Things that I Love (Part One)

On the plane ride home from Utah I sat quietly (in seat 33C in case you were curious) and drank my coke. I thought to myself “geez, this coke tastes good.” And it did.

I love airplane soda. Why is it that coke always tastes better several miles above the earth’s crust? Is it the clear sacrement-sized plastic cup? Does the altitude somehow magnify the sensitivity of one’s taste buds? Do the airplane ice cubes add a pleasant flavor to your drink? (By the way, on Oprah I learned that airplane ice cubes contain an unusually high amount of bacteria. I told Ryan this and it ruined his life. He no longer drinks airplane soda. I just choose not to think of this while drinking my icy coke. Bacteria shmackteria)

While sitting in 33C, and enjoying my coke, I thought upon other things that I love… things that other people might think strange… things that make me the woman that I am. Namely:

-Q-tips. Few things are as satisfying as a successful ear excavation... but I shouldn't have told you that. That is gross.

-Cattle Guards. A Robinson family tradition is saluting every time we drive over a “guard.” I was shocked to learn, recently, that not everyone does this. They should…out of respect for the guard (and the cattle).

-MAC makeup. I don’t know or care whether this product is actually better in quality than other products. It just makes me feel cool when I use it. I feel superior to those who do not wear it.

-Celebrity gossip. Who is dating who, who is in rehab, who has a bad haircut...

-Throwing stuff away… but I already went into that.

-Target.

-Looking at amusement parks. I don’t actually have to go in the park to get a thrill. I beg Ryan slow the car down every time we pass one. I look at the roller coasters and imagine how much fun it would to ride them. It’s almost as good as the real thing. Talk about a “cheap date.”

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

I rarely blog about books because I usually don't read other people's posts about books.

But this book I MUST write about because it was excellent. I will NOT be donating this book to the library.

It is about a nine-year-old whose father died in 9/11. It is about grief, joy, family, love, heartbreak...

I found it disturbing and delightful and extremely clever. I sobbed the last three chapters and then had to go in Doug's room and snuggle with my sleeping angel.

Read this book (unless you are easily offended by a little sex and a few bad words--which I am not). It will change your life.

The Replacements

Proof

Evidence that I was indeed on vacation last week and wasn’t just neglecting my blogging duties:



Ryan and I came home from Utah with over fifty extra pounds of luggage than when we left with—most of the weight accounted for in blankets.

Nothing says Utah and family like a load of beautiful homemade baby blankets. I couldn’t be happier! Hours and hours and hours of work have gone into making sure that my baby, Kiana, is the most well-insulated baby in Texas! I suspect, and hope, that a few more blankets are on their way, too.

Even though the blankets are not intended for my personal use, I couldn’t feel more loved. Thank you to my mommy, my mommy-in-law, and okay…I’ll admit it… I put a little man-power into one of the blankets myself.

A few more pictures:



Oh look, the Good Year blimp flew over the stadium! Oh wait... it's just me looking very pregnant.

Go BYU! Notice all of the red Ute fans in the background. Yeah, they lost. They are pathetic.

The Lee clan. If you look carefully, you can see my belly button sticking out. Que embarazada!

The Joy of Throwing Things Away

Oprah recently did a segment on hoarders—people who compulsively collect mass quantities of junk. Hoarders get a high off of purchasing products and collecting things that they don’t want or need. Eventually, they bury themselves in their own junk. I twitch and squirm at the idea.

I don’t like “stuff.” I get my high off of throwing things away. I visit the local clothing-drop religiously, I donate a paperback or two every time I go to the library, and I almost like it when things break so I can be rid of them forever.

One item in, one item out: a philosophy to live by. Every time I get a new shirt, I donate an old shirt. I will never be able to fill a whole walk-in closet. I am kind of proud of that.

One might conclude that I am a very organized person. I love storage containers and storage systems. While not a “clean freak,” I am relatively tidy (as much as one can be with a Tasmanian toddler in tow). But I wouldn’t consider myself organized. On paper, maybe sort of, but mentally, I am a jumbled mess—a scatter brain. Perhaps ridding my self of all excess “junk” is my way of making sense of my chaotic internal world.

That’s why I find it difficult to properly observe the Sabbath Day if the house is a mess. I just can’t feel the spirit if the dishes are piled in the sink and blocks are scattered across the house. And every time I lose something important, my first impulse is to clean and organize. Cleaning helps me feel less anxiety about the lost item and usually I find the item in the process.

I love receiving presents…insanely, actually. But when I get gifts that I don’t want or need, I have an intense mental battle. What is the proper etiquette for handling presents that you don’t love from people that you do love? Is it okay to throw the present away? Is there a set amount of time that you are required to have that item in your possession before you turn it over to the Salvation Army?

I am not anal… I don’t think. I just like having a simple life—free of “things” that only complicate it further.

Kick the Bucket

While it has never been medically proven, I am pretty sure that I was born with only 45 out of the 46 standard chromosomes.

I am deficient of chromosome # 17: the shoe chromosome. Unlike 99% of my female counterparts, I really dislike shoe shopping. It registers on my hate scale right up there with bra shopping and grocery shopping.

Don’t get me wrong, I like shoes just fine. I just have a meticulously tedious formula for which a shoe purchase is acceptable—easy-on/easy-off, sassy, comfortable, and relatively neutral in color. Plus, shoes are expensive! The opportunity cost is too high. One pair of shoes=three cute shirts=one week of groceries=100 Taco Bell 7-layer burritos. Buyer’s remorse is inevitable.

I have been known to go years without making a single shoe purchase (athletic shoes don’t count. I go through those like water.) But the time has sadly come…

My current winter shoes decided to surrender to the chameleon banquet in the sky today. I was doing a little off-roading with Doug and his stroller, when my shoes coughed a little, looked at me kindly, and then croaked.




“Is that all you got!” I screamed. I shook my fist angrily and cursed the day I bought the pathetic pair of Sketchers.

Okay, so the shoes did give me six years of selfless service… but if the shoes had any integrity at all they would not force me to do the task I hate above anything… including vacuuming gigantic spiders off of our carpet.

I am not thankful for shoes today.

Not My Shirt

Is there anything more glorious than wearing other people’s clothing? Well… maybe a few things are… but just a few.

My very stylish friend, Megan, loaned me a bunch of maternity clothes. They are great for several reasons. First and foremost, I didn’t have to purchase them with my own money. Secondly, well… I did not have to purchase them with my own money.

No really, it is great wearing other people’s clothing because it’s like experiencing the world in another person’s shoes (literally and figuratively). You are wearing something that you may not have noticed on the rack yourself, but feel strangely invigorated in. You see yourself differently. You feel beautiful. You feel happy.

That’s why I miss having roommates—although I’m not sure that my roommates miss me for that very same reason. Thanks to the five wardrobes I had to select from, I don’t think Ryan ever saw me in the same outfit once during our whole courtship.

I love wearing Ryan’s clothes, too. Especially his socks… but mostly cuz it drives him crazy when I borrow his socks (he has an unhealthy attachment to his socks). I like wearing his tee-shirts, too. As mentioned earlier, I love how his shirts smell like him and how they fit over my swollen belly. It’s fun.

I would not like it if Ryan borrowed my clothes.