dreaming big

So lately I've been having troubles sleeping. My dreams include the following highlights:

1. Back at home in St. George, there was a ginormous tarantula up in the corner of our very tall vaulted ceiling. And how did my mom get it down? With the GARDEN HOSE of course. I remember being perfectly mortified that she was spraying the hose in the house making this disaster of a mess.

2. I woke up (in my dream), and I had pink chunks of hair. It wasn't cute, if you were wondering.

3. So I found out that you could go to ZCMI (um, ZCMI hasn't even been around for years) before they opened and work out on their sports equipment, like the floor models. It was an underground operation that some employees had going on - renting out the equipment that was for sale. Hey, it only cost one dollar. I wasn't complaining.

In the old days, I would fall asleep before my hair even began to take the shape of the pillow. Maybe I miss my Asian beds made chiefly out of particle board. Perhaps my spine had become aligned with the grains of wood. And now it's trying to mold itself to a pillow top, which is just causing all sorts of REM interruptions.

Late onset insomnia. That's what I have.

PHOTO: Jess captured this cheetah at the National Zoo in a blink. Or maybe he's sleeping standing up because he too dreams of pink spots in his hair.

vote for pedro

So Jess had a great idea: How about these incessant political campaign ads be relegated to their very own channel. That way, those who want to methodically pull their hair out, STRAND BY STRAND, can just flip to the Kill Me Channel and watch dirty campaigning to their hearts' content.

And the rest of us can just be happy that IT'S ALMOST NOVEMBER and this will all be over soon.

the king

Simba:
Everybody look left,
Everybody look right,
Everywhere you look, I'm
Standing in the spot light.

Zazu:
Not yet!

Jess snapped this while at the National Zoo this weekend. Every time I look at it, I start singing the Lion King. But it's no wonder this animal is called king. He looks so regal. I'm pretty sure I'd do whatever he asked, and not only because he'd eat me if I didn't. His sweet mane deserves some respect as well.

anniversed

So we went to (where else?) D.C. for our anniversary. It's totally our "go to" place. Amazing place, lots of free things to do, but even more - the free things are beautiful, inspiring, educational. The following about sums it up:

1. Our hotel was the convention location of ANIME U.S.A 2008. Okay. Seriously? It was like I was back in Tokyo, but backwards. Imagine several hundred white people (aged 16-25) trying to look like Japanese youth trying to make a statement. Which means they took the Harajuku look to the tenth power. Wigs, artificial battle wounds, ninja outfits, plus your classic Nintendo characters floating around. NOT NORMAL. But then the more we thought about it, the more we kind of liked the idea of these people having a place where they could go and have friends and be themselves.

It's kind of like when I go to the store. Luckily, myself doesn't require the use of moon boots or a pink wig.

2. We try to do one new thing every time we go to D.C. This time we stopped in Virginia at the Udvar-Hazy Air & Space Museum. If you have children, particularly those who think they can fly or those who want to fly, it's worth a visit. It's an absolutely amazing collection of aircraft dating back to the Wright boys and including the Enola Gay, a Lockheed Blackbird, and a Concorde. My heart has a little tender spot for flight and aircraft - the papa is a private pilot and he's worked at SkyWest Airlines for an eternity. I also did a little stint at the airline (not as a flight attendant because I know that's what you were going to ask, actually in the Communications Department - makes more sense right?). So the museum made me feel right at home.

Note: It does cost twelve buckos to park there, it is in no way near the other Smithsonian museums, but I think it's totally worth it.

3. For our anniversary dinner, we didn't really have a location in mind. In fact, we were suited up to head downtown to take night shots after dinner. So off we go looking like we stepped right out of Tourists 'R' Us. Then we smelled steak. Really yummy, delicious, aromatic steak. If I were Japanese I'd call it yummy and yummy so much. The aroma picked us up and deposited us - in our jeans, flip flops, back pack, the whole bit - in the lobby of Ruth's Chris Steak House.

I'm pretty sure that as we marched back to our table (heads held high), a woman with hair just as high dropped a hunk of steak onto her bedazzled skirt as she witnessed the spectacle that was us.

What?

I know, you're trying to decide if you're embarrassed or if you're secretly jealous that we ate really delicious steak. IN. OUR. JEANS.

we said yes

One year ago today, we said "yes."

I said yes to waking up to a redhead every morning. He said yes to waking up to a girl with hair in various states of sticking in the air, make up smudged under her eyes. I said yes to college football, followed shortly thereafter by the NBA season. He said yes to Ghost Whisperer, American Idol and a lifetime supply of Sprite Zero. He said yes to plans, lists, organization, and precise time. I said yes to (a little) spontaneity, going with the flow (all the way to Asia). He said yes to bathroom accouterments taking residence in his bathroom, which he'll never even have the occasion to use. I said yes to pulling the shower curtain closed every day. He said yes to my (matching and coordinated) bed set. I said yes to his elbow in my face in the middle of the night (we're down to once in a while now). He said yes to air conditioning in the winter. I said yes to cooking red meat, even eating it.

We said yes to nighttime belly laughs, postponed praying because we can't stop giggling. We said yes to "I love yous" every day. We said yes to dinners on our mini tables because the dinner table is currently supporting his law degree. We said yes to two hour road trips (everything's two hours away here), half day flights to far off lands. We said yes to walking through the bright lights of Tokyo's downtown night life, the lush gardens of the Imperial Palace. We said yes to thousands of photos. We said yes to Legos, lots and lots of Legos. We said yes to hashing it out, living life together, believing in each other.

We said yes to each other. Here's to many, many, many more years of yes.

