show n tell & reaching toes.

I sat in a room full of mamas this morning, Christine’s amazing Halloween-everything goodies covering most every available square inch of the stowaway table.  Throw me another spooky finger treat – that one, no, that one!  We went around the circle and, like always, we said our names, and our children’s names and ages, even though I think by now we could probably give a proper introduction about our neighbor with our eyes closed.  Because our children and our stories and even our pithy introductory comments are intrinsically woven into the cloth of each other’s lives.  So we told stories of our Favorite Halloween Costume Ever (exclamation point), and we laughed at the American Girl Picnic Table and the Get In Shape Girl and other glories of the 80’s.

I'm hoping my friend Kate looked something like this.
I’m hoping my friend Kate looked something like this.  Photo cred: Spoonful.

And then we got real, even though simply being with each other and by each other and for each other is real enough in and of itself.  We talked about the book we’ve been reading together, Grace-Based Parenting, and we answered a question or two, but then a tangent would birth, and we’d get wildly off-topic – and, I’ve got to tell you, as the English Teacher Formerly Known as Myself, these sidetrack musings are my favorite.  Because they’re unscripted, and they’re of the heart; it’s kind of like Show n Tell in the first grade, when you’re not getting an “E” for Excellent because standing up in front of the class with perfectly memorized speech, but because you’re baring your soul and your most favorite thing to your classmates.  You pass simply because you’re YOU.

And so we encourage each other and we ask the hard questions.  We’re reminded that the little things are the big things, even though it can feel more than mundane and lonely and unfulfilling taking the time away from having a wildly successful career to be with the littles.  We embrace the tension and we acknowledge that whether you’re working full-time or part-time or – technically, though far from it – not at all, mothering is hard.

The battle wages within me because I want it all: I want to be the one primarily caring for my son, but I feel and I know that I’m a better mama when I have time away from the Little Bugger, when I have the time and space to write, not just during nap time or after Dada walks through the door.  And through these moments, through the beauty and the muck of the Ordinary Everyday, I make choices: I choose to fling myself on the sleeping bag thrown in the corner of the room that should have been rolled up two weeks ago because Baby wants to play Fling-Yourself-On-Large-Objects – but then I also choose to open my laptop and write for 20 minutes, because it’s healthy for him to see Mama write and create and work.

I hold most everything loosely, because if parenting has taught me anything at all, it’s that Little Humans are far from linear, so what works today may not work tomorrow.  Like the flexibility test held each year in P.E., I practice my toe reach, and when the teacher tells me that I need to do yoga more so I don’t end up a crippled old lady, I laugh and I stretch and I throw grace, grace, grace towards my own self, even when I don’t quite have flexibility down pat this morning.  Or ever, for that matter.

These are not my toes, just in case you're wondering if I can reach them.  Photo cred: Style & Wisdom.
These are not my toes, just in case you’re wondering if I can reach them. Photo cred: Style & Wisdom.

But it’s in this inability to perfectly bend over and reach our toes that keeps us human – and I suppose for now, that is enough, at least for today.  So friends, let’s keep being real about what’s hard.

If you’re a mama or a daddy, find some peeps you can let down your guard with, in and through the woes of toys doused in toilet water and murmurings of “aw sh, aw sh, aw sh” spoken from the mimicking mouths of babes.  Did he just say what I think he said?  Who’d he learn that phrase from?  Honey…

And if your role in life is Friend, then be just that to the best of your ability: pick up that phone and schedule a date, or better yet, show up unannounced and ring the doorbell, with bottle of wine in hand.  Practice being together, letting words and silence be a part of your time with one another, and then even if you think your Old Lady Married Friend might not get it, share when it’s hard not having that “other.”

Because in my life and in your life, the little things are the big things, and Friend, I want to see your Show n Tell.

xo, c.

What about you?  Who’s in your life that you can let your guard down with?  And more importantly, did you ever dress up as a picnic table for Halloween?  

What I’m Into :: October 2013

It’s been a busy month here in be, mama. be land:

Sister was in town, road trips were taken and family – Oh, Lovely, Crazy Family – was seen…

Events and concerts were attended, writing was had and speaking was booked, parks and play dates and plain ol’ Cancan fun was had…

And then, lest we forget, our family decided to take the plunge and move to the ‘burbs, coming up in just two days now.

It’s been full to say the least, but for the first time in a moving long-time, I also don’t feel the burden of surrounding stress and foreboding loss of neighborly relationships – baby steps, people, baby steps.  So meanwhile, and without further adieu, here’s what we’ve been into this past month.  (Linking up with the lovely Leigh).

