30 Before 30

It's my birthday soon, and it's a big one. And a big birthday deserves a big build up--mostly because I'm pretty sure it's all downhill after this one.

But let's back up.

Five years ago, I was panicking. I was turning 25. I was so old. I wrote this post about all the things I thought I was going to do before I was 25. Things like getting my Master's degree, travelling, gardening. Later I wrote this post, trying to pacify myself about the many wonderful things I had accomplished (note: it includes eating an entire Fat Burger. Obviously my early life was a success). 

Shortly after I turned 25, I had this idea. Since I was still reeling from this feeling that my life was getting away from me and I was wholly unaccomplished by 25, I realized I definitely didn't want to be feeling this way again in five years, knocking on that terrifying door of turning 30. Surely I could complete some big, life-changing accomplishments in five years--after all, I was young, (relatively) in shape, married to the coolest guy I knew, and adventuring was just part of our everyday life. The inkling of an idea was conceived: a list of 30 things I would do before turning 30.

Except then an actual baby was conceived--and things REALLY got away from me. This 30 Before 30 List remained an abstract idea. However, 30 still seemed pretty far away. Only really old people were 30. And I wasn't old yet. Until all of a sudden I was. Pregnancy #2 aged me quickly. At 29, two kids--a potty training toddler with all the energy (and meltdown potential) of a nuclear power plant and a nursing newborn with the appetite of a teenager--took all of my energy, patience, and time. And more. By the end of most days, I was empty. Being a mom--a very, very, tired mom--was slowly consuming me. 

In some ways, I felt like I had regressed from where I had been at 25. I was no longer coaching volleyball teams (championship or otherwise), no longer directing plays, no longer working in a writing career. (But for the record, I'm still married to the coolest guy I know.) But it was becoming clear that our life was no longer conducive to accomplishing 30 wild, crazy, life-changing adventures before I turned 30. 

So...a new list was born. A list of 30 daily, manageable things to accomplish before I turn 30. Some are things I've never done (cooking fish, Serengeti Water Park). Some are things I've done before but rarely/never make time for anymore (snowball fights, root beer floats, playing tennis). Some are acts of service (treats to public servants/mail carrier, pay for stranger's coffee); some are to be intentional with my family (video game with Brett, merry-go-round with Jack, family photos). Many are related to food.

All are things that will be done before I'm 30.

One thing each day for the next 30 days. 

30 Before 30 starts tomorrow. So follow along for my newest little adventure...or at least  for a good laugh when I break my arm trying to land a front handspring.

The famous list, in no particular order

My Traffic Stop: what didn't happen to Philando Castile

On Wednesday, July 6, an officer of the Owatonna Police Department pulled me over. It was approximately 10 p.m., an hour or so after a St. Anthony officer pulled over and shot Philando Castile. Maybe even while Mr. Castile was dying. Maybe he was already dead. I hadn't heard about his fatal traffic stop yet, or seen the horrifying video his girlfriend live-streamed to Facebook. I was out playing sand volleyball.

I was pulled over for "failing to signal" -- though it doesn't really matter. The point is that my stop was for a minor offense, something similar to, say, a broken taillight.

The traffic stop was uneventful, really. Obviously nothing like Mr. Castile's. Even though I did quite a few things wrong.

As soon as I was pulled over, I began digging in my Northwestern cinch sack for my wallet. Although as soon as I shoved my hands in the bag, I knew my search was futile. I had done what I do so many nights -- "I'm just going down the road a few miles to play volleyball. I don't really need my wallet" -- and stuffed my phone and tube of chapstick into the bag and ran out the door. So, as the officer approached my window, I had both hands in the bag. I knew this was a mistake. You're supposed to put your hands on the wheel, right? Don't reach for anything. I quickly withdrew them, but panicked that this sudden movement was another mistake.

But the officer either didn't notice, or didn't care that I was hiding my hands and making sudden movements. He smiled and asked about my evening. He then requested my license and registration, and I admitted I didn't have my wallet.

"I'm just coming from volleyball..." I tried to explain, though I'm sure my sweaty face and drenched t-shirt told the story. "...but I live right up there..." I said pointing down the two blocks I was away from home.

"That's fine," he smiled kindly again. "Just tell me your name."

He asked me if I'd had any drinks at the bowling alley during volleyball. I told him no, and that was it. He just took my word for it. Maybe because I smelled like sweat and sand instead of booze, or maybe he used his detective skills to recall I didn't have an ID on me, 

And in my second dumb mistake, I reached for the glove box, remembering that Brett keeps a little pouch with his insurance cards there. As I was reaching, I spit out that I might be able to find cards in the glove compartment.

The officer nodded, showing no concern that I was already pulling out all sorts of things from the compartment. GPS stand, huge pile of napkins, a gift card to Dairy Queen, owner's manual...

When he asked when my last moving violation was ("Oh gosh," I laughed. "I don't even know. Before I was married, for sure. Maybe seven, eight years?"), he took my word for it, and handed my card back. He smiled again, "Just make sure to use your signals and you won't have to talk to me again. Have a good night, ma'am." And when I reached for the glove box with no warning, the officer didn't even reach for his gun. He trusted me. He didn't shoot me. He gave me the benefit of the doubt that I was looking for insurance cards, not a concealed weapon.

