Men and Marriage

First of all, I would like to preface this blog post with the fact that everything that you think you know about men after prom, is a joke. Everything you know about men after sleeping over a few times, is a joke. Even the things that you know about men after going on your one-or-two-year-anniversary-trip is a joke. Everything that I learned about men in 23 years was trumped by three months of marriage; and, yes, no matter how expensive your underwear is, it's going to happen to you. Here are a few reasons why:

1) If you marry a man of quality, it doesn't matter whether you shop at Wal Mart or Victoria's Secret, because neither of these companies sell vaginas.

2) Men smell like shit. All the time, except for the five minutes after they get out of the shower, but even that depends on what body wash that they use.

3) "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach" is a ton of bullshit. If that's true, you have the wrong one. All that aside, your grocery bill will triple, but not for any product of immense quality.

4) You. Will. Look. Like. Ass. In. Front. Of. Him. No ifs, ands or butts. You will look the worst that you want to, in his face, in the morning, every day. And you know what, only you will notice this. He will still think that you're goddamn Cinderella letting her hair down. And by hair I mean pants.

5) Marriage is fun. It's being with your best friend every day. It's waiting to hear their car lock in the drive; footsteps; kisses; pranks; finding new ways to love, and hemispheres of your heart that you never knew existed.

6) Marriage is hard. It is like looking is the most accurate mirror ever invented. There is no hiding; no quiet apartment to come home to. It's the most work, and the most rewarding endeavor, that you will ever encounter in this life. You will have to confront yourself; your partner; the way that you live your life, every moment, every day. Stupid misunderstandings happen as easily as stubbing your toe; except that sometimes they hurt longer.

7) I will stop here, because seven is my lucky number. Marriage is not overrated. It might be viewed as antiquated, conservative, religious, or as a settlement. But promising to spend all of your days with a person who fulfills your emotional and physical needs; who finds ways to support you that you could never imagine; who sees your weaknesses and loves you all the same; who helps you to be better every single day that you are together; where distance or time does not matter, is not any sort of compromise. It is the best deal that could ever be settled.

All this being said; WEDDINGS ARE SO OVERPRICED AND OVERRATED THAT AT THE END OF IT YOU WILL FEEL AS THOUGH YOU PURCHASED A HOOKER IN A WHITE DRESS AND STILL WON'T KNOW A DAMN THING ABOUT FLOWERS.

I only hope that your bartender was awesome.

Go Home Monday, You're Drunk

Go Home Monday, You’re Drunk

I would say that today was the sort of day where a ton of ridiculous situations occurred, but that would be taking away from the context that this entire week was a week of complete shenanigans, the end of the universes’ patience, karmic retribution, and emotional train wrecks. This week, was one of such epic Monday proportions, that it would be a shame to keep it all to oneself, and to not, in some bassackwards way, find a morbid sort of humor in it. On huffingtonpost.com there are several articles, with excellent pictures I might add, depicting individuals in such awkward situations as to make you think that your entire life is nothing but peaches and orgasms, and I won’t pretend that this essay is half as entertaining; however, if you are at all acquainted with myself, I hope that you will split an ab or give at least a good snort or two.

 This week:

1)      I got off of work early. That was great. By ‘early’, I mean 0745, because I went to work at 0430 on a Monday morning, and literally did nothing until 0744. The instant that I left work, it began to pour down rain. Stomping/power walking down the sidewalk to my vehicle, since I park at least a solid hundred football fields from work so as to stick it to the meter maids, I rapidly came up on a little old lady, gracefully (is this something that comes with being 70+ years old?) taking up the center of the sidewalk. Naturally, I went for the pass. The instant that we were parallel, she whips out an impressive umbrella, and, unintentially, lands a solid left hook to my jaw with said preventative weather apparatus. She then follows this with a demand that I do not hog the sidewalk.

       Monday followed up with a beautiful day, beginning five minutes before I was scheduled to clock on for my second shift. Well played sir, well played. 

2)      My bike got stolen. $1,000 vehicular device, which, although I admit is not essential to my transportation needs, was a lot of fun, had many future plans wrapped around its handlebars, and was equivalent to approximately 40 man hours of work. Or 20 women hours, depending on which bra is worn to work. Immediately, I was livid, and looking for any available hoodlum to throttle. Ten treadmill miles and several whiskey neats later, I was feeling much more zen about the situation, and realized that the fact that my bike was insured, and that now I knew how to effectively file a police report could be a blessing in disguise. However, Evenrude, you were, and always will be, the shit.

