happy halloween!

I've spent the majority of my weekend with paint on my face. There was some of this:

And some of this:

And best of all, some TRICK-OR-TREATING (which has nothing whatsoever to do with paint, but is still best).

The story is long and belabouring (but delightful, so I'm telling it):

I really wanted to go trick-or-treating this year. Like I do EVERY YEAR. But I'm old and tall (the latter being the biggest deterrent, if we're being honest). So I don't go, in order to preserve my dignity and such.

Well this year, the desire for that pillowcase full of Butterfingers and Smarties and Tootsie Rolls (to say nothing of the candy-trading) outweighed the dignity factor. So Paige and Sam (partners in all best ideas) and I decided we were going to go trick-or-treating. And thus began our afternoon concocting (please note ghoulish diction there) strategies for successfully trick-or-treating, despite our age and average height of 6'.

We went through various costume ideas that would mask our height (ET in the bicycle basket, wheelchaired old people, a horse) and various door approaches that would most likely ensure candy. Ultimately, we decided that the only way people would give us candy instead of turning us away with spurning looks would be if we offered some sort of entertainment--a "trick" for the "treat," as it were.

And what we came up with was truly a stroke of genius: three gondoliers, in a cardboard gondola, singing Italian love songs...me with my accordion, Paige with her guitar, Sam with his gondola oar.

We bought striped shirts, we planned our route...

and then tonight, at the last minute, we bailed. Turns out our dignity (but probably more the apathy of being in your mid-20s) won out.

I went home to my house-home-family-home instead, for a haunted dinner.



Which is when the magic happened. After dinner, the youngest of my sibs went trick-or-treating. Being the youngest, she had no one to go with, so she begged us older kids to at least walk with her. She's cute, so we did.

After three houses, she comes back and more or less says that trick-or-treating is lame when you have to go to the door alone.

Say no more, sweet child.

My other sister and I ran back to the house, put on the bird regalia, and were off to trick-or-treat (for our sister's sake, of course) for the evening. We had a ball. I may be sans dignity, but guess what I do have: a stash of Halloween candy.

The stash is small, but oh so perfect.

And we even traded candies after.

Christmas-wish: that it'd be cool for adults to trick-or-treat.

and then, in front of her 20 students...

I've had some awkward moments as a teacher. Like the day after lover-boy and I broke-up and my students found out and more or less tried to console me. (Tender.) Like the day I wore the bright red paisley shirt, and when I asked if any students had questions, one of them raised his hand and said, "No offense, but when you got dressed this morning, what were you thinking?!" (Rude but awesome.)

But today took the cake.

Today I passed out.

Yep, in front of all of them.

Passing out is no foreign land to me--I practically have a summer home there. So when I was walking down the stairs from my office to my classroom and everything started getting blotchy and tingly, I knew it wasn't going to be good. But I made it to the teacher chair at the podium, sat down, and tried to ward off students until I could recover. No bueno. These students of mine are inquisitive and apparently love nothing more than to talk to me before class starts (which thing I love).

Thus, on the brink of a major fainting spell, I decided to just cancel class, if I could just ... stay ... coherent ... long ... enough to ... tell themmmmm ...

[BLACKNESS & HAPPINESS]

Next thing I know, Student 1 is holding my arm and Student 2 is asking if I've eaten anything that day and Student 3 is saying, "Carolyn, what can I do for you. Tell me what you need." and Student 4 is looking seriously freaked out of her mind.

I look around, realize what's just happened, and start laughing. I couldn't help myself, the whole thing was so ridiculous and so pathetic and so so funny. Then everyone started laughing.

They said I was just sitting there, slumped over at the podium, eyes open, not responding to anything. They said they thought at first that it was going to be an object lesson that they'd have to rhetorically analyze (so proud of them). Nope, just me and my fainting! They were such troopers and so kind to me.

And so then I taught the class! Ha, funny how your body can just reset itself like that--how a little black-time and a little clammy-sweat and suddenly you feel great!

