Good, Evil, and the Promise of a Better Tomorrow

Dear Readers,

On my way home from work today, I watched as the sunny sky complimented by fluffy white clouds was swiftly overcome with a wave of darkness. For a moment, there was a distinct line between the light and darkness; it looked like a photo from one of those pamphlets overzealous christians hand you on the streets to inform you in a few illustrations and words that you'll most likely be going to Hell. Already in a reflective mood, when I witnessed this strangeness in the sky I couldn't help but think of the battle of good and evil.

I studied philosophy in college (which is the reason for my great success in life, I'm sure), and wrote several papers on the concept of good vs. evil. I've read many books and articles written by far smarter people then myself on the subject. It's a fascinating subject because it's a battle being fought all of the time; as nations, as communities, within ourselves even. There is no one that is immune. The concept is easy enough to understand. Simply said, there is no good without evil, no happiness without sadness, no love without hate, etc. etc.

Keeping this in mind, I'm broaching on a touchy subject. Don't worry, it's not politics or religion or anyone's waistline. Rather, I would like to speak on the year 2011.

If the concepts I discussed a paragraph or two ago are correct, then I experienced the year 2011 so that I can put both past and future years in proper prospective. 2011 will be the year to gage my happiness and misery by. Good days will seem great when I remember "Hey, it's not 2011 anymore!" Sad days will seem not so dismal when I think, "Hey, 2011 was so much worse! You can get through this!". One doesn't gain this perspective without experience, of that I'm sure. That doesn't mean I'll volunteer for experiences like I've had in 2011; I think my perceptions are fine as they are now, thank you very much.

For the majority of the year, I have looked to December 31, 2011 as a beacon of light in a very dark tunnel. Somehow, magically or otherwise the transition as the clock turns to midnight will be like a baptism; I'll get to enter a new year as a new person. I'll leave this pathetic year and all of it's lousy sorrow behind, and be welcomed by the new year like a brand new baby into a mother's arms. A cleansed person, I will have a positive outlook every day with nothing but smiles to offer. Sweet mother of mercy what a miracle it will be! Sugar will taste sweeter, the sun will shine brighter, the gods up above will call down to me from their seats in the sky, "Heather, this year is for you!" And what a grand year it will be.

So maybe, just maybe, I'm exaggerating the possibilities of 2012. But here is the beauty of the battle, I now know how bad it can be, so it won't take much for it to be a great year. In an effort the start the cleansing process a day early, I would like to note the highlights of this otherwise dreary year. That way, if anything else, I'll end this mess on a high note. In no particular order, here are the good parts:

1. I landed my job at Northwest Lineman College. This may surprise you as much as it did me, but I have found my calling in the work force at a vocational college that trains electrical linemen. I have never been so happy at a job. The work environment is not only healthy, it's optimistic and supportive. I feel very fortunate to find myself as the official Smiley Happy Face of NLC.

2. I attended my friend Jessica's wedding. I have loved Jessica and her family for a very long time. They have always been good to me. This year, not only did they invite us to the wedding, they engulfed Shay and I in their lovely world. I can't remember a more pleasant stay in Salt Lake (and we have a few memories there, don't we Jess?). The happiness of that weekend was exactly what my broken little heart needed, and I only hope that one day I can help them in the same way.

3. I spent a lot of time with my family. Whether in Banbury, Tamarack, Rupert, or the bowling alley, spending quality time with my family (both immediate and otherwise) has proven to be therapeutic. Sometimes it's just so damn noisy I can't hear myself think, which in it's own way is a blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for loving me and reminding me how lucky I am to have such an amazing bunch of relatives.

4. I learned how to be a good friend. This was a hard lesson with a lot of trial and error. I haven't perfected it by any means. But I try to listen more. I say "I love you " more. I value my friendships and relationships more. And most importantly, I allow them to take care of me more. It's a fact that I lost more friends then I gained this year, but regardless the amount of love I give and receive has somehow increased in significant quantities.

5. Baking my heart out. Sometime in the summer, when I was having a really hard time, I stopped by Bricolage on a whim and asked sweet Julianna if I could bake for one of their First Thursday events. She graciously said yes, and we made arrangements for pie in November. Focusing on that one particular Thursday got me through some rough times. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there is something very calming to me about making pie, and just imagining people enjoy my fruit and cream filled creations was enough to give me some hope. After Bricolage, I moved on to Festivity, not to mention a plethora of orders in between. There are few places I'd rather be then in my kitchen and to all of those who support that part of my life, my most heartfelt gratitude is yours to keep.

Well, that about sums up the good. I'm sure there's more (Lucas learning to ride a bike, heartfelt letters and emails sent to me by strangers, dancing in a basement club in Portland, finding a friend in Boise...tell me again why it took so long Brion?), but at this moment these are the things that stand out the most. It makes me smile to read this list. So I'll cross my fingers and hope the Mayans are wrong and I'll look forward to enjoying the upcoming new year.

Sincerely,
h.

Tis' The Season: A Time to be Grateful

Dear Readers,

During the past couple of years, I've approached the Thanksgiving season with a sort of begrudging attitude. I think that's because I worked retail or for the airlines, both of which will reek havoc on your holiday spirit and your sense of good will toward men. It's funny how the holiday season will turn the general public into swarms of jackasses, eagerly spending their hard earned money on crap that will be forgotten within a month or two, or on a plane ticket to fly home and be with those loving family members that make them miserable and angry. Even now, just typing about it my anxiety level is rising and I'm beginning to feel nauseous. This year, however, is different. I'm not working at a cash register or making calorie ridden holiday coffee beverages; rather I'm spending time with family, preparing for a whirl wind of baking, and most of all learning to appreciate what this time of year represents and trying to enjoy it.

At the beginning of this year, before all of the tears and tragedy that were to come, I made commitment to myself to be conscious of my well-being. A big part of that was writing down every day 10 things that I am grateful for. Some days my grateful lists go on and on, way beyond the requisite 10. Other days, it was a struggle to think of 3 or 4. The lists vary from the obvious (friends, family, etc) to the obscure (new pair of tweezers, Don Draper, etc). Rarely are they written in the same notebook or journal; they've shown up on Post-It notes, the backs of checkbooks, written in text messages, and sometimes never make it out of my mind at all. It's a remarkable thing what acknowledging ten things a day that you are thankful for can do for your attitude. Knowing this, I force others around me to do it when they are down or struggling. Usually by the 8th item, they are smiling. Occasionally by the 9th, tears are flowing. Always by the 10th, their attitude's improved. I know how annoying it is to have someone shove this in your face when you're not in the mood for it, because my friends and family now do it to me too. But like everyone else, after listing a few things, I'm feeling a little better about life.

Finding myself in the midst of the most grateful holiday of the year, I'm conflicted with feelings of both excitement and dread. I'm excited to go home to my parents house for Thanksgiving day, something I haven't done in years. I'm excited to eat my mom's food, sit by their fireplace, gather around my grandpa's yellow kitchen table, and be in the general warmth and comfort that you can't find anywhere but the house you grew up in. I'm excited to go outside and feel the cold weather in my lungs, be reminded I'm alive by the arthritis in my hip and hands, to search for pieces of nature that will look beautiful in the wreath I'll put together in my dad's garage. I'm excited to visit my friend Monica and her beautiful red-headed family, to hang out at my Aunt Nan's where food and laughter can always be found, and to watch Rupert transform into Christmas City. All of these things are wonderful and heart warming. They come at the cost of leaving Boise behind though, and this is a very intentional move. Last year I made dinner for my friend-family, and I just can't bring myself to carry that on this year. I dread even the thought of that empty chair at my table. And my heart goes out to all of those that understand what I mean. This time of year is not only a reminder of what we have, but also of what we've lost. It's hard to imagine a holiday that won't seasoned with a few salty tears from now on. If that empty chair has taught me anything, it's to be aware of those wonderful people I have around me and acknowledge that their presence makes my life that much better.

