"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of. but do it in private
and wash your hands afterwards." --Robert Heinlein.

We've moved!

For the next two years (Summer 2014-Summer 2016) I'll be blogging our family's adventures in China at www.chinesemileposts.wordpress.com

Friday, December 29, 2006

Christmas Cards

I’m not sure why, but it seems as though I’m on everyone’s secondary Christmas card list. It’s not even a real list. It’s that stack of extra Christmas cards you buy so when some random acquaintance at work gives you a card, you have one to give in return. So when you get an unexpected card in the mail, you can send one right back, like you’d planned it all along.

I just don’t understand why I’m on everyone’s secondary "list." I’m a pretty faithful Christmas card sender. I’ve been writing the Christmas letter for my parents since junior high, still am for the most part. I send Christmas cards to just about everyone. And it takes a few years of not getting one in return until I knock you off of my list. I spend hours trying to track down peoples new addresses, married names, etc. I spent a good part of this Christmas and last Christmas trying to track down my best friend from elementary school. She got married and her parents moved. So Vicki Walker (I think is your married name), if you’re out there, I’m trying to send you a Christmas card.

Are there throngs of people out there who only have a secondary "list?" Am I the only person anal enough to go crazy about Christmas cards? Making my list, checking it twice. Am I part of a dying generation?

Don’t take this the wrong way. This isn’t a call for all of my blog readers (all two of you) to send me a belated Christmas card. You two have already earned all the brownie points you can by actually reading and commenting on my blog. In fact, you never have to send me a Christmas card again if you don’t want to. But the rest of you...

Friday, December 15, 2006

Writer

So another BYU alumna has published a novel. This one I actually know. Not that she’d remember me, but I had two classes with her, one with her now husband, and her husband’s brother once had a crush on my best friend. If that isn’t a close relationship, I don’t know what is.

Here’s the problem. It makes me so jealous. My first thought is, "Yea, someone like me is published." My second thought is, "I’m so mad that it’s them and not me." My third thought is, "But you’re retarded and never even write." And that’s my last thought because I make myself stop thinking about it.

In the last year or two there have been four or five different LDS or BYU alumni that have come to my attention with a new book. They are all about my age. They are all living my dream. Or at least I assume they are because other than the published writer thing, I know nothing about them.

I’ve wanted to write as long as I can remember. Yet it’s just like school was for me. If I don’t study for the test, that can be my excuse for when I ultimately fail it. If I don’t write, that’s my excuse for never being published. Not that fact that I’m crap at it.

So with each new person who is sort of like me that gets published, I get a little more encouraged, a little more discouraged, and a little tiny bit motivated. We’ll see where that leads us.

Time

Okay. So I’ll admit it. I’m one of those nuts who has been done with their Christmas shopping for weeks now. Even more so, they are all wrapped. Every last one of them. Most of my holiday cookie baking and dropping off is done. I mailed my Christmas letters yesterday. Which means that while everyone else is running around doing their last minute shopping and baking and wrapping and addressing, I’m sitting at home bored out of my mind. I’m in a reading block too, so I can’t even convince myself to curl up with a good book.

What does all of this mean? It means that, to me, the earth’s spin has slowed to a drastic, snail-like pace. I seriously look at the clock at any point in the morning or afternon and it seems as though four hours has passed, and it’s only been twenty-two minutes. When I normally take forty minutes to make my way through Target, now it takes me like ten, even when I’m TRYING to kill time. And while I’m normally racing to pick my husband up from work and I hit traffic, now I am leaving earlier (due to sheer boredom), hitting no traffic, and being early.

While everyone else’s holiday season is speeding past them too quickly, mine cannot get here soon enough. And why, when I procrastinate nearly everything in my life, am I so on the ball right now? Why is the clock moving so slowly when I’m at a total loss as to how to fill the time.

Hair

I actually told someone the other day that I’ve had short hair most of my life. That the current long hair I have is unusual. And it’s the way I think. Just like I still sort of think I’m blonde. I mean, deep down I know I’m not blonde. But I’m surely not as dark-haired as I sometimes appear, or as my husband thinks I am. But the truth of the matter is, I’ve had long hair most of my adult life. It was just the boy short haircuts my mother made me get as a child that have mutated my mind into thinking I’ve always had the haircut I had in my first grade picture. But if I think back to big events in my life, at least since I was able to fight for growing my hair out, I’ve had long hair. Eighth grade graduation. Long. High School dances. Long. Senior picture. Short, but of my own choice. Graduation. Long. Freshman year of college. Long, then short. Then long again. Then medium and layered. Then long. Then REALLY short. Then long. Then a little short. Then long. Then a little short. Then long. Longer. Longest.

But back to being long-haired. I’ve been on a quest my entire life to have long hair. Again, stemming from my mother butchering my hair as a child. My goal from high school was to have my hair long enough that I could wear a scrunchie in it halfway down a low ponytail and have it stay and look cool. Obviously that’s no longer the fad. I was talking to an older woman the other night who grew her hair out once so she could put it in a banana clip (Remember those? Are they going to come back?) only to have the craze die just as she reached her goal. More recently, I wanted my hair to reach the top of my bra in back. I would look in the mirror over my shoulder and determine that if my hair got that long, that would be really long hair and I would be satisfied. But it seems as though hair length and anorexia are a bit similar. (At least what I know about anorexia from all those made for tv movies I watched growing up.) Now that my hair definitely reaches the top of my bra, it doesn’t seem long enough at all.

Here’s the problem. I know I don’t look good with long hair. I have fine hair. It’s barely there at all. My whole life people have told me I look better with short hair. And so I have an appointment on Saturday to get it chopped off. Here’s where I should explain that by chopped off, I mean, CHOPPED OFF. I’ve actually gone to get my haircut before only to have the beautician worry over my reaction to the amount of hair that I want cut off figuring I’ll freak out on them. But that’s the thing, I’m not uber attached to my long hair. I grow my hair out for a few years, then I chop it... ususally pretty short. Then I grow it out for a few years, then I chop it. Repeat cycle. Repeat cycle. I’m just worried that at some point I’m going to get to old and my hair will stop growing and I’ll be one of those old ladies with short, gray, permed hair. The woman I swore to never become.

And worse, I’m becoming the person so obsessed with her hair she’s written a blog entry about it. When did that happen?
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