And it's a good thing I did go on with the lesson because it produced this gem of a sentence (written by Student 1), with which we practiced comma usage:

"Carolyn really enjoys teaching her Writing 150 class, but sometimes class is so boring, even she falls asleep."

("--Before class even starts!" I chime in. To which they all good-heartedly laughed.)

let me be frank.

Current problems in my life:

Someone named Frank put my phone number on the internet. Dumb Frank. Now all week I've been getting phone calls for him.

"Hi, is this Frank?"
"Hi, is Frank at home?"
"Hello, I'm calling for..."
Lemme guess: FRANK.

So I've started messing with these telemarketers.
"Was that Frank Lloyd Wright you wanted, or Mr. Gehry?"
"Sorry, who? Frank who? What did you say? Who do you want to talk to? Frank? Frank who? What did you say?"
And my personal fave: "Yes, this is him."

Here's what I know about Frank:
He signed up to take online college courses.
He registered for job training online.
He has no last name (at least not that anyone knows of).

I picture Frank as a 43 year old man who is actually named Anthony. Two kids, avid cyclist, believes in freedom of speech but not gun rights. Probably got bored one day at work and on a whim started signing up for classes online, trying to boost his marketability. Not that he needed to be more marketable, what with his job as a court stenographer in Indiana.

Either that...or he's a 22 yr old young man in Utah who is trying to get back at me for The Most Brilliant Prank in the World.

This is to say nothing of someone signing me up for BabyCenter.com, which = me getting weekly emails for the past four months about how my pregnancy's coming along: "38 weeks and what that means for you," "Four more weeks to go!" I was informed this morning in an all-too-perky email that my "2-month-old" is now learning to talk:

Coos are your baby's way of expressing delight, as well as exercising his vocal cords. You can carry on a "conversation" with your baby now. When he gurgles or coos, say something brief or coo back at him. Then wait for him to "say" something back to you.

First of all, my baby is a her not a him. And her name is probably Frank, so...

Other notable subject lines brought to me by BabyCenter:
"What Your Food Cravings Mean"
"Win Cord Tissue and Cord Blood Banking " (I don't even know what this means.)
"Secrets to Raising a Bright Baby"

Secret number one: actually have a baby.

I figure it's karma.

givin blood like a BOSS

One thing's for dang sure: I will never forget my blood type.

Here's why.  Because every time I get near a needle (either in real life or just in my mind), I pass out.  Not exaggerating, people.  All blood rushes out of my face, I turn green, I go clammy, I think, "Aw crap" and then I'm gone.

Sometimes vomiting accompanies said passing out.

But today, oh no. Today I gave blood like a BOSS.

I had to get my blood typed. (Deep breath.)

So I stopped by Wendy's for a little natural-cut fries with sea salt (really Wendy's? Are all six of those words necessary?) and a frosty to get my blood sugar to a non-fainting level.

Drove myself to the clinic.

Waltzed right past the huge blood-red sign on the wall: BLOOD DRAW STATION.  (Really clinic? And was the red really necessary? How 'bout the all-caps? How bout the words "blood" and "draw" and "station"?? Might as well just write "Bloody Hell" which is what such a station is to me. Surely "A Helpful Place" would suffice. Or maybe "Land of Rainbows" with a metallic, sparkly rainbow background cerca the pencils I had in fourth grade. All of these options would be better than "BLOOD. DRAW. STATION. (OF DEATH.)".)

Looked the nurse squarely in the face and said, "I pass out every time needles go in my body," to which she said, "... Really?  Like...every time?"  "Yes lady.  Every time."

Followed her to a paper-covered cot where I would lie and probably go vagal.

And guess what happened:

I gave that blood like a pro.

Didn't pass out, didn't go clammy, didn't throw up.

Blood Draw Station: 0
Carolyn: 1

Pesto: A Story of Basil.

As this is the week of mourning my dead basil plant, it’s only fitting I explain where my love for basil came from.

Italy.

That’s where.

(Well, Italy and Chicago.)