And that's the whole point. I learned about Philando Castile's death the next morning, and watched the video. And I couldn't help but notice that I had a very different experience with a similar traffic stop. "Very different experience" is a bit of an understatement, because I wasn't shot. Because I lived to write this story.

Why? Why was I let off with a kind warning and Philando Castile was shot multiple times? Do I dare say it? Is it because I'm white?

I shared this experience with my husband, and of course he reminded me of a few other differences. I live in a small town. Sure, there can be issues, but Lincoln Avenue in Owatonna is not exactly a high-crime district.

But...I went to college in Roseville, right next to Falcon Heights, where Mr. Castile was killed. Many of my college friends still live in the area. It's not impossible that, with a few different circumstances, I could be living there.

But, my husband reminded me, I don't look like a threat. I'm barely over five feet tall. I'm not going to be strong-arming anyone into submission. I was in volleyball clothes and ponytail. I have big blue eyes, a freckled nose, and a sunburn on my shoulders from playing with my son at the lake that afternoon.

"You look like a mom," Brett told me. "You were driving a vehicle with a car seat." True. I had explained to the officer I was playing volleyball, a fairly common night out for local moms. But...Philando Castile had a 4-year-old in the car with him. He must have looked like a parent too. What about him made him "look like a threat"? Did he look threatening because he's a man? Because he's black?

One of us went home that night, and one didn't. I went home. I peeked in on my baby, sleeping soundly in his crib. I climbed into bed next to my husband and went to sleep. I knew nothing of Philando Castile's traffic stop that night. I didn't even relate the story of my own run-in with the officer to my husband that night. It seemed inconsequential, and honestly, by the time I had showered and gotten ready for bed, I'd nearly forgotten it.

Here's what I want to believe: The police officer I dealt with was kind and a good person. A true public servant. I want to believe that he would have treated anyone the same way he treated me--a white, small town mom, who made a few mistakes during her traffic stop, but overall was polite and compliant. I want to believe most officers are the same way.

I want to believe that the officer who shot Philando Castile made a mistake. That things happened to fast.
That the officer said, "Can I see your license and registration?"
And as Mr. Castile was reaching for his wallet, he disclosed, "I'm carrying a firearm."
This made the officer nervous, and he drew his weapon, "Don't reach for it," he says. "Get your hands out of there."
But maybe Mr. Castile already has his wallet in his hands, and tries to pull it out to show ID, or maybe the officer's drawn weapon scares him, so he quickly jerks his hands away. Either movement makes the cop more nervous and he fires, thinking Mr. Castile is going to pull his own gun.
This is the scenario I want to believe. It isn't perfect; a man died either way. But I want to believe it was accident. A misunderstanding. That things happened too fast, and the officer truly did think own life was in danger. It doesn't excuse the mistake. It doesn't make it okay, or make Philando Castile any less dead. But I want to believe that our police force is doing their best. That they truly are working to protect and serve. That Philando Castile was not targeted because he is black.

Of course, there are some bad cops. It's inevitable. There are bad lawyers, doctors, bankers, mechanics, burger-flippers. There are bad people. But I want to believe that as a group, cops are good. I want to believe that they are not purposely targeting and killing black men out of shear hate and racisim. I'm teaching Jack that when we see police cars, those are the good guys. When we hear sirens, I tell him that the police are going to help someone. But am I teaching him the wrong thing?

What if we were black? What if I were raising a black son? Would I teach him the same things? Would I need to warn him he needs to be extra careful because there are some bad officers out there who are going to try to hurt him? That he needs to be careful how he dresses so that no one mistakes him for a "thug"?

In times like these, I don't know what to say. I don't know what, or if, I should write. I grew up in a white family. I have my own white family now. What is the right thing for a white, middle class, mom to say or do when things like these happen? Can I be against officers unjustly shooting citizens, but also against citizens unjustly targeting cops? Can I agree that Black Lives Matter, but disagree with protests that infringe on others' rights or incite riots?

Why do I feel like a fraud, or some sort of outsider, for wanting justice and change when these things keep happening? Why do I feel like I'm not allowed to be upset or sad or hurt because I don't look like Philando Castile's girlfriend and my son doesn't look like her daughter. Why is it so hard to talk about race when you're white and can avoid getting a ticket even when you do everything wrong?

And when someone else, less than 100 miles up the road, can get shot for doing everything right.

Twenty-Seven

I tend to get nostalgic about my birthday. I guess because it's close enough to New Year's that I'm still feeling like it's not too late to get some resolutions in for the coming year. It's also the time I really reflect on "What did I actually accomplish during my XX year of life?" Am I where I thought I would be?

Twenty-six was a good year for me. I needed a year like that, because I was left a little unsettled on the day I turned 26. There were so many things I thought I would accomplish by age 25--and that list was largely uncrossed off. But this past year, year 26 of being alive, I did a lot of good things.

Last year, I:
Completed a kitchen remodel
Finished writing a play
Directed a play I had written
Completed Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred for the second time
Found out I was having a baby
Coached a volleyball team of all freshman and sophomores to play competitively against much older teams
Started a bathroom remodel
Made the decision to leave my current job upon the arrival of our baby
Was told by my doctor he couldn't be sure if baby was head down because I still had too much ab definition

Okay, so the last one is a bit of a brag, but it might be the thing on this list I'm most proud of. I'm pretty sure I have never had a problem with "too much ab definition" at any other point in my life. I would like to commemorate the moment.

