In The Woods

Neal in the woods, taken by my sister Annie

"What I am telling you, before you begin my story, is this – two things: I crave truth. And I lie."

For tonight's book club meeting, I read In the Woods by Tana French. I don't usually read mysteries, but I loved this book from the beginning, and since I waited until Tuesday to pick it up from the library after work, it was a good thing that I couldn't put it down. The prologue pulled me right in, and I had to find out what had happened, I had to. I read and read, and the block of pages between me and the end became thinner and thinner, and finally I began to realize, with a touch of desperation, that I was never going to know.

And then it broke my heart.

I finished the book around 12 last night, closed it, told Aaron I hated it, threw it across the bed, and started to cry.

It's true that I have a bit of a dramatic personality, one that enjoys romance, but I also believe that I have some form of separation anxiety which makes it very hard for me to cope with the idea that two people, real or fictional, who have been very close, may never be near each other or even see each other again. I don't know if this is simply a factor of my own personality or if it comes from the frustrations I experienced during my own long-distance relationship. In any case, I felt devastated.

I woke up this morning still feeling sad, but no longer hating In the Woods. I couldn't let go of it - I turned it over in my head, playing with and testing it like a small pebble held in my mouth. I read a few reviews online this afternoon, and many felt bitterly disappointed about the ending. I did too, when I finished it.

But I almost love it again because goodness, that's life. Sometimes important things are forgotten, sometimes the bad guy gets away. And sometimes we utterly screw up, and by the time we stop ourselves, by the time we've realized what we've done, it's too late. Sometimes a handful of small choices accumulate into only one chance, and sometimes we blow it.

And for me, that was the saddest thing of all.

Thrift

This morning was warm enough for bare feet on the deck. Our snow is almost gone and the temperatures are in the 60s, so unusual this time of year. But the temperature is supposed to drop again this weekend, and I'm sure we'll see more snow. At least I'll know, when the flakes are falling, that it won't last long.

I'm in love with my new strawberry pajamas. My mom found them for me on Monday, when we spent the day together in our favorite thrift stores.

I would like to be a thrifty person, but in many ways I'm not. I love pretty things and usually collect more than I need. But I'm trying to improve myself - though I must admit that much of that improvement has come from necessity as Aaron and I work to pay off my student loans and save for a home and a family.

I'm much more conservative with money now, and mindful of what I spend it on. But when I walk into a thrift store, I feel no restrictions - only a great sense of choice. I can easily afford the quality items I'm drawn to, which would far exceed my budget if new. And I find pretty things that show signs of use and love, and that seem to tell a story of their own.

Certainly, I have to sort through a lot of cheap plastic knick-knacks and stained clothing, but I treat every visit like a treasure hunt, and spend hours happily searching for the gems.

Like strawberry pajamas. Lambswool sweaters. Vintage dresses made out of silk. And for Aaron's soon-to-be one-year-old cousins, a UK edition of Winnie-the-Pooh.

Cookies and Rain

We're having our first rains of the year, along with the kind of gray skies that make indoor spaces feel cave-like. It's the kind of weather that makes me want to just migrate from bed to couch, watch Colin Firth play Mr. Darcy, and make something sweet.

My dad and I love these cookies. They didn't quite turn out this time - they never really set. I don't know if it's because I tried adding less sugar, or because I let the sugar mixture boil a little too long while I was measuring out the other ingredients. Despite the flawed presentation, they are still delicious!

Here's the recipe. They're so easy and hardly make any mess - perfect for lazy mornings or quick weeknight desserts.

Unbaked Chocolate Oatmeal Cookies

2 cups sugar
1/2 cup milk (regular or evaporated)
1/2 cup butter
1/2 cup cocoa
3 cups rolled or quick oats
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup chunky peanut butter (optional)
1/2 cup coconut (optional)
1/2 cup nuts (optional)

Bring sugar, milk and butter to boil in saucepan. Boil exactly 1 minute. Remove from heat and add oats, cocoa, vanilla, and optional ingredients if desired. Quickly drop by tablespoon full onto waxed paper. Let cool.

March

I have never loved March more than I have during its first week this year. It's been sunny and mild, and in the afternoons when I pull into work, I hear water dripping off of the roof.

In northern places, March is never very pretty. All of the trash and far-flung gravel hidden beneath a season's worth of snow begins to reveal itself. The ground is sodden, muddy, and brown. The trees are still bare and tired looking, like old bones.

But the sunshine is intoxicating. It's impossible for me to walk out of the house without a smile, whether I am trudging through the slush in the afternoon or slipping across patches of ice in the evening. The sound of gravel under car tires, the feel of soft ground underfoot, the dripping of water - all of these are sensations I have not experienced in months. They feel new and exciting.

People will always complain about the mud, and I'm sure I will too, as the month drags on. But this week, I am in love with it. Walking the dogs along the road, the snowbank was still thigh-high, but my boots sunk into the ground. That give, the soft suction, was a wonderful feeling after three months of ice and snow.

This week, our dog Hannah began her old habit of asking to be let outside, simply to stretch out on the deck and soak up the sunshine. Soon we'll keep an old towel near the door to wipe off her paws before she comes into the house - the first habit of ours that grows out of spring.

7 years ago today...

... Aaron called me as I was getting ready for bed and asked me if I would go to prom with him that spring. That was our beginning.

This photo is from our senior prom, a year later. My hands are red from taking pictures outside in the cold. I felt pretty and happy.

A friend did my hair for our junior prom, winding it into coils. I wore slimming undergarments. Everything felt tight, new, exciting. The next spring, I slipped into my dress and ballet flats and pinned my hair up with a couple of bobby pins. I felt more like me, and we felt more like us - in many ways still new to each other, but also comfortable and familiar.

