sunny days

We're loving being in Utah, right now in St. George. And while I love my family and the red mountains, what really matters is

I have my Sunny back.

If you'll recall, I "broke up" with my hair girl, Sunny, when I moved to Durham and got desperate for a hair cut. The initial cut was great, but the second visit wasn't so great. It left me with chopped up bangs and a broken heart.

And when I realized that I'd be in Utah before we headed to Tokyo, I made an appointment as soon as I could, and Sunny was gracious enough to forgive and forget. So I may have tried to let go, but really I just came running back to my Sunny. With a history like ours, how could I have really thought it would be that easy to let go?

So it feels good to have my "natural" hair color back. And the cut is, as always, just perfect.

And let's be honest, some things are just meant to be. :)

minimize (strategize)

I thought it would be appropriate to announce that I am taking only THREE pairs of shoes on this Asian adventure:

1. flip-flops (I will live in these, unless I'm running or hiking around, in which case I'll need my)
2. runners
3. dress shoes

And for those of you who know me and my shoes, you will be very proud of this feat. I feel like I deserve a prize.

(You know I'll be buying shoes in Tokyo...minimize/strategize - it's all the same. :) )

wife playing a fife

So sometimes my husband likes to sing songs to his wife. The songs usually begin with saying that his wife is his life. And then he's pretty much left with rife, strife, and knife. So his wife is often rife with strife or carries a knife and fills his life with strife. He tries to make up words to make the song a little more positive, but really, there aren't a whole lot of wife rhyming words.

So this morning, he began singing the wife song, and paused, looking for a word: "Fife!"

I told him it wasn't a word. And after all, I am the English major. He said, "No! He carries a fife and drum!" I told him I didn't know who "he" was, but I was still positive that "fife" was most definitely not a word, and that perhaps "he" was carrying a pipe and a drum.

Turns out, this wife was wrong:

fife - a high-pitched transverse flute used commonly in military and marching musical groups

Looks like I'll be playing a fife for all my life (filled with strife, of course).

to do

For those of you who are wondering, we leave in THREE DAYS.

As in, Saturday morning we will rise with the birds (I SWEAR it's mating season because it is really out of hand these days) and head to RDU, the airport with the most fabulous indoor parking. It looks like an indoor mall. But instead of stores, cars. And not new cars, abandoned cars.

The good news is, we've signed a lease on the new apartment we will move into within two weeks of our return to North Carolina. (Bye bye birdies.)

The bad news is, we still need to:

1. Pack - Now I know that females understand the complications of packing, but this is above and beyond my normal stress as we have to pack for Utah (we'll spend some time there before and after Asia) and Asia, each with different packing requirements. I've determined that I will be doing some shopping in Utah to bulk up my "cheap t-shirts to destroy in Asia" supply. That way I won't have to truck those items to Utah as we depart for Tokyo from SLC.

2. Clean this joint - There is nothing worse than returning from a vacation to a dirty house. Particularly when I'm going to be doing cartwheels to see that bed again. I might start crying if I talk about how much I'm going to miss that bed.

3. Laundry - I need to have all articles of clothing available for packing. It's going to be quite strategic. Three months in two suitcases. And don't forget that I'm totally high maintenance in regards to my workout clothes needs.

4. Clean out car - The poor RAV is just going to chill here all summer. So if my ghetto neighbors decide to break in, well, all they'll have is an old bag of sunflower seeds, and a half a bottle of lotion. Enjoy.

5. Update Garmin - I fully intend to upload Japan maps and information. Then when I find myself utterly lost, I will hit the "Go Home" button, and start walking. Good thing I'll already be an awkward American, because how awkward will I be walking around with a little box talking to me: "In 300 feet, turn left on Yamaguci Street. Then turn right on Konichiwa Canal." Comical.

So I feel like I should be more stressed. But mostly I just feel like taking a nap.

Packing, shmacking.

The duck butt picture has nothing to do with anything. It's just a picture I took months ago at Duke Gardens that I think deserves a little time in the spotlight. (And I had nothing to post with this entry. Deal.)

adaptable achilles

So this is what Achilles tendonitis looks like.

When I overuse (or misuse) the poor thing, it swells up. It's not the grating pain like I had when it flared with a vengeance about six months ago, but because I've been running Duke trails instead of a nice and even treadmill (surprise! our ghetto apartment complex has TWO busted up treadmills), the up and down has caused Achilles to throw a small tantrum. So shoes like this hit in just the right place to be rather uncomfortable. And because flip flops aren't exactly part of the dress code at work, I've adapted my footwear to accomodate my angry little tendon.

Now the real (mythological) Achilles was pretty much indestructible, except of course for his heel. (Naturally. Huh?!) One arrow to the heel, and he was a goner. And so the legend goes that our metaphorical weakness is termed our "Achilles heel." Now I find it rather annoying (and obnoxiously ironic) having a literal physical weakness that is my Achilles heel.

And if you're obssessed with running (as I will self-admittedly proclaim), it's par-tick-you-lar-lee ironic, as your fitness regimen can be literally wiped out by one itty bitty weak tendon. Dang Achilles.

But I'm determined to make weak things strong. I've adapted my footwear, I've adapted my exercise regimen ("Hello stationary bike, it's good to see you again," not really, but I'm just trying to be nice) and I'm avoiding people who regularly carry arrows.

You should too. Because that's just weird.

self entertained

We had our good friends, the Jesses, over for dinner tonight. In the first place, we should thank them again for being the guinea pigs on a new meal. (Good news - it was a hit. It was pretty much like Cafe Rio in a crock pot, which is a big deal as even the concept of "fresh Mex" has been totally obliterated by vinegar-based Southern barbecue. And if we're being honest, I have no idea what the big fuss is all about. My western tastebuds just don't get it.)

