A Place More Kind Than Home

My friend Aileen and I have been trading writing exercises as a way to sharpen our dulled writing skills. This week's, chosen by moi, was for us to write a Dear John letter from our favorite piece of furniture.

Please keep in mind that I took poetic license with elements here, so this is merely based on some facts (Sorry, Mom, I'm sure the Barrister wasn't really disappointed to be in your room. And there really haven't been any actual close calls, just many imagined ones that have made me a bit sick to my stomach...).

Dear Hanna,

I loved your grandmother very much even though I was not the center of her life. She brought me in to her home many years ago. I thought I was on my way to displaying valuables or even holding her husband’s important ledgers; however, to my disappointment she put me in your mother’s room where I housed your mother’s and aunt’s doll furniture like some sort of giant dollhouse. I came to accept this as my lot in life; at least I was out of the way of your rowdy uncle’s ever bouncing soccer ball. 

Things began to look up as the children left the nest and your grandparents made the long move to Vermont. They kept me even as they got rid of some of the lesser furniture (I was relieved that some of the coarser elements in the household were sold off. That bookshelf had always leered lasciviously at me from down the hall.)

I had hoped that I would have a more prominent placement in the new home and was thrilled to hear that I would be placed downstairs in the dining room for all to see. I looked forward to holding your grandmother’s beautiful wedding place settings or some of the lovely blue glassware she collected on lamp buying expeditions with your grandfather.

It was sadly not to be, however, as I was placed in the front entry hallway between the dining room and the living room. It took me years to realize the full disappointment of this placement. The family always gathered in the kitchen, and visitors did not come to the front door but to the side door down the hall. The hallway was merely a passageway between two destinations. Only children seemed to linger by my side with all others walking purposefully past without a glance in my direction.

I tried to find the bright side to my situation. I now held exotic, one-of-a-kind dishes and goblets. I had the company of a whole menagerie of animal serving dishes and pitchers-chickens, ducks, moose, a kitten, and even a bunny or two. I was safe from the clumsiest of newly walking grandchildren as they did not usually venture to the uneven slate floor on which I rested. But I could never quite see what was going on in the household-it was always maddeningly just out of reach, around the smallest of corners to my left or right.

I was devastated for your grandmother the day that your grandfather died, and devastated for myself when I discovered that your grandmother had died (I contend that it was of a broken heart), but I held out hope that I would go to one of the grandchildren who would care for me as your grandmother did. I had high hopes when I discovered you had claimed me (though immense trepidation to find how far I would have to travel to get to you). It was a terrifying and very bouncy ride though thankfully your father is a very thorough packer, meticulously wrapping each of my glass doors.

It was a happy few years at the center of your home, as I was able to continue displaying much of your grandmother’s dishes and even continued to have one of my chicken friends keeping me company. Yes, I had to get used to the hustle and bustle again (your house is much louder than your grandparents’ had been for many years), but I have not survived the past 100 years by being entirely inflexible. These old wood slats can still bend a bit.

However, I come to the point of this letter. This past year has required too much from me. There have been too many close calls as you have been distracted with broom and mop handles. There have been too many moments of frozen panic as a chair pushed quickly back from the table has nearly toppled into me, and there have been too many instances of last second snatches of that damnable wooden xylophone mallet from your feral toddler as she headed directly toward my delicate glass doors. (Pardon my language; I must take a moment to collect myself.)

Do you know how many years these curved glass panels have survived? I have not made it this far to see them smashed in a moment of mayhem! And let me point out that nearly every moment in your once quiet household is now filled with mayhem. I cannot live like this. My blood pressure is as elevated as my once exalted status as the best piece of furniture you own. Now, however, instead of being a source of pride, I am merely a liability.

Don’t think that I don’t know you now gaze at my pristine glass with dread. You and I both know that you would have a nearly impossible time trying to replace one of these panels should when your little hellion darling finally destroys me. I can no longer just sit and accept my fate. I am leaving for safer accommodations. I’m sure there’s a racetrack or bowling alley somewhere that requires a trophy case. Lord knows they’ll be quieter than your dining room.