Where in we get our Halloweenie on.
Where in we get our Halloweenie on.

Books read: 

Superfreakonomics – 3/5.  I definitely enjoyed Levitt’s first book better, perhaps because all the scientific Global Warming talk got to be a bit too much. 

The Exodus Road – 2/5.  Eh.  While I’m sure there are lengthy stories to be told of rescuing women out of the holds of sex slavery, I felt like this book barely did the subject justice.  Maybe I wanted more, length-wise.  Maybe I wanted stories first-hand from the field – my tongue was wet in want, but not nearly satisfied.  

Love Does – 3/5.  Bob Goff is a storyteller, that’s for sure, and his book did make me want to step out of the ordinary and into the extraordinary – but I grew old of the style and found myself wanting to sit with him in person instead of before him in print.  

Pastrix – 5/5.  Bada bing, bada bang, BAM.  Read it.  

A Homemade Life – 5/5.  Again, winner winner, chicken dinner.  Loved it.  

When We Were on Fire – 4/5.  From the little I’ve gathered thus far, Addie Zierman is the bee’s knees – and if you’ve ever experienced the evangelical subculture, her story and journey are for you.   

On Stories – 3/5.  I’m a huge C.S. Lewis fan, and perhaps had I been around at the time of his critical essays of his peers, I’d have gotten more out of it.  

Going Bovine – 3/5.  As I said on Goodreads, this novel is Life of Pi meets a Ken Kesey drug-induced trip, YA-style.  But imaginative and witty?  Yes indeed.

The Cross in the Closet – 2.5/5.  I debate to what extent my assessment of Kurek’s book is based purely on feelings; that being said, while I admire his honesty, I didn’t agree with his experiment, and I desired another 10 years on him before writing a novel.  He’s just …young, and it shows.    

Currently reading: Les Miserables; Missional Church; Falling Together; Grace-Based Parenting; Atonement; The Signature of All Things; What the Dog Saw.

Boob tube: Weeds (um, love it); Criminal Minds; The Mentalist; Super Fun Night – I think that’s about it!

Movies: RED; This is the End; The Way Way Back – of these three, I so highly recommend the third.  Although Steve Carrell’s character is quite the ass, the centrality surrounding the relationships of the middle school boy are EPIC.

In the blogosphere: I’m a big fan of just sayin’ no to the shoulds, and Shauna Niequist nailed it yesterday.

On my blog: 1.  Apparently I need to take up Being a Supermodel.  2.  Perhaps I should join in with synchro-blogs more often – When We Were on Fire.  3.  But really, I’m going to be honest: I am way too much in love with vlogging, even if it doesn’t yield the highest stat results.  So, question: what would you like to see vlogged about, and say the Amazing Micha were to join in, what would you like us to ponder in life?  

Pondering: Should I do nanowrimo?  Should I join in a friends-only weight-loss competition?  ...See above “should” reminder article by Niequist, and there is your answer, Self.  

Cooking: We’ve had take-out the past two nights, and I’m betting we’ll make it five in a row since the kitchen is nearly packed – but I did make some pretty amaze balls taco soup in the Crock Pot last week, thankyouverymuch.  (Recipe coming soon).

Okay, fine, here’s one last picture of the Little Bubs – twist my arm, people!

be still my heart.
be still my heart.

xoxo, c.

What I'm Into site

What about you?  What’s marked your October, and more importantly, do you want to become supermodels together?  Let me know. 

a walk, a song & the return of joy.

It was just an ordinary Friday afternoon: Cancan and I had driven to the local BART station to drop off the car for Daddy.  See, we’ve embraced City Life for all its worth by only having one car – I, in return, toss labels like “sexy” and “living simply” and “eco-savvy” onto our choice of transportation [the choice of transportation that equals out to me getting the car most of the week], while the HBH (…rightfully) guffaws at the hassle of it all.  But there we were, on the corner of Ocean and San Jose; Baby strapped in the stroller, I checked to make sure the car was clear of belongings and subsequently texted Husband the address.  Earphones in place, I steadied myself for the long upward descent home, and then it happened.

Music started playing.

Mind you, I realize this is considered normal to the great majority of 21st century Americans, particularly those who pop earphones into their ears and wait for a listening reaction to occur.

But for me (First World Problem, First World Problem…), in order to save space on my phone, I’d purposefully not synced the itunes album on my computer with the album on my phone.  And then the break-in happened, and all of our pictures and my Masters coursework and that which could be considered my livelihood of writing and speaking documents were lost, along with the music, too.