3)      If you have, at any time, tried to do something that could possibly piss off Karma, such as try to pass a little old lady and take up .05% of the sidewalk, don’t do anything even mildly retarded for at least a week. Especially run errands unshowered and in spandex. Because, guess what? Karma is probably fed up with your punk ass, and before you know it you drop your keys in the center consul to reach for your wallet, hit the auto lock and shut the car door. And at that point, life is essentially simplified to you standing awkwardly in your practically-underwear, waiting for a cabby to arrive and inform you, less than 12 hours after you get bike-jacked, that your car is probably the easiest one to steal that he has yet encountered. And then you compensate said cabby $40 dollars for that knowledge. Or .25 of women hours.

4)      Just when you think that Monday must surely be passed out naked on the hood of their supervisor’s vehicle, wearing nothing but their birthday suit and a scuba mask, he/she/they/it strikes again. And by ‘strikes again’ I mean dumps a can of chili into your sheepskin slippers when you open the fridge, leaving you wondering 1) how the crap do you clean a former sheep? And 2) what the fuck kind of crack-whore -bastard are you, Monday?

5)      You run out of ketchup mid omlet. Nuf said.

6)      You receive a 12 hour nosebleed and suddenly your bathroom looks like it belongs to an emotional high schooler and/or dorm full of at least 8 women on the same cycle.

7)      I would like to say that that is all, but to prevent retribution before the upcoming Monday, I’m going to save this as a working draft. Stand by.

Kryptonite

Everyone has their kryptonite; be it sugar, fast cars, a sports team, shopping, whatever. A kryptonite is not a hobby, a habit, or an enjoyment. Kryptonite is a compulsion. A crippling power. A power that wastes something within a person; time, money, calories, willpower, etc.

My kryptonite is alcohol. No other dynamic in life justifies itself as falsely, cripples as thoroughly, or clings as closely to my spiritual Achilles heel as drinking does. Why? Yes, it is an escape. Yes, it is a social expectation. But mostly, I'm just good at it.

Other people might live with, and even enjoy, their kryptonite. But I don't have to. I don't have to waste time recovering. I don't have to waste money on something that wastes me. I don't have to waste hard earned muscle, strength paid for in sweat, stress, dollars, diets, sacrifice, dedication, health and tears.

I refuse to be owned by a substance. I refuse to be physically strong, but mentally weak. I refuse to settle for the status quo, or count among my accomplishments any sort of ability to embrace this weakness.

No matter how many times I fall on my face through this battle, I will keep pressing on. Each time, I will stand. Each time I will forgive. Each time I will absorb the blow, and take another step, because I believe in victory.


I am not a superhero, because I refuse to have a kryptonite.

Spiritual Selection

Most days, I feel as though I am in a spiritual black hole. I know that there is something there; it is all around me, and I progress through it, with no guidance, no direct intervention, and no ending. I believe in a being. Whether it is the being of elementary Sunday school, the being of the nation of Israel, the being who calms our spirits during yoga, the being behind all the coincidences and lucky happenings and seemingly unmistakable miracles, or all of the above, it is there. Somewhere.

Sometimes, I go to church. Most times, attendance is out of a sense of obligation, either to my mother, religious friends, deep-rooted inner scripts, or a guilty conscience. Today, I went to church for none of these reasons. I went for me.

I went, because I want to know what I believe. I want to know what I don't believe. If this being is here, I want to know him. I want to know why the only concept that I truly feel grounded in is love. And, if this being, God, is love, how many forms of love he takes on. Is he a selective love, a gender-biased love, a wait till your wedding day love, a temporary love, a passionate love, a gentle yet steady love, a wild love, a love found only in the church pew, or a love found in every plant, star, romantic book, ancient hymn and heathen heart?

Is hell truly a place of brimstone, or simply a place that love has left?

I wonder which is worse.

The War on Wine

My good friend Tia once told me that progress is not constant upward climb, but a series of peaks and valleys, dark places and fresh starts, but continuous, as long as you don't stop. Today is-yet another-of hundreds of fresh starts. I stand once more at the starting line of sobriety.

Why, you might ask. I'm not an alcoholic. I'm not dysfunctional. I'm active and fit and healthy and motivated. But, I'm not all I could be. When I ingest alcohol, I break my muscles down. I turn healthy cells into lipase cells, that I then have to fight to turn back into healthy muscle growth. I break down healthy brain function; I invite poor decisions, under utilize the small amount of time given to me on this earth, and deceive those who care about me most.