Best,

Barrister Bookcase

I'm Soooo Literate, Guys.

Funny Gatsby comics via The Bloggess. (Also, the f-word makes things even more funny. Unless my daughter reads this one day...in which case, the f-word is not classy, Eleanor; don't say it.)

More good ones from Hark, a Vagrant here.

Cross Another One Off the Life List

Got a little busy last year and lost a lot of my blogging inspiration. Just realized today that I never posted evidence of one of my Life List accomplishments: To make my children their first Halloween costume.

Though I only have one child currently, I am justified in crossing this one off the Life List because I'm pretty sure any subsequent children will wear the same costume for their first Halloween because it took forever to make and because it's pretty original. I made it all myself without a pattern. Even her little sweatpants were made using a second hoodie as they did not have any baby sweats in the right color.

Our first family Halloween costume theme: Chicago Hot Dog

Nathan went as our favorite hot dog restaurant worker (Wolfy's), while I went as your typical Chicagoan Hot Dog Eater, and Eleanor was a Grade A, one of a kind, 100% all Vienna Beef Chicago Hot Dog with all the fixings (poppy seed bun, yellow mustard, onions, pickle relish, sport peppers, and a tomato wedge). I even sprinkled her with celery salt for total authenticity.

Best Books of the Year (Probably)

I realize it's been ages since I've written a blog post. I have occasionally had ideas floating around in my head to blog, but I'll be honest that more often than not they have been fragments that never build to anything because I have a million other non-related fragments also swimming around in there. Perhaps I should just start posting smaller bits. Perhaps not as my current fragment is "Why is Snoop Dogg/Lion hanging out with Justin Beiber so much these days? Does he see himself as some sort of parental figure to him? I wonder if he even sees himself as a parental figure to his actual children as he seems sort of like a giant kid himself?"

Anyway, before another fragment rears its ugly head, let me get to the point of this post, which is to share the best books I read in December. I think they were my favorite books in all of 2013, but I honestly don't remember a rather large portion of 2013, so I could be wrong. Still these two were very, very good. Go read them now. They're good enough I feel secure in telling you that you wouldn't even regret buying them in hardback.


Life After Life-You may have heard some of the hype around this one, but I assure you that it's such an unique and creative concept that it lives up to the hype. It's super weird (it follows the varied lives and deaths of one character over and over again), but if you bear with it, you will find yourself sucked into the many lives of Ursula Todd, vividly experiencing WWII in a variety of ways, and regretting when you turn the last page. It's complex, and I think I don't entirely understand the conclusion (I'm not sure I could even tell you if there's a happy ending or not), but this novel was outstanding and I found myself thinking of Ursula weeks later as if she were a friend temporarily away on vacation.

 Tell the Wolves I'm Home-This will especially strike a chord with anyone who remembers the nationwide saga of Ryan White from the '80's. This book is a really wonderful deep, slightly dark young adult novel exploring love and grief. It's quirky but lovely, and includes a number of images with such a haunting painterly quality that even months later they stand out starkly in my sleep-addled, sieve-like memory. I really loved June, the main character; loved her dry sense of humor, her observations, and her humanity. Also, I thought Brunt really nailed the ending. Sometimes a story just builds and builds, getting better and better and the author just can't pull off a satisfying ending and the story just takes a big old bellyflop. Not here though, I found the conclusion to be fulfilling.

Things I Would Never Have Dreamed

Before having a baby, there are a number of things that I would have assured you I would never allow to happen. Then I had a baby and realized that all bets are off.

I never would have thought I'd

But she's pretty sure she'll NEVER
do any of these things.

Say that 26 hours of labor was honestly not that bad. Boring, definitely, but not as bad as it sounds. I would even (no joke!) do it again.

Seriously contemplate sending out a picture of my boob to in-laws, family, and friends. (But she looks so adorable when she breastfeeds! I haven't actually done it, but I've been tempted, which is horrifying enough).

Go without ANY makeup in public.

Go out in public with vomit on my shirt (in multiple places).

And, in the same vein...Laugh as someone vomits down my cleavage.