But secondly, we just want to say how much we love their little one. Here's baby Miriam entertaining herself. In our house that is totally not baby friendly, she still managed to find something to do. I'm pretty sure our DVD shelf was something akin to Disneyland. She was a riot to watch tear the thing down, complete with grunts and squeals of delight at the success of her destruction. :)

Thanks for entertaining...er...visiting us Baby M!

text fight

So last night, at about 10:45 as I was getting in bed, I got a text message from a random St. George number. Here's the series of messages that followed:

Random: Hey lovely what's up? :)
Me: Who are you?
Random: It's Rhonda.
Me: I don't know a Rhonda. I think you have the wrong number.
Rhonda: Isn't this Katie -----?
Me: Nope. You really have the wrong number. Seriously. Stop texting me. (It was like 11:15 p.m. by this time - I was trying to sleep.)
Rhonda: $!#@ off. It was a simple question.

Seriously?

So I decided that instead of an immediate witty WWF style slam, I'd hold out and text her when I woke up at 6 a.m. (yes, that would be 4 a.m. her time) with the following response: "And it was a simple answer." (Take that Rhonda.)

But then because the F word was stuck in my head, I automatically started singing "I'm Trying to Be Like Jesus" to myself (yes I sing hymns and Primary songs in my head when I'm trying to get rid of bad words). And of course with that song rolling around in the ol' noggin, I couldn't in good conscience send a text message to some random (albeit snotty) girl in St. George at 4 a.m.

So I let it drop.

So if you know a Rhonda in St. George, let her know that I was merely trying to sleep (I really didn't intend to be rude), that I'm at least as lovely as Katie, and that Primary saved her one seriously early wake up call.

planned spontaneity

If I had to choose three words to describe me, "spontaneous," would not be one of them. ("Tall" on the other hand would.) I like a plan. I like knowing (every)things. So this whole Asia thing sometimes causes stress. The kind of stress that you know is just brewing unsightly blemishes in your pores, the kind that turn up right on your nose. It's like the zit is saying: "She's stressed. Just thought everyone within a one mile radius would like to know."

Now unless you include San Fran's Chinatown, my travels, which have been semi diverse and unique (although not as varied as I wish they were), have come nowhere near this country I'm about to call my home. I really have NO IDEA what to expect. (Except of course, a small one bedroom apartment - as in the whole apartment is one bedroom.)

So how much do I love that one of my sweet co-workers, who quite randomly went to Tokyo last week, brought me back THESE.

I'm okay with spontaneity. I just prefer to plan out spontaneous moments whenever possible.

meteorologist me

So predicting the weather here is as easy as eating soup with a fork. And our local news station's "weather on the ones" (that would be any time the clock has a :11 in it) has become somewhat a comedy. The meteorologists are always off. But you can't blame them - it's totally unpredictable. Saturday it was a balmy (read: HOT) eighty degrees. Sunday we drove home through a hailstorm with little ice balls seriously threatening bodily harm to the RAV. And then yesterday we got drenched in rain.

Personally, I like the "after the rain" part the best. (And not only because Glade makes an air freshener of the same name - as if a bottle could contain the smell of wet cement and foliage.) The air is fresh and clean. And the trees that have found their green again (after a seriously ugly dead winter) seem to be even more green. It's like the leaves are little sponges, absorbing the rain and becoming wetly dark. (I double dog dare you to question my use of "wetly.")

My latest theory is that the meterologists get together for breakfast in the morning and sort of collectively decide on the forecast for the day. Maybe the way they have their eggs determines the weather.

So I had wheat toast this morning - I think that calls for a partly cloudy day with a chance of rain and sunshine.

And a side of hailstones.

no bake skin

So if you know me, you know that for the better part of the last, oh let's just say EIGHT YEARS, I've had this unusual healthy, uh, glow. Always. In the summer, of course, but in the winter too. Occasionally, someone would ask me how I got so tan, and I would tell them, of course, that my dad is an Indian. (You'd be surprised at what people believe these days.) And when a friend coined the Pocashauntas nickname, it stuck, naturally.

In real life, I'm white - pale, ghostly. Thank you Mother. We have this sort of translucent skin that the Roman goddesses would have envied. Then along came Island Tans. I started working there just out of high school. And while the job actually turned out to be one of the better moves I've ever made (I could blog about the life changing experience Island Tans was for me, seriously), I also found the beds of bulbs.

I also discovered just how much I love being tan. Love it. I can't even tell some of you how often I went: (1) You will realize how fraudlent my skin tone really was, and (2) You'll all tell me I'm going to die of cancer.

And yes, I'd say that given the amount of time I've spent baking, I'm at risk. (But then again, pretty much everything gives you cancer these days. I fear cancer.) So roughly a year ago, when a certain redhead, whom I was not yet eternally attached to, told me I was killing myself and challenged me to not tan for a month, I of course took him up on it. (He didn't think I could do it, and I enjoy proving people wrong.) And I haven't tanned since.

Now I will be the first to admit that I miss it. I miss the tan, I miss the warm twenty minute break. However, because it is a battle I cannot win as the redhead has significantly better arguments (uh, cancer, oh and then there's, um, cancer), I don't bother. (Plus it costs money.)

Oh, and then I discovered Jergen's Natural Glow lotion. Sure, I may look like I have a fake tan, but at least this fake tan doesn't contribute to real cancerous cells. (Until, of course, research is developed that links bronzers to cancer.)

But really? I'm enjoying this glow. It's lovely. Straight out of a bottle sunshine.

(However, I'm really looking forward to baking next to a swimming pool this summer. Don't tell.)