Here is to the dust I'm brushing off myself once again. Here is to the falling down, the breaking, the mistakes, the heartache, the regret, the resulting motivation, the starting over, and the non-existent finish line.

Why be good, when you can be better?
Why be effective, when you can be exceptional?
Why be drunk, when you can be sober?

Ready, set, run from mediocrity.

Pumpkin, You're Great

As someone who can comfortably down an entire pumpkin pie in a day, it has been the product of much mental energy to create such a pie as would prevent a personal caloric Armageddon. To clarify, I do not eat an entire pumpkin pie in one sitting. However, replacing all three daily meals with pie is not entirely unheard of. Pie with a side of eggs? Sure. Pie with a side of veggie burger? Why not. Pie with a side of salad? Absolutely. 

Four or five pies later, I believe that I have a success. A pie, the entire caloric dent of which is equal to the dent made by a single slice of traditional pumpkin pie, complete with protein, fiber, complex carbohydrates, and a healthy dose of beta carotene. Quite simply: suitable to substitute for any and all meals on an given day for any number of days in a row. Attention trending health sensations:  I have discovered the new superfood. This beautiful pie is also fantastically free of unidentifiable "fat free" or "sugar free" substitutions that are code name for chemical shit-storm.

Being in my own apartment, I have thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to cook and eat and make a mess of anything and everything that I like, and, lately, what I like is pumpkin pie. Today, I purchased Stevia in the Raw to substitute naturally for the sugar, silken tofu to substitute for part of the eggs/condensed milk, and lite coconut milk to add just a hint of creaminess and decadence, while simultaneously hydrating my hair and skin.  I also added a tablespoon of cornstarch and two tablespoons of EnerG Egg substitute to take care of the little pool of liquid that I found in the center of my last pie. 

And, Voila, success. I shall now consume pumpkin dessert at an unprecedented rate, with minimal guilt. The holiday season may come and go, but the training season never ends. In the spirit of GO BIG OR GO HOME, I will have my pie, and my protein too.

Go now, love.

I pray
That love, like death, will come swiftly
Take my feet from beneath me
And catch me in its arms
So that I shall never have to wonder
That it is love.

I pray
That love, like hate, would make me brave
Erase all contingencies
And cause my soul to leap
My heart to fight, my lips to scream the name
Of this one love.

I pray
That love, like God, will never leave
My heart, though romance fail me
I will not die alone
But know that a lifetime was worth the fall
To be, to love.

Product Perfection

By nature, I am a highly productive person; so productive, in fact, that I tend to render myself ineffective by pursuing perfection in too many directions at once. Perfect runner, perfect bodybuilder, perfect budgeter, perfect student, perfect employee, perfect daughter/sister, perfect friend, perfect ex-girlfriend, perfect homeowner, perfect book reader, perfect chef, perfect drinker, perfect leader, perfect peer, perfect fucking product of fucking perfection.

Some of these things might not even seem as though they can be something perfect. Perfect book reader? Yes; with just the right taste in material, and just the right amount of time set aside to absorb and learn without wasting any time, one can be a perfect book reader.

The funny thing is, my perception of perfection is constantly changing as my world view changes. Therefore, it never really exists, and it just as unattainable. Perfect drinker? Some weeks that's a perfect taste in wine, others, the best martinis, expensive vodkas, local brews, high-end cocktails; most of the time though, sobriety.

Certain things are the kryptonite of my intended productivity, however, and they get me. Every. Single. Time.
Perfect employee? Let one more customer pour half a cow's worth of cream in his coffee and then dare to tell me it's cold.
Perfect runner? Fear of mediocrity, resulting in minimal recovery time and maximum occurrence of injury.
Perfect chef? The skinny obsession.
Perfect student? Throw me some BroScience Life Youtube channel.
Perfect book reader? Thinking about all the other productive things I should be producing while productively reading a book.
Perfect budgeter? Sales. Ironic.
Perfect ex-girlfriend? A heart made of flesh.

Why is perfection imperfect?

If there is one thing that I could wish for, to accomplish or have gifted to me, in this life, it would be balance. A reassurance that the good counteracts the bad; that the good and bad are clearly defined, and that through the attainment of balance, vision of a clear path would open before me.

