A Migraine Story

I experienced my second-ever migraine on Sunday morning. Katie burst in my bedroom about 5 minutes past time-for-church o'clock and impatiently asked if I would please move my car since I was parked behind her. (Which I did to provoke her, of course.) From my pile of pillows I peered up at that righteous, freshly-showered, well-dressed sister of mine. 

While Katie rolled her eyes impatiently, my eyes throbbed painfully in their sockets. So I shut them once more and told Katie she could just take my car instead. 

"Are you coming to church?" 

"...No."

"Are you coming to choir?" Uh-oh...

"Nuh-uh."

"Why?"

"Because... I see spots."

"SIGH... Where are your keys??"

I rolled over and groped around blindly for the purse next to my bed... Grope, grab, dig, shuffle, jingle, jangle... 

"Here." Toss...

Door shuts. And somehow, Lauren falls back to sleep...

I couldn't tell you much about the rest of the morning, but when I woke up again a couple hours later, my heart was pounding and the words "Quarter Quell" were racing through my mind... Yes, a nasty migraine might be easily explained if I were subconsciously participating in The Hunger Games all night long. But given my sister's attitude that morning, I doubt my dream self volunteered as tribute on her behalf. 

...

Tiny

In the movie Enough Said, James Gandolfini's character asks: "Why do women like things that look like they belong to children?"

Julia Louis-Dreyfus replies: "You know what I love? Dollhouse furniture. I would eat it if I could."

Lately I've been obsessed with Tiny Houses. Not sure if this is just part of a broader female obsession with all things miniature as the above exchange suggests, but I love them. Tiny porches, tiny chimneys, and tiny shutters! 

Cuteness aside, I find the concept of living on less appealing - especially when you consider the average house size in the US has doubled in the last 40 years, even though family sizes are much smaller. (I know this because a documentary told me.) 2 houses in my parents' neighborhood were recently bulldozed to make way for a 9,000 square foot behemoth that will house a family of 4. That's 2,250 square feet per person. That seems just as insane as trying to live on a much smaller scale. The home I grew up in is roughly 60 years old and has 4 bedrooms (5 if you're desperate) and 2 bathrooms. It's also the home my mother grew up in with her sisters... All 6 of them. By today's standards, that's a lot of people (GIRLS!!) in one home that size. 

Even if you admire the concept of tiny homes as I do, you still probably think it's extreme - "Where would you keep all your stuff?" or "How would you entertain guests?" I think these are a couple of reasons why a small house would be ideal... I don't want to mindlessly accumulate more things (books, movies, and thimbles being the exception) nor do I want to pay for a great big house for the sole purpose of maybe entertaining large groups every once in a while. I just don't know that many people. If we do get together, let's meet at a restaurant or a movie. Let's congregate outdoors for a barbecue or have a picnic. You can still come over, I just might not have a living room that seats everyone comfortably. 

So, how tiny is tiny? I will admit that some tiny houses are probably too tiny for my taste. Like, 125 square feet tiny. Most of these are usually relocatable homes on wheels - the kind a modern-day Laura Ingalls Wilder might settle down in while on the prairie. Personally, I would want something permanent with a bit more square footage. Mobility is nice, but that's what camper trailers are for. And some tiny houses really are just glorified camper trailers. 

Anyway... If you have Netflix, you should check out a documentary called Tiny: A Story About Living Small. Then if you're game, maybe we could be tiny house neighbors. Because how cute would that be??

Kryptonite

Things are rather grim at the moment. The following is an exaggeration, but the melodrama makes me feel better...

The air conditioning is spewing very little air into my bedroom and I don't much like how loud my trusty box fan is when turned up to its highest setting. It's what I imagine riding in a fan-propelled airboat on a bayou would sound like. But the cool-but-noisy vs. still-but-sweltering debate is a no-brainer: cool-but-noisy every time. 

Last night I woke up in a fit because I was too hot. Pillows, blankets, PJs, hair, etc. - all uncomfortably warm and heavy and terrible. A sleep-tantrum ensued and I kicked every offending article from my bed. Lost my cool because I couldn't keep my cool. 

A lesson on Kryptonite (as outlined on Wikipedia): 

Superman is most vulnerable to Kryptonite... Exposure to Kryptonite nullifies Superman's powers and immobilizes him with pain and nausea; prolonged exposure will eventually kill him.

Substitute "kryptonite" and "Superman" with "heat" and "Lauren" (respectively) and adjust the pronouns... There... That about covers it. (It will kill me.)

DISCLAIMER: Hot weather related whine-posts will continue through September at the latest.

Birthday Song

This evening we celebrated my Grandma's 78th birthday by taking her to dinner. She wore tan capris, a black blouse, strappy black wedge sandals (to show off her pedicure), and a gold anklet with tiny pearls. She always looks just so. Over enchiladas and free margaritas we shared a lovely evening chatting, laughing, and feeling collectively traumatized by some of my Dad's jokes. 

Grandma told us how her older brother called her earlier today and sang "Happy Birthday" over the phone; how over the years he would always call on her birthday and sing to her. As he now suffers from dementia and rarely utters more than a dozen words a day, this phone call was pretty remarkable. He even managed a few minutes of conversation. I'm so happy that Grandma received such a kindness on her birthday as hearing her brother's voice. Where would we be without those for whom we sing "Happy Birthday" and those dear few who sing for us?