And here we are, seven years later, graduates of high school, of college, of a long distance relationship. Happy, married, and looking forward to the next seven years and all the years after.

I love you, honey. Forever and for always, because you are my dear one.

On wanting to be a mother

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a mommy. I played with baby dolls, wrapping them in little blankets, rocking them, carrying them on my hip. I liked to hold babies and cuddle them to sleep.

Something changed when I hit puberty. Perhaps, at a time when my body felt so awkward and foreign, I could not imagine it nurturing another person. Or perhaps I felt disenchanted with motherhood, having reached an age where my mother, whom I love, no longer felt like the center of my universe. Perhaps for the first time I became truly aware of the responsibility children require, and that realization during my adolescence terrified me. Perhaps, as a budding teenager, I simply grew self-centered. For whatever reason, I decided that I was not going to have children, not ever.

I don't remember exactly when my pendulum began to swing back again, but I know that shortly after meeting Aaron, I decided that I did want children. Not only that, but I wanted to carry his children.

Some days it is all I can think about - the chance to take our love and sex through to its fullest act - conception. To feel our baby growing inside of me, to nourish a part of him with my body, to give birth and see our baby for the first time. To be someone's mother.

During college, I often wondered where I would be so many years after graduation, and one of my best friends said that she saw me barefoot and pregnant. This struck a nerve with some of the other girls who immediately chastised her, but she didn't mean it in a bad way - she simply understood me. I have never been very career-focused - I couldn't tell you, even now, what I want to do in terms of a career. But I can tell you what I want to be. I want to be a mother.

You can imagine how the words she chose were frowned upon in the largely liberal, feminist circle I was a part of. To be barefoot and pregnant was to have little education and no opportunity. Babies were something you did after your education, after you had traveled, after you felt satisfied in your career. Motherhood was not, generally, something you aspired toward - it was seen more as something that put your other aspirations on hold.

If women are supposed to live a complete life before having children, believing that once they become mothers they are throwing in the towel, what does that do to us, as well as our children? How many women who have waited are now finding it increasingly difficult to start a family?

Second-wave feminism did many wonderful things, but I believe that as a side effect of their celebration of the new career woman, women like my mother, who chose to be stay-at-home moms, were shut out. It was, and is still, implied that they don't work simply because they don't have a career outside of the home. Nothing could be further from the truth. I can't imagine a job more challenging than raising a child.

I have greater faith in the direction feminism is taking today - to support a woman's choice, whether or not she chooses a career outside of her home, and to also support men who wish to be stay-at-home dads. A direction that I hope will allow it to see me, a young, educated woman who wants to be a stay-at-home mom someday, as a feminist still, and to see my choice not as regressive, but as something to celebrate because it is mine.

Beautiful Bicycles

If I were to have a significant influx of disposable income, I would have a hard time stopping myself from hopping in a car and driving right to Chicago to pick up these beauties:

Abici Sveltina Donna

image from vogue.com

Perfect for the days when I just want to race along. I love the mixte frame, the angle of the handlebars, the color blue and the gorgeous pattern of the wheel spokes.

Abici Grandturismo Donna

image from Let's Go Ride a Bike

Perfectly impractical where I live because she only has one speed, but isn't she lovely? She makes me long for summers and sun dresses. Plus, she comes in an assortment of wonderful colors.

Azor Oma

image from Dutch Bike Seattle

My absolute favorite. Someday, I will have an Oma. Not only is she beautiful, but her features make her extremely practical. I load some groceries onto a front rack and give a friend a ride on the back. She has the potential to be a true car replacement. I look at this bicycle and my heart aches a little bit.

Many people will scoff at the prices of these bicycles, especially in a country that sees bikes as recreation or sport, not transportation, and that defines "value" as "costing as little as possible," with little regard for quality, ethics, or even aesthetics.

These bicycles are all made out of steel, are lugged (no ugly welds here), have strong wheels and durable tires, and comfortable leather saddles. Not to mention all of the practical extras on the Oma, like a full chaincase, skirt guard, wheel lock, dynamo lighting, and strong rear rack. They're classics, look beautiful, and will last a lifetime. They stand up against our throwaway culture.

I remember one of my dear friends telling me that she would buy a cheap backpack every year, because the amount of books she carried ruined them so quickly. She never seemed to consider that perhaps her backpacks only lasted one season because their cheap quality could not handle the stress she put them through. I've had the same good-quality backpack for about 10 years now, and while it's never had to carry a load of organic chemistry textbooks, it has survived high school, college, and trips abroad. Yes, the backpack cost more upfront, but I'm fairly certain that that price was less than what my friend spent on backpacks during the last 10 years.

My point is, quality costs more, and particularly for things you use everyday, the extra cost is usually worth it.

I know that many people cannot afford these bicycles. I can't either, right now, but if I start tucking away a little money each month, I could one day. Many people could, if having a beautiful, functional bicycle was a priority for them (Lovely Bicycle wrote an excellent post about affording beautiful bicycles - read about it here). What bothers me more is when people who could, with a little creative thinking, live car-lite or even car free, complain about the prices of a quality city bicycle. I would ask them to consider that they are paying for their cars in terms of car payments, repairs, gas, insurance, etc. Compared to that, the Oma is a steal!

I live in a rural area and so I depend on a car for many things. But in the summer, I try to minimize car trips by riding my bike to work or the grocery store (Aaron and I already have a date planned for next summer - ride our bikes to the movie theater!). It takes longer but I enjoy the time more and I spend less money on gas, feel better physically and emotionally, and hopefully contribute a little more beauty to the world.