The beauty of life is that there is no balance, there is no perfection, but only striving. It is through the constant effort to better myself that I find the most fulfillment, and the most agony.

To starve, or to pour one's creative essence into delicious, life-sustaining food?

To regimen, or freestyle?

To study, or to learn?

To document, or to live and never remember?

To socialize, or to optimize?

To critique, or appreciate oneself in all one's imperfection?

To love, or to refrain from the accompanying pain through logic and stoicism?

Perhaps the most draining, baffling, ever nagging and back and forth question in my mind is this: does love lead to mediocrity?

Self love means that no further attempt at perfection is needed, therefore, why run? Why eat clean? Why get one's nails done or hair refreshed, or pay attention to the fit and color of one's clothing?

Love of others means that there is no changing them; you love them, and you love their flaws as a part of them. Does this mean that the friends you surround yourself with are then no longer motivating? Or one's life partner merely an addition to the monthly food bill?

What perpetrates the illusion of control? That by influencing any one mechanism we can alter the future outcomes of our lives? To an extent, we can. But, so can everyone else, and through the influence of a hundred million varied agendas, life becomes predictably unpredictable, and perfection is sacrificed at the altar of reality.

Where is the balance?
Where does perfection end, and life begin?

Top #15 Reasons Why I Shan't Reproduce (Taken from the perspective of a 21 year old recovering babysitter)

Top fifteen of the bazillion reasons why I will probably never reproduce:

1) Vaginal botox is not currently a thing.

2) I would have to take at least nine months reprieve from drinking wine; possibly repeatedly.

3) Diapers are more expensive than crack.  (Thus, cracks are more expensive than crack.)

4) Some people say, "But having kids to do the chores is nice". Do you realize that by the time children are old enough to be remotely useful, you will have done approximately 107,333,499x the amount of chores that they would be able to accomplish before they (hopefully) decide to move out.

5) Calculated by the increasing rate of technology integration in young children, by the time I have kids, they'll want the current version of an Ipad by age 2.

6) There are already plenty to go around. For the record, and to disprove any notions about my being a complete ogre, I love children; as long as they are returnable.

7) I'd catch myself lying about mythical "holiday" creatures, and stealing the spotlight from my own time, effort, money and lack of sleep resulting from preparing for early morning egg hunts and cinnamon bun scented paper shredding disasters.

8) It wouldn't be fair to my siblings, as my offspring would be naturally cuter, smarter, more respectful, more talented, and just generally superior to theirs.

9) If I never actually have kids I won't have to prove the theory stated in #8.

10) Sleep is totally not overrated.

11) Strollers are not beneficial to negative splits.

12) I'm pretty sure that I also never want to be a grandmother; and that seems rather unfair to the desires of my children.

13)  If my ankles are swollen, it better be because I ran a damn ultramarathon.

14) There is not an adequate insurance policy to cover my navigating the type of equipment that I have witnessed by mother pilot through Sam's Club in order to feed myself and my siblings.

15) Finally, if my kids are anything like me, which science recommends that they will be, they may very well outrun me and eat all of the chocolate.


 

No White Flag

No one wants to hurt. No one wants to be seen hurting, and no one is born with the wish to hurt others. The flaws of life have created the occurrence of pain. Unforeseen experiences come upon on, and before a breath is drawn, our lives are changed. Permanency is constantly overestimated. Like “q” and “u” together, “forever” walks in step with “until”. Often we anticipate pain in one capacity, and are blindsided when it arrives by another means. Because feelings are the glasses through which we interpret life, we often depend upon them. Because we see qualities similar to ourselves in people, we relate and become endeared to them. Influenced by people and by feelings, we envision the road map of our lives. 

Marching staunchly onward toward a set of goals, we fail to see the beauty in the happenings that refuse to keep time to our rhythm.  Suddenly, the music box is shut, and we have no beat to follow; only awkward glances toward the hand on the lid. Feelings are fickle, people change, and life maps are written on an etch-a-sketch. 

To walk alone is not easy. A hundred hands will gladly reach out to guide you; as they do, they bump you, and balance is further compromised. Oftentimes, the first hand seen is grasped, but take inventory of yourself. If the path you stand on was ever truly yours, it is there still. If the hand you once held was closing doors before you could reach them, grasp the knobs. If walking becomes impossible, plant both hands firmly on the floor and simply move forward. 