I had a good year being 26. I'm beginning my 27th year seven months pregnant and with only two months left at my job. This next year will undoubtedly be filled with all kind of new challenges I can't even imagine yet. Things like setting up a nursery, continuing to work with a drama publishing service, delivering a baby, keeping a newborn alive, finding a new job, summer road trips with a baby, coaching a new volleyball team - nearly double the size of last year, all of baby's first holidays.

It's overwhelming to be sure, but exciting too. This is one of the first birthdays in recent years I was looking forward to. Maybe because at seven months pregnant, I'm ready for time to move forward a little more quickly. I'm ready for this baby to be on the outside, instead of occupying every available square inch of my mid-section, while also digging it's feet deeply into my ribcage.

We celebrated in our own grand fashion--pizza on the couch, a new puzzle, a Super Bowl Party, and a quiet evening at Perkins, devouring breakfast food. Only a few days in, I'm still excited for the year ahead. Bring on every little moment and fun adventure.

Kitchen Remodel in Photos

If you've talked to me in the last year, you've probably heard that we were working on a kitchen remodel. At first, it was really exciting. Our kitchen needed it. I detailed all the reasons why here. Once the remodel started, it was exciting. There was real progress. No more nasty white sink!

But as the days and weeks (okay, and months) that our kitchen was under construction dragged on, it became the bane of my existence. I made spinach artichoke dip for our New Year's Eve party in the dining room. And then washed the Slap Chop in the bathtub. There was plaster dust every where. Our basement and garage rapidly filled with old cabinet parts, countertops, and trim pieces. These are the parts they don't show you on HGTV.

I realized the reality of doing a DIY remodel one morning when I hit my lowest point: sitting on my living room floor, eating Coco Pebbles out of a red solo cup with a plastic fork.

We did this entire kitchen remodel by ourselves, with no professional help. And by we, I mean my dad. And Brett and I occasionally stood around and held a flashlight for him. Just kidding, Brett did a lot of the work. I provided a significant amount of moral support by napping on the couch.

 So how did this all come to be? First, let's remember what our kitchen used to look like.

Pretty sad, huh?

 On to the remodel. It started with cabinets.We bought unfinished cabinets.

So we had to sand, stain, and varnish them. This took forever. Like four months. Our basement was pretty overrun with cabinets.

Don't worry about that huge, unorganized mess of storage in the back. Our basement flooded a few weeks ago so we got rid of a lot of it.The rest is in the hallway. So, huge step in the wrong direction.

 I did a lot of the staining, I promise. There are no photos of that because I'm the photographer.

Day one of renovation. We emptied the cabinets into our spare, spare bedroom. That room was scary for a few months.

We did the majority (probably 75%) of the work the weeks of Christmas and New Year's. I had 10 days off work, my dad came over every morning at 7 a.m. (nice vacation, right?), and Brett helped when he got home from work. I think he took a few days off too--I don't remember. This was one of those instances where people block trauma from their memories.

There's going to be an unnecessary amount of photos. Feel free to skim.

Doors off

Cabinets coming down

Upper cabinets gone

Other view

Brett decided to show up one day, and we removed the old tile backsplash. I did A LOT of this (again, I'm the photographer, no photos). We also got to work removing the sink and countertop.

No more backsplash, sink, or counter

Lower cabinets gone

Pretty empty

New cabinets going up

What happens when you have two perfectionists install cabinets? It takes FOREVER. And results in me napping on the couch.

Lots of hard work.

Two cabinets! I probably would have been happy if they stopped here. This is more cabinets than we had in our first apartment!

Top cabinets mostly done. Mom helped me supervise. She also brought us a lot of food. Since, you know, we had no way to cook anything.

Base cabinets going in

Sink base

My real contribution: paint. Notice the bulkhead is no longer painted in the lovely shade of "Baby Poo"

Another cabinet and new microwave (I think Brett's face in the microwave is very Breaking Bad Finale-esque, no?)

Getting some doors--and we also put the old countertop and sink back in (while we waited for the new countertop to arrive. But our new faucet is in and was a million times better than the old!)

Other view

More doors...and we have a dishwasher! My life is complete.

Other view. Doors are (almost) in.

New countertop

Other view

New sink, plus door handles...it's coming together!

Other view

In case you're wondering what the rest of the kitchen looks like...it has this. A pantry my dad made us. It's awesome.

Other view

Backsplash going in (this took forever. So putzy. It looks great, but never. again.)

Other view

Backsplash done!

Other view

Trim, toe kick, and switch plates back on. It's DONE!

Other view...and new stove!

Whew! That was exhausting just remembering all that. I'm so happy with it, and so happy to be done with it.

Here are the final views:

View 1

View 2

The Author

For those of you who don't know yet, I wrote a play. Sometimes I see that sentence, or say it out loud to someone and wonder where those words came from. A play? Me? I wrote one? Something full length, that I didn't get bored of and stop in the middle? Yes. I wrote a play.