Cheer every time someone burps, poos, or toots. (After many nights of intestinal distress, you too would cheer when your child FINALLY lets them rip.)

Consider an uninterrupted four hours of sleep "a full night's sleep."

Witness yet another reason Nathan gets attention from strangers. He's already had perfect strangers walk up to him on the street and say that he and his daughter are "so cute." Sigh. No one tells me that we're adorable when I'm out with her.

Feel the need to avoid putting mustard on my food. I just can't do it. It looks scarily like what we find in our newborn's diaper after each change.

Conversation #18

Me:(Always tearfully these days): Nathan, I need you to say that I'm beautiful even though I have elephant cankles...
Him: You are.
Me:...and that you love me very much even though my face is fat.
Him: But no, it's not very.
Me: (Pause. Less tearfully.) Close, but that's not exactly what I was hoping for.
Him: Sorry, I think you're beautiful, and I love you very much. I hope you don't have to do this much longer.
Me: Me too.

Have You Seen This?

I can't get over how clever the marketing group at Sears is. This commercial is the funniest one I've seen on TV in awhile. Those darn American Eagle kids just got what they deserved. Though I've now seen it more than a handful of times, it still makes me laugh every time. Also, though we DVR most of our shows, I will actually stop fast forwarding through the commercials to watch this one.

Everybody Has Parenting Advice

That last one is the winner in my book. While it just may be the most accurate advice one can get, it is probably just about as helpful as most advice usually is...

Conversation #13

Me: (Upon opening my eyes yesterday morning) Oh no, last night I had a vivid dream about doing cocaine. I didn't even know I knew what cocaine looks like. There was a huge pile in front of me.
Him: It was in that awful show last night.
Me: What? Bones? No it wasn't.
Him: No that other one. I only watched two minutes of it, and I remember. The one where that guy proposed to the annoying girl.
Me: ?........Oh, Raising Hope. (As one of the characters leaves the bathroom where four of them were all gathered having a conversation, she says, "If anyone asks what we were doing in there, everyone just say blow.") My dream does have a connection to reality. Yay! I'm not crazy.
Him: Well, you're still crazy.

Ready for Parenthood

 

Note I wrote to a friend who is running the Chicago Marathon this weekend. And yes, I meant every word-my poetry comes from a place of truth.

Dream a Little Dream

I have been having some CRA-ZY dreams lately. Sometimes dreams seem to form from little nuggets of information you've noticed, discussed, or experienced throughout the day, but these dreams...these dreams have no basis in reality. Literally no connection to anything except most do seem to feature people I know, though often those people aren't ones I've talked to, seen, or even Facebook stalked in years.

Crazy Dreams by mzpinkie91

Here are a few gems...

A few of my work friends (though which ones exactly are unclear because everyone is blurry, apparently I am ready for competition and am only concentrating on my own preparation for the battle to come) are gathered in a large version of my own bathroom. We are preparing for a hair drying contest. The first person to completely dry their hair wins. There seem to be no concerns that contestants' hair be of equal length or thickness, but it does seem to be a coveted title as we are all very ready for the starter pistol to sound. (And yes, there's a stripe-shirted ref holding one by the bathroom door.)

I walk into a cafe at lunchtime in the Chicago suburbs near where I work and see a guy I dated briefly in high school sitting with his parents. We chat like it's normal to run into each other over eight hours away from where he lives in real life. No mention is made as to why we are running into each other here; in fact, neither of us seems to find it strange at all. His father, my middle school math teacher for two years, is very pleased that my career involves math. His mother, my high school art teacher, asks if I'm painting. Walls, I say. She nods and says something about painting not really being my strength as an artist. I agree. But I do happen to have my sculpture of the Winged Victory (one of my high school art projects) in my purse that I pull out and show her. (What a relief that I could prove that I still have it.) The friend and I catch up about his vegetable garden as I eat a very tiny pie.