There is no shame in change; there is only shame in keeping your eyes shut. There is no shame in tears; life’s color can be seen through water. Keep your hands up, but never clenched. Shake your etch-a-sketch; let no one snatch it from your hands, let no one scrawl a definition upon it. Sweep constantly the broken pieces away from your feet; let nothing trip you. 

Independence is not isolation. Love is intentional, as is the absence of. Pain is progress; in whichever way you choose to show it, hurt for yourself alone, not for any other soul. Love and white flags be damned; there is plenty enough time in later life for domesticity. This is no cry for help; this is a damage assessment to remind the heart that nothing less than epic adventures, or significant betterment of oneself should ever sway your feet from steps which bring a smile. Master your own mediocrity; true love, in whichever capacity your soul needs to receive it, will surely follow.

Privacy is in the Pickle Jar

In the mail today, I received the following courtesy notification from the Matanuska Telephone Association; provider of my internet and phone line.


Information About Your MTA Privacy Options.
How can sharing my information help me? 

When the MTA customer service representatives see all of the services you currently use, we can make recommendations for new services, new technologies and the most favorable pricing plans that will best meet your communications needs. This could save you money in the long run and, we hope, simplify your life.

Will MTA protect my information?

Absolutely. We will never share you information with an outside company. We are only asking permission to share information within MTA. Besides being legally obligated to protect the confidentiality of your information, protecting your privacy is the right thing to do.
You can always change your mind about sharing your information with MTA. Just give us a call and explain your needs. Whatever your choice, MTA will continue to provide you with the same high quality of service you currently receive.

If you want us to share information within MTA, you don't have to do anything.
If we don't hear from you after 30 days, we may occasionally use your information to send you new and updates on special MTA savings and programs.  


Over a tall glass of wine, I drafted my response.

Ladies and Gentlemen of MTA:

Thank you for your letter. It is a relief to know that my privacy is your utmost concern. As you have access to my phone number/numbers, physical address, payment card #, full name and recent history, it is obvious that I place a great deal of trust in our relationship. It is my viewpoint that relationships be equal and mutually fulfilling; you may use my personal information as requested on these conditions: firstly, I must receive an organized list of the personal information identical to that of my own which you hold, pertaining to every person representing the company of MTA, along with their likes and dislikes, activities they are involved in and beliefs that they hold. As you have agreed not to share my privacy outside of your company, I shall only use this information within my personal realm of contacts, strictly limited to: Facebook friends, chess club, running team, neighbors, co-workers and mailman.

In return for this information, I shall send you occasional updates pertaining to services my 800+ Facebook friends offer, including: Girl Scout cookie sales, Avon orders, soccer team sponsorships, words with friends, Mafia wars, My Calendar, Farm/City/Castle/Hoboville, Bingo, pink ribbon fund raisers and requests to talk about becoming a Jehovah’s Witness. I will never (as long as you notify me within 30 days) use your payment card information to fulfill any of these notifications.

I will advise each of my acquaintances not to share any of MTA’s representative’s personal information with anyone else, (unless we have two or more mutual friends in common), as protecting your privacy is, I believe, the right thing to do.

Secondly, each person whose information I receive must send me a letter answering this question: “Does a citizen of the United States have to spell out his desire for the right to privacy to be upheld in order for it to be honored?” And, if they answer affirmatively, also give a good reason why.

If you wish to decline, consider your offer also declined.
Respectfully,
Brenna A. Cliver


If I receive any response, I shall appropriately post them here.

If you give a moose a muffin, this may not happen to you.

With a fully-assembled ten seconds of consciousness on my repertoire for the day, I stumbled out of bed and downstairs to let the dogs out. This always makes me feel like a good pet owner- the basic feeding, watering, allowance or reversal of freedom etc, even if they are not my pets. Similar to children, I am currently in the market only for returnable dependents. 

Noticing that the temperature was at a point of semi-decency this morning, I forewent the usual ritual of up-down-turn-around-zip-tie-lace-up-layer preparation associated with venturing into the outdoors, in Alaska, in February. Besides, my survival apparatus coffee mug was in my truck, a mere 20 steps away from the front door.  “I’ll-coffee-just be-need coffee-quick”, said my ever alert and innovative mind.

The dogs were barking, typical; most likely asking their own urine stream what right it had to be on the property. I reached into the cab of my truck and retrieved the mug, just as one of the dogs (Jo) raced between my legs, under the open door of the truck, and stopped. “That’s-coffee-slightly-coffeecoffee-odd”, is what I was thinking as the second dog (Bear) raced in on the heels of Jo, and proceeded to hide behind her haunches.