I'd like to close this blog with my grateful list for today. And if you're feeling a bit under the weather about the upcoming holidays, I encourage you to write your own list. It's doesn't have to be hard, just heartfelt. I think you'll be amazed at the results.

1. Shay and Lucas, my sturdy little family.
2. My parents, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, who taught me what a family should be.
3. Everyday that I spent with Loren Reed, up until his last one.
4. Chris, Jenny, Jason, PL, Saratops, Aaron, Andrew, Catie, Tyler, Courtney, Jessica and countless others who I call friends and love like no others.
5. My kitchen appliances, which allow me to bake every day.
6. My iPod.
7. My books, particularly those written by John Steinbeck.
8. Boise.
9. My blog. I don't know who reads it really, but I'm glad that someone does. I hope it's as enjoyable for them to read it as it is for me to write it.
10. Northwest Lineman College. I love my job, and they seem to love me. It's a pleasure to work there.

Sincerely (and Gratefully),
h.

Lucas Turns 8, great Great GREAT!

Dear Readers,

This coming Saturday marks a very important and significant occasion. As of 10:00am November 12, 2011, Lucas turns 8 years old. I know your first thought is, "Wow! I didn't know Heather had a baby when she was in high school!" Although I'm flattered by your suggestion that I am much younger than I am, this blog is about my son, not me.

Yesterday he and I were driving to my sister Kate's house for Sunday dinner. We were having a conversation about his upcoming birthday party when he said something (for the life of me I can't remember what it was) that sounded just like something Loren would have said. I don't know how I've missed it until now, but it occurred to me that he has come into his own personality and it's spiced and sweetened with the personalities of those who have been around him most. I got a little choked up at the thought of him getting so big, and even more choked up in considering how fortunate I've been as a mother to have such wonderful people around to help in the raising of Lucas. Here are just a few examples:



The above picture is of my Grandma Hazel and my Grandpa Cal. Unfortunately they both left this Earth before Lucas joined it, but they are influential none-the-less. Lucas' middle name, Calvin, is after this great man. He set a benchmark example in compassion for me, and in turn for Lucas. Without a doubt, Lucas is one of the most loving and compassionate people I've ever had the pleasure to meet, and I would like to think it comes from his Braegger DNA (not to mention the Badgers, the Rices and the Plummers). He definitely lives up to his namesake.





Lucas has some of the best grandparents a kid could ask for. Grandma Kristie, Papa David, Grandma Paula, and Papa John have been important and constant figures in his life since day one. He loves to visit Rupert to visit King's and go on outdoor adventures with the Grandparents Badger. Riding motorcycles and finding other ways to freak out his mom is a favorite pastime with Papa John. And any minute spent with Grandma Paula is amazing and looked forward to. You can see any and all of his grandparents in Lucas, and he knows just how lucky he is to have such a loving bunch of them.





On any given day, Aunt Andrea or Aunt Kate (my sisters) will take credit for raising Lucas. Both would be right. Lucas loves them both very much, and loves to spend time with them. He inherited Andrea's love of marshmallow milkshakes and Kate's scorn for anything stupid. When asked which is his favorite aunt, he is very diplomatic (and very much like his Grandma Kristie) when he says he loves them both the same. Uncle AJ is always down for a good excuse to play video games, and Lucas is always happy to oblige.



I carry a little guilt over the fact that Lucas is an only child. I think back to my days of fighting incessantly with my sisters, and can't help but think that maybe he's missing out on something. Then again, where Lucas lacks in siblings, he gained in cousins. Sam, Elise, Jack, Lucy, Annie, and especially Max have filled what would otherwise be a sibling less void in his life. They laugh, they fight, they get into crazy mischief and usually end up in some sort of trouble together. He is lucky to have such a great group of cousins to learn the ways of the world with. If anything else, Lucy has taught him a very colorful vocabulary indeed.






For most people friends come and go. For the Plummer's, they stay the same. Chris, Loren, Jason (not pictured), Aaron, Andrew, P.L., Jenny (not pictured), Saratops, not to mention a few others throughout the years (that means you, Drew and Lacey) have been some of the biggest influences in Lucas' life. He's learned valuable life skills from them, such as how to survive a street gang attack, the proper handling of a bull whip, and the sweet satisfaction of beating a bunch of adult men at Battlefield. He's also learned the importance of friendship by watching the camaraderie between us grow, and recognizes this group of extraordinary people as family. His snark, his sense of humor, his sense of responsibility, and his ability to order his mom coffee at Dawsons and his own bagel at Alia's has all been derived from his friend family. And at least once a week he says to me, "Boy I sure do miss Loren.", once again demonstrating that sweet, compassionate side of him.



Lucas has the most amazing imagination, and usually chooses to show it through drawing. He gets that from his dad. Lucas can convince you that he's listening, and then shake his little head and ask, "What were you saying?". He gets that from his dad. Video games, fascination with science fiction, Star Wars, and the biggest little heart this side of the Mississippi, all of them attributes of his father. Calm and patient, loving and thoughtful, soft spoken and a critical thinker, all indications that Lucas is Shay's son. Really, he couldn't ask for a better dad, and we're both lucky to have him.



As for me, well, I'm not too sure what I've given Lucas besides my eyes and an extra tender heart. But I know that he has given me a few things. I didn't know I wanted to be a mom until he was born, and at that I point I realized I could never imagine not being one. He's taught me the value of taking your sweet time. He helped my heart to grow to an unprecedented size. Lucas has instilled in me a sense of devotion and loyalty that knows no boundaries. Everything in my world shifted when he entered into it, leaving it a far sunnier and fun place to be.

So I ask you, dear readers, to join me in wishing young Lucas a superb and memorable 8th year of life. May it be as sweet and fun and as wonderful as he is.

Sincerely,
h.

There's a Song in My Heart (and it's Probably From the Nineties)

Dear Readers,

Music has been on my mind a lot lately. Literally. I've had my iPod plugged into my head for hours on end, wondering what tricks I can use to make Animal Collective play louder, or being caught rapping along with Dr. Dre. Occasionally I pop one ear bud out and tap it into Lucas' little ear and have an impromptu dance session in the living room. I've even been streaming my favorite classical piano music, pining away for a keyboard to play on. Day and night I've got a beat in my head and I just can't seem to get over it.

Now, please understand this is not a negative place for me to be. Between Shay and I we have over a months worth of music. Can you imagine? We could go through the entire month and never hear the same song twice with our stereo going 24 hours a day. Take out the dub step and some of the other crap Shay tries to pretend is listenable, and you're guarenteed at least 25 days worth of good music. So I have taken on this insatiable craving as a challenge to listen to songs and bands I'm not familiar with. And you know what I've found? Some real gems, like Pretty Lights and CocoRosie. I also included some blasts from the past like The Talking Heads and a few old PJ Harvey albums. Fantastic stuff. And if you haven't listened to the new albums out from Bjork or the Beastie Boys you're missing out.

At this point you might assume that I'm going to tell you what a music snob I am; that I have albums that no one has ever heard of. That I will mock your taste in music regardless of what name you drop. Unless you're my sister Andrea, I assure you that's not the case. In fact, I've realized that I am stuck in a music rut. Despite my recent exploration of our music library, I pretty much listen to the same albums and bands over and over. So, in no particular order, here is the list of the top 10 albums I've listened to consistently for the last few years:

1. Radiohead: In Rainbows
2. Radiohead: Hail to the Thief
3. The White Stripes: White Blood Cells
4: Handsome Boy Modeling School: White People
5: The Shins: Chutes to Narrow
6: Badly Drawn Boy: Have You Fed the Fish?
7: Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits
8: The Beatles: The White Album
9: LCD Soundsystem: Sound of Silver
10: Seu Jorge: The Life Aquatic

You can tell just about everything you need to know about me from this list. The only thing more revealing would be my reading list, but that's an entirely different blog. Also, there are individual songs that I listen to over and over, like a teenager newly in love or with a fresh broken heart, depending on the day. Loren's song "Honce" is played almost every day (and with a sip of PBR spilled on the sidewalk in his honor). Hot Chip's "My Baby Said" is consistently stuck in my head. Why's "Gemini" is a gift from the heaven's and never gets old.