And this play, called The Author, is about to be performed next weekend at Owatonna Christian School. I have written a play that's going to be performed and seen by real people. I'm sorry if this is seeming repetitive, but I still can't believe it.

When I was in elementary school, I had a teacher tell me I would never learn to write. This was because I held my pencil wrong. She gave me one of those rubber triangle things to put on the end of my pencil to force me to write "correctly" (does anyone know what I'm talking about? Do they even still use these torture devices in schools?) And then I'd get in trouble when she'd catch me sliding that thing up under my palm and gripping my pencil my own way. I"ll never forget the day she put her hand on my shoulder, catching me holding my pencil wrong again. "Lindsay," she said shaking her head. "You're never going to learn to write." I guess we have different definitions of "learn to write."

Early last summer, almost as soon as my last play closed, I began looking for a new one. This year--the spring play of 2014--was important to me. When I first began directing at OCS, this current senior class was a bunch of wide-eyed freshman that didn't know upstage from downstage and cue lines from topped lines. They were the very first group of kids I'd directed. They were talented, and they were special. I wanted to find a play that would be perfect.

I guess I was complaining a little too much about not being able to find the perfect play. The one with the right mix of laughs and heart. The one with the right number of solid characters--each character being a role that I myself would want to play. I wanted good roles for the girls, funny lines for everyone, physical comedy, and fun costumes. Of course, it also needed to fit on a small stage with red carpet. It needed to be appropriate for a family audience. Oh, and it also had to make me laugh.

I'm sure this play exists somewhere, written by someone much more talented than myself, but I couldn't seem to find it. And when my family and friends had just about enough of my whining, they began to suggest, "Well, why don't you just write your own play?"

Crazy, right? I couldn't write a play! Could I really write a play? I mean, I used to write plays all the time and force my sister and cousin to act them out. But they were terrible (sorry, Karen and Amy). I also spent a small fortune on a Writing degree...surely I must have learned something in college. Maybe I really could write a play...

And then I made the poor decision to tell some of the students that I was thinking about writing the play...and they immediately got excited about it (well, some of them). Which meant I actually had to write a play. 

And so, with a shrug of my shoulders and the phrase everyone uses before they dive into a huge mistake-- how hard can it be?--I got writing.

To quote Hemingway, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." Writing is a lonely process. There's the "thinking stage," which for me consists of thinking about how bad I am at writing, how much I hate writing, how I'd rather be doing anything else besides writing, and how much I want to eat some cake right now. You know, the usual.

And then there's the actual writing. The part where you begin to meet your characters. I'd scribble some back story for each of them onto a legal pad (holding my pen incorrectly). I'd muse about their childhoods, their education, the pets they'd like to own. I'd laugh at funny jokes they might tell at a party, or tear up at the sad story of their first crush. None of these things make it into the play, of course, they're just nice to know. I want to be friends with my characters, or least the nosy acquaintance who creeps their Facebook pages.

So, I have these characters now, and I drop them into a situation. One that's difficult and requires a funny solution. I write a scene, and then another one. Neither one of them is the opening--it'll fall somewhere in the middle. I write new characters, learn about them, figure out why they hate my main characters. Then I stir them into the mix. Trouble ensues. For awhile, I was stuck. Right in the middle of Act II, Scene 2. I had nowhere to go. I didn't know what would happen next. My characters were stuck. They couldn't move. I waited a month, hoping they'd find their own way out of the mess I'd created. They didn't. I had to help them a bit. Make an out. Play puppet master, move some pieces, orchestrate an ending (I can't pick a metaphor, so I'm using all of them. Sorry, English teachers).

And then the editing. The part that scared me the most from the very inkling of an idea to write a play. But I'd have to edit it, I whined internally. I don't like editing. I spent enough hours at the Bruegger's Bagels in Roseville for my Senior Writing Capstone to know better than to start a project I would have to edit. This play went through seven edits. It probably could have used 12 more. I edited it five times myself. Sewing up plot holes, polishing the dialogue, rounding our characters. And then I gave it to my dad.

My dad is largely the reason I know as much about theatre as I do. When I was a little kid, about four or five years old, I'd sit in Kerux at Pillsbury while he built the sets for plays there. I'd get to watch rehearsals, "help" him tinker with the stage, and soak in this fantastic world of theatre. I watched talented actors act, directors direct, crew run the show, and then watch on opening night when all of this magic came together in a beautiful performance.

My dad's been a part of and seen so many plays he was a logical choice for editor. Of course, it's horrible to give anyone your work to critique. It's vulnerable and painful. But he helped me fix errors I'd made, improve what I'd missed, and made lines even funnier.

I knew I needed at least one more pair of eyes on this beast, even though it was nearing time for auditions. I sent it to my mother-in-law, talented author J.S. Deaton (though I normally just call her Sue). She was generous with her compliments of lines she thought were funny, situations she enjoyed, and humor she appreciated. She also provided valuable critique on plot holes, made suggestions to improve the dialogue, and helped me feel ready to present a script the the cast. And that is how this play came to be.

This post is already nearly the same length as the play itself, but I'm not done. I have more people to thank.

First, everyone who has ever acted with me. My high school plays were some of the best times in my life. I learned so much from all of you and had so much fun making my own magic for the first time with you.