I am lying in the dirt; it is a very dusty, black-colored dirt. I am making dirt angels. I look across this barren stretch of dirt and there are at least 50 dirt angels that seem to have been created by me earlier. I am covered, from head to foot, in the powdery dirt. I somehow know that my teeth and eyes look startling in my face because I am so covered with this dirt. I am very happy lying in the dirt, my arms and legs drifting slowly back and forth, though this particular angel is frustrating because there is a hard packed section of dirt that won't hold the pattern. I spend a minute or two looking for a tool to use to scrape the ground so the angel will be clear.

And there are so many more that I simply can't remember anymore. The weirdness has been ongoing for the last month at least, on an almost nightly basis....SO ODD.

Why I Should Never Have a Reality Television Show

I very rarely win my fights with Nathan. No one needs to see that. Least of all me.

I say horrifying things that would make my audience hate me. For example, when I was in college studying abroad in Italy, I was flashed by a man in an alley in Florence one night. I was (justifiably) disturbed. However, I ACTUALLY COMPARED HIS UNWANTED SEXUAL EXHIBITION TO RAPE. Out loud. Yes, I was that girl. I shudder every time I remember those words being let out into the world. Can you imagine if they were actually on tape? And you know they would use that in promos.

I eat entirely too much for television. Not only do I actually eat sandwiches and whole plates of pasta, but I have *gasp* dessert. Sometimes at both lunch and dinner. Not usually at breakfast though.

According to Nathan, I criticize him. All. The. Time. So apparently, I'd look like one of those harpy wives bossing him around and always rolling my eyes and being sarcastic to him. I like imagining that I'm the victim here. I don't need video proof that it's the other way around.

I have been known to smack my cat. But guys, he totally deserved it. He was meowing, and meowing, and meowing, and meowing, and meowing. Still, that would not go over well with PETA, I'm sure.

My sassy gay friends are all 40+ and wouldn't dream of getting into screaming fights with me. They'd rather sit around in the backyard drinking wine and talking about NATO (or DWTS).

I wouldn't dream of paying someone to be my fashion stylist, wig stylist, cat stylist, makeup artist, nanny, cat walker, housekeeper, chauffeur, psychic, pet interpreter, groundskeeper, or husband wrangler (well, I'd consider paying someone to do that last one).

I am a terrible actress. When I was in fourth grade I managed to say my lone line in the class play as "Fish fly in the sky, birds swim in the sea." If someone told me I needed to reenact a conversation I'd had so they could get it on tape, it would be awkward and wooden and...wait, I guess that's not really a deal-breaker for those reality TV shows. Never mind.

Things I Am Really Embarrassed to Admit

I ate 1/3 of a watermelon for lunch last Thursday.

Sometimes Nathan and I talk to our cat about his "mommy" or "daddy," and we are REFERRING TO EACH OTHER.

The other day I watched a homeless woman being evicted from the vestibule of the building across the road. An hour later I checked our vestibule to make sure she hadn't moved into ours.

Once I hit my head on the dryer door so hard that I had to lay down on the floor for awhile until I was sure I wasn't going to pass out.

In my fourth grade spelling bee, I got out in the first round because of the word barracks.

I am guilty of rage tweeting. Over a burrito. (Was going to link to them, but I'm pretty sure I deleted them out of shame.)

I was heckled by a small child hanging out the window of his apartment building during a recent tennis lesson. He was right, my swing did suck.

Once, on a day when I worked from home, I didn't brush my teeth until just before lunchtime.

I have used the phrase "kids today" to complain, in all seriousness, about an intern.

I spent a crazy long time trying to figure out what was wrong with our DVD player before finally realizing that I was trying to play a BluRay disc.

I am knowingly and voluntarily a part of a pyramid scheme.

Martha, No. Just No.

It's usually a good idea to go to Martha for upcoming holiday inspiration. However, sometimes those craft gurus at Martha Stewart Living seem so intent on cranking out the projects that you wonder if there's ever a project they deem unfit for the web. Here are a few they've suggested for Mother's Day that I sincerely question.

The perfect gift if mom is working on a rag rug or if she is a Rastafarian
(but seriously, how crazy/cool would this look on someone wearing dreads? )

There is no mistaking this as a stylish fashion necklace.
It is clearly a woman wearing giant bouncy balls and pantyhose around her neck.
Fashion, Martha owes you an apology.