Regardless, I feel like I have finally become old enough that I have a hard time believing that music is going to improve over what has already been made. It's a ridiculous concept, I know. Of course there will be new amazing artists and songs. But I just don't care anymore, not like I used to anyway. I can feel my arthritic self settling into this next phase of life where my interests and cares are shifted from pop culture to other distractions, like tea or crocheting. No longer will I lay next to my stereo speaker, listening to Led Zeppelin like I was the first person to discover them. Never again shall I come face to face with my rock idol and say "I love you!" like a complete jackass. There are only a handful of bands that I would pay over $50 to see live. And festivals that go on for days remind me of some sort of torture.

So I'll just settle into my rocking chair with my cat on my lap and my iPod on shuffle, enjoying the sounds that take me back to a time when I spent all my money and time on the music that's still pumping through my headphones.

Sincerely,
h.

And Here We Have Idaho

Dear Readers,

I had the honor and the privilege of attending my friend Jessica's wedding in Salt Lake City this past weekend. The sunset ceremony overlooking the Salt Lake valley was beautiful, the food and dancing were divine, but spending time with Jessica and the Knickerbocker family and their friends was the most enjoyable part of the weekend for me. I haven't met a whole lot of people from New Jersey in my lifetime, but I now have several New Jersians (yes, I just made that word up) that I can call friends.

These new friends of mine got a lot of pleasure out of making fun of Idaho. You know, the usual potato jokes (or the corn jokes for those who confused us with Iowa), or the wondering of where Idaho is geographically located, and the genuine surprise that we were normal, functioning people who don't have thick country drawls or bib overalls. After the novelty wore off, however, I was able to convince at least one or two of them that Idaho is a wonderful place and "...if you would only give it a chance you would fall in love with it!"!

12 years ago, I moved back to Idaho and was making my plans to move away from it again soon. Obviously, my plans fell through. At the time, I didn't have a good word to say about it. Still bitter and resentful of my experience growing up in a small town with some awfully small minded people, I wasn't able to recognize how unique and fortunate I was to be from Southern Idaho. As I've grown and matured, my love and affection for my home state has become more and more obvious and a part of me. It's no wonder, really; I'm part of the 4th generation on one side and 3rd generation on the other to be born and raised in Idaho. My family has been in this state before it was called one. They were the first to work the land they lived on, they helped to build and make mines profitable, and they were some of the earliest workers in the sugar industry that still contributes greatly to the state's economy.

My Grandpa Jack was born in Stanrod, Idaho, right on the Utah border. My Grandma Donna was born in Burley, Idaho near where the courthouse stands now. My Grandpa Cal was born in Malta, Idaho. And my Grandma Hazel was born in Rigby (also the birthplace of television). Both of my parents were born in Rupert, and my sister's and I were all born within 2 1/2 hours of it. I guess you could say, this state is a part of my family heritage. Our roots run deep here, and although I didn't realize it until just the last couple years, there's something to sticking close to your roots.

Beyond the sage brush and farmland of southern Idaho, when you drive the stretch of freeway between Rupert and Boise (known for it's peculiar stench, wacky roadside attractions like the now defunct "Jet Ski Pond", and long empty space between Mountain Home and anywhere else), you follow the pathway of my heart. Although my family keeps me connected to Southern Idaho, my heart and mind rest in Boise.

Boise and I have been through a lot together. Growing up I'd look forward to my week long trips to my Aunt Ruth's house on Desert Avenue more than anything else. I've viewed every inch of the city from the top of Table Rock, to the highest peak at Wild Waters and back down to the end of Hill Road. I've watched friends come and go and then come back again (it's a hard lesson to learn that life is life no matter where you go, but life in Boise ain't that bad). I got married here. I had my son here. I've watched my nieces and nephews be born and grow up here. I've made a solid second family of friends here. I've witnessed the power of community, the kindness this city has to offer, and have first hand experienced the love the city offers in both tragic and joyous situations.

Beyond Boise's borders, I have to give shout-outs to the rest of the state: Stanley and all that beautiful land they call the Sawtooths, your beauty is as breathtaking as your lakes are cold; Northern Idaho where your enthusiasm, whether it be for white supremacy or scenery, helps to make this great state unforgettable; to the rivers and lakes, the snowy peaks and lava flows, to every ski hill and pile of manure, I salute you and I sing your praises. I hope to represent Idaho well. For it is, in my mind, the greatest state in this nation. Even if it is as red as the day is long.

Sincerely,
h.

Canning Peaches: A DIY Journey of a Lifetime

Dear Readers,

Recently, I became a proud member of Pinterest (please see pinterest.com if you don't know what I'm talking about) and have had the chance to read several wonderful step by step, DIY, beautifully done instructional blogs for the crafty and talented. In an effort to meet and/or exceed the instructional blog expectations, I'm summoning the power of my mormon-family blood and am going to show you how to can peaches, Badger-Girl style.

Having not been to church in a few years, I was having a hard time finding my inner-homemaker, so I recruited the help of my younger awesome (and church going) sister, Kate. And so our journey to home canned peaches began in Kate's mini-van, with our ever faithful helpers, Lucas, Lucy, and Annie.



Kate and I are big fans of Williamson's Orchards in the Sunny Slope area of Marsing. As we were nearing the beautiful Snake River Valley, Lucas informed me that he wasn't feeling so well and then puked all over the floor of the van. Lucy was kind of grossed out, but not enough to turn off her DVD. And Annie could care less, all she wanted was a Diet Coke and a sucker. But after some clean up and a stop at a super creepy gas station, we finally made it to the orchards. I had a brief minute of calm, long enough to take this picture:



We bought our boxes of peaches in record time to keep the children from hurting themselves or others at the family friendly farm stand. On the drive back, Lucas asked Lucy if they could watch "Coraline". Lucy's reply was direct and to the point: "No. I'm never watching "Coraline" again because you puked on it like a jack-ass."

When we finally made it back to Boise, we decided the peaches needed to ripen before we canned them. Also, we smelled like vomit and farm stand and felt like a mini-van full of jack-asses. So fast forward two days, and we've finally reached canning day!

So here's how you do it:

Step One: Buy one hell of a lot of peaches. We bought two boxes. That's roughly equivalent to 18,000 peaches.



Step Two: Hire a crazy one year old to help take peaches out of the box and hide throughout the house. That way, you won't get bored with the rest of the steps. Remind said baby that the fire place is the perfect place to hide peaches.



Step Three: Buy and sanitize a whole bunch of jars. If you don't want to buy them, clear out your fridge of all the unused condiments (ie mayonnaise, old moldy jam, and the half a bottle of kalamata olives you had to pretend to like at a dinner party you had) and wash out those bottles as good as you can. We just bought the jars.



Step Four: Blanch the peaches by putting them in a pot of boiling water for 30 seconds, and then putting them in an ice bath. Try to burn yourself while doing this to keep your senses sharp and on high alert. Swear as needed.



Step Five: Spend the next several hours of your life skinning and slicing peaches and putting them in their jars. Try your hardest to get peach juice all over your counters and floors so that you have a satisfying coating of fruit adhesive to clean up when you're done.



Step Six: Make a sugar syrup on the stove. Pour over peaches in the jars and then put the lids on tight. Do not take a picture of this step because nobody wants to see this vital part of the process.