To everyone who ever acted for me as I learned to direct. I was a nothing-nobody who knew so little about how to be a director. You listened, you trusted, and we learned together about how to do this theatre thing.

To my fellow writers and editors at the Owatonna People's Press--thank you to Derek and Ian, and to Becky who got me the job in the first place by personal recommendation, even though I'm not sure she'd ever read anything I'd written. This was the first place I really got to write things that other people read. You taught me how to write and edit when I knew literally nothing coming in. And maybe most importantly, you taught me how to write fast.

To all of my writing teachers, from elementary school to college. You taught me about character, plot, dialogue, scene-setting, language, pacing, and everything else I needed. Two I have to mentioned specifically: Alexandra Shloss and Judy Hougen. You sometimes hurt my feelings and made me cry when you critiqued my work. Both of you were more than teachers, you were counselors when I completely lost faith in myself and my writing. You made me believe I could do this someday. And now I did.

To my fellow Writing majors at Northwestern. The people who were some of my very first harsh editors and critiquers. You were all so talented, I often felt like a child amidst you writing greats. You taught me many things, and I'm so thankful for how much you helped me grow and improve.

To Kari Steinbach. You once said something to me about how everyone always assumes we English girls are also theatre girls. I guess you were right. We are. You made me believe I could be both a writer and a director. You're a huge inspiration and a role model of what I want my career to look like.

To my grandmother Leta. We wrote so many letters back and forth, and she always encouraged me in my writing, especially when I was away at college and struggling. She told me I was such a good writer even when I was in pre-school. She kept the very first story I ever wrote, called "My Sis is A Pig" (again, sorry, Karen). It's still tucked away in the pantry of her kitchen. She won't be at this performance, but I'd like to think she'll still see it.

To my parents who always encouraged me to write and act. Who let me get a degree in Writing when everyone around me thought I should do something more practical. Who read to me constantly and filled my head with so many stories. You let me believe in worlds outside my own, and encouraged me to write, create, and adventure. And specifically to my mother, who always corrected my grammar, on which much of this play is based.

To this current cast, especially the ones I told very early on in the writing process, and asked them to blindly trust me. They have, and for the last few months we've been creating the magic together that I've dreamed about since I was a little girl.

To my dear friend Emily. The girl who wrote novels with me in fifth grade--we'd pass them back and forth in colored folders. There was The Red Story (the best one, though not good), The Yellow Story (which was a terrible murder mystery), and The Purple Story (which was basically a complete ripoff of Alice in Wonderland, except instead of Alice, the main characters were two girls names Emily and Lindsay). The girl who believed we'd both be writers someday, even when I was so terrible and thought that it was okay to kill off main characters in every chapter and just write new ones (I did this in all of them, not just in the murder mystery). The girl who acted with me in so many plays, including when she was my mother (and we messed up that scene so bad I almost cried. And then your fat fell out and I almost cried again). The girl who was asked to direct a play, and said she wouldn't do it unless I would help her. The girl who read through this script and assured me my characters were funny and that she would come and watch Get Over It with me the night before the play and then hold my hand while I weep through opening night of this show.

And finally, to my husband. The man who has put up with Virginia-Woolf levels of insanity for the last six months (and let's be honest, the 10.5 years we've been a couple). The man who read my script and even laughed out loud a few times. The man who is my closest friend, my favorite companion, and the one who keeps me sane. The man who took my face in his hands and said, "Lindsay, you're a good writer." The words I need to hear, the words I will never, ever tire of hearing.

There's so many people to thank, I've probably forget some, and I'm sorry. I could rattle on about this forever (and clearly I'm well on my way). But thank you to everyone who helped me get here. I owe you this dream come true.

So, this play is dedicated to everyone who always believed that I would write something significant. And to everyone else who told me I never would.

10 Things I Like About Myself

What do I like about myself? Admittedly, some days that list is pretty short. I could quickly rattle off a massive list of my shortcomings.I'm well aware of all of the areas in which I fail. I address them and try to improve. So what's the point on dwelling on these things? Why do I feel the need to make sure everyone around me knows what I'm not good at.

Right now Christy at Avoiding Atrophy is hosting a fantastic link up to counteract this phenomenon. It's a link up about loving yourself. She originally posted here, discouraging the culture of putting yourself down, and instead, building yourself up. Now, more bloggers are writing about things they like about themselves and linking together for a stronger, more united front.

I love what Christy wrote in her most recent post about why she is doing this, and why all this negative self-talk is so destructive: "Suddenly all of the crappy things I'd say about myself became the crappy things I believed about myself until one day I just decided to say screw it -- I'd rather be totally full of myself than completely empty."

Woah. Deep, right? I'm a girl that spends a ton of time boasting about women, promoting female equality, and making men (including my husband) believe I'm a totally psycho feminist. And yet, I also spend a ton of time downplaying what I'm good at. I don't like to talk about myself--at least not things I'm proud of. And I don't know why. I LOVE talking about other people's strengths. I love making people feel recognized and encouraged. But I'll change the subject quickly after someone compliments me, or say something to contradict it--like I'm trying to balance out the universe or something.