Happy One Year Jess.

heating up

So is it normal that at 5:30 a.m. ON THE DOT every morning, I wake up in overheat mode? I'm pretty sure my room transforms into Hades, so I wake up clawing at sheets and blankets. And then I go look at the thermostat, which informs me that I AM NOT WELL because it isn't hot. In fact, some people in this world would be able to feel a "chill" in the air. And that would by why when I go back to bed, Jess is still snuggling under not only the regular bed details but also his beloved sleeping bag, which is allowed to rest only on top of him because we all know that I need no extra layers.

This whole being hot thing is a part of my life. I just wish it weren't a part of my life at 5:30 in the morning.

the solution

So I watch CNN while I run. I can't really hear it because I still have my ipod in my ears helping my unwilling feet keep time, so I mostly just watch it, sometimes read the captioning. And for the last several weeks I've been watching the market TANK. It's like a big wooden spoon stirred up the economy to a nice creamy consistency then dumped it out, all over Wall Street.

Now I do not understand the stock market. Zero understanding. So for me, I look at this situation, and I'm pretty sure it's an easy fix. With the worldwide media coverage we have these days, the majority of the humans on this planet have access to some sort of form of media, even if it's simply by word of mouth. So why in the world don't we just publish in all newspapers, broadcast on all news stations all over the world a big fat message in like 72 point font that says: "Chill out. Stop freaking out. Just let things be for TWO SECONDS." I realize that this approach would not only put our men and women on Wall Street out of a job, but also make them extremely bored. However, their blood pressure would decrease, the pressure on the economy would decrease. And we could all just SETTLE DOWN.

I so missed my calling in life as an economist.

nectar of life

So between General Conference sessions, Jess and I paid a visit to Duke Gardens. Now even though it's eighty toasty degrees outside today, fall is still determined to break through. Leaves are starting to fall, others to change color, and we couldn't be more excited. On the way in, we passed some flowers that were being smothered by butterflies and ginormous bumble bees. I'm pretty sure these florals have Sprite Zero for nectar, because even with a camera lens extended in their faces, they weren't about to leave their cache of yumminess behind.

I totally know how they feel. I often find my lips attached to a can of the stuff too.

drip...drip...drip

So I love our new apartment. And when I say love I mean I LOVE it. Like I love it as much as I love the carton of pumpkin cookies I consumed all by myself in two days because I knew today (October 1) was coming, therefore necessitating as much sugar inhalation as humanly possible before the cut off.

As I was saying, so I love our new apartment, but I do not love it when it rains. I don't mind the sound of rain and thunder. In fact, I kind of like it. In Hong Kong, I got quite accustomed to being rocked to sleep by ginormous claps of thunder. It was like our little dorm was wrapped in the arms of a thunder clap. You get used to it. And rain is really kind of pretty to listen to if we're being honest. It becomes very unpretty, however, when the rain subsides here at the new apartment, and we're left with the run off. Which runs off like this: "Drip...drip...drip...drip...drip..." All night. "Drip...drip...drip...drip..."

I can't deal with repeated sounds. This goes for sequences of sounds too, like in really annoying R&B songs (um, hi, I live in NC), where the artist has no apparent talent beyond four beats and an accompanying handful of rhyming words, repeated over and over and over again. Annoying. Not to mention totally void of substance.

Anyhow. Repeated sounds are the worst. Like if someone is tapping their foot repeatedly. I imagine that my four-year-old self would probably hit you if she would have possessed this extreme aversion to beats, but lucky for you, you will never know that I want to remove your foot from your leg when you're tapping next to me for hours on end. I'm a big girl now. And instead I just imagine things like this.

So the "Drip...drip...drip..." I can't handle it. My dreams are filled with dripping faucets, ticking bombs. Seriously. Last night I got fed up and moved out to the couch. I got all settled into our super comfy couch, big Grandma Cheney blanket snuggled in all around me, closed my eyes and, "Tick...tick...tick...tick..."

Stupid clock.

I'm seriously a crazy person. A sleep deprived crazy person.

stab in the calf

So today, as I bustled around to get on our way to church, I grabbed my nursery bag full of books, puppets, scissors, glue (the works) and headed for the door. Somehow, the bag wrapped around my right leg, and I felt a sharp stab. Now don't get me wrong, it hurt pretty bad and I probably yelled a pseudo swear, but I thought it was just a right hook by the corner of a book, a typical injury suffered by those like myself who weren't born with much grace. I took a quick look anyway, and as it turns out, a pair of scissors made their way through the bag and into my calf.

So I'm sitting on the toilet, my skirt around my knees, staring at the hole in my leg and say, "Um, Hon...we're gonna be late..." "Um...Hon...this could use a stitch or two..." "Um...Hon..."

And then as quick as you can say BLACK OUT, I had my head between my knees, willing the blood to make its way down south. Then came the extreme urge to spew the contents of my empty stomach (I was fasting), followed shortly by profuse sweating and tunnel vision.

I army crawled out into the front room, simultaneously ripping off my top layer (don't stress - this is a G rated blog, I was wearing a short sleeve still), stopping only when I got to the fan. I sat there in the fetal position for ten minutes, praying it would pass. By the way, the wound wasn't a bleeder, otherwise, this sitch would've been even more complicated. So there I am, silently crying for my mommy, wondering if I might die of a scissor wound. After several shaky minutes, as in my entire body was shaking, I told Jess to get me a Sprite and some bread (fast over), pulled back my hair, picked up my shirt and the first aid kit, and stumbled out to the car.

Not okay.

Several years ago, I biffed it while out for a run and sliced my knee open. When I got my knee stitched I actually sat and watched him shoot me up, wiggle the needles in my knee, then sew it up while my mom crouched in the corner to avoid fainting. It didn't faze me. However, apparently I've inherited this late onset hemophobia from la madre.

My poor kids. I'll be like, "Sorry Timmy. Mommy's going to up chuck. Just hold on to your finger there. Daddy'll be home soon."