Step Seven: Buy a lot of canning equipment. Luckily, Kate already did this step so I didn't have to pay for it.

Step Eight: Put the jars filled with peaches and syrup in the jar holder thing. Don't let the jars touch each other (they need to be a Bible's width apart like at a church dance). Immerse in big pot of boiling water. At this point, you want to make sure your kitchen is at a nice humid 109 degrees.



Step Nine: Let the jars boil for a really long time. Try to make as many jars of peaches as possible in a day, but only boil six jars at a time to really draw out the process. Also, it's best for a screaming baby to enter the kitchen when it's time to remove the jars, and try to entice them into touching one of the bottles that just came out of the boiling pot of water. That way every jar you pull out is a reminder of the way you disfigured a child for life.



Step Ten: Wait. And wait. And wait some more. Eventually the lid should make a little *pop* noise, signaling your success as a canner. All of ours popped and with each sweet little noise an angel smiled.



Step Eleven: Find a place in your two bedroom apartment to store 24 jars of peaches. And you're done! Now that you've put all that work, sweat, puke, and swearing into a couple dozen jars of fruit, try to avoid ever opening one bottle for fear of realizing all the work you put into it is only worth about 3 minutes of eating enjoyment.

Woila! DIY blog, h.-style! Not only did the peaches take forever, but this blog did to. I'm never teaching you, my sweet and devoted readers, to make anything ever again.

Sincerely,
h.

The Blame has Been Placed

Dear Readers,

I was just reading some of my earliest blogs out loud to Shay. We were chuckling and having a gay ol' time when Shay pointed out that my writing has become rather serious. "You used to be so funny!" said Shay. I can't help but agree, I was pretty damn funny (please visit my blogs from 2010 if you don't know what I'm talking about). I feel that the death of my best friend has caused me to lose some of my sense of humor, and so I would like to make it official: I blame you, Loren.

Earlier this evening I was at dinner at the Red Feather with my sweet and close friend Jenny. Inevitably, the conversation moved to Loren. Loren this and Loren that and do you remember when Loren said blah blah blah. Loren, Loren, Lojo. I would be the biggest liar and fraud in the world if I said I don't think of him multiple times a day. I would be an even bigger liar (we're talking career politician sized liar) if i said I didn't shed a tear a least once a day because I miss him to my absolute core. Because I do. And if he could hear me, he would hear me say: "Please, please, come home. I miss you. I love you. My life, my family, is not the same without you."

So maybe I did lose some of my funny. But more than that, I lost one of my closest friends. A book I read recently said that Americans don't let themselves mourn correctly. That it's easier and more socially acceptable to sweep things under the rug, to shuffle the sad days into the deck of life, and pretend like they didn't happen. Get back to work! Go back to school! Keep yourself busy enough that you won't feel feelings anymore! But when you put it under a microscope you can't help but see, the sadness and helplessness you feel when you mourn cannot be solved by a hard days work or a day of busy distractions. As Tom Robbins said, "It is what it is. You are what you it. There are no mistakes."

With that sentiment in mind, I'm still funny. I can make people laugh. I can make people happy. I still make delightful treats and overly lavish my friends and family with an abundance of nurturing and concern. But I can miss my friend at the same time. Because the fact of the matter is, Loren was a part, a huge part, of my day to day life. And things just haven't been the same with him gone and it's better for me to acknowledge that then it is for me to pretend that his death was just another part of life. But one day, perhaps tomorrow or maybe a year from now, I'll be just as funny as I was when I started this blog a year and a half ago.

Sincerely,
h.

Submission

Dear Readers,

My mind hasn't been working correctly lately. Simple things like speaking, writing, and thinking have been more difficult than usual. I'm sure when my sister Andrea reads this, she'll laugh to herself thinking, "You were only one or two steps ahead of a sack of hammers anyway, I don't know why this comes as a surprise to you now...". Regardless, I've tried and tried again to write a thoughtful and delightful blog for you, but keep failing miserably.

In an effort to keep faith in my writing alive, I thought I would post my submission to the "One Minute Idaho" writing contest. Will I win? It's doubtful. None-the-less, I'm proud that I was able to condense this infamous story down to 118 words. For those of you that already know it, my apologies for being redundant. For those of you who have yet to experience the wonderment of the collective genius of the Badger sister's, I hope you enjoy (and yes, it's all true). Without further ado, my submission:


“This will be so funny!” My older sister exclaimed. Having spent the weekend in Boise with my aunt, we were preparing for the long ride home to Rupert. She made two signs; one said “HELP US”, the other said “SAVE US”.

The faces people make when they see teenage girls in the back of an Oldsmobile holding up these signs is priceless. Unbeknownst to us, a plan was made. Our car was surrounded by semi-trucks and stopped by the Twin Falls exit. Horrified, we watched the burly truckers come to our rescue, only to be angered and annoyed to find that we were not captives. We were just the daughters of the now irate man driving the car.

And there you have it. If I win, I get to have some sort of crazy night snorting cocaine and going to a rave with Ira Glass. Well, go to a meet and greet with him anyway. If I lose, well, I have to pay $75 if I want to catch a glimpse of the NPR icon. So for his sake, I hope I win, otherwise he won't see this pretty face anywhere near the Morrison Center.

Sincerely,
h.

Thirty New, Look at You

Dear Readers,

Today is the last day of my 31st year of life. How did I spend it, you ask? Well, it started with a cup of coffee and some meditation (I like to counter balance my relaxation sessions with a nice jolt of caffeine), then a full day of being busy at work, coming home and doing some yoga (which to my horror my husband and mother-in-law walked in on me in my way too tight yoga pants in a compromising position), catching up with my mom-in-law, and making dinner. That's as far as I've gotten, and considering that it's almost 8:00pm, the only thing exciting after this is watching an episode of "American Pickers". That's it.

At this moment, my 19 year old self is puking her much thinner guts up, disgusted by the ordinary display of existence that her life will become. Where are the glamorous parties, the rich friends, the successful high paying career, and the city life I dreamed of and worked so hard for in my younger days? Thankfully, gratefully, and boastfully I say to my younger self: "You may be more intellectual and prettier than me, but you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

After reviewing last year's birthday blog, dreading the woes of turning 31 (thirty-fun), I slapped myself in the face and snapped out of it. My friends Michael and Loren taught me a valuable lesson in that I'm lucky to have made it this far (by the way boys, if this is your way of proving a point, I hope there's an after life so I can beat the crap out of you). As one of those good books says, "Tomorrow is not promised" (or something like that). So on that note, I'm welcoming year 32 with open arms and an open heart. I'm no longer dreading getting older. I look forward to it! Do you realize, in 10 years my son (my sweet angel baby boy) will be graduating from high school and going to college? As much as I absolutely dread that, do you know how young 42 is to start over with your freedom. So young (take that 19 year old self)! But let's not jump too far ahead, 32 is enough for now.

My plans for my 32nd year are grand: travel to distant lands, growing in my job, getting my health back in control, loving my friends and my family, getting tattooed, and smoking crack are all on the plan of attack (just kidding about that last one, Mom). So much to do in a year! My main ambition, however, is to live my life one day at a time, and savor the gifts that life gives me. Shay and Lucas mock me when I tell them not to buy me presents, but what they don't understand is that getting to have them and our friends and family in my life everyday is gift in itself. Wow, I've grown sentimental in my old age!

So let's raise our glasses to me, in celebration of my next big adventure. In the vain of Jenny Rice, here's to Thirty Two, Thirty New!

Sincerely,
h.

Banbury Hot Springs: Where Dreams Come True

Dear Readers,

That special time of year is upon us once again. The sun is shining (at least it's trying), there's a perpetual smell of hamburgers and hotdogs in the air, and my patio is covered an allergy comma inducing layer of cottonwood seeds. That's right folks, it's June and the annual pilgrimage to Banbury Hot Springs in Hagerman, Idaho is about to begin.

