sweaters and catalogs

 

I have absolutely never ordered anything from a catalog. But pouring over those glossy pictures of beautiful people in sweaters holding golden retriever puppies by fireplaces just puts me in a cozy mood. And I'm all about cozy culture. This is Darcy's first chilly season obsession with mugs of hot chocolate--the kind of jacuzzi mugs that are a pleasure to hold. And we like the hot chocolate to have tiny red and white flakes of peppermint. We perch beside nice open windows or blowing fans while we're buried two feet deep in thick, soft comforters. These little things are comforting to us girls.
 

Growing up, we got the most fantastic catalogs. My very favorite, the one I waited for all year, was the JcPenny Christmas catalog. I was a little thing sprawled out on an area rug in front of the fireplace sizzling with embers, pencil in hand, making little circles around fun items I liked best. I would stare at the faces of those people clad in flannel, lounging on couches in log cabins, and I'd create their stories in my imagination. Because playing the part of a voyeuristic seven-year-old peering in one of their cabin's frost-encrusted windows, I simply had to know. How did they get it so good.

 

 

 

All it has to do is rain. Then I declare it a day of cozy festivity.

I may not have a dusting of snow, any exposed lumber in my home, or a square inch of flannel to my name, but I have what I have. Darcy and I pull the chairs out from under the kitchen table, and cover it with extra large blankets to create our cave. We stock the inside with books and snacks. Sometimes, when we want to feel extra close to the magical pattering precipitation, we arrange pillows and blankets in a corner of the garage. I turn Pandora on my phone, and Michael Buble serenades us through the torrents: And I get to kiss you baby just because I CAN!
 

When Darcy and I are set up in this way, sprawled before tempestuous weather from within our pillowy den of warmth, I have to wonder. How did I get it so good.

Tuesday: the shopping

This is a little store called “Visions of Eden.” It's in a tourist hotspot in Old Sacramento. Everything adorning the shelves literally sparkles. Today's whimsical displays offered gorgeous interpretations of Christmas trees. One of my favorite things is seeing all the different ways this world can spruce up a spruce. Like playing Fairy God Mother to Cinderella before the big night. No two trees would be wearing the same dress at the ball. One tree was covered in countless twisty wool Santa beards, with ruddy ceramic cheeks and two eyes peeking over. Another spoke poetry to me— I swooned at a peacock blue motif, with little peacock tails fanning the branches and jewel-toned feather fringe softening the angles of the tree.

The shop sits on the east end of the waterfront 1850's gold town. The entire 28-acre lot smells like sun-baked wooden walkways. The hardwood floors in the shop creak ever so slightly. But the ceiling erupts with the sound of tangoing character heels. The loft over the shop is home to Latin dance classes, and for a moment the effect of the rhythmic marches is so thunderous, you think the ceiling might cave in. But the structure of exposed brick is sound and sturdy.

Our favorite items in the store are the the french-milled bricks of soap. The table is stacked with small towers of fragrant cleansers like gardenia, star flower, almond butter, and lichen. Darcy, mom and I took turns standing in the sparkling store, passing the hefty colorful bars to each other, smelling every last one.

Monday: the trees

I thought since I was visiting my hometown this week, I could write a little something about it every day that makes it special.

 

The road to my childhood home is canopied by muscular trunks of bark. The oaks are so dense, you can't wrap your arms all the way around them. Today I walked through the park that stretches from the front door to the horizon. Steve, Darcy and I laughed at squirrels and their litter of acorn shells all over our path. I smiled, crunching leaves under my feet, carefully side-stepping ones that were beautiful works of art. The path wound us around the pond, a social gathering of honking geese and chattering ducks, along with spouting fountains. “Ah, here we are!” Darcy said. Suddenly she resolved that we had reached a kind of unanticipated destination. Wherever it was we had set out to go, we had made it. She called them “rainbow trees,” and the scenery is a special showcase. Every blade of grass is appointed, as if it had surfaced by way of threaded needle. Darcy nodded approvingly at the placement and assortment of trees. Between the colors and differing stages of fall between each one, the rustle of leaves could have been self-praising applause. The light appeared in love with reaching for the ground by way of spilling off mossy branches. I had to sigh. I grew up in an ethereal fairyland.

my newfound thrill of getting away with things

I can be a real brat, but in the most amusing way.

My best friend and husband might describe me in certain moments as a kitten that bats at your shoelaces until they become frayed, or pounces at your calves while you frantically try to accomplish things. No, wait, he has a strong dislike for cats. We share that sentiment.

My best friend and husband might describe me in certain moments as a hyperactive puppy, completely refusing to listen, delighting more fully in the sound of its own yapping.

"I wish you would listen to your husband, for once!" he'd say while I bounced out the door with no coat.

Last night, as he packed a suitcase for our trip to visit my parents, he carefully folded shirts and placed them meticulously in the suitcase. They weren't his best shirts. I took them out and threw them clear across the room, giggling like mad.

When we're brushing our teeth at the sink in pajamas, I like trying to push him into the shower and turn the water on. (Never successful.)