Minor details were beginning to register: 1) Freaking out dogs, three of them. 2) No coffee. 3) Two dogs showing great faith that I will be able to save them from...well, from whatever. 4) Aren’t I missing a dog?
Glancing up, my brain function suddenly jumped from .5 mph to somewhere around the speed of pimple growth on an 8^th grader. Three thoughts flashed through my mind, nearly simultaneously: You know how rabbits have a high rate of return? Send three rabbits into the woods, they will return with three thousand, etc. So, apparently, do dogs, only in a little more ambitious way; which leads me to my next thought.

“HOLYPISSEDOFFMOTHEROFBULLWINKLEFROMHELL”.

Yes, that was my thought, in its most correct form, as the last dog (Earl) also came sprinting around the corner with an irritated moose hot on his heels. I suppose moose are not morning people either. My last thought was seeing myself from an outside perspective, something to this effect: 

If only road runners wore crocs.

Operation Munchkin

I became a little more of a woman today.

I *simultaneously* steered a baby stroller with one hand, using the other hand to give pushes to a training wheeled-munchkin who kept hanging herself up on potholes. All the while I singing loudly and in my most Dory'ish voice, "Just keep peddlin', just keep peddlin', just keep peddlin', peddlin', peddlin' to the other munchkin who was quickly mastering only having two wheels on her bike.
While running 8:45/min miles. That counts for 6:00/min miles in real life, right?
Albeit, 8:45 is an average between a steady shuffle and many, many sprints backwards and ahead to rescue children and bikes from ditches, give pushes, reattach small foot ware etc.

Did I mention I had a spare diaper in my running bra?

Today I realized that my lap is much bigger than I thought. Two medium sized children and one baby, with an assortment of stuffed animals, snuggies and a book balanced precariously in front of my face can all fit. What I want to know is how does my lap reflect on the size of my butt?

Today I had a six year old offer to do my homework for me if I would do her chores for a week. Of course I took her up on it, but promptly had the deal backed out of when said munchkin realized my homework was in a 'chapter book'.

I've now de-gutted and explained the anatomy of three pumpkins, and none of them were mine.

I can explain a math problem, dictate spelling words and play peekaboo simultaneously.

I know the theme song to The Cat in the Hat, Curious George, Caillou, Martha Speaks and any other show on PBS.

I'm writing this so that when I actually become a mother, with munchkins that I don't return at the end of the day, I can laugh at all of my previous "accomplishments".

I should probably add that I also lit the toast on fire, and car seats confuse the dickens out of me.

Always Remember and Never Forget

We all have dates that we remember, for one reason or another. All of us remember our birthdays; some of us even remember our mother’s. We remember holidays, car crashes, the passing of loved ones, weddings, births, and probably the year Christopher Columbus found North America.
Throughout history, the ratio of happy endings to tragedies has always been a harsh reality. Wives kissed sailors goodbye, not knowing how many seasons would pass before their return..Families watched soldiers gather their weapons and march away..Mothers buried sons, children grew up fatherless. Death has always surrounded us, and is as much a part of our life as our existence is.
September 11th is a day I remember as a vague memory; there is merely acquired feeling attached to it, as I was only 11 years old when the Trade Centers fell. Death to me held little meaning beyond the realm of temporary goldfish. As I have grown up, I have come to respect the significance of that day. For many people, that day defines their lives more than their birthday or anniversary does. Some wounds will never heal until time has made that date into only a notation in a history book. It was that day, however, that created the vow to “never forget”, in the hearts of Americans. It was that day that defined the fate of thousands of lives to come.
This week, 31 more of those marked lives were lost. They will never be forgotten; especially by those who loved them most dearly. Wives, children, parents, and fellow soldiers; these people will define the rest of their lives as “before” and “after”, starting now . Let’s honor those who bear most horribly the scars of this loss. Without them, it might be your door being knocked upon tonight; it might be you holding a folded flag. It could be you who has to plan no more birthdays, no more holidays; merely a funeral. It could be you with a raw nose and swollen eyes; running out of Kleenex as the night deepens. It could be you gathering all the photos you can, because no more will be taken. I hope and pray that it is not.
As a nation, some of us will forget the fallen. We will watch the news and shake our heads, turn off the TV and go to bed. Those who gave their lives will not know the difference. Those who cannot sleep, those who are searching for a grip, those who see no end to this sudden pain; they will.
Today, remember those who can never forget.