An anthropological phenomenon, the family descendants of Calvin and Hazel Braegger each year follow the winding roads down into the Hagmerman valley, past a thousand springs, and find themselves at the green cattle gate to paradise. The dirt road that leads down a steep incline induces what may be a genetic pre disposal to excitement and squealing, and seeing the pool headquarters sparking a thrill that only heroin addicts can relate to. Keep your fancy cruises, your elite resorts, and your white sandy beaches! I prefer a campground next to the Snake River, with a canopy of Ash trees and a pool kept warm with fresh hot spring water for my vacation destination.

Correct me if I'm wrong (which I'm sure you won't hesitate to), but the Braegger's began going to Banbury Hot Springs in the summer of 1978. Year after year we've gone back (with a little hiccup during he early 2000's, we'll blame Y2K for that), and year after year little changes. The camp grounds have neither improved nor worsened. The bathrooms are still painfully white and smell of sulfur. Mr. Banbury uses the same golf cart to mind the grounds and keep the rowdiness down (his dogs have changed a few times though). Besides the dock going out to sea, everything else is the same.

Beyond the place of Banbury, it's the people that I really look forward to being with. I adore the Braegger family. Love them. Cherish them. Mostly because of the food they make. But they're pretty nice folks as well. Getting my mom's siblings together is for sure a good time. Throw my cousins into the mix, and it becomes a riot. Like any family, we've had our snags and probably aren't immune to more. But our good times surely out number our bad. There's no awkwardness, and you're liable to be made fun of at any moment. Someone's always kind of watching the kids (no harm can come from Banbury, silly!), but for them it's one of the rare times when they're allowed to roam freely. Did I mention the food? The food! During my early years, the KAASH Club (Kate, Andrea, Ana, Sarah, Heather) would live entirely on Wheat Thins with Easy Cheese (thanks Nan), Squeeze Its, small novelty size boxes of cereal, and of course S'mores. As an adult, I've learned to enjoy the culinary wonders that are the Braegger sisters; Nan, Ruth, and my mom Kristie are geniuses. Throw my cousin Tori into the mix, and a few of my own cookies, and you're looking at consuming 2,000 calories per hour around the picnic table.

In the excitement leading up to next weekend, my family has been posting memories all over Facebook. My grandma Hazel rolling down the hill when her chair crashed on her. My uncle Bob attacking the tent at the sight of a Daddy Long Leg spider. Andrea having the chicken pox and getting to choose a special prize from the vending machine that held everything from disposable swim trunks to playing cards. Staring longingly from the side of the pool at the ultra hot lifeguards when we were about 10 (I'm sure he found us to be just as attractive). Synchronized swimming. Diving contests. Giant ice cream cones. Getting held under the water by your older sister only to be called a pansy when you start to cry after catching your breath. Mosquito bites that make your eyes swell shut.

Do I expect all of you to understand the grandeur and meaning behind the word Banbury? No, of course not. Not all of you have Braegger DNA, after all. But for those of you who get it, who when they can't sleep at night they conjure images of that tree lined road in their heads, waiting to pull up to their parking spot to the cheers of their family members and are finally able to fall asleep knowing that there's a happier place waiting for them next to the Snake River, I'll see you on Thursday. Hell yes.

Sincerely,
h.

I Do, Indeed

Dear Readers,

Had a cup of crappy coffee at Shari's Restaurant. That's what Shay and I did on our first "date". Shay was 22, and I was a month shy of it. In fact, next week marks our 10th year of being together. Tomorrow marks our 9th year of marriage. I still remember that evening at Shari's like it happened yesterday. The inbetween is certainly blurry in spots, but I don't think I'll ever forget Shay in his Triple 5 Soul hooded sweatshirt, his curly locks, his sad gray eyes, and him telling me I shouldn't swear because it wasn't a pretty thing to do. We talked all night and then just stayed by each other's side from then on.

During the last decade we have experienced a lot. I'm not sure if it's more or less than most couple, but it sure feels like a significant bit to me. Just to give you a taste, here are some of the highlights (and lowlights) of our time together so far:

1. Church. Ugh. Church. We tried so hard to be going church going people. It ends up that we're are a far happier couple when you take religion out of the equation!

2. Lucas. We were just toddlers it seems when we found out that we were going to have a baby. Only 9th months into our marriage, I took the 3 pregnancy tests that told us in a very short and sweet symbol that our lives were going to change forever. Sure enough, Lucas came to us the following November (6 weeks early...he's been late for everything since) and brought with him a nice little package of sleep deprivation and a terror that only new parents experience. He has grown up to prove himself a worthy distraction however, and in the end made Shay and I a stronger couple (especially when he started sleeping through the night at age two).

3. Moving. 6 times, to be exact. We're not a couple that fights, it's just not becoming on us. When we move, however, all bets are off and we swing punches freely. The last move wasn't as bad as those before it. However, our next move if all goes as planned will be our last. Not because we want to be home owners, but because we're both fearful that our marriage won't survive any more moves than that.

4. Loss. Since I've been with Shay, we've had the unfortunate experiences of losing my Aunt Holly, his Grandma Plummer, his Great Grandma Bertha, my Uncle Leon, our friend Michael, and of course our darling friend/adopted brother/son Loren. In the middle of all of these wonderful people moving on in their existence, we also lost our unborn child, and with it my ability to have more children. This was several years ago now, but it rocked our foundation and only now am I able to see just how much damage it caused. But we mourned it, survived it, and (speaking for myself, at least) are still learning from it. Although my body was left weaker from the ordeal, I think my spirit grew in lengths, and I have learned that I can survive even the worst heartache. I didn't expect to feel something so close to it in losing Loren, but it sure as hell did. Shay and I have each other though, and the loss of a loved one most certainly creates stronger bonds with the loved ones you have left. I can say with the upmost confidence that these sad losses have added a solidity to our marriage that wouldn't have been there otherwise.

5. School and work. Shay was in school for the first 6 1/2 years of our marriage. I've changed jobs 5 times since we've been together. It makes me nauseous to even think about. Regardless of the stress of school, the doubts of careers, and the fluctuation in income, we were always there to support each other (sometimes in very loud voices). Remembering to keep the other's hopes and dreams in sight, we've somehow or another arrived at a place that will set the foundations of our next 10 years which should prove to be far more successful. I can speak for both of us in saying, we wouldn't have made it to where we're at without each other. True we may be far richer and more famous than we already are without each other, but our egos would have been way out of check. But now that Shay is an unofficially tenured teacher (thanks for taking that title away, Tom Luna), we have the road to our future paved in gold. Literally. Teachers make BANK!

6. Love. So much love! For each other. For our son. For our friends and family, and family that we call friends. The support we have from the people we've surrounded ourselves with is astounding and humbling. I get all sorts of giddy when I think about the people we are so lucky, so very very lucky, to have in our lives. I know how fortunate I am to have a husband who lets me hang out with our guy friends without getting jealous. He knows he can hang out with our girl friends without me getting jealous either. What a great feeling it is to be trusted and know that you can trust! Integrity, folks, is a great and valuable thing. Don't marry anyone without it.

There are a lot of things that have happened during the last 10 years that could be blogged about for hours. But I think this little selection sums it up pretty well. This year, more than any other, I've been reminded of the reasons that we ended up together. I can't imagine, nor do I want to, spending my life and experiences with anyone else. Our bond is strong, our friendship is stronger.

Thank you, Shay, for choosing me. And in case you haven't figured it out by now, I cho-cho-choose you.

Sincerely,
h.