And I think this is a huge deal in our culture. Women are told to not be vain. Don't boast about yourself. You shouldn't call yourself pretty. Of course, no one wants to be around people who ONLY talk about themselves, but let's stop putting ourselves down and make it okay to like ourselves.

So, the rest of this post is going to be me, being full of myself, because that's better than being empty.

10. Any color I dye my hair ends up looking natural on me.

9.  I'm really good at my job.

8. I'm funny. Not all the time, of course, and not to everyone, but I make people laugh.

7. I follow through. I finished writing my play which will be performed in a few months. This a was a huge undertaking, and I'm really proud of myself for finishing it.

6. I'm a good writer. Along those same lines, I WROTE a freaking full-length play.

5. I'm a good director. Still on the play, all of the actors who auditioned said they were excited to work with me because I'm fun to work with, and I'm good at what I do.

4. I'm a good daughter and sister. I wasn't always, but in the last few years I've developed a much closer relationship with my parents and sister.

3. I'm a good volleyball player. I pick up a ton of slack for my teammates, and I try my hardest. I'm not the best there is, but I'm talented.

2. I'm a good friend. Even to my friends who live far away, I do a good job of keeping up with them and letting them know I think about them. I'm honest and available.

1. I'm a good wife. I could always be better, of course, but I love my husband more than anything. I try my hardest to serve him and make sure he feels loved and taken care of. I do my best to make our home a comfy and happy place, to give him his space when he needs it, and to be exactly the kind of wife he needs.

Your turn. Write your 10 Things, then link up with Christy over here. Let's spread the word to spend sometime encouraging and loving ourselves.

Life Update

Birthday came and went. Just like that, I'm now 26.

Last night, my brother-in-law Scott stayed at our house. His car was in the shop so he couldn't go back home to Mankato. I was in bed before he arrived and left this morning before he woke up. I suppose that's the best kind of house guest--the one you never see.

I'm glad we're at a place in our life where we can house people who need a place to stay. We have an unused guest bedroom. We have blankets and pillows and towels to share. Of course, I hope he ignores the fact that our dining room table is covered in all kinds of mess. There are dishes in the sink and on the counter. There's a pile of shoes in the entry way. The bathroom could stand to be scrubbed. Hopefully he can overlook that we live like slobs and be grateful for the free room and board.

I've started eating better and working out twice a day: yoga in the morning and strength/cardio after work. It's helped me sleep better and my muscles are sore--in a good way. I'm still eating too much, and I can't wait to get outside and run but I'm feeling a little less SAD.

This weekend we're putting up our backsplash. I cannot wait to have this kitchen remodel DONE. We still have end panels, trim, and toe kick to purchase and install. We still need a new stove. We need to figure out what we're doing about the trim around the door and what we want for a window treatment. I'd still like to paint, we need to patch the floor tiles we broke, and secure the dishwasher to the countertop. But we're close. I'm thankful our kitchen is functional right now and that it looks a million times better than before.

My play is in the final round of edits. Yesterday I sent it to a second editor for comment. Brett and I spent my birthday working through it. He read it outloud to me, which was helpful--when he was being serious and not using accents. That was not helpful. It's getting close. I'm excited, nervous, anxious, and proud. I can't believe I wrote a full-length play.

Basketball is winding down--but at the same time it's just ramping up. Brett has a tournament two of the next three weekends, plus four more games. We have a team party tonight. I know it's bittersweet for him, since this is such a huge part of lives right now. While he enjoys it, we're both ready to have our weeknights back.

I'm sure there are other things, but this is what I'm thinking about. Our life is pretty boring--but what can you expect when you're 26?

Twenty-Six

In three days I will turn 26. How did that happen? Wasn't I just writing about how scared I was to turn 25? Like yesterday?

I'm not as panicked about 26. I don't know why. I don't think I accomplished anything this year I should be especially proud of. We've sort of half remodeled our kitchen. I've half written a play. I got a pretty substantial raise at work this summer that I'm not totally sure I deserved. But really, I've done nothing.

I'm at a weird place right now. I need a project (as if play-writing and kitchen-remodeling aren't enough!). But not a project like that. I need something personal--like an exercise program, or a writing class, or grad school. I need something that will make me better. Because right now I feel like a need a 10-day nap.

Along these same lines, I decided to dye my hair a few days ago. I needed a change. So I bought a cheap box, and now I look like this. This is what happens when I fall into this weird place.

Like nearly everyone around me, I think I have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Basically, I'm SAD because it's so dark and cold all the time. I haven't spent any time outside, in actual sunlight, or breathed any fresh air in months. Because if I were to step outside, my skin would literally melt off my body from the cold (or something like that--I don't know the science behind frostbite, but I know there's been cold advisories pretty much every day for the three months).

I'm exhausted in the mornings, dragging myself to work where I stare, slightly dazed, at my computer screen for several hours. Then I go home. I make my way to the couch, curl up in blankets and sit there until I can crawl into bed.

I feel meaningless.

Maybe it's because I'm not coaching or directing right now. Those activities at least make me feel connected to other people, and feel at least a little bit like I'm making an impact on those kids. Maybe its because I'm eating garbage all the time and not exercising, so I know I'm putting on weight and hating the way my body looks. Maybe its because I'm just so tired of being cold all the time. Maybe I'm just ungrateful.