In three brief snapshots:

{STORY ONE}

After riding all night in a train hot and sticky, next to Italian men in tanktops, we pull in to Naples.  Naples is on garbage strike that week.  = Piles of garbage and angry people everywhere.  And it’s hot hot hot.  We decide to find an internet café to get directions to Pompeii or find that pizza shop Elizabeth Gilbert talks about in Eat Pray Love.  We wander the whole city, backpacks and everything, and we’re hot and we’re tired and we’re hungry.  Every internet café is closed.  Every. Single. One.  In the whole city.  (There are only two, so I guess our odds weren’t super good to begin with.)  In frustration, we throw our hands up and decide to grab some pizza from a little place right next to the train station before getting back on our train and heading to Rome.  Naples?  Fail. 

We duck into the pizza shop, and the waiters and pizza throwers behind the counter shout “hurrah!” and welcome us in.  The air’s cool and clean and the waiters are falling over each other to make us laugh, saying funny things, mocking us, batting their dark eyelashes. 

Then we see it—pictures of Julia Roberts on the wall.  We’ve found it—the Eat Pray Love pizzeria.  Legendary.

And out come two plate-size pizzas, steam rolling off the cheese and the sauce and the crispy soft crust.  And in the middle, one large basil leaf.

Those pizzas saved Naples.

Nay, they exalted Naples.

Naples?  Perfect.

{STORY TWO}

To shake off the effects of a somewhat disappointing and rather rainy weekend in Florence, we chose the Cinque Terre to unwind for some days.  In Vernazza (one of the five (cinque) villages (terre)), we got freckly.  The first night, from a man as handsome as any Italian ever was, we ordered a pesto (pesto’s main ingredient: basil) pizza and ate it on the dock at sunset.  And then did so every night thereafter.

{STORY THREE}

In Chicago for a writing conference, Laura and Natalie and I were faced with walking through near blizzards to get to the presentations we wanted to attend. We wanted good, warm food and quick, but none of us being familiar with the streets of Chicago, chances of finding such were looking slim.  Then we found it—a little corner soup and sandwich café.  I ordered a panini with (you’ll never guess) basil.  Those sandwiches very well may have been the only thing keeping our essaying fingers from freezing right off.

So in other words, basil saves lives.

And so I give to you a recipe for pesto, which was my favorite way to use my (former) basil plant.  R.I.P. Basil.

LIFE-SAVING PESTO

¼ cup walnuts

5 cloves garlic, chopped

2-3 cups fresh basil leaves, packed

half teaspoon salt

half teaspoon pepper

half cup Parmesan

3/4 cup olive oil

Blend the nuts and garlic in a food processor for 30 seconds. Add the basil, salt, and pepper. Slowly add the olive oil and blend until smooth. Add the Parmesan and blend for a minute.

I eat pesto on pasta, sandwiches, pizza, ice cream, or breadsticks.  (Just kidding about the ice cream. Although I would not be opposed to trying a basil-flavored gelato.  Maybe basil-lemon or basil-raspberry?) You can also mix the pesto with mayonnaise for a good sandwich spread.

(To use later, store the pesto in an air-tight container in the fridge or freezer.)

Buon Appetito!

nasty toast and other maladies

A story: a week ago, I went to make toast.  I hadn't eaten anything for a few days because I was too sick to eat.  Finally I could stomach a little toast.  I went to make some.  There was no jam.  Sister said there was more in the pantry.  I was too frustrated to dig looking for it in there, so I went downstairs to the secret storage room of jam.  Got myself a jar.  Came back upstairs.  Went for butter in the fridge, found none.  Opened the cupboard, found the butter tray, lifted the lid......no butter.  I screamed to the heavens, then grumbled something about nasty toast and no butter and sick and looked up and saw Rosie (sister) doubled over laughing at me.  

Not one of my more brilliant moments.  Really no moments in the last two weeks have been brilliant, if we're being honest.  I've felt at least three (at times up to twelve) of the following maladies at every moment in said time period:

1.  lung-igniting cough

2.  drizzly nose

3.  cloudy, spinning head

4.  muscles sore like a trainwreck

5.  anvil headaches

6.  crater-sore in mouth

7.  sahara lips

8.  a throat like sandpaper on fire

9.  nausea.