Severed baby limbs? You're welcome, Mom.

You won't find these in a mall, but you might find them hanging from your nearest lamp.
You should not, however, find them hanging from your mother's ears because that's just wrong.

What?! I am sure as hell not wearing a button around that says this
no matter what day of the year it is.
Why, Martha? Why?

Not Quite What I Planned

Now that it's been quite awhile since the wedding, I feel a little more comfortable talking about the failures of our big day. Some of them were little, some a bit larger, but ultimately I'm probably the only one who noticed them.

Hot right? Who wouldn't want to be walking down the aisle toward that?

Well, this was to be Nathan's wedding outfit. It was somewhat more fancy than just the dress pants he usually wears to work, making it a special look for the wedding, but not too fancy that he would feel uncomfortable. However, when he tried it on, my handsome husband looked more like Magilla Gorilla. Apparently his shoulders are too wide to pull off the vest look.






Needless to say, this early failure was avoided and I ended up with a groom who looked like this:

So far, no complaints, right? We moved the location of our wedding; we changed caterers three days before, and we were half an hour or so late to start the wedding...None of these things are a big deal in my memory at all, but there is one. Oh that one thing, that I am still moderately horrified to remember.

And that is the music that played as I walked down the aisle. The song choice began with all the best intentions. After all, it's called You Remind Me of Home. It's by the unoffensive Ben Gibbard, lead singer of Death Cab for Cutie. What could go wrong, you ask? Exactly. Well, apparently in the last minute planning of everything it was mentioned by my sister that I didn't have any music planned. I scrolled quickly through my ipod and remembered my fondness for the tune of this song that I had recently obtained, so I said, this will work, right? I played a bit and we all nodded, but clearly NO ONE LISTENED TO THE WORDS because I walked down the aisle with the following words wafting all around me:

You remind me of home
The paint cracks when the water leaks from the rusty pipes that are just beneath my feet
You remind me of home
The heater's warm but fills the room with a potpourri of dust and gas fumes

You remind me of home
A broken bed with dirty sheets that creaks when I am shifting in my sleep
You remind me of home
In a suburban town with nothing to do, patiently waiting for something to happen

But the foundation is crumbling
And becoming one with the ground
While you lay there in slumber
You're wasting your life
Wasting your life

You remind me of home
Sitting on a thrift store couch, I'm trying to get this all down 

What!? So awful. Could I have picked a more romantic song? I doubt it. Of course we have a lovely song that we've always considered "our" song that is much more romantic, but Moonlight in Vermont wouldn't work for an afternoon wedding in New York state (talk about over thinking it, right?), so yeah I went with something that I, as someone who takes great pride in knowing music and paying attention to lyrics, am still rather mortified to think of as my wedding song. Oh those last minute decisions, they'll getcha.

I'm going with that song being one of those opposite things meant to balance out the luck of the marriage or keep us out of the eye of the gods...or something. Honestly, mostly I just try not to think about that part of the wedding day!

The Wisdom of a 3-Year-Old

3 years old By The Sweet Light via flickr

While babysitting this weekend, I enjoyed the following conversations with my 3-year-old upstairs neighbor.

"I'm supposed to let you do your work. Am I letting you do your work?"
"Yes, you're doing a good job."
"Are you done yet?"
"No, I've only been working a little while."
"Is it going to be a long while?"
"Probably."
"I don't know if I'm going to be good at this."

"You are sniffing...You need someone to take care of you sometimes. You don't have anyone taking care of you!" (Face crumpling and looking extremely concerned.)
"Nathan takes care of me sometimes."
"OH GOOD. You have to let him. You have to say oh, ok. Don't say no, no. You have to let him because he's worried about you."

"I'm trying to remember something important."
"Ok. Can I help?"
"...oh, I see. The cow jumped over the moon. That's it."

No Do Overs

Sometimes I still think of this small interaction I had with my 3rd grade nemesis. If I had a time machine, it would be a moment I would seriously consider revisiting. It could have gone better. At the very least I wish I would have just laughed at her.

