They Call It Xanadu...

I wake up every morning with a song in my head. It's as though my eyes flick open and someone presses the play button as the bluish morning light floods in. This first song usually sets the theme for the music I'll be listening to for the rest of the day.
For no less than 10 days in a row, beginning in mid-February, I woke up to this:

Uh-huh.
It should probably be pointed out that my 'alarm' is my cell phone set to vibrate, so it's not as if the tone of it is stimulating some kind of reflexive synaptic response in the form of musical memory. I have no idea where Xanadu comes from.

After the 'Xanadu Spell', the next several days looked like this:

(Dramatic intro and all:)

Side note: I sense an unfortunate lack of Loverboy in the world today. With a classy album cover like this, how were they ever forgotten?

Flawless. And buttery smooth.

This song feels like skipping through fields of daisies.

And then this morning:

Which is funny, since I'm not in love. I guess I'm just really feeling Van Halen. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Van Halen for their numerous contributions to my collection of power ballad love songs.
Thank you, Van Halen.

I don't really expect you to listen to all of them. It's alright. But doing so might help you more-fully comprehend the utter unpredictability of this phenomenon -and why I burst out laughing one morning when this sprang to life between my ears:

I apologize in advance for the Xanadu Spell you are likely to experience over the next week and a half. All I can say is: enjoy.

Grace in a Dream

I wasn't feeling well when I woke up this morning; not well at all. As much as I'd like to deny the reality, it's pretty common these days. But not unmanageable. After sitting on the bathroom floor for the better part of on hour, feeling the coolness of the tub ledge pressing into my cheek, I ambled back to my bedroom to try to get back to sleep.
The sky wasn't dark anymore, but with all the clouds out today, it wasn't light either. Instead, the faint traces of morning illuminated my walls and ceiling with a soft greyish-blue. I slipped easily between sleep and consciousness and, as often happens in this stage of repose, vivid dream.

Whenever I am fortunate enough to remember my dreams, which isn't often, I am surprised by how many people I can recall seeing. Cousins, siblings, teachers, parents, friends -near to me and so far away, kindred spirits, mere acquaintances. They pass me on the street, show up at church, and wave on their way to class. Sometimes I think I must have seen every soul I've ever met.

I don't remember much except for the most important parts. My cousin Jaime was showing me around my new ward. I think I ran into Heidi, my Welsh friend from when I was ten. At some point, I may have lost a shoe. Railee and I wandered hand-in-hand, like happy children, through the forests and ponds of somewhere. Treetops pierced by the amber glaze of winter evening's light. Hours passed in minutes.

Near the end, I met my favorite visitor, as I often do. There she was: my sweet Risa. Her wasted wrists, her short-cropped hair, her smile and bright eyes, unchanged. I never look for her. She finds me. Often. She giggled and talked animatedly to Railee and me. I don't remember what she said. I wish I could.
The light was getting stronger now, like the day was going in reverse. I could feel the goodbyes coming and it hurt. We sat tangled in each others' arms crying quiet, grateful tears -soaking in our time together before we'd have to open our eyes.

I woke. I wasn't crying. I was breathing in tempo with the ticking clock, feeling her slip from behind my eyelids. Feeling well.

Not Obsessive, Just Compulsive

As I began to empty the freshly-laundered contents of my hamper onto my bed this evening, I prepared my mind for the delicious refuge that is weekend folding. During the week, I tend to get consumed by homework I need to do, exams I need to study for, papers I need to write, classes I need to not be late for. But when I'm folding, I enjoy the blissful retreat of pondering life's eternal mysteries, doing mental check-ups on my loved-ones, and appraising my progress toward my most lofty aspirations. Vacuuming has a similar potential effect, but the temptation to sing loudly without anyone hearing usually wins out.

I folded all of the towels, then the night shirts, and was half-way through the socks when my thoughts turned to Genevieve. Her birthday is coming up. I miss her. I often think of her when I'm folding because she is such an expert folder. Really. I would estimate that about ninety percent of the time, I am dissatisfied with my fold-quality and I itch to fold and re-fold until things are looking right, but my rational brain tells me to just let it go and get the job done. Genevieve applies the same tender care and precision to each fold that we wish we all did. Perhaps those outside of the vanity-folding community may not understand, but a finished stack of t-shirts, carefully arranged by Genevieve, is a beauty to behold. Ultimately, it's not about vanity; I know I'm the only one who sees the contents of my dresser drawers. It's a matter a principle, of putting care into your work and doing something that makes you feel good inside. (And by 'you', I suppose I really mean 'me'.)