10.  tingling over whole body

11.  spotty-like-i'm-fainting vision

12.  chilly chills

I'm not typically a wimp either.  I power through colds pretty well.  Not so with this round.

Anyways, so my sister rubbed my feet (note for future reference: rubbing a sick person's feet is one of the kindest things you can do for them.  Washing their feet is even better.  Just sayin.)

Other than that little delight, I have been having all kinds of other adventures, including but not limited to:

1.  Saying "just sayin" after every sentence.

2.  Busking the streets of Salt Lake with an accordion and a boy named Ben who sings like he's famous.

3.  Cresting the quarter-century hill (more on that in a couple of days.  I've rescheduled my birthday this year because I was too sick to like it when it happened.  So I shall be celebrating it a week after the fact.  Yeah.  Send me presents and stuff.)

4.  Meeting singing Navajos in parks.

5.  Renewing my driver's license.  Looking like a freakin deer in the headlights on my picture.  Perfect.

6.  Pre-chopping all my hair off because it has decided to mutiny, and there's only one thing to do with mutinous hair: chop it all off.

7.  Playing jacks with the whole family.  (CLASSIC game, people.  If you don't know how to play, I highly encourage you to go get yoself a set and learn.)

8.  Starting a Nancy Drew Club with an eight-year old girl that has a hundred freckles and legs like a stork.

Now I'm going to go eat a fried chicken summer dinner because hallelujah I finally have my appetite back.

(Oh, and here's proof about the singing Navajos.)

the most embarrassing

Well folks, here it is.  My most embarrassing moment.  I alluded to it a couple of days ago, and figured if I didn't (wo)man up and tell it now, I never would.  So let this absolve me of it.

It was a Friday night, three years ago.  My roommate and I had nothing going on.  We heard there was going to be speed dating up on campus, so we thought, "Heck, we've never been speed dating.  They have gongs.  Gongs are cool.  Let's go."  So we dragged two neighbor boys away from their X-box long enough to take them with us.  

Now, I was already a little embarrassed at being there because...well, it's speed dating.  I mean, it has certain stigmas.  I also happened to be on this kick where I wasn't letting boys get the best of me (I'd recently told my nearly-boyfriend that if he wasn't going to date me already, I was going to date other people.  Take that!).  So I go in there, guns at the ready, but secretly a little embarrassed I was there.  (This is not a combo I would recommend, by the way.) 

So we sit down.  Girls on one side, boys on the other.  They start ringing the gong.  I have ten 2-minute conversations with ten different boys that all go exactly like this:

"What's your name?"

"Where are you from?"

"What are you studying?"

"How many kids are in your family?"

That last one is particularly annoying to me.  As if anyone is going to A)remember that info or B)care.  So every now and then I'd make up fake answers because I was tired of having the same conversation over and over again.

...And then he sits down across from me: an incredibly beautiful boy with dimples and sparkly eyes.  First thought?:  "There is no way he's here for serious.  He's here with his buddies to mock people who are here for serious."

We start talking.  He seems nice enough.

But then something weird starts happening.  He keeps looking at my forehead while he's talking to me.  He'll look at my eyes to ask me a question, then will look up at my forehead and start giggling.  Now it's important to note here that I'd recently watched an Office episode in which Jim passes an entire workday staring at Dwight's forehead every time they talk.  It of course makes Dwight terribly uncomfortable ("Meet my eyeline, Jim!") and eventually drives him nuts (more nuts than he already is, at least).

So my thought?  "This kid is trying to mock me! He's deliberately trying to make me feel uncomfortable. HOW. DARE. HE."

I refrained from saying anything at first because I didn't want to look like a fool.  Oh no, I was going to catch him in his little game before I said anything.

And then he did it again.

So I sit up all straight and snarky and say, "Is there something on my forehead?"

He goes serious, pauses.  "What?"

"You keep looking at my forehead, is there something on it?!"

To which he turns bright red, covers one eye, and says, "No, I'm so sorry, I have a lazy eye."

(silence.)