Me: Why aren't you nice to me?
My 3rd Grade Nemesis: Hanna, you're just not cool.
Me: Why not?
She Who Will Not Be Named: You live on a farm out in the country. Like some Amish girl. Plus your mom is a hippie and your dad is a cowboy.
Me: [Offended and thoroughly dev-a-stated.] Nu-uh.

A beekeeper, perhaps, but definitely not a cowboy.
(Sorry, Dad.)

Instead of the stellar "Nu-uh" comeback, how it should have gone down:

Me: Well, clearly I'm a heck of a lot more interesting than you are.

(OR)

Me: Pick your insult. We can't be Amish, hippies, and cowboys.

(OR)

Me: Are you kidding? The kid with the hippie mom and the cowboy dad would totally be the most popular kid in school.

(OR)

Me: Man, if that were true, we would totally have our own reality TV show.
(Okay, okay it was before reality TV was big, but you'd totally watch that show, wouldn't you?)

I Workout

aka Thoughts from the Midst of my Hip-Hop Workout Class

I have reached a sad point in my life in which I learn new dance moves and think to myself, "Ooh, I can't wait to show these off at the next wedding I attend." Hmm, I'm at the even sadder point in my life where I learn my dance moves from a gym class.

Somehow I just cannot pull off the "I'm a bad mofo" facial expression needed to sell this hand gesture. I don't look scary at all. If anything, perhaps a tad bit constipated.

My white girl moves in their natural habitat.

I may have the whitest moves out of everyone in my class. I think it's because I can't get rid of the smile. It would help if I didn't have a wall of mirrors in front of me showing me what I look like as I "wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle it" and "throw my hands up" and "shake it in my jeans."

Oh, I'm way behind. I think I need to stop picturing doing these moves outside of this room. I usually forget them immediately after this class anyway.

Oh hey, am I actually doing the dance from Run the World (Girls)? Yes! I am. Wait, nope, lost it. Yes, that's it. Got it. Nope, lost it again. Now I've finally got it down; I'm keeping up. Oh nuts, the song's over.

I think gym instructors everywhere must have clapped and cheered when LMFAO's "I Workout" came out. Clearly it's this generation's "Let's Get Physical" for workout classes.

Recent Conversation #8

Him: Um, I don't think I'm going to be able to wear the grey suit to your sister's wedding.
Me: Why?
Him: Because the cat threw up on it.
Me: What!? How did that happen to your GOOD SUIT?
Him: It must have been when it was lying on the bed.
Me: Why was it on the bed though?
Him: (Suspicious lack of an answer.) I could wear the black one instead?
Me: No, give it to me. I'll see if I can get it out.
Him: What shirt should I wear?
Me: How about your light blue one?
Him: But then it will be exactly what I wore to our wedding.
Me: Oh, good point. Okay, how about the white one?
Him: What's that?
Me: Argh! That's ring around the collar which happens when you don't clean your shirts every time you wear them. That's not gonna come out.
Him: Should I get rid of it?
Me: Yes, but now you don't have a shirt! Why are you only figuring this out the NIGHT BEFORE WE LEAVE?
Him: (Suspicious lack of an answer.)
Me: Okay, how about this blue shirt?
Him: But then it's like what I wore for our wedding.
Me: This is darker blue. Plus you're wearing a tie. And you'll be wearing the jacket. That's actually a completely different outfit. Are we good? Do you have shoes?
Him: At work. With my belt.
Me: ! Fine. Don't forget them or we'll have to buy some from Walmart for you. Again.

Modesty is Not Among My Virtues

Here are those grand personality traits, talents, and characteristics I mentioned yesterday. I am limiting my list to a mere 10 to match my previous list, but please do not think that this covers all the lovely things about me.  Because it doesn't. I have great reserves of talents and general awesomeness, some of them well-known, some hidden. But not modesty. There are no hidden reserves of that. (A good friend suggested I list 31 in honor of my 31st birthday, and though I certainly could, it would be a very long post that might take a few months to publish.)

