages. and if i ever, ever doubt my ability to feel (as i sometimes do. when the world gets mundane and slow and routine, i become a bit numb), those images will snap me back.

back to a world that is scary. overwhelmingly so. but also fluid. and for every terror there is a beauty. and it's easy to hide away. to squirrel myself in my room. my car. my office. but there's a God pouring sunlight  through my windows right now, glaring up my screen and reflecting off my arms. and He instructs me to push forward through the murk. because He has a handle on situations that i can't touch. and that's good news.

to the other grandparents

there is another couple out there who i don't know, but whose life will intersect mine in a powerful, beautiful and permanent way. i prayed for this couple last night. around midnight in my dark bedroom. and again this morning, shuffling through the sunrise behind closed blinds.

the parents of the person my child will one day marry. this child of mine that exists only as a dream. a recurring one, filled with images of sunbathed kitchens and crayons on the table. cartoons on saturday morning and pictures on the front lawn on sunday morning. this child that is still a few years away, but present on my mind.

what were they doing last night? are they married yet? will they marry? did he reach across the pillows last night and hold her? for my sake, i hope they have good genes. and teeth.

robert's mama wrote me a little note one time and said that she was praying for me as soon as robert was born. i love that idea. of praying for someone you don't know or haven't met yet. i prayed for robert before i knew him, too.

and i've never thought to pray for this other couple. down the road or across the universe. but, God willing, we will share the sweetest years of our lives together. we will sit across the aisle from each other in a little chapel. we'll sit anxiously in a hospital waiting room for hours, and then, we will become grandparents together. we'll share in holidays, birthdays and deaths.

i sometimes think about the fact that i'm going to meet someone who will change the axis of my world for the rest of my life, and i don't even have that person's name picked out yet. but somewhere there was a woman last night, and hopefully a man too, whose lives will also be changed. first when they have their baby, then when their baby meets my baby.

and the crazy, twirling, teeny tiny world spins madly on.

cutting corners

sometimes i take the easy way out, it's true. well, maybe not the easy way, but the practical way, which often seems to be the same thing. and it's crazy. i'm creative, passionate and ambitious about some things. but others, eh. not so much. sometimes saving time and money trumps being free-spirited, and i cut corners. in fact, i cut corners twice this week, and it's only wednesday.

i shall explain.

xxx

   

cutting corners #1

yesterday morning, my hair dryer died. it would not even start. and i realized this only after i washed my hair. so there i was, six in the morning, sopping hair dripping down my cold back. and all i could think of was my mama, and how she chided me for going out of the house in the winter with damp hair, and how horrified this situation would make her.

then i started scheming. of a morning trip to wal-mart to get a replacement. i thought, hey, i can make this fun! i'll go right now, super early. grab me an coffee and granola bar from my favorite organic bakery. get to work before my boss. catch up on writing letters at my desk. watch the sunrise on my drive.

instead, i went about my morning as usual, puttering around the house until the last minute, and i dried my hair with the heat vent in my car. static ensued.

cutting corners #2

the other night, i had ambitions of going to the gym. actually using that monthly membership, because right now it's just looking like a pretty expensive "free" t-shirt.

what did i do instead?

exercise on demand. from my living room, in front of the television {did you know there are like 50 free shows to choose from?} i did pilates and hip hop classes and learned the audition dance from cats, all in about 45 minutes. i didn't run on the treadmill, do any crunches, or even really break a sweat. it was kind of pathetic, but i never see robert during the day, and wanted to be home with him.

-------

so my days didn't go exactly as planned. but i'm still just as blessed today as yesterday.  and the creativity and energy will come again, just as smoothly and effortlessly as it went. 

and i thank God for today. for the chance to be me, even if that means cutting corners every now and again.

hey, at least when you cut corners, you're not square.

working from home

weekends are for savoring. for sleeping in. eating a little bit more naughty, skipping the salads. they are for late night movies, mid-afternoon yoga breaks, and hours of conversation around a kitchen island.


working full-time, i look forward to the weekends, starting on monday. i usually try to plan little trips on those two precious days. little day adventures that have us home by suppertime. a reprieve. an escape. this weekend, however, flew by much like my the rest of my week. behind a computer, working.


and it made me sad to think that another week will go by before i could rest. it really hit me on saturday night, our usual date night. there were no high heels. no curled hair. no lipstick.


instead, i spent the greater portion of the day and evening in sweatpants, hair in a bun, typing. it's a good thing i have a window in my home office. the gorgeous, natural light that streamed in through the blinds was a blessing.


i went to bed discouraged, sad.


and woke up to this:

and all of a sudden, working from home didn't seem so bad.

a busy day off

i fell into bed at ten last night. exhausted to the core even though i'd had the day off. it was one of those nights when you feel sleepy even in the tips of your toes. where flannel pajamas and a freshly laundered pillowcase feel like heaven and your mind drifts to dreaming in the middle of praying.


i had yesterday off, and woke with a mission. robert had to go into work, and as i stretched there in bed that morning, the sun just creeping up and the house still dark with sleep, i felt for him, leaving in the freezing dawn, scraping off his car, going out like it was any other monday. meanwhile, i slept in with pablo. waking every 45 minutes or so, only to look at the clock, adjust my heating pad, and  turn over on my other side, tucking my legs beneath me. 


it was one of those slumbers where even though i woke up a few times, i continued the same odd, whimsical dream sequence. 


so to make it up to robert, i vowed to do something for him, just for him, on my day off.


and in my family, one of the chief ways we show love is through food.


so i did it. i went to two different grocery stores to get all the items i needed. i scanned the internet for recipes and coupons. i started cooking at four and we ate at six.


here's what our night looked like:

thai chicken wraps with spicy peanut sauce, recipe here . 

**note: for the salad, i skipped the sprouts, scallions, basil, mint, etc. because it was getting to be a bit expensive, plus i couldn't find sprouts or mint. so, i opted for one bag of broccoli slaw. it was perfect. 

asian green beans with water chestnuts and mushrooms, recipe here.

thai sticky rice with mango and coconut milk  for dessert, recipe here

we devoured it, then collapsed on the couch to watch the bachelor. {emily has stolen my heart.}

i cooked, cleaned and did laundry on my day off.

but as i turned off the lights, dragging my sleepy body under a heavy blanket, i snuggled next to the man who made it all

totally, completely.

worth it.