Now, I could have recovered very gracefully, if I'd had my wits about me.  But typically when you're focusing on one-upping someone, you don't.  See, when I was little, I had a lazy eye that would always turn in, and I went through years and years of glasses and eye doctor visits to get it corrected, so all I needed to say to the boy was, “No way, I do too!” 

Instead, I sheepishly asked, "So...how many kids are in your family?"

and this one's on love

wanna know what happened at my house tonight?  

remember this scene?  mr. collins comes to propose to elizabeth?  remember how in the background, elizabeth's mom and four sisters are peeking through the door and listening?  yeah, that's what happened tonight.  okay, not so much the proposing part, just the part about my entire family looking on while an eligible bachelor visited.  he is eligible because he is about my same age and single.  not because he's, you know, interested, or because we've gone on a date, or come to think about it ever even had a conversation.  but still: same age and single=eligible.

it was horrendous.

dating is bad enough without having your whole family (aka: mom and four sisters) watching, secretly thinking, "oh my gosh he could be the ONE!"

gag.

so here's a post to dating.

the beautiful courtney posted this quote, from one of our favorite recently-found articles on the subject.  we wanted to shout this article from the rooftops but couldn't find a way to get up there.  so it looks like she's taking the blog-post avenue and i'm going to follow suit.  it comes from a site called, "the art of manliness" so you know this guy means business.  the quote goes like this:

A lot of men today don't seem to believe it, but getting hitched to the right woman is a very desirable thing.  So while there is nothing wrong with hanging out, it's not a replacement for dating.  Dating is the pathway to finding your true love and eventually settling down and getting married.  Marriage is a one-on-one relationship, so you need to start getting to know women on a one-on-one basis.  You might be hanging out with her and your friends right now, but if you don't take her on a date, she'll forever be just your friend.  So, start dating and stop hanging out.  

now please understand: this is not meant in any sense as an indictment of the boys in my life.  i think for the most part the boys i know are pretty first class.  but it has given me a chance to think through some things, the first of which being that i know there are a lot of merits to hanging out.  let's think about them for a sec:

1) you get to see what the person is like in everyday, casual situations.  sometimes you can formally date someone for months and never see this side, and when you finally do you're so shocked, it's hard to recover from.

2) hanging out is low pressure, which, for those people who are timid or shy or need wingmen, can be really comforting and help them to be themselves.

3) hanging out is cheaper than dating.  and i'm being serious here--it's got to be hard to be the boy and have to spend hard-earned money to go on date after date with girls, especially if those girls string you along or aren't upfront enough with you to tell you they aren't interested before spending your money.

4) when you're in that liminal space between serious heartbreak and being open to love again, hanging out can be a good transition.  you gain confidence being true to yourself again, you are able to be with people (and thus stave off the loneliness) in a safe way, and typically you can laugh a lot--hanging out doesn't really lend itself to serious conversations, which are often the last thing your heavy heart can take after major trauma.  

BUT

aren't serious conversations beautiful?  aren't those when you feel like someone is really validating who you are, seeing things as you do, stretching themselves to understand who you are?  isn't that where true friendship--friendship, not even relationship--comes in, when you've spent enough one-on-one time with another person that you know how they tick?  how they think?  how they feel about things?  that never comes out--not really--in hanging out.  all you learn are things like what their favorite youtube videos are and how many doughnuts they can eat in one sitting.

maybe i'm nuts, but i really want to know people better than that.  

i really want to know    (name of any eligible young man)    better than that.

and that doesn't even necessarily mean going to dinner, or ice skating, or any other Formal Date.  it just means being one-on-one with each other.  getting to know each other away from the crowd.

the other contention i have with hanging out (and this is wholly and entirely a personal problem, not one i extend to other people) is that hanging out usually leaves me feeling self-conscious.  hanging out often feels like a game of king of the hill--who can get the most laughs, who has the best dance moves, who can dominate the conversation for the longest amount of time.  it is never the quiet people that you get to know well when hanging out.  this is a little known fact about me, but inside i think of myself as one of the quiet people.  from years of pushing myself off the wallflower wall at dances and forcing myself to go to parties i didn't really want to go to, from years of talking myself into telling jokes or personal stories in "hang-out" scenarios, i've learned to mask the shyness inside.  i've learned to be okay if the group doesn't laugh at my jokes, or if we go a whole evening without anyone really trying to sustain conversation with me (or without anyone responding positively when i try to sustain conversation with them)--it's all just part of hanging out, and i understand that.  it's part of the comfort and ease of the thing.  

but that doesn't necessarily mean i walk away from hangouts feeling super good about my social skills, or about my value to the people in my life.  i'm just another one of the girls, just another friend in a vast world of friends.  on dates, however, for those couple of hours, you feel like the most interesting, funny, or pretty person, because that boy clearly thought you were cool enough to get to know better.  dates make you feel appreciated, even if only in a small way.  in hanging out, that doesn't happen--you don't feel like you're especially interesting, funny, pretty, clever, or anything.  you're just another one in the crowd.  

now, i know a boy who would say this is all ridiculous--this teaching yourself to be more outgoing than you are naturally, this whole caring what the crowd thinks.  he'd say, "i don't want to go to some lame dance.  i don't want to go to some lame party.  i'm not into talking to groups of people."  see, he does exactly what he wants to do.  i'm entirely enamoured by this idea.  i'm fairly confident he will never read this so i feel like i can air some info: in fourth grade, i had a crush on him.  this crush continued on and off for more or less my entire adolescence.  this kid is uber-kool.  we're talking he could have a pompadour and everyone around him would suddenly wonder why they didn't have one too. in fact, i'm fairly certain that he was the one who gave bruno mars the idea.  --------------------------------->

and if fedoras are ever going to make a comeback (which is one of my christmas wishes), Kid's our only hope.  i wish i was content enough with myself that i too could say, "psh, forget all them people.  i don't care."  unfortunately we all (or maybe just i) can't be as kool-with-a-k-cool as Kid.  and i mean this sincerely: i admire his confidence.

and when i leave hangouts and feel self-conscious, like that i'm unfunny and uninteresting and un__(adjective)__, that maybe my conversation skills are just so boring that i'm shocked anyone would want to hang out with me at all, i remember what, funny enough, the quote from earlier brought up: that "marriage is a one-on-one relationship."  maybe i'm not built to be the queen of hangingout-cool.  in fact i'm purrrdy sure i'm not (although i'm always and probably forever will be jealous of the people who are hangingout-cool).  instead, i'm built to make a commitment to one person who thinks i'm the funniest and the interestingest and the prettiest and all that jazz, and the majority of our lives aren't going to be spent hanging out as friends in large groups of people.  (at least hopefully not.)  the majority of our life together will be us building us--just the two of us--and growing closer and closer, and building a quiet, funny, beautiful, adventurous, secret, happy little life together.  and despite our 21st century social models putting a premium on who can be the "funnest" in a group of hangout-ers, i say i'm happy and content just to be working on being a better one-on-one person.  i think that'll serve me and Mr. Husband so much better.

awesome story:

so i'm at the outlet mall. i'm doing my thing, buying stuff, you know, and i'm walking across the hall to another store. out of the corner of my eye, i see this girl that i know from somewhere--

(sloowwww dowwwwn for mental dialogue)

you know how sometimes when someone is familiar to you, you have some emotion tied to them, that kind of helps you place where you met them before? for example, i re-met this guy since i've been out here in d.c. and we have NO IDEA how we know each other, but i have really negative latent feelings towards him. (i haven't told him this yet.) the odd thing is, he is the nicest guy...so i can't figure out why my subconscious has tied such things to his face. maybe he stole my parking place or something once. anyways, this girl at the mall--i have totally positive feelings towards her. like long-lost-friend feelings. subconsciously i feel really excited to see her again! not that i can quite place where i know her from, but whatever my history with her, it was a good one.

(speed up to real time)

so being the friendly person that i am, i smile and wave at her. i'm about to say hi when i realize i am looking in a mirror. the girl is ME.

A-MAZING.

and that's all i have to say about that.