Brett and I are going on a date tonight. We'll brave the snow and the terribly-plowed roads because I need to get out of the house. I can't stand sitting at home watching Netflix for another night in a row. It's a weeknight, and we're going to go out and enjoy our lives.

Plus I turn 26 in three days. I might as well accomplish something this year. Even if it's only eating a nine-ounce steak in one sitting.

Kitchen Remodel Part I

So you want to remodel your kitchen? You think it's a pretty good idea, right? Especially since your house was built in the 1950s, and the cabinets are all original. Not only does your kitchen not function well (there's no lazy susan or upper corner cabinet, so the corners are unusable space), it's also hideous. The shelves in the cabinets are too close together, so modern products don't fit standing up. The sink is WHITE acrylic, so it absorbs everything and is constantly stained and filthy looking. The microwave takes up half of the the already-limted counter top, and the fridge is tiny.  Oh, and the cabinets have about six inches of nasty tan PAINT on them, and the "accent" color is officially called "Baby Poo."

Basically, your kitchen looks like this:

No? It doesn't? Your kitchen is actually awesome? So it's just me? Well, this is likely not going to interest you then. Because this post is all about how I'm in the midst of remodeling my kitchen on the smallest of budgets.

Kind of. Actually, that post will be forthcoming. Like when I'm actually done remodeling my kitchen. Right now, it's a giant mess, so I will not be posting photos of my kitchen looking like a giant mess.

This post is about how I've been so busy with this remodel, that I've basically done nothing else with my life. Like, my play is still largely unedited. I haven't hung out with friends in a month. I keep getting sick because I'm running myself ragged. Plus, my DVR is so full of things I need to watch, I don't know if I'll ever catch up! (I'm just kidding about that...I've been pretty good about the important things, like making sure I'm totally caught up on Parks and Rec and Intelligence--and of course, I've watched the Golden Globes and SAG Awards. I'm just in the middle of a remodel; I'm not a monster!)

So, to sum up--my kitchen was hideous and in desperate need of a face lift. I promise I will write a full post some day about everything we did (since we mostly did this ourselves...and by "we mostly did this ourselves," I mean my dad did almost everything) and approximately how much it cost us. I would just like to prove to HGTV that it does not take $75,000 to redo a kitchen. Our remodel was probably closer to $5,000-$7,000--including all new counter tops, appliances, and cabinets. So Hilary Farr can take her $95,000 budget and barely finish one room, and I will scoff at her. And then snot will come out of my face because I've had a sinus infection for the last three months.

But life is good!

New Year

Well, friends, I suppose I should take the time to wax eloquently on the closing of the past year and the beginning of a new one, as it is my first post in 2014. I'm not going to do that, however, because it is January 9. I haven't written here in a very long time.

I have a list of excuses of why I haven't written in a long time if you'd like to hear:
- The holidays - isn't that enough? We only had four Christmases this year, but it was plenty. We were constantly shopping, since we didn't plan well, we only shopped for the Christmas right in front of us, leaving us feeling like we were never going to catch up. Plus, we were involved in our church's Christmas cantata, attended a New Year's Eve party, in addition to work festivities.
- Kitchen remodel - that should also be enough. We tore out the old cabinets, replaced with new ones that we stained and varnished, tore down the old tile backsplash, re-plastered the walls, mounted a new microwave over the stove, bought a dishwasher, replace our faucet, put the old countertop and old sink back in. We are waiting for our dishwasher to come in (should be tomorrow) and install that, our new countertops will arrive in early February and we'll install them with a new sink, then put in a new backsplash and purchase a new stove. So we're about 2/3 of the way done--but we did all of that work between Christmas and New Year's. We were exhausted.
- Work has been busy. Mostly because I was out of the office for 10 days while remodeling our kitchen, so I'm still trying to catch up. It's been fun things though--new design for this year's theme, revamping our solicitation letters, and discussing our office building remodel.
- General laziness. It's been cold. Like double-digit-negative-degrees cold. That has left me mostly huddled in blankets on the couch, and not wanting to do anything that involves getting out from under those blankets. Did I mentioned I've gained like 30 pounds over the holidays?
- I've been writing elsewhere. Not only do I write for work everyday, I've also finished my play. It has days and days of editing left, but it's done. Plus, I've been blogging on another platform recently, and this little blog has been neglected a bit.

So there's my list of excuses. Not exactly the inspirational list of New Year's Resolutions you were looking for? If that's what you were expecting, you may want to check any other blog that exists. You won't find that here this year.

Beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Our house is decorated for Christmas, and now my cube at work is too.

Today kicked off Christmas Fun Week at work, and we had a workspace decorating contest. Most people brought in their extra Christmas knick knacks and decorations from home and lined their cubes with plush snowmen, lights, garlands, etc.We have barely enough Christmas-y things to decorate our living room, so I didn't have anything left over to bring in.

Thus a new idea was born. I would make my cube look like it was something Christmas-y, without actually using many decorations. Without further ado...here's my creation. By the way, it won second place in the contest.

Swimming the Stream

Tonight I'm having Thanksgiving at my parents' house. Because my sister works retail and always has to work Black Friday, she can rarely join us at my Grandparents' house for the actual holiday. Thus the celebration a week early.