1. Empathy. (I am usually excellent at choosing the right words to say to someone. Usually because this characteristic is sometimes at odds with my lack of tact and inability to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes it's a case of saying the right thing AND THEN I KEEP TALKING which leads to somehow putting my foot in my mouth. This can tend to ruin the effect of those lovely words I just said.)

2. Self-Analyization. (Our couples therapist once looked at me in what I choose to characterize as awe, and said, "Wow, you analyze it all, don't you?" Yes. Yes, I do. And I'm usually right, which even she admitted.)

3. Humor. (I would say I am rather funny in typical conversation and in my writing, though it's true that I also have a particularly dirty mind. I think that comes from me not getting a joke in elementary school that caused the other kids to snicker. From then on I apparently made it my goal to see the dirty side of everything so as not to be left out ever again. This, in truth, has led to some awkward moments in business meetings where I am the only one holding in my snickers. Still, we can't go back. I, sadly, cannot undirty my mind. However, it does mean that I always get the joke. It also means that I nearly always have to explain that joke to my husband.)

4. Cooking. (I'm good at following a recipe, of course, but better than that, I've learned to throw things together to make something from scratch that tastes pretty freakin' fantastic. And better yet, I can create dishes from scratch that are reminiscent of a wide range of cultures; I'm not just handy with Italian, American, or Mexican flavours. Sure there are dishes that I'm not great at-still want to master Jambalaya-but most of my dishes turn out well.)

5. Reading (I'm a Reader, with a capital R. I love books, and a new book is always more interesting then the 50 I have on my book shelf waiting to be read. I read every word; I'm not one of those speed readers that you may have seen on early Saturday morning PBS. And still, even with reading every word, I can read a 600 page book in 5-6 hours.

6. Craftiness/Creativity. (I will pretty much try my hand at any craft teaching myself the basics. I am usually able to create something pretty great after only a few tries. I will tackle big projects, learning how to do it as I go along, which is how I came to reupholster our couch. This sometimes means, of course, that I only do some projects once because they're insane, but at least I can claim to have done it. My creativity comes in handy in other ways too; I can come up with solutions for fixing things around the house that are almost as good as the original, and I can find creative uses for all sorts of random thrift/antique store finds.)

7. Taste in Music. (I am pretty proud of this strength as anyone listening to my playlist at the Leisure Games this year would be sure to tell you. Under the influence of alcohol I may have repeated my claim to have good taste a few hundred times too many for people to fully believe it. Sadly, I'm relatively sure my playlist spoke for itself. My taste in music is eclectic and wide-ranging, helped in part by Paste Magazine (heard of Zee Avi, anyone?) and a friend who is a band manager (Knock Out by GD & TOP=pure awesome), but also because I listen to anything and everything I come across.)

8. Intelligence. (I solved that Chicken, Fox, and Grain in the Canoe puzzle in no time. Can you? Also, I know just enough about String Theory to be dangerous in a scientific conversation. My excellent memory and ability to problem solve does me wonders in all sorts of smartypants conversations and in winning every argument with my husband.)

9. Rhythm. (My fellow dance competition teammates from my third grade Hangin' Tough crew would likely be surprised to see this on my top ten list after the tears-mine-they suffered through as I failed again and again to grasp the simple routine, but when there's not a routine I am damn good at shakin' my moneymaker. I guess it took letting go of worrying about "not getting it" right away for me to be good at dancing. And guess what? I can do Zumba routines with the best of them. Wish I could remember that Hangin' Tough routine, I bet I'd kill it now.)

10. Passion. (I feel strongly about nearly everything. This, of course, makes me a good match for Nathan who feels passionately about few things more than red lights, chow mein noodles, and Steve Kerr. I laugh easily, cry freely, and get worked up about the injustices of the world, my husband, and my boss. I throw myself into activities and events wholeheartedly. I plan one heck of a party, and I certainly get credit for at least half the success of the annual McArdle Leisure Games. But more than that, I love wildly, with my whole heart and soul. I would do practically anything for anyone I love, and I believe I've done relatively well at showing them that.)