And a slew of emotions ensued: I was angry and I was sad and I was bitter, seemingly all at the same time.  I mourned and I shook my fist and I grew paranoid at the very thought of the Comcast man parked obtrusively in front of our house, as the police said it was a group of thieves posting as service workers who likely broke in to our residence.  I drove around the block three times and then I parked in our driveway again, and I ran inside and grabbed the new laptop and the borrowed iPad because I would not let this happen again.  I cussed and I screamed, but then I pulled to the side of the road, and with deep breaths I said, FEAR, You will not get the best of me.  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, come…

So here we were, just a couple days after circling the block, when the music started playing.

And walking up the sidewalk, I looked to my right to see if the sound was coming from the park, and across my shoulder to the other side to see if a parked car was playing the haunting, soul-searching echoes of the cello and its accompanying strings.  But then I realized that it was coming from my ears – my ears – and it was my music – my music – and with tears in my eyes, I picked up my phone from its hiding place, and I looked at the screen in disbelief.

Zoe Keating - check her out.  Photo cred: NPR.
Zoe Keating – check her out. Photo cred: NPR.

Somehow, the magical world of iCloud had saved my music, even if it took me six weeks to realize it.

So, my legs began pumping faster as the hill started to rise, purposeful, purposeful, as Hope started to sing its way into my soul, as Beauty opened my eyes to her Already-In-Existence self.  I listened to the mournful cellist, Zoe Keating, pour her own self into her stringed instrument, to my favorite of songs, “Sun Will Set,” and I was again reminded of new beginnings, each day, every day, given anew.  Grace massaged my tired shoulders as I pushed the stroller up the hill: the sun will rise and the sun will set, but tomorrow is a new day.  And with it comes the unimagined, refueling abundance of more Hope and more Beauty and more Grace.

The smile would not wear on my face, but grew with each step, the depths of its very existence filling my insides and reaching out its gnarled fingers to strangers I passed on gritty street corners, to the old man crossing the street with suitcase in tote.

Because I guess for a little while there, I’d forgotten what joy was like.  

But then – as often happens, I suppose – that gentle reminder, that loving nudge pushed its way in …and this time, I said yes.  And it wasn’t that my music was saved, per say, but it was that reminder of Hope Remaining, the combination of the song and the day and the loveliness of God cupping me in the palms of his hands, saying, I’ve got you.  

I’m grateful.

(I’m also really, really glad Apple products are smarter than the average user.  Ahem).

What about you?  What’s given you Hope lately?  What’s brought back joy and put a pep in your step lately?  

jesus raps & then some (vlog).

Friendlies:

It’s happened again: we’ve got another memoir on the docket, subcategory: spiritual, at that.  This book is hot off the press, having just come out last week, and especially if you’ve ever found yourself nipping at the buds of the Evangelical culture, this book is for you. Otherwise, well, there might be a better fit of a book for you.  The book? When We Were on Fire by Addie Zierman.

PS: In other news, white girl gets her rap on in this vlog.  Just you wait.

Happy Friday!

(If you’re looking at this via e-mail, you may have to view it in your actual browser).  

What about you?  Have you ever had an “on fire” time in your life?  And more importantly, what’s the best rap you know?  Go!   

This post contains a link to Amazon, so if you click on the aforementioned link and buy the book, you inadvertently support my reading habits, and therefore this blog.  Thank you!

macy, sushi, baby, steeple.

We’ll be nodding our heads and closing our eyes and singing our souls to this little slice of musical heaven tonite…

Macy Gray.  Photo cred: Billboard.
Macy Gray. Photo cred: Billboard.

And we’ll be eating a plate or two of this, because it’s kind of our favorite date night food…

Sushi.  Photo cred: Mizu, Milwaukee.
Sushi. Photo cred: Mizu, Milwaukee.

And while we’ll probably tell a story or two about how he’s a total Food Moaner when he eats now, and how he does a victory lap around his crib whenever he wakes up – this little bugger won’t be with us…

Moan, Moan, Moan (Life is Good).
Moan, Moan, Moan (Life is Good).

Because we’re grateful that these people – the lovely, beautiful, messy, imperfect Church People – say You need a date night, and they force us to let them take him for the evening.

Church_steeple_with_clouds
Photo cred: Wikipedia.

Fine. 

And really, it’s how we all should be acting towards each other anyway.

I’m grateful.