That Glittering Instrument, the Human Soul

Dear Readers,

I keloid when I scar. Where a normal person would develop a smooth, slightly discolored surface with a cut or incision, my body sells the wound as prime real estate to those skins cells that are ready to settle down and multiply. The result is an obscene mass that's unsightly enough that growing up my mom would recommend covering them up. "Bikini's probably aren't the best idea," she told me once. Thankfully my shameful scars can be hidden by my clothes and hair, only viewable by my husband, doctor, and stylist.

As I write this a new scar is forming, still new enough that the tissue is bright and apparent. It has an interesting shape, long and thin with dollop of a feuxhawk on top. LoJo shaped, some might say. That would make sense, since it's mending that LoJo shaped hole that's been left in my heart.

It's a funny thing to think about now that I've had some time to reflect. Here was a person that I loved and cared for so much and then *POOF* he's gone. That's how it goes though, isn't it? Show up, share a few laughs, shed a few tears, down a couple drinks, and then the party's over and it's time to move on. Life doesn't care where you go, but you sure as hell can't stay here.

I'm fortunate in that I don't have any regrets concerning Loren. I said what I needed to say. I spent as much time as I could with him. I watched him age 70 years in 7 weeks. I was relieved when I got the call, happy that it didn't last long and he got to leave on his own terms. I didn't allow myself the option to grieve while he was alive, "...there will be plenty of time to be sad when he's dead." I said. And boy oh boy, was I ever right.

At work I've been approving applications for admittance to our lineman program. I love this part of my job. It's both humbling and humorous to read these applications where strong young men are vulnerable and nervous of rejection. A lot of them have their mom's or girlfriends fill out the applications for them, worried that their bad penmanship and grammar will keep them from training for a working man's job. I couldn't help but notice while going through these applications that some familiar last names came through: Lacy, Blevins, and Grady. I realized I recognized them because they are characters from the Cormac McCarthy book "All the Pretty Horses". Excited, I picked up my phone and started to text Loren about it. I got about halfway through the message before it hit me that he wouldn't get the text. And like a punch in the face, reality set in and I sat in despair at my desk knowing that had no one in my life to make obscure Cormac McCarthy observations to any more.

I think that's the hardest part, the little every day things. Listening to an Animal Collective song. Doodling on a Post-it note. Driving past the Library. Making a treat that he liked to eat. It's these seemingly insignificant things that rain down on you like a b.b. gun attack, making you flinch and irritable and angry, but not enough to take you out like a sawed off shotgun would.

Throughout all of this there have been moments of lightheartedness, laughter, and most certainly of love. Being welcomed into the Reed household with open arms has been a blessing. Receiving notes and gestures from people I don't know has been humbling and gratifying. Sharing a night of dancing and celebrating Loren left bruises on my shins, conversations in my mind, and a dance beat in my heart.

I meant for this to be more of a tribute to LoJo, but it reads more like notes from a counseling session. I don't know, maybe a friend's grief is a tribute in itself. What could a higher compliment be to someone than having someone full of sincerity say, "My life will never be the same, never be quite as good and lovely without you in it!"?

That scar I was speaking of earlier - not the unsightly scars on my head, stomach and shoulder, but rather that peculiar shaped one on my heart, I think I will display that LoJo shaped deformity proudly. If only there were a bikini to showcase my heart! A strange reminder of my strange and wonderful and very much missed best friend.

I love you LoJo, but you already knew that, didn't you?

Sincerely,
h.

Follow the Amber Orb

Dear Readers,

I've had a hard time trying to find my voice lately. It seems like my energy is all used up by the time I make it to my keyboard to type out whatever it is I need to get out of my mind. Funny how you cling to the sad stuff, isn't it? That achy feeling of grief settling into your marrow like cholesterol in veins after a big steak dinner.

My friend Stephanie gave me a gift when Michael died. It's called a Glass Baby. It's a hand blown glass orb that you put a tea light in and it glows with an amber colored brilliance. The makers of the Glass Baby say to light it when you need comfort. Skeptical as usual, I lit the candle last night. I expected it to be beautiful because it already is a pretty object. I didn't expect it to bring the comfort that it promised though. I fell asleep looking at it; Shay had to wake me up to blow it out. It was in my dreams though. It followed me there, I guess it sneaked it's warm glow into my psyche knowing that I would need it all night.

My dream last night was a strange one. I had made plans with Loren to meet him at a festival at a park. I kept finding other people I know and love; Chris, Jenny, Jason, my aunt Ruth, my sister Kate. I'd greet them and hug them. "Have you seen Loren?" I'd ask. "Yes! You just missed him! Keep going and you'll catch up to him," was their reply. So I kept going. Obstacles would distract me, but I kept going. All along there was a beautiful amber colored orb in the sky reassuring me with it's warm glow.

The dream had a lot of love in it, but I never found Loren. I woke up feeling like I had failed and disappointed my friend.

A few short weeks ago (it seems like years now) when the bad news started rolling in, my friend Andrew gave me some advice. We were sitting in the dimness of Tenth Street, and I was crying into square cocktail napkins as quietly as I could. "You just have to feel your way through this," he said. I've tried up until this point to avoid feeling anything. Instead I've been an over involved and most likely unbearable friend, especially to Loren. My thought process was full of good intention: if I'm there, I can try to take pressure from him and put it on myself. I can be strong for him. I can be his voice to others. I can be mad at the hospital, mad at his situation, mad at everything on his behalf so that he could just focus on being happy and positive and okay. But that's not really how it worked out. What I realized over this weekend was that I probably wasn't helping him at all. He knows I'll be whatever he needs me to be right now -- but that's no different than before he was sick. He knows that I love him so much I consider him family -- but that's no different than before he was sick. It ends up that my going to see him everyday (or at least close to it) isn't going to save him. But rather, it's saving me.

With all of these sad changes of loss and sickness, I've been lucky enough to distract myself by comforting those closest to me. I've focused all of my energy on making sure everyone else is okay. But those in-between moments where my mind can wander I become immensely angry, and my poor husband has received the brunt of that pent up hostility. He tells me that I can be either the nicest person or the meanest person he knows, but I never fall in the middle. It's fortunate that he is a Taoist and can find middle ground, because he can help me be centered as well. He's right though, my pendulum swings wide. No wonder he's on my grateful list every day...there isn't a soul on this earth other than Shay that can handle my kind of crazy.

Back to the subject at hand. The long and short of it is, I'm a mess. I cry sporadically. I bombard Loren and my friends with text messages, visits, emails, and phone calls, hustling my love and affection like a street drug. "Who wants it? I know you need it! This here is some WMD, son!"

Not surprisingly, Lucas (he is the White Lama, you know) consoled me with the wisest thing I've heard through this whole ordeal: "Mom, don't be sad. One day you'll die and you'll forget this ever happened. And we'll all come back in our next lives as penguins, and we'll all find each other, and it will be okay."

I don't know how to stop taking care of my friends and family. I don't know how to back off or allow them to take care of me. I'm not convinced that I'm capable of learning these things. But if you're on of the people (you know who you are) that I insist on being with, please know it's just my way of "feeling my way through this". I can't wait to get a fresh start in Antarctica with you. I'll meet you under the glowing amber orb.

Sincerely,
h.

"The Evil Exists is a Pair of Train Tracks, and the Devil is a Railroad Car"

Dear Readers,

I'm not sure I've told this story to you or not, but I'm going to tell it regardless. When my nephew Sam was small, around 4 or 5 years old, he got in trouble. Hands over his face sobbing, I asked him what happened. His answer: "I have choices!" followed by more sobs.

Sam taught me a great lesson that day. Choices aren't always easy, in fact the older I get the harder they are. A few short weeks ago, I had this conversation with my dear friend Michael Birkenshaw. If you haven't had the great pleasure of knowing Michael, let me paint a picture of him for you. Tall, curly haired, extraordinarily handsome and charming, known for hitchhiking, fighting hobos, finding love everywhere from the streets of Oakland to my living room in Boise. His stories reach epic proportion, and to those of you who don't know him would find them completely unbelievable; those of us who do know him shake our head and say things like, "Only Michael."