I'm excited to see her, eat turkey, eat pie. My dad makes the best pies. Now that he's retired, I'm sure he's cooked up something amazing for us.

We missed the Lighting of Central Park last night and the lighted parade. We planned to go, but when I got off work yesterday it was freezing rain, 12 degrees, and super windy. I knew I would be cold and miserable the whole time. Plus Brett refuses to end basketball practice early just to go with me to the parade, so he ends up missing half of it, while I stand freezing by myself at the corner of the park.We should have sucked it up and just gone, but since it was before Thanksgiving, I wasn't in the holiday mood yet. I usually love going because it's around December 5...the perfect time to get into the Christmas spirit. It's a great way to kick off the season. But I'm not ready for the season--I want to enjoy Thanksgiving first. I should take that up with the Chamber.

I'm hungry today. Like really hungry. I don't know why that happens sometimes, but I wake up starving. I suppose that's a good way to go into a Thanksgiving meal though...

I have no reason for this post, other than keeping this blog alive. I've been blogging somewhere else recently, but here I'm not anonymous. Sometimes it's good to be yourself.

Speaking of...I think that's the theme of my play: Be yourself. Who knows? I still have a looooong way to go.

Writing About Writing (Again)

There were certain topics that were off-limits for us at Northwestern in our writing classes. One of them was writing. We were pretty much forbidden from writing about writing. And it makes sense. We've all been there--the writer's block that makes you think a little too hard, and suddenly the block itself becomes a formidable villain. And why not? That's the evil that's preventing us from accomplishing our noble task of finishing the essay or poem. It's a "man vs. self"-type conflict, but with the added anguish of inner turmoil from outside pressure.

I am never more creative about the writing process than when I'm staring at a stark white computer screen, vacant page before me, cursor taunting me with its incessant blinks. I am a valiant knight, writer's block is my dragon. I type a few words--maybe they fit, maybe they're nonsense--but I just need to get something on that page. I can't stand the way they look. I backspace. That white void of a page is there again. My mind is empty. I have nothing to say. Sometimes I spin really fast in my chair, hoping to jar something loose. Maybe a thought will escape out my ear in the process and attach itself to the empty page.That never happens.

I tie my hair in a big knot on top of my head. It's my "thinking hair." I let it back down. I don't want to get ponytail bumps. I kick my feet against the floor. I only do this a few times. It sounds obnoxious and I don't want to annoy the people around me. I stare at my fingers. They're cold. They're always cold. I spin my ring around my finger, examine my fingernails. I crack my knuckles--now they hurt and I don't want to type anymore--not that I've typed anything in hours.

This is me in college. With "thinking hair."

This is what my life looks like. This is what my nights looked like in college, every time I sat down to write something. This is what my days look like at work. This is what my evenings look like at home while I'm trying to finish this play.

Where did all my good ideas go?

When I was a kid, I had an endless string of story plots running through my mind at all times. I worried there wasn't enough time left on earth for me to finish everything I wanted to write. Some were definitely stories. Others were books. Sometimes just a line or two, but with a little more effort a poem would emerge. Even a few plays rattled around in that little blonde head of mine. What happened to that girl?

People told her her ideas were dumb. That she couldn't be writer. That she didn't have the talent to get her work published. That her plots were "drizzled" and her characters weren't "round" enough and her settings weren't "defined."

And somehow, that creative little girl turned into a Writing Major, then a Sports Reporter, and then a Communications Coordinator. I churn out press releases and newsletters without needing to spin in my chair. Mostly, I copy and paste, recycle nonprofit jargon, slap on the mission statement at the end, and go home. I stopped "pushing my diction" and "staggering my breath units." It hardly seems necessary. Parataxis defined my college essays...now my supervisor always adds an oxford comma and an "and" when editing.

This play. It's making me crazy. It's the first creative thing I've attempted in years. I'm struggling with it. I'm having flashbacks to all-nighters in Moyer 12. Making a second pot of coffee at 11:37 p.m. because the one I made at 7 just isn't going to cut it. Begging my roommate to pick me up a smoothie and a giant bag of gummy bears from The Nest. Sprinting down the sidewalk in front of the dorms to print in the Student Center, knowing the essay I'm printing now is at least two drafts away from being complete, but I need a hard copy to edit. My eyes just couldn't even look at a screen anymore. Texting Jordan "Help? Christianity and Writing. Riley Lab, 30 min?" and being physically relieved when he texted back, "Yes. Good. Done."

We used to try to scare people when we went to the Stud to print. I don't remember why.

Also, this happened in the Stud. This was my roommate's boyfriend at the time. We were not friends. But he was a germaphobe, so I tried to make him as uncomfortable as possible. At all times.

I'm so thankful that I was able to be in such a competitive and difficult writing program. I am immensely grateful to my professors who pushed me, my classmates who challenged me, and Jordan who pitied me. I'm even more thankful I'm done with that.

These people, my fellow writing majors, were all geniuses. Also, please ignore what I'm wearing. I was really weird.

And now this play has resurrected all these horrible feelings of insecurity and self-doubt and left behind when I threw my graduation cap in the air.

Twenty pages to go, a few character arcs to tie up, and a plot seam to close. I'm close.

But that blank page and cursor sure is taunting me.