What about you?  How is your soul being fed with little, lovely acts of kindness?  But more importantly, are you a Food Moaner?

 

liebstered.

Ya’ll: it’s been awhile since I boasted an award.  I mean, I did win an award for Excellent Punctuality while working at Starbucks in college, but that quickly lost its shine when I then was told I was too chatty with the customers.  So I’m friendly, Bossy-Boss, what’s wrong with that?  But tell me, what’s your favorite color?  How was your weekend?  Want to be besties?

Liebster!  Liebster!

But today is different, for today I’ve been Liebstered.  

The Liebster Award is given by nomination from a fellow blogger.  It’s an award for small bloggers made to encourage one another.  Liebster is a German word for “sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing & welcome.”

And really, if you’re reading this right now, you’re a Liebster in my heart – but first, a few questions need to be answered…

1.  Why did you start blogging?  Quite honestly?  To gain a platform and subsequent audience upon entering the wide, wide world of writing and speaking – and here we are!

2.  What is your favorite book?  That’s such a mean question.  Ugh.  But Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (Annie Dillard) and Traveling Mercies (Anne Lamott) will always remain two of my very favorite books, forever and ever, always.  (Madeleine L’Engle, Lauren Winner and YA author John Green are quickly climbing up the favorite author ladder as well).

3.  What makes you laugh out loud?  My baby.  And the HBH (Hot Black Husband).  And if you’re looking for something more generally accessible to the general public, Tina Fey, hands down.

I really need to be more artistic in my Instagramming, but I mean, come on!
I really need to be more artistic in my Instagramming, but I mean, come on!

4.  What is your favorite social media?  Instagram, always.

5.  Who would play you in a movie?  Hmm – although I’d love to hand the honor (ahem) to Julia Roberts, I’m going for Molly Shannon because that would quite possibly be nothing short of hilariously amazing.  Superstar!

6.  How long have you been blogging?  I initially started blogging back in 2005, as a way to tell stories upon stepping into full-time ministry.  But I wasn’t very good at a) writing regularly, and b) being all the way honest with myself and with others (because I thought I needed to put on my Everything Is Perfect When You’re Working for Jesus hat).  So, with regularity and intentionality, it’s been for the past 10 months.

7.  What time of day do you write?  During that magical thing called nap time, or after the HBH gets home from work.

8.  What is the most annoying song in the universe?  I Wanna Sex You Up!  You’re welcome.

9.  What part of your home is your favorite?  The dining room table – because that’s where the most intentional and beautiful and delicious of life happens.

10.  What is your favorite recipe?  That too is a very, very mean question, so I’m going to go with two mentioned last week, Cheesy Egg Rice and Molly Wizenberg’s Spring Salad with Avocado and Feta.  (Of the latter, it’s the third recipe down, but I wasn’t able to link it directly for some reason).

11.  What is your favorite season?  Although I love the orange and browns of fall, my internal body temperature is happiest in or around a balmy 75-80 degrees.  So I’m going with summer: dinner’s on the grill, heirloom tomatoes are in abundance and Adventure seems to loom, always, ever present.

Thank you, Katie, for this lovely award – you are a kindred spirit of a soul, and we will meet in person someday.  So, go: DO check out Katie’s blog, Cardigan Way, and also think about how you can cheer her and her husband on in their current adoption process.

And now, one of the best parts of this award is that as soon as you win it, you get to pass on the award love to one of your own favorite bloggers.  I’m excited to nominate a dear old friend from back in the college days for her very own Liebster Award:

Jen of Laugh Often, Laugh Much.  

Jen is real and raw and has the ability to make each human being she encounters feel like a million bucks.  I love that about her, so head over to her blog and say hello!  

That’s it for today – so, what resonated with you?  But this is what I really want to hear: what’s the best award you’ve ever won?  (Brag away). 

a marriage myth dispelled.

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Yesterday author and blogger Rachel Held Evans ran a thought-provoking and (as per her usual) at-times amusing article entitled, “10 Marriage Reality Checks (from 10 Years of Marriage.”  In it, she briefly examines ten myths of marriage, with its accompanying reality counterpart – and I’ll let you read the rest of the piece on your own, but as RHE always does so well, she invites her readers to be a part of the discussion.  What are some marriage myths and reality checks you’ve learned along the way, she asks.

My response was immediate, for its myth poured over and into and onto me for years before its actual ceremonial day:

Myth: Marriage makes you a better person.

Reality: Being stripped down to the core of who you are as a person, relationally (no matter what or who the relationship), makes you a better person.