Sorry to digress, back to my conversation with Michael. He had just returned to Boise from his adventures in the Bay Area. "Michael," I said, my nurturing instincts kicked into full gear, "I know you think my life is boring. Working a regular job, coming home and making dinner for my family. I know that a conventional life is something you can't fathom. But I worry for you, I worry about the decisions you make. I worry that you don't have food or a safe place to sleep. It's okay to have food and a safe place to sleep. You have people who love you that would take you in. You don't have to take the burdens of street life on." He smiled his heart melting smile at me and said, "Heather Plummer, I love you. I love your family. I'll find stability eventually. Please don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

I knew that talking Michael out of a life of self discovery wasn't possible, but I wouldn't be me if I hadn't have tried.

I wish that it had been surprising news yesterday morning when I found out that Michael had died. He was trying to get back to Boise by way of hopping trains, and somewhere in Oregon they found him by the tracks a broken man. I can't help but stand by Michael in his reckless choices now, even though I tried to talk him out of them. It is tragic but true that he was destined for a life less ordinary. Often with extraordinary experiences and moments of beauty, even more often with harsh realities and strange circumstance. One of the last things I said to him, sitting in Alia's eating bagels and drinking IPA, was that I wanted the rights to write his book. He said he would write his own and I could be his editor. It's sad that we won't have that chance now.

The last couple of weeks have weighed heavy on my heart. I don't like thinking about or watching my friends suffer. But with great pain comes great opportunity to love. I have never in my life had so much heartache. But I have never in my life been so grateful and full of love either.

Loren had me play the piano for him yesterday, and the only book I recognized was the LDS Hymn book. He asked me to play "Be Still, My Soul". What a comforting song, whether you're a pious person or not. "When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone, Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored. Be still, my soul: When change and tears are past, All safe and blessed we shall meet at last."

I love you Michael Birkenshaw, it was a pleasure to know you. I hope you found what you were looking for.

Sincerely,
h.

Honce

Dear Readers,

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Today, right now, this is my mantra.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You've heard me talk about my friend Loren before. As far as friends go, he's the creme de la creme. Cream of the crop. Top drawer. More family than friend. More friend than family. He is my Lojo, and I am his h.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He told me a little over a week ago that he was sick. He didn't need to tell me, because I know him as well as myself, and I've known for a long time that he was sick. They put him in the hospital for observation.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He told me a little less than a week ago that he has cancer. He needed to tell me this, because I know him as well as myself, and I never would have imagined that it was cancer. They're keeping him in the hospital for treatment.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

This is one of those situations where I feel like Dorothy while she's in the house in the tornado on her way to Oz. Everything is spinning around her out of control, and she just holds tight to Toto and watches strange images fly past the window. My friends and family are the house, giving me a sense of familiarity and structure, keeping some of me together. Toto is the small things I hold onto that I feel I have some sense of control over; visiting everyday at the hospital, buying anything I can think of that might seem appetizing for someone who really doesn't want to eat, sending mundane text messages to anyone and everyone I could think of wanting even the smallest update on the current situation. In the meantime, I watch everything else through this crappy little window. A broken washing machine, dirty dishes in the sink, even eating a regular meal fly past this window reminding me for just a moment that there's something else I'm forgetting to do.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I'm taking a day off today though. I'm talking a lot with my husband. I'm trying to land my house in Oz, and walk down that crazy yellow brick road until I find myself back in Kansas again. I've received so many supportive emails, phone calls, and text messages, each one with love for me but more importantly with love for Loren. Each one is so very much appreciated. Each one saying, "If there is anything I can do, let me know." To you all I say, keep doing what you're doing. Support and love Loren, his friends, his family, and yourself. Keep sending those messages, if even through your thoughts. I'm realizing more and more that it's not me going to the hospital everyday, it's not finding things to buy for him, it's not sending mundane updates and trying to feel like I can have control over this situation that's going to help him. It's not helping anyone, not even myself. It's me loving him, loving my friends, loving my family, and taking care of myself that will help him the most. I encourage you to do the same. Trust me, it's easier said than done.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I question whether or not writing this blog is the right thing to do. It seems a bit contrived. If Loren reads it, I don't think he'll mind (do you Lojo?). If anything, it helps me to write it down and see things in a tangible fashion. It could probably use a bit more satire. I could tell you about the male nurse named Jamie who won the title of "Most Cliche Person of the Week". Or I could tell you about the patient I over heard yelling at her nurse because they offered her a nicotine patch in lieu of a cigarette (for some reason smoking's not allowed in hospitals), and she's "No damn quitter..." so why would thy offer her a patch? Or I could tell you about going to Chris' messy house last night, sitting on the floor with Lucas, looking around at the most unlikely group of people who I am so lucky to be so close with, watching "Adventure Times" and enjoying each other in a new way. But I guess I should keep it simple, like my mantra today.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Sincerely,
h.

Dance Yourself Clean

Dear Readers,

There's is something that I love to do. I have loved it since I can remember. Something I love so much, I do it every day. Eat? Well, yes, but that's not it. Watching television? Oh, I love that too, but no cigar. I love to dance.

The idea of me dancing may surprise, even repulse some of you. Even more surprising is that I have my upbringing in Rupert, Idaho to thank for it. I took a few ballet lessons from a woman named Ann Marie upstairs from what is now a Mexican wedding dress shop, but she moved shortly after I began. After that, I had to turn to the best teacher of all: MTV. Hours and hours were spent in front of the television, dancing around the small living room like I was the guest of honor at Studio 54. I would dance to anything and everything, but rap was my favorite. And when I finally made it to junior high, the thing I looked forward to most were those awful dances in the gym. The "DJ" would pump such classics as "The Electric Slide", and "Unforgettable". It didn't matter how crappy the music was though, I was killing it on the dance floor all night.

Please understand that I was never the kind of dancer that was able to memorize moves or routines. I never had a desire to be on a dance team or clog professionally or anything like that. My moves were always unrefined, spastic even. However, when I moved to Washington D.C. and started dancing at clubs there, I learned some things that white girls from Idaho typically don't have the privilege to. Often being the only white girl in the club, I was taken pity on and was some what of a novelty. My beautiful friends Suki and Giselle would keep a close eye on me, and critique me at the end of the night. Before I knew it, I was killing it on the dance floors there as well.

Now, here we are in Boise. And I have a husband obsessed with music. We have 57 days worth of dance your heart out good times music on our iTunes playlist. Shay hates to dance, but he can put one hell of a set together. I would feel bad that he doesn't dance with me, but I have a list of friends who gladly will. And we all take our dance time seriously. My friend Deana had a birthday party last week, and she had Shay dj at it, and we danced for the entire 4 hour set. Once, in my friend Loren's basement apartment, our friend Pat put on a personal dance party for 8 or 9 of us and we danced all night. Some of my best times over the last few years involve Jenny, Lojo, Chris, Courtney and a dance floor.

So this morning, as I get ready to bake a cake for an order, I will put on LCD Soundsystem's newest album, and will "Dance Myself Clean" until the cake is ready frost.

Sincerely,
h.

"Home is Where the _________ is"

Dear Readers,

A week or two ago at work, my lovely coworkers Becky and Sarah and I were checking out this really cool journal. The journal asks you a new question to answer everyday, and has space under each question to answer said question every year for five years. The purpose is to see how different you are year to year. Like I said, it's really cool (I didn't buy it however because I know it would just be another book added to the pile on my bed stand that would soon be forgotten). Anyhow, one of the questions that Becky read out loud to us was: "Where is home?". A seemingly easy question to answer at first, but when you spend 2 weeks thinking about it, it quickly becomes convoluted.

