Snowblowed

Our neighbors were not so neighborly in California. One called and reported us for parking in front of her house. For the record, it was public street parking! Open to all. The cop shrugged his shoulders and told us not to be offended…she’s called on others, so maybe just steer clear of that 12-foot space. Often we heard our next-door neighbor yelling at his girlfriend on the phone. And then there was the pervert across the street. The list goes on. Suffice it to say, we got used to watching our backs on our street and in L.A. in general.

When we moved back to Minnesota and settled into a cute rental house on a quiet cul-de-sac, we hoped our neighbors would be different. And they have not disappointed. They’ve been great. Which is why B was mortified when I decided to mow the lawn 8 months pregnant. What are they going to think of me?! Makin’ my prego wife cut the grass?! It’s also why he would have been mortified last week when I got Q down for his nap and decided to help out—shovel the driveway. Still in my red plaid pajama pants, I threw my boots on not caring whether the pjs went in or outside the boots. Live in Minnesota? You know the look. Pulled my hat down over my ears and zipped up my big warm coat. One cannot be vain in Minnesota when it’s 10 below and you have to shovel.

I stepped outside and one look at the driveway revealed that much more snow had fallen than I thought. At certain points, it was up to my knees. Nevertheless, I got to work, breathing in the crisp, sharp air to the rhythm of the shovel against pavement. A few minutes in, I was huffing and sweating and looking at our next-door neighbor—what with his fancy snow blower just easily and quickly clearing his driveway. Wow, he must feel like a tool I thought, self-righteously! Watching me do the hard work by hand! Really though, I was envious of the resources he had and I was also beginning to think that maybe our neighbors in California weren’t as bad as I remembered—at least they didn’t snow blow in front of me? I continued and a few neighbors drove by, waved. Well, I got half the driveway cleared. My back hurt, and I was nervous leaving Q in the house alone for too long. So I called it and hoped B would be impressed with that amount.

Late afternoon, I peeked out the front window to discover that—lo and behold—someone came and snow blowed the other half of our driveway. I was stunned. Kindness! We haven’t been used to this. I think it was more pity than anything. Someone saw this woman in raggedy pajama pants wielding a shovel bigger than her trying to clear snow.

When I called B to proudly tell him that I shoveled half the driveway and then Voila! ...that made someone feel bad and another Voila! ...now the whole driveway is clear for him, the first thing he said was “What?! Why were you out there?! What are the neighbors going to think of me?!”

We don’t know who did it though. And it’s not like we’re hanging outside right now, able to chit chat with the neighbors and ask around. I want to know so I can somehow repay them! Make them cookies. Send B over to shovel their driveway? Something?! But that’s the beauty of true kindness. It’s done quietly with no intention, sometimes no possibility, of repayment. And funny, I want to repay the person who did this, which would be nice, but in a twisted way it would somehow glorify me and make me look like a fancy-nice, thoughtful neighbor. True kindness humbles and inspires the receiver, leaving them no option but to do the same for another.   

Happy Book Day

It’d been so long. I hadn’t read a book—turned the pages, used a bookmark, let it rest on my night stand—since before Quade…pre-Q, as we say. I used to roam the aisles of Barnes & Noble slowly, sipping coffee. And after all rows had been combed I’d pick a book—the book! Now you should see me when I run into a store. I’m a maniac. The goal is to get in and out as fast as possible. The only reason I’m there in the first place is because I wasn’t able to get what I needed online from my phone while nursing. All this to say, I haven’t had time to go to Barnes & Noble and pick out a book! And I’ve thought about the library, but the cold weather, Q’s potential to scream like a pterodactyl, and the fact that I probably couldn’t get through a book before it was due ended that thought.

And then the Kindle. Someone generously offered to give me their Kindle. Not sell it to me. But give it to me. They dropped it off for me to see if I’d like. I tried. Oh how I tried. I brought it to bed with me. I let my fingers practice what it’d be like to turn the page. On off. On off. On off. “Here, B, you try it,” I said as I shoved it at my husband. “What do you think?” I asked excitedly, wanting him to encourage me that it would be fantastic! But, alas, he knows me too well and we’re too much alike. “I think you won’t use it,” he said. Big sigh. I knew he was right. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t see myself using it. I sadly gave it back.

Then, a couple Wednesdays ago. There it was. A book. Mom had stopped by to drop a few things off, and in the pile she left on the kitchen table was Shauna Niequist’s book Bread and Wine. It was so pretty. Hardcover. I couldn’t wait to open it.  So, the next morning as the sun was rising and I was nursing, rather than mindlessly sliding my finger across my phone, checking the weather, Facebook, my email, etc., I read. The words were like pillows. Soft, comfortable, warm. I couldn’t get enough. Wow—reading’s like riding a bike, I thought, you don’t really lose it! I read, read, and read, and felt a little bit of my pre-Q self return. When Q finished eating I read aloud to him as he stared at me milky-eyed. And when I nursed him after his morning nap, I read some more. By the time I crawled into bed with B that night, he looked at me with eyebrows raised? Really, Heather? Half the book already? Yup.

It’s actually the perfect book to begin reading again on. It’s light. It’s fun. It’s inspiring. It’s a blend of short stories and fun recipes. And if you get to feed a five month old four times a day, you can read half of it in a day! I actually made a recipe from it last night, too, and it was great and so easy.

Perhaps the best part of my book though is that on the inside cover, mom left a note:

Happy Hump Day

Happy Darn Cold Day

Happy Flat Tire Day

Happy Dermatology Appointment Day

Happy “thank you for taking us to the airport in two days” Day.

Relax and Enjoy.

As you can tell, my mom is a rockstar. On that particular day, I was in need of some brightness, and like all rockstar moms do, somehow she just knew—she maybe even knew without really knowing that she knew I needed something bright.

And here’s what I concluded. You can’t write an amazing note on a library book or a Kindle! You need a real book that you get to keep. And any day during which you can relax and enjoy the words of a book—if only for a few minutes while nursing—is a happy day. Which is why I promptly lined up another book (ordered online from my phone to be conveniