All My Dreams Came True

As I'm sure many of you know, Jason and I have taken the very adult step of moving into my dad's basement. Every time people ask me where we are living now I feel like I am obligated to add a sheepish grin when I say we live two bedrooms down from the room that I once draped in purple and filled with beanie babies.

But the truth is, the move has been awesome. We have a house that stays the same temperature all year, a magical dishwasher, and a fatty couch that never disappoints. And all this without our dear bank account losing a cent. It has been great.

There has, however, been a downside. Throughout the years, our basement has become a receptacle for things we are too lazy/sentimental/frugal/lazy to throw away. In fact, the half of our basement that isn't finished looks like the Room of Requirement when it turns into a place for hiding things. Except there are fewer horcruxes. And sherry bottles.

So I've taken it upon myself to slowly tackle sections of the house to get rid of things like a 30 year old printer, baby-sized ski boots from before the age of plastic, and even an extra trampoline set. My cleaning sprees have gotten so furious, in fact, that I threw out my beloved American Girl Doll, Samantha -- whom they no longer make. Even though I deeply regret getting rid of Samantha (Jason even went down to D.I. the next day to see if they still had it) I don't regret all the extra space it gives us to store and access things we actually need. Imagine that!

During one of my projects today, I stumbled across a huge box that was filled with my old stuffed animals. Some of them, at least. And while I was throwing them all in the D.I. bag -- even the beanie babies with their tags intact -- I stumbled across this gem:

Adorable, right? Not only is he a perfect mix of a bear and a puppy, but he is also taking style tips from Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Waiting for his significant other by a piano, no doubt.

But if you think he is nothing more, you are sorely mistaken. Just take a look at this!

Growing up, I thought this was the sneakiest hiding place in the world. I thought it was so good that if the Nazis were to come after me, I would probably try to hide in the back of this bear-dog. It was so good, in fact, that I wouldn't even be able to find the things that I put in there. Dogbear just had a way of looking so inconspicuous I would never think to look in him.

This sneaky quality of his made it zero surprise to me when I saw that something had stayed in his zipped up bowels all these years.

Inside I found the long-lost key to a diary, which is also long-lost. But even though the key and the diary were never reunited, I am pretty sure I savagely ripped all the pages out of the diary's spine in order to read what was in those locked pages. I may never have learned how to pick a lock (not even one as complex as a diary from Pebbles in My Pocket) but I still knew how to get a job done.

But the best part of the discovery was this crumpled up paper. Was it a treasure map to more beanie babies? A dirty secret that I tried to get off my chest? A darling note written to my loved ones?

Nope.

In very terrible cursive, the paper reads:

"I like a positive but sensitive buff guy but he still has to be hot and a good kisser"

That's it. No particular person I was writing to, no reason for writing it, not even a period at the end of the sentence.

At first I was embarrassed that I would think this was the most important thing I could leave for all of my posterity. After all, dogbear was the best time capsule any one could ask for. But then I realized that I got everything I wanted. I bet dogbear-note-writing-me would have given current-me a big ol' high-five and even a good-game-smack-o-the-bum for landing a "positive but sensitive buff guy" who is still "hot and a good kisser."

So, dogbear-note-writing-me, this blog post goes out to you. Thank you for shaping my taste of the opposite gender at such an early age, and making sure my tastes survived the test of time.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow, You're Watching Me

The last time I saw you was on a Wednesday night six years ago and we were just talking on your bed, about me of course, like we had done so many times before, and I couldn't imagine that we wouldn't do so many times again.

The last time I saw you I was a freshman in high school who only cared about which American Eagle shirt she was going to wear to the stake dance, and whether it would be more awesome to drive or to date when she turned sixteen.

The last time I saw you I wanted to be a veterinarian, with my instinctive and fierce love for all animals. You only fanned the flame by giving me all the James Herriot books, countless beanie babies (still have them) and even my own dog when I made my own collar and asked to eat my meals on the floor and on all fours.

But that was the last time I saw you.

The last time you saw me was at my high school graduation, and I'm sure you were rolling your eyes at all the speakers who were assuring the whole class of 07 that they were going to be world leaders--even the guy picking his nose and wiping it under the seat.

The last time you saw me I was unashamedly licking tzahi sauce from my kebab in Budapest, and walking barefoot on Viennese cobblestones. Even though I kind of hope you weren't, I'm sure you saw me at the discotheque in Prague, or bawling at the Holocaust museum in Berlin. But I know you saw me smelling the blossoms down the Champs Elysees, and gorging myself on baguettes and any fromage that came my way. I bet you smiled as I stopped dead in my tracks in front of la tour eiffel, because you know better than anyone the charm de paris.

The last time you saw me was as the sun was rising on Mount Sinai where you whispered in my ear where my life was supposed to go next. Giving me that extra little push I need so often so that I can fully dive into the Lord's plan for me.

People say that you've passed away, but that doesn't make any sense to me. You've gone away with me! You're there in all my most passionate moments, where I love everyone and everything in this beautiful world God created for us. You're there in all my quietest moments when I can't imagine being any less adequate for this hard world God makes us go through. But I know you're there, because even if I can't see you or feel you, I know you love me because you'd never want to miss a second of my life!

I love you mom, and I'll see you later!

La Vie En Rose

As I keep getting older, I keep expecting the fun to drain out of my life. Sad mentality, but it's how I feel. And as this is my third year out of high school (where, as everyone who watches MTV knows, the end of your youth is had) I imagined that I would have to spend this summer in a suit and penny loafers doing adult things like taxes and Mavis Beacon.

But I was so happily wrong!

This summer has definitely been one worthy of looking back on. I've spent most of my time in a swimsuit or my chacos, I've made friends in small towns,
(Note the beautiful St. Bernard that was too gorgeous I had to pull my car over to make his acquaintance, and luckily it was captured on camera)

I made the rope swing in Mona my byatch (even though I incurred 3rd degree rope burns, massive bruises, smatterings of broken blood vessels and two lungfulls of pond water), I've danced my face off,

I've gone topless almost everyday, I've indulged in multiple Harry Potter Festivities,


I've crawled my way up to the top of a mountain, and I survived swine flu and being a gospel doctrine teacher (I don't know which one was harder on my system).

Most of this was made possible by the fact that I didn't have a job or school most of the summer, but I'm going to attribute most of the awesomeness to just the common euphoria of summer. I've been born and raised in Utah, home of the 2002 winter olympics, but I think I've come to the conclusion that winter isn't really for me. I'm sick of wrapping yourself up like you're last night's leftovers before you venture anywhere outdoors. And finding things to do that are inside unless you want to lose a favorite extremity.

I want to live in a place where shoes are only worn to church. Where no one cares about their hair because it's just going to get wet from beach/pool/lake/sweat. And the night air reaches the exact temperature of the outside layer of your skin so that you've reached a temperature homeostasis with the world.
An endless summer.
Because summer's too pleasant to be miserable, too hot to worry about anything, too warm to be in a hurry. Summer's like one of those friends who you love so much, and you know they love you too, but they never come around often enough. And where I live they only come around for three short, but glorious months. So please Summer, don't go now. Sit back down and have another otter pop with me. I'll even give you the pink one!

Once Upon A December

I can't believe it is already December.

I have seen that month looming at the end of the calendar, but I don't think I ever really thought that it would have the bones to actually appear.

But it did.

Which means the lovely segment of my life that consists of reading the London Paper everyday, and eating West African food on the way home from the National Gallery must soon come to a close.

But let's not talk about that right now.

Let's talk about how everything in London is still amazing and I couldn't be happier to be here!

Thanksgiving was awesome, and we totally schooled London on what it's like to be a grateful American. We went to a synagogue in the morning. Which is a tradition in my family. Yeah you're right, it's not. But it was cool to hear a lot about Judaism, because all I really knew was based on my knowledge of Adam Sandler songs. Then we hit up some high tea at the Kensington Palace Orangerie, which was dreadfully good. The tea was herbal, of course, but it was so yummy! I may not have converted to Judaism, but I think I have converted to the tea-drinking way. By the way I take my tea with two lumps. And then some. After tea we had a bit of a photo shoot where the thanksgiving spirit descended as a pigeon onto Jordyn and Rebbie's heads.

The reaction was heightened by Jordyn's already nervous disposition, but as you can see Sara wasn't shaken at all, and the fuss only caused me to blink. Which I'm proud of.

Here's a closer view, courtesy of Jordyn's blog:

I hope this brings you as much joy as it brought Jordyn anguish.

After gorging ourselves on the Centre's version of Thanksgiving, (which was spot on, except there were no orange rolls (Thomases) or rowdy expletives (Browns) which made me sad, on both parts) we decided that in the grand tradition of the post-Thanksgiving movie-going we would go see a musical.

Lion King.

Blew my mind. I knew I would love it though, it's got animals, and music, and is backed up by Disney. It couldn't go wrong.

Anglos And Their Animals

Finally, a country that gets me! This is a monument dedicated to all the animals that have died along British soldiers in the past because "they had no choice". Now I don't feel quite as alone for being the only one who is more sorry for the hero's horse than the actual hero when the cannon finally falls the two. Not only do the Brits love their beasts of burden, but they are quite fond of their canine friends as well. I love running through Hyde Park in the morning, not only because it helps me justify all the delicious waffles and gelato and hob nobs and various cadbury products, but because of all the prancing beautiful dogs (even the dogs in London dress better than I do). It's like a potpourri of world-class dog breeds. I never thought anything could satisfy me more than a Saturday afternoon broadcast of a dog show, (dog shows: one of my many guilty pleasures) but this meets all those expectations and more. Not only do the English love their dogs, but they love the people that love their dogs. Americans, I think, can be a bit snooty when it comes to their furry, four-legged friends. The more we love them, the more we treat them like humans (yes, myself included) which is not good for the dog or the human (believe me, I've been ridiculed on more than one occasion for attempting a web-camming session with my puppy I left overseas). The British, on the other hand, while still loving their dogs as much as their children (or more, these dogs really are beautiful) are able to remember that they still must be treated like dogs to be happiest. Instead of dressing them up like puppy-prostitutes, they let them run wildly through the parks (leash laws are more of a guideline) chasing after the frolicking European squirrels, which are never out of sight (or sniff).