The reason this is so amusing is because A. my husband is the gentlest, kindest being to never retaliate and B. when to my surprise and astonishment, I push the older, more mature puppy to the brink of retaliation, I shrink down and say, "BUT! I'm pregnant."

It reminds me of the time I worked at Disneyworld when I was 19. I entertained guests in a costume by playing the role of "Silly ol' Bear." I would hug small children with soft, cuddly golden arms. I would tilt my adorable face and "Think, think, think!" All met with adoring an "Awwwwww."

That's why it was so fun backstage when I was all dressed and waiting to go on set. I untied co-workers shoes, then mimed an innocent, "Oh, bother." I unsnapped and unzippped costumes being assembled. Goofy would come after me, and I'd turn on Pooh's Innocence.

"I can't do anything to that face! Pooh's too cute!"

Maybe my incurable bratiness stems from having five older brothers, when I got away with nothing. Maybe it's just in the genes. (My mom salted and peppered my dad's hands once while he prayed over his lunch when they dated. Love you, mom!) Life's more fun when you make fun of it, I say!

keep going

I took an advertising class in college with a student who claimed he could learn everything about a person from their shoes. He could tell your marital status, personality, and other amazing traits just by glancing at the feet. We made him go round the class and reveal individuals’ deepest yearnings and  gnawing fears (read: scorpions). By the end, everyone was in agreement that he was the cleverest student on campus, AND he was from the UK. Mr. Footwear Gypsy even had a British accent. Now he’s a bigwig at an incredible advertising firm in Seattle. (Joke’s on him, I get to advertise green veggies to my three-year-old in ANY accent of our choosing.)

I wish I had been wearing my cycling shoes that day at BYU-Idaho. I could hear the dropped r’s and pronounced syllables: “Are they shoes? Are they spaceships? Were they used by the jets on the streets to take out the other guys?”

 There’s a metal clip on the sole of the shoe that snaps me into the workout, not unlike the harness of a roller coaster. The sweat is unreal. The burn is 800 calories in an hour.

I teach indoor cycling. And I know where the conversation goes from here: you might relate to one of the people strolling past the windows of my class, face smirking, “A STATIONARY bike? Psh-aw,"(Psh-SHAW?) "that looks so easy.”

How could I describe indoor cycling to them? I like to relate it to a famous racehorse jockey. The jockey was notorious for running his horses so hard, the animals’ heart blew up right there on the track. I felt the threat of combustion my first year working at it. I stumbled into the class one morning three years ago. It was one of those awakenings where I discovered fiery anger at my inability to do the thing I was meant to do. I became accustomed to darkening, spotty vision as my cardio was beaten to a pulp, class after class. (Not unlike the effect of a descending demeantor.)

Why would I do this to myself? A voice inside told me, “Keep going.”

It’s for exercisers who enjoy working their imaginations just like their muscles. I am never in a gym for an afternoon workout going nowhere fast. When not pregnant, I’m outrunning the war zone. I’m not jogging it out to a catchy beat, I’m climbing Everest, every time. Don’t forget to acclimatize. I’m literally Seabiscuit, bringing myself right up to the line between passing out and winning. I think of horses quite a bit for motivation, actually, and some of my students have caught on. I’ve even witnessed a couple jockeys cracking invisible backhand whips, clicking their tongues.

“I LOVE IT!” I shout, breathless. And I always tell them, “Keep going.”

Stuffed Alligators

Vaccines and a flu shot for my three-year-old. Please have mercy, world.

We had a long talk driving to the pediatrician’s office about the word “brave.” Darcy said, “It means I’m strong! I’m not afraid!” I even used a mechanical pencil after breakfast to play out the whole scenario. She didn’t remember anything about shots.

After the first prick, Darcy reached for me. “Save me or I might die!” said her expression. But then, she noticed I was the one restraining her. Oh, horrible! She began fighting both the nurse and me. How did I keep from collapsing? All I felt like doing was crying for help. “It means I’m strong! I’m not afraid!” sounded over and over in my mind. Her whole body was shaking with fear and pain. When did I become a real mom--the kind that finds the brave face for her child? One day she will know behind the brave was a screaming, boiling pot of emotion threatening to spill.

It breaks a mom inside to see her child hurting. She reminded me of a deflated Darcy, my wild jaguar cub turned gloomy golden retriever. After all of the trauma and pain were through, she sat in her car seat with a broken heart. Sniffling. There were shiny band aids adorning her arms, like a mini war horse. I called Steven in a panic, needing immediate ideas.“I think that deserves a McDonald’s shake,” he said. I’d never seen anyone slurp a strawberry shake so sadly.

I needed to find a book of children’s scriptures at Deseret. That’s where she saw him: Ali the alligator. He sat on the shelf so soft and cuddly, so whimsical, everything Darcy cherishes. I knew it was weak of me! I knew this meant that from now on, whenever something went badly in Darcy’s life, she would expect stuffed alligators. But even moms aren’t all that strong and brave all the time.