For years I held to the belief that with marriage would come a more complete version of me, Cara 2.0, Cara Perfected, Cara Fully Redeemed.  With future mate in mind, I looked forward to that day when those broken, ugly parts of me would be stomped out and overwhelmed by the sheer beauty and power of love.  It was as if we stood as two negative numbers – and by pure mathematical strength alone, with negative times negative, our less-than-perfect selves would somehow magically equal a positive.

And when I’d find myself needing and desiring a man’s fulfillment (and a husband’s specifically), I’d scoff at my own silliness and I’d stomp out mere musings of the very thought, mumbling that week’s version of I am woman, hear me roar!  I’d look at friends who were married, and I’d see imperfections here and there (and everywhere), and I’d realize that they were far from having all their shit together.  But then that evil game of Compare & Contrast would cyclically wind its way into my mind again, and I’d see the house they owned (vs. she who could barely make rent), and I’d see that they never had to worry about their Saturday night plans (vs. she whose social life and identity depended on it).  And I’d think to myself, It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter… 

But like that annoying, pesky fly trapped on the windowsill, I couldn’t swat the thought away: I wanted marriage because I wanted to be a better person.  Because truthfully, that’s what I’d been told.  By the time I finally got to a “marrying age,” the message was stagnantly, repeatedly the same:

“I knew he was the one for me when I realized that he made me want to be a better person.”  

“There’s just something about marriage, for you’re stronger together than you would be apart.”  

“Just wait, Cara – marriage is just around the corner, and you’ll find that just by him being him, and you being you, it’s good.  It’s better.  It’s the best.”  

And while each of these sentiments stated as truth, innocently and purely enough at one time or another, there is an absolute untruth communicated to our single friends in particular when such words are said.  Whether someone has chosen singleness as a way of life, or yearns for a life partner, whether recently divorced or widowed or found loveless in the confines of a relationship, marriage in and of itself doesn’t make you a better or stronger person, just as the ceremonial donning of an Mrs. Degree doesn’t suddenly elicit the best life has to offer.

But it’s in the reality of being stripped down to the core of who you are as a person, its fullness found in relationships, that you are made a better person.

This happens at 3 in the morning, when Baby wakes up for the third time that night, and you find yourself frustrated – so utterly frustrated and tired and exhausted – that he won’t go back to sleep, that he just wants to play, that he screams every time you put him down.  But truth is found in the nighttime, so how then will you respond to his needs?  

And this choice of response, because of this profound relationship, somehow, makes you a better person.

This happens with that friend whom you’ve called Friend for years, when over a salt-rimmed margarita and chips you have a hard, but good conversation.  You love each other so much that she’s willing to call you on your crap – she’s scared and she trembles, but she’s willing to say the hard thing, because this is what Love Does.

And this hard conversation, through true friendship, makes you a better person.  

This happens when you’re sitting on the creaky wooden pew, two rows from the back, just close enough to the edge to slip out quickly after Communion.  You’re singing “Holy, Holy, Holy,” when suddenly a gulp wells in your throat and you can’t sing anymore because you realize you’re engulfed in something bigger than yourself.  This Love envelops you.

And this Love (from which love began) stills and transforms and makes you a better person. 

And, truth be told, this does happen most significantly day in and day out in the relationship with my husband.  Because he knows me – he knows the good and the bad and the ugly of me – and he somehow chooses to love me just the same.  He chooses to love me when anger and sadness and hurt overwhelm my heart, when the roots of those core emotions cause me lash out at him like an animal scratching at the corner of my own confining cage.

And it is in the day-in, day-out, beautiful, messy grind of this relationship that I am made a better person.   

But it’s in the relationship, not the institution, and it’s merely part and parcel of the bigger picture of this whole idea of “betterment.”

So friends, let’s be careful with our words.  Let’s think about how we phrase our well-intentioned advice, and let’s stop romanticizing the perfected ideal of marriage.  Let’s lean into the many, varied relationships in our lives, be it our family and our friends, our community and our places of worship, and let’s let it be honest and messy and real for a change.

Let’s do this.

What about you?  What beliefs about marriage have you clung to, whether myth or reality?    And who (or what) has made you a better person?  

a letter to my mine.

Every once in awhile I get mushy and mama-y and need to remember these times, this present-tense adventure with the Little Bugger – so, for today, a Letter To My Mine.  And I know, it’s so, so mama-bloggeresque, which makes me slightly cringe as a writer, but it’s the truth – my truth – today.  Enjoy.  

1390780_10151902225032988_164974211_n
Cancan the Professional Rocker. 

Dear Baby,

You cray-cray.

You are lovable and huggable, never pausing for a moment’s rest.  You are smart and you are daring and you are courageous; you give me a new appreciation for the phrase “All Boy.”  I get it.  I understand its full meaning now, in a way I never did before.

The world is your jungle gym, quite literally, upon which you flounce your little body and climb to the highest of heights, looking back not for my help, but for my approval.  And Baby, I approve.  I cheer you on.  I see you and I believe in you and, like you, I wish I too could flail my body without consequence toward the massive pile of blankets and sleeping bags and camping pads propped up against giant Bear-Bear in the corner of your room.  Life is simply one big adventure for you, and I acknowledge now that this will likely end in a visit to the Emergency Room before the age of five.  And when that happens, I’ll cry along with you and I’ll hold you if you’ll let me, but – just warning you – I’ll probably close my eyes if there’s a needle or blood or puking, no offense.

For Cancan, you are one independent, spirited tiny human.  You won’t let us feed you anymore, preferring to spoon-feed your face and your shirt and your hair and a little bit of your mouth your favorite applesauce-yogurt-peanut butter mixture.  You loathe the process of being strapped into your carseat and stroller now, because it means that you don’t get to walk and run and toddle freely.  And you’re even attempting to dress yourself, mimicking the way Mama and Dada put your shoes and socks on, hoping to mirror the same actions.  You are a brilliant being, you are.

And those words – ugh, you little talking fool.  You call us by name, and you call your loafers “sh!” and you call every person you meet Baby.  Hello cute little old church lady – Baby. Hello Mr. Illegal Pharmaceutical Sales Representative on the corner of Ashton and Holloway – Baby.  Hello San Francisco State college kid skating down the street, late to class – Baby.  And in a way, I think you’re right: for at one time or another, they too were babies, they too (one can hope) had their mamas who stared at them with wonder and delight, changed by their very existence.

For that’s who you are: you are an existence changer.  And for that, I’m most grateful, and I’ll continue to throw the mush out there if it means realizing how you’ve changed me for the better, for the always.  Because Baby, there’s no place I’d rather be than learning and adventuring and being with you in this life.

Now come and give Mama loves.  Please?  

xo, mama.

Who’s changed you?  What letter do you need to write to your Mine today?  And seriously, how cute is my kid?  

what kind of mover are you?

[Warning: this post contains total first-world problems.  Just sayin’]

Huge piles of cardboard boxes

I’m currently sitting at the dining room table, surrounded by a newly-found pile of books to sell on Amazon, three garbage bags full of clothes to give to Goodwill …and a box or two packed in anticipation for the move in a couple of weeks.  And I realize – because sometimes it takes me a while to acknowledge that not everyone in the world is just like me – that not everyone likes to binge and purge before a move.

This I muse over…

Because there are those who like to binge and purge before the move, perhaps, quite definitely creating more work than ever intended.  I take pride in my ever-growing Goodwill pile, I’m telling you!

There are those who like to box up all their crap before the move, and then sort through its contents upon arrival in the new abode.  (But do they ever actually sort?  That is the question).

There are those who rally the troops via a “FREE PIZZA AND BEER!” email, but as the HBH says, I’d rather just be invited over for dinner.  He’s over it – but free dinner?  Yes, please.

There are those who hire moving companies, and there are those who, with pride, can still pack all of their belongings into one car.  Books and clothes, books and clothes!  I boasted owning nothing but until about the age of 25.

And then there are those whose moving companies pack and move all the belongings – imagine that, Fancy Pants!

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So, what am I missing?  What would you add, and most importantly, what kind of mover are you?  

mullets and foodies (vlog).

Friendlies:

I’m not sure how it’s happened two weeks’ in a row, but I’ve got two five-star reviews for you, two weeks in a row.  It’s an October miracle!  This food memoir trumps French Women Don’t Get Fat, the first foodie-book vlogged about, by about one million miles.   The book?  A Homemade Life by Molly Wizenberg – and if it doesn’t make you want to embrace your kitchen like never before, well, then Amazon will surely give you your money back.

Maybe.

Enjoy!

What about you?  Have you read Wizenberg’s book, and are you on the look out for her second book, coming out this spring?  More importantly, how have you embraced your own homemade life?

This post contains a link to Amazon, so if you click on the aforementioned link and buy the book, you inadvertently support my reading habits, and therefore this blog.  Thank you!