Well Butter my Butt and Call me a Biscuit

Today was the sort of day where, if you set you apple on the counter, it would fall to the floor.
And you wouldn't bother to pick it up.
Today was the sort of day where, if you tripped over your apple and dropped your toast, it would land face down.
And you would walk away.
Today was the sort of day where, if you happened to have dropped your toast on the floor at work, the supervisor who never comes around would, for unknown reasons, pass through your office, and step on dropped toast.
And you would hide under your desk and plan a vacation.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were on an African safari, you would get trampled by elephants.
And you would survive.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were recovering from an elephant trampling, you would be suddenly struck with the chicken pox, and not be able to scratch under your bandages.
And you would be threatened with a straight jacket.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were Robin Hood, Maid Marion would leave you for Friar Tuck.
And you would flee to France.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were French, all of your souffles would crash, and the wine would be gone.
And you would drink cold coffee.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were drinking cold coffee, you would spill it on your clean shirt.
And you would change into the hoodie you keep in your car.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were wearing a hoodie, without a shirt underneath, and without a shirt to change into, the temperature would soar.
And you would think about putting your stained shirt back on.
Today was the sort of day where, if you were sweaty and sticky and nasty, in a hoodie on a hot day, your deodorant would be nowhere to be found.
And you would walk around like a penguin with your arms at your sides.
Today was the sort of day where the cute guy down the hall who never speaks to you, would stop to ask why you were walking like a flightless bird.
And you would go home.
Today was the sort of day where your socks don't match, the whipped cream can explodes in your fridge, your toothbrush is missing in action, the last page of your mystery is torn out, your tooth starts to hurt, you stub your toes on every conceivable protruding point that your feet come across, and your goldfish dies.
And you call your mother.
Today was the sort of day where, for first time in a million years, your mom doesn't pick up the phone, and you get to hear about your little brother's lego collection for the next 20 minutes.
And it makes you smile.
Today was the sort of day that ended with a smile.

Foodie Post: 06/06/11 Summer Sweet Pea Pesto Quinoa

Yes yes...I'm a little stuck on the quinoa. It's just..so much less boring than brown rice. Or oatmeal. Or all those other "good for you" grains one was raised on. Oh, and it cooks much faster, thus making it a favorite of this anti-microwave person. (I don't believe in tempting cancer to strike for the convenience of quick cooking.)

Summer Sweet Pea Pesto Quinoa
1/2 cup dry quinoa + 1 cup water
1 package Simply Organic Pesto Mix
1 can sweet peas
1 can mushrooms or 1/2 cup chopped fresh
1/2 cup diced yellow onion
1/2 cup diced avocado
2 Tbl nutritional yeast
Sea salt, cayenne pepper

1. Rinse quinoa and prepare. Fluff.
2. Saute onions and mushrooms until golden.
3. Drain peas, reserving juice.
4. Whisk pesto mix (or put in container and shake vigorously) and liquid from the peas until homogeneous.
5. Toss together all ingredients except for avocado, and let rest at least an hour for flavors to absorb. (I like to chill mine in the fridge and serve as a cold salad.)
6. Add avocado and season with salt and cayenne pepper to serve.

Foodie Post: 6/6/11 Ginger Molasses Quinoa Cookies

Ginger Molasses Quinoa Cookies
1 cup flour (I used a mix of whole wheat pastry flour and oat flour)
1/2 cup uncooked quinoa
1 cup milk (I used soy milk)
1/2 cup pumpkin or carrot puree
1 egg (I used EnerG egg replacer)
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/8 tsp cloves
2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 cup molasses (I used organic black strap molasses for these cookies, you get a richer flavor while using less)
1/3-1/2 cup raw sugar, depending how sweet you like your cookies

1. Rinse your quinoa, at least twice. Toast in pan until fragrant, add milk and spices. Bring to scald if using real milk, bring to boil if using non-dairy. Cover and cook on low at least 10 minutes, until liquid is absorbed. Turn off heat, keep covered and let rest at least 5 minutes. Fluff.
2. Whisk together the rest of your dry ingredients. Puree your wet ingredients in blender or food processor, except for the egg.
3. Combine wet and dry, fold in egg and quinoa.
4. Bake at 350 until just set. (Approximately 10-12 minutes.)