When I hear the world "home", I'm immediately taken to 810 5th Street, Rupert, ID. The house I grew up in, and the one my parents still live in. Although many things have changed about the house over the years, it harbors the same familiar feeling that you probably will never find anywhere else than where you grew up. Every sound can be heard in that house, so forget about sneaking out. And yes, Mom will know if you're watching something you shouldn't be on television even when she's at the other end of the house. But is this really my home now? It's been so long since I lived there or even used it as my permanent address. But as the sign says that hangs over my mom's kitchen entry way, "Home is Where Your Mom Is".

Since leaving Rupert, I've lived in 19 residencies. Two in Logan, UT, one in Washington D.C., and 17 in Boise, ID. Obviously some of these residencies are more memorable than others. I'll never forget living in Logan, it was one of the best and most miserable times in my life. And my stint in D.C. has stayed with me as well. As for Boise, I have a hard time remembering where everything happened. I did learn some good lessons though: never find a roommate in the newspaper, never go back to church and move into a house with 8 other Mormon girls, never trust a roommate with a child when she asks if you'll keep an eye on her daughter for a bit and then find out later that by "a bit" she meant she was going to the Oregon Coast for a week and you're stuck with her 3 year old and no money or appropriate food. I'm sure I referred to all of these places as "home" at one time or another, but honestly I never felt like I had a home until I met Shay. Even then, we didn't live together, but I discovered with him that "home" was a feeling, not a physical place. After being together for a decade, I still find that he is my home. And when Lucas came along, he became a part of that home. So maybe it's more appropriate to say, "Home is Where Your Heart Is".

With that being said, my affection for Boise has grown significantly over the last few year. Particularity since I've had Lucas. And by Boise, I mean mostly the downtown area, although I don't mind venturing out to Milwaukee to go to Target once in a while. I love walking down 8th Street and seeing all the familiar faces. I love knowing that there's hardly a place of business downtown that I don't know someone. I love that when I hear someone nay-saying B-Town, my Mama Bear instincts kick in and I start to get angry and tell the people not to let the door hit them on the way out. I love the people in Boise, especially my group of creative, talented, and amazing friends that I'm sure could never coexist anywhere else but here. So I guess you could say that I've found a home in Boise, Idaho as well.

There are so many possible answers to this unassumingly bated question. I know that I'm very blessed to have so many answers. But now I have to go and clean my apartment, because unfortunately feelings won't do it for me.

Sincerely,
h.

Sad Little Monkeys

Dear Readers,

As you might have gathered from my last post, I'm going through a very introspective phase. In an effort to become a better person, I find that I'm becoming less and less self assured and confident and more and more anxious. This just doesn't make sense...right? Ah, but wait my dear kittens, I believe it makes perfect sense. Perhaps me being more self aware has taken away from the time I used to put into to helping others.

I learned on a very interesting PBS documentary last night that having personal relationships is sn essential component in one's health. In the same way that we must feed our body and protect it from the elements, we must nourish ourselves with friendship and love. There have been studies done where baby monkeys (I know this is awful, but the studies were done in the 50's before scientists had feelings) are given everything they need to support their physical well being (ie food, water, etc.) but were denied the company of others. You know what happened? They died.

Unlike those poor little monkeys, I have been very fortunate in the fact that I've always been surrounded by wonderful people and an excess amount of love. Strangely, the things I remember and hold on to most are the negative things said and done to me. Whether it be a grade school classmate that tormented me or a boss giving me negative feedback at work, I hold on to the things they say and replay them in my head the way Idaho radio stations play horrible 80's rock over and over again. During this the past week or so while I've been so selfishly introspective, these are the things that have been bringing me down. It annoys me how much energy I waste on these memories and on the anxiety they inevitably causes. By allowing this anxiety to grow stronger, I have to take more time for meditation to calm my self down. By the time I calm down, I'm exhausted, and I'm sure the energy I've created has helped to exhaust those around me as well.

So I quit. I don't need to sit around and think about what I've done wrong, what I can change, and what I can do better. Instead, I want to focus on loving and supporting the people I'm so lucky to have in my life. Please don't take this out if context. Professionally, I will of course do my best, whether it be folding clothes at work or baking cupcakes for a wedding at home. But personally, I need to focus on people who need my attention more than I do. I couldn't bear the thought of having sad little monkey in my life that I didn't help to nourish because I was to busy feeling bad about some stupid thing said to me in junior high.

Come to me little monkeys! I will adopt you and love you! But I will not give you cash...that you'll have to find elsewhere.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S. I wrote this on an iPad, please be kind about any typos that may have occured :)

10 Goals for 2011

Dear Readers,

It's a new year. It shouldn't be such a surprise to me, seeing as how it happens every year. It doesn't really feel like a new beginning this time around, which makes me wonder if I'm getting old or apathetic or both? Regardless, instead of resolutions, I've decided to make changes. Nothing huge or unattainable. Rather, a few minor things that I'm hoping will result in me being a better person. Without further ado, here are my 2011 goals:

1: Eat in a healthy fashion. I eat healthy food for the most part. My problem is, I don't eat on a consistent basis. I don't like breakfast, I rarely eat lunch, and by the time dinner comes around I eat more than my share. From what I understand, there's a better way to do this. So I'm going to force myself to eat food at regular intervals. What will this improve? I'm not sure. But it couldn't hurt to try.

2: Focus on what's working right with my body, not what's going wrong. Most of you that know me know this, but I have an auto-immune disorder called connective tissue disease. If Lupus and Rheumatoid Arthritis had a baby, it would resemble me. It causes me to be exhausted most (if not all) of the time, chronic pain, and the ability to live my life like I used to. However, I'm a couple years used to it now. Is it ideal? No. But it could be a lot worse, and I know that. Keeping that in mind, I'm tired of letting my disease dictate my life. I have a good doctor, I have ready access to medication and I have a very supportive husband, boss, and group of friends that don't allow me to feel sorry for myself. So now, in a further attempt to make my life as normal as possible, every time I have a gripe about what's going wrong, I will remind myself of what's going right (ie: "my hip hurts" will be matched with "my boobs look great today", or "every time I eat I want to throw up" will be countered with "my lungs work awesome!").

3: Do something compassionate every day. Explains itself.

4: Don't drink coffee after 11:00am. No one should drink as much coffee as I do. Thanks, Starbucks. Hopefully this will help promote goal number 1.

5: Do the best job you can do, whatever it is. I love my job, and I want to be the best at it. I would like this to fall into all areas in my life: laundry, dishes, whatever the chore, I want to do the best job I can.

6: Learn to be okay with the fact that not everyone is going to like me all of the time. I'm a pleaser. I will do just about anything to make sure that everyone around me is happy and likes me. It's ridiculous. If I'm meeting goals 3 and 5 and someone still doesn't like me, I'm sure there's not much more I can do to convince them that they should, and I'm going to just be okay with that. Well, probably not. But I'll do the best I can.

7: Every morning when you wake up list 10 things you're grateful for. Some people pray; I make lists.

8: Replace anxiety with peace using the mantras "I forgive myself" or "I'm alive and well". I find that I carry a lot of guilt, which is the trigger for my anxiety. Forgiving myself allows me to let go of a lot of that guilt. Reminding myself that I'm alive and well allows me to let go of the anxiety.

9: Be with my family as often as I can. I don't just mean being at home, but rather being present at home. It's fine if I go out once in a while, and it's okay if I want to be alone once in awhile. But while I'm with Shay and Lucas, I want to pay attention to them and be a family.

10: Let the people that mean the most to me in my life know they mean the most to me. Sorry friends, it looks like it will be a sentimental year. Look forward to getting lots of love from me!

There you have it. 10 goals that probably reveal more about me than you'd prefer to know. I look forward to the improvements I'll be making though, and am really happy they don't involve intense workouts or making more money.

Sincerely,
h.