So I refolded everything. I took my time. I made beautiful, even, wrinkle-free stacks of towels, night-clothes, and socks. I then proceeded to re-make my bed, complete with hospital corners. I emptied my dresser and made pretty little stacks of running clothes, tank tops, t-shirts and the like -all the while, musing and meditating, reflecting and resolving.

It's a trivial thing, but it's a small way to clear some clutter and clear your mind. I wouldn't suggest obsessively arranging your every possession in an attempt to achieve balance in your life, but you might try listening to that voice that encourages you to try a little harder, to stop cutting corners, to do the job you often wish you did. There are endless applications. Laundry, I have found, is a nice place to start.

This is how I do.

Have you ever been sitting in a meeting and thrilled yourself with the thought that there is absolutely nothing stopping you from jumping up on the table and dancing the macarena? Nothing besides your own sense of propriety, of course. I often find myself entertaining the thought of doing the wildly spontaneous or the uncharacteristically bold.
Sometimes the idea of doing something I would never do is too attractive to resist. So I do it.
Last week, on my way home from anatomy lab, I was on top of the world. Brimming with joy, I itched to skip my way home like a giddy school girl. But of course, I wouldn't do that, for fear of being scorned by my fellow students.
So I skipped home.
I have a reputation for being a straight-laced, picture-straightener type of person. And until recently, spontaneity hasn't been my thing. This is a change of recent years. This is quite outside my comfort zone. This is how I got over my fear of donating blood. It's how I ran for Risa. It's how I got my hair cut today.
Maybe a hair cut doesn't seem like a big deal to most people. But after a long history of playing it safe, spontaneous haircuts are a first for me. After running an errand at the mall, I was passing a salon on the way out and thought, "I could cut my hair right now. But I wouldn't." So I did.

Here ya go mom, because you asked so nicely:

On on unrelated, totally related note, do you know how hard it is for me to take a picture of myself and post it on the internet? It's like this:

I hope you're happy.

Real Life and the Descending Order of Getup

Let's talk real life. Real life is me sitting at my desk, sipping hot chocolate from a Coke bottle with a bendy straw. Real life is the stubborn cold that's settled in my chest and refuses to relent. Real life is the fact that all of my food has recently adopted the flavor and aroma of kimchi. Real life has me thinking about people and impressions and the fact that we rarely see each other in the midst of 'real life'.

Have you ever noticed that first, second, and subsequent impressions often have the potential for abysmal failure? Something about the nature of formal introductions seems to permanently distance people. In fact, it seems too often that the divisions driven between people are simply the result of unfamiliarity. In my experience, the most successful and enduring of friendships are born from accidental impressions. I think this is because the further from formality you get, the more accessible people become. A person's quirks and foibles are what make them loveable and relatable. Real life is endearing. [Chest-colds are endearing, right?]

I woke up in my real life today feeling proper ill.
[Since you and I are separated by two computer screens and the World Wide Web, I could easily glaze over the truth of it and write another post about cake. Instead, I thought it best to square with you. Because, as discussed above, it's important to let people into your real life sometimes. ]
 So, after drinking half my weight in chamomile tea and thanking the Lord that I only have one class on Friday, I composed myself (somewhat) and started the walk to campus. Anyone who knows me well will know that my daily ensemble is a pretty good indicator of how much effort I'm putting in to life. And today was no exception.
I present to you the Descending Order of Getup:
Lots of effort: lots of effort.
Wearing pants, hair done, general normalcy: effort.
Wearing at least one article of men's clothing: lazy.
Men's clothing, hair up: business.
Spandex, hair up: running.
Bun: ballet.
Bun, thermal long johns [janes?]: sleeping, finals.
Bun, sweatpants, orthodontist t-shirt: hit by a bus.

Right now, we're hovering somewhere around 'hit by a bus'. I was able to maintain 'effort' for the amount of time I spent in public, but lost my gumption soon thereafter. I have high hopes for achieving 'business' status tomorrow.

At this point, I should probably mention that I might be real-life tripping on cold meds and a fever. So I apologize for any incoherent thoughts, sloppy structure, and/or possible misuse of the plural possessive of 'man'.

More cake soon.

Boom! Crash! Blammity!

I remember when you were the new boy at school. All the ladies were excited to see the girl/boy ratio increase to 4:1 and your arrival was the talk of the class. You were quiet that first day, we all thought you were so shy. But you quickly became yourself, and by the end of the week, you were drawing diagrams of your mom's fluffy hair on the white board for all to see.

Shortly thereafter, we actually met your mom. She's awesome. You admitted that your hair and her hair are pretty much the same. So you fluffed your hair and it became very much the same.

Remember when you wrote this? Everyone looked forward to the days for sharing impromptu speeches and creative writing assignments. We couldn't wait to see what you came up with next.

Remember your beloved Skittles chapstick, which you always applied in your signature Grant fashion?

Remember when we were both stuck in the doldrums of Advanced Mathematics during your senior year? I do. It was boring. So instead of doing work, we invented immigration techniques for pigmy Guatemalans. I still have those papers. I don't regret how we spent our time in math class that year -those are some of my fondest memories.

Remember how you could never reach your own shoulders? We never did figure out what was up with that. You always just credited it to having massive biceps. Whatever you say...

Remember how you're everyone's favorite person? I do. After Luke's graduation, you pretty much became the legacy kid of PHA. You were silly and sometimes outrageous, but you were always genuine. People loved you because they gravitated toward your spontaneity and independence, and your goodness.

You should know that you started the Muse revolution at PHA and are probably responsible for converting about 25% of their loyal fan-base. You should also know that my mother is now mildly obsessed (I know, after all those years of disapproval). I thought you'd like that.

Remember being 'Mr. Knightonly' at the dance festival? You decided the ruff wasn't doing you any favors and it was too itchy anyway, so you wadded it up and stuffed it in your pocket. Didn't you forget to put it back on for the performance? That, I can't remember.

I didn't make a cake for you this year. I'm sorry. My pans are packed away and I ran out of time. Did you see the cake from last year? It had a giant fondant 'G' top. We sang for you.

Happy 21, Grantius Maximus. I miss you. You're the Greatest man that ever lived:

Christmas on the Sales Floor and Stress Baking

I often think I'd like to live off of peppermint tea for the rest of my life. Then I remember I'm a baker.

For functional and therapeutic purposes alike, the holidays are a great time to be caught in a fit of marathon stress-baking. So, when I recently found myself in a particularly restless state, out came the stand mixer and measuring cups. Three batches of cookies, two batches of frosting, two dinners, and a loaf of bread later, the fog in my brain had dissipated. (As had all the food. It's nice to live around people who can take entire batches of cookies off your hands) Polish off with a kitchen full of dishes done four times over, and I'm feelin' fancy-free.


This last month, I was blessed in the form of cash and more cash when I was hired back for the holidays at my old job with [ImmerEinundzwanzig] (actual name not used here because I'm done saying it for the day and I think it makes the mouth sound lazy). I've enjoyed refreshing the important life skills useless parlor tricks that can only be developed and perfected by someone who has spent too long working in a clothing store. My repertoire includes being able to handle 150+ hangers at a time (clothing included), speed-folding, and a number of one-handed feats, including buttoning, tying (optional variation: bow-tying), zipping, hanging, and folding. The holiday season is so impossibly busy, my list of things to do turns into a kind of logic puzzle. I'm good at those. So naturally, I'm good at my job. It's a swell feeling.

On the other hand, sometimes people are less-than-civil to their local shopgirl. Some days they spill their sodas on my floor and leave me to tackle the atrocity with nothing more than paper towels and a garbage can. Some days they watch me lovingly fold a large pile of clothing, only to nonchalantly dump it onto the floor as I walk away. Some days they leave diapers in my dressing room.
Diapers.
On one such recent day, I was working in lingerie and doing my darnedest to appease the masses of holiday shoppers. After a brief hiatus from panty-land (one that involved soda and paper towels), I returned to find my section looking like a pink war zone. One look at my once beautifully-arranged table of delicates (now a heaping, tangled mountain of unmentionables) had me wanting to swear and burn all the lace in the world.
Making exasperated eyebrows at customers is discouraged, so my only consolation was the thought that in four hours I would be home with my feet up, teacup in hand.

A particular quote comes to mind (Sam, if I may):
"Chocolate cream pie! You know what I love about cooking? I love that after a day when nothing is sure and when I say nothing, I mean nothing. You can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. That's such a comfort."
-Julie Powell, Julie & Julia

And that's exactly what I did. Only I added the egg whites too, and made this:

That's right, it's another cake!
Whipped peppermint cream + smooth, velvety ganache = peace, love, and compassion.

Butter and sugar may not be good for the heart, but surely they are good for the soul -especially when shared with a room full of your favorite people. Once again, stress baking has saved the day.