Grandma Donna, Uncle Gilbert, Uncle Joe, Aunt Virginia

Too often I will clear broad pathways in my mind and allow discouragement and negativity to march their terrible parades. Remembering happy moments, like those from this evening, never occurs to me as much as remembering the painful ones - embarrassment, anger, disappointment, sadness. My Grandma told me she's afraid she spends too much time thinking about things in her past she cannot change. We have that in common. But worrying never brings comfort, only more worry. Don't pick at it, Lauren. You're only making it worse. So instead of looking too far behind or too far ahead as I often do, I simply wanted to remember this evening while it's still just now. 

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

Lauren's Open Letters...

Dear Pinterest,

Cool it with the near-pornographic health & fitness pins of women flexing their tanned, air-brushed bottoms in tiny panties. Do you want to motivate women or discourage them before they even know what your "booty-licious butt workout" is all about? Sounds gross. Looks grosser. 

Dear Rain,

More... MOOORRREEEEE!!!

Dear Important Public Figures Who Die And Are Suddenly Quoted By The Masses Online, 

I guess we're honoring your legacy by recalling all the beautiful things you said while you were still with us. Things we once pinned on Pinterest. Or scribbled on a Post-It we later placed on our bathroom mirrors as encouragement. (Maybe that was just me...) Yes, hopefully now we'll try a little harder to live by your wisdom... But let's also hope your words were attributed correctly on the internet to begin with.

Dear Cute Sandwich Guy,

Thanks for making my tasty turkey and cranberry sandwich on wheat. Though I'd still probably thank you even if you weren't cute, as attractiveness usually doesn't signify any guy's ability to make a tasty sandwich. But then this would be addressed to "Sandwich Guy" instead of "Cute Sandwich Guy," so... 

Dear Guy Running Next to Me On A Treadmill,

Uh-oh... You’ve jammed your machine a couple times now... I'm not sure hanging off the console like that is good running form. Looks a bit awkward. And you seem fit - I saw you walking upright when you got here! Just run with the treadmill, not against it. And if you can't, ease up on the incline and dial back the speed to a more comfortable pace. "It is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength." That's why you see me just chuggin' along. Let's chug together.  

Dear Ichiban Sushi,

Thank you for the extra eel sauce! You know you don't drizzle enough of that stuff on your Vegas Roll... Next time I think I'll just have a bowl of the eel sauce with my sushi as a side. 

Dear This,

I haven't heard of a Northern gentleman, but I do think an English gentleman trumps a Southern gentleman every time. I could drop a few names if you'd like...

Dear Girl Who Keeps Referring to Herself as a Solid 7,

I've heard you repeat the same dating stories a few times now. Stories in which you relate all the reasons why, on a scale of 1 to 10, you think you're a 7. Or how you've dated a bunch of zeros. As a Solid 3, I appreciate that you have better self-esteem than myself (unless this is really just an exercise in building confidence?) and yeah, I bet it is hard out there for a 7... But rating yourself and then gloating about it? I'm docking you a couple points. Which, I realize, would make me about a 1... Since I'm just sitting here complaining about you on the internet.  

Dear Roadkill Scattered All Over The Highway On My Way To Work,

You are one of the less pleasant signs of summer and you make me sad. Then after a few days, you make me sick. I often can't identify what you once were - probably something with a cute, furry face - but whatever your species, please save your little 4-legged selves and stay away from the road. Remember, that big loud thing with 18 wheels can move a lot faster than you and it doesn't care how cute you are.

Dear Adventure Time,

Like Spongebob Squarepants, you are funny, strange, and just a little bit perverted. Only slightly moreso.

Sincerely,

The Solid 3

P.S. Sometimes I hate everything I type (too snarky! too boring! too personal!), but then I consider the time I took to type it and the time it would take revising before I didn't hate it anymore... Aaaaannndd publish.

Ten Years Later

For the last few months, I've been preoccupied by the thought that I'll be turning 29 (the final frontier of my twenties) in December. I've thought about it so often that while entering my personal information on a treadmill at the gym - age, weight, workout duration - I absentmindedly listed my age as 29. (I entered the weight incorrectly as well, just not quite so absentmindedly.) I also recently told someone I was 29, then backpedalled and assured them I was really only 28. Most people think I'm about 20 years old anyway, so whatever... Maybe my subconscious is making peace with 29 so that when December 9, 2014 does finally arrive, it won't sting quite so much. I'm 28... I'm 28... I'm 28...

Another milestone I've blogged about recently which ties into this approaching birthday - my 10 year high school reunion. I have friends who want to go and other friends who (really) don't want to go. Meanwhile, I'm thinking why don't we just plan something we ALL want to do and then all go do that thing instead? We'll see... Parts of me are curious about meeting up with the Class of '04, but more parts of me find the prospect pretty repellent. Eesh. 

We'll see.

4th of July Weekend

Eberspachers & Waters... Park City... Chick's Cafe... 1776... Cascade Springs... Fireworks... Reverse Charades... Disney Charades (lots of charades...) The Secret Life of Walter Mitty... Jetted Tub... Would You Rather?... Provo River... Cafe Rio... Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory... Shadow Ridge... Heber City... Canyon Drive... Catch Phrase...

I only wish the Declaration of Independence had been signed in May. May temperatures are much more comfortable.