when you're in love with a house

Unfortunately, I have been house-hunting on KSL for quite some time now (five years?) without having any intention of buying one. Because, you know, money.

And I'm not moving, not yet.

Fortunately, when you're not really looking for a house it's kinda fun. You can click on any listing, no matter the price, and drool over the pictures and imagine yourself lounging on the furniture that wouldn't even come with the place anyway.

Here are some neat houses I have found recently.

 I mean, what.

This next one makes me cry. The WOOD PANELING.  I know it screams 70s but I love it. 

I am sorry.

The actual inside of this next house wasn't my favorite, but their backyard situation was...A SITUATION.

HOLY WOW MAMA PASTA

DON'T KNOW WHERE THAT CAME FROM

On second thought, why are the owners of these houses selling them? If I lived in a single one of these houses I'd never leave.

the aesthetic pleasures of "brooklyn"

The movie, not the place.

Observe:

There's nothing I love more than a movie with complementary colors. Not to mention that this one comes with a side of teary exhilaration and little fissure-like cracks on your heart.

IT'S GOOD IS WHAT I'M SAYING.

typical summer night in ogden

 

if you know what movie this is from you win a corn dog

we drove past the corner of 21st and Monroe—

you know, by the Sinclair gas station with the good corn dogs 

(good by definition of gas station food)—

three cop cars and one ambulance and one stretcher 

and one guy in handcuffs. Oh and someone else on the stretcher, 

in a bag. The corn dogs come in a bag, also. 

They are not very fresh, but can be made decent 

by a microwave and a greasy white paper bag. 

This body bag was white, too, and the man in handcuffs 

stood casually with his weight on his left side, right foot 

up on the curb, talking to a policeman like you would 

the man who hands you the corn dog (seventy five cents). At first 

we pretended like the body wasn’t even there, like 

it hadn’t happened. Death had never been that close, 

ten feet away and next to a gas station and right as the sunset 

was getting to the good part and how is that fair? That’s all I kept thinking—I hope their last sunset was this good, 

I hope they weren’t sorry. And the ambulance’s lights were still on, 

but it wasn’t in a hurry.

being in your 20s is feeling like if you're not successful somebody will literally come kill you

The other night we drove 45 minutes to the north and ended up at a beautiful little girl's camp in Preston, Idaho to visit my sister. She wanted us to come see her campsite and watch her skit (if you do not understand what I'm talking about, just imagine a much milder version of SNL, in the woods, with girls who haven't showered in a few days).

I saw a bunch of my old girl's camp leaders there and we started reminiscing, because that's what you do when you get older. Sometimes it's easier than confronting an unknown future. I did the math and it was 10 years ago that I last went to Girl's Camp. Then I did the math again and realized I'll be nearly forty ten years from now. By the way, when I say did the math, I just mean I added and subtracted.

#maths

I read a book a few months ago and she had some radical ideas--one of them was that if you're not happy where you are currently at in life, you need to leave that story. You need to write a new one. She said "you are not permitted to waste your precious time on earth being miserable" (or something to that effect). 

I think comparison is something making a lot of us unnecessarily miserable. And for me, the #1 thing I can do to shed that cloak of not-feeling-good-enough is to stop scrolling. It's probably the best thing you can do for your health.

Oh, and get some vitamin D, cuz that stuff is underrated.

click on this

Ya know, most blogs have some kind of variation of this--and yes, blogs are all alike, but they are all alike in different ways (YEAH TOLSTOY!).

And unlike most other blogs, my link list does not fall on the weekend, but on a Monday. The perfect way to start your week, yo!

click on these (or don't, I'm not the boss of you)

1. Listen to radio waves in space--from the 80s (this only works on a desktop computer)

2. Guys, I've given up true crime podcasts (for my health). BUT there are some really good ones that have taken their place. This one is about boss women who didn't get a jumpstart on their real careers until later in life--their "second life." This one, about ISIS, is crazy good. Heavy on the crazy.

3. My new favorite blog. Her instagram is straight eye candy.

4. I feel validated.

5. The most beautiful sunset paintings I've ever seen.

6. The cutest story about the late Anthony Bourdain and an 88-year-old food critic named Marilyn Hagerty.

7. This is where I get my desktop/phone wallpaper.

8. These simple drawings make me laugh real hard ("only BAD SEEDS play with matches and do fireworks." brb cryin)

9. This movie review is old, but it is still my favorite.

10. a poem about birthdays (Houston's birthday is next Tuesday)

broken flowers

Last night I discovered a dumpster in the cemetery, overflowing with the dying flowers from Memorial Day:

I think it means something, but maybe that something is different depending on who you are (hashtag LIFE).

To me, it was a little heavy. Two weeks ago an old friend of mine took her own life--and this is not the first time I've lost a friend to suicide. A famous fashion designer committed suicide a few days ago, and everyone was shocked. Seems like it's always that--confusion, wondering how you could have missed someone being that sad and why didn't you do more, the inevitable guilt, and then the weird one--anger. A couple of weeks ago I learned that I have the hardest time feeling and expressing this emotion. It translates to me being low-energy, because all of that "fight or flight" energy just gets stuck with nowhere to go, and then, yeah...tired. Naps. Sad naps. Shower naps.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that you should never feel ashamed or guilty for feeling something. An emotion just is. Let yourself feel it. And I really hate being angry--it means someone hurt me, I let them hurt me, or  they betrayed my trust or made me feel small or confused. But if I let it sit inside me, I end up feeling worse, always.

My therapist is a big proponent of throwing rocks--big ones. Or you could try hitting something (not a person)--a punching bag or a pillow or a ball. Seven years ago when I found out my friend had killed herself, I got on my bike and started riding away. I didn't know where I was going, but I had to do something. And I also wanted to cry without being seen.

Yes, bad things are going to happen to the ones we love. We can't prevent that, not really. But I think life would be better if we enjoyed all the time we had with them while they were here. If you ever feel alone or misunderstood or depressed, please reach out to someone. Even if you think nobody cares about you, I bet you there's at least one person who does. There's at least one person who will be sad to find out you're gone.

And if you don't have someone, you can talk to me.

a poem:

The Night Where You No Longer Live

BY MEGHAN O'ROURKE

Was it like lifting a veil

And was the grass treacherous, the green grass

Did you think of your own mother

Was it like a virus

Did the software flicker

And was this the beginning

Was it like that

Was there gas station food

and was it a long trip

And is there sun there

or drones

or punishment

or growth

Was it a blackout

And did you still create me

And what was I like on the first day of my life

Were we two from the start

And was our time an entrance

or an ending

Did we stand in the heated room

Did we look at the painting

Did the snow appear cold

Were our feet red with it, with the wet snow

And then what were our names

Did you love me or did I misunderstand

Is it terrible

Do you intend to come back

Do you hear the world’s keening

Will you stay the night

Source: Poetry (November 2015)

so you wanna become a writer, eh?

Jim = people who feel bad for those who want to write for a career

Dwight = the writers who shouldn't give a carp

*sips my huge water bottle full of lemonade because I accidentally made a gallon of homemade lemonade and so it's not really a sip it's more like a succession of loud gulps*

I very recently decided to own the fact that what I want most in life (career-wise, anyway), is to be a writer. You would think that after two English degrees I wouldn't feel weird about saying "I am a writer." But I did.

Usually, when people asked me what I wanted to do with my degree (which is my least favorite question....all ye who speak to young adults, please ask something else), I squirmed uncomfortably and said "Uh, I dunno."

"You gonna teach?" (always, always this)

"I don't know. I actually did teach already and I didn't love it." (*flashbacks to late nights grading and answering angry student e-mails)

"Well, teaching is great."

"Yeah...."

END CONVERSATION IN A CLAP OF THUNDER

I've been reading lots of self-help books and a lot of them say some iteration of this: what you are good at is not an accident. You are meant to use your god-given talents and share them! That doesn't just mean that because you learned to play the piano you will always be the pianist for Relief Society (but I did just end my streak of having this calling in the past five wards I've been in). Those things you are passionate about shouldn't go to waste! And while using them in church is wonderful and (usually) a good experience, it's not the only experience.

This blog is a microcosm of everything I wish I was, but I am not yet. But maybe that's the thing, maybe my expectations of "what I'm supposed to be" are complete trash. And I should put them where they belong--in the garbage can. So many writers suffer from that fake-curse of thinking "I'm not good enough." And I think writers are one of those groups that actually can say that without a hint of irony, because rejection is part of the gig.

Within one month of submitting a couple of poems to a dozen magazines, one wrote back and said my writing was strong and they wanted to publish, and the other said I "just wasn't a good fit." It used to sting a little, but I send out my poems to so many places it's hard to take things personally now. Maybe it's about getting comfortable with discomfort, with rejection, with someone saying "no thanks." Step one to becoming a writer: learn to take nothing personally, in a world where everyone does.

And people are still saying "no" or "that's a bad idea" to me in other ways, but I've decided not to care, because I know what I'm supposed to be doing. I finally know! And it was always right in front of me.

Since this two-week-old epiphany happened, I've had conversations like this:

my boss: "So, what do you want to do in life? What's your trajectory?"
me: "I want to write."
boss: "Hmm."

student: "What are you going to do with your English degree?"
me: "I want to be a writer."
student: "Oh." (while making a very thinly veiled painful expression)

person: "What did you graduate in?"
me: "English."
person: "On purpose?"

It's probably going to keep happening. And when I publish my first book, I will definitely, positively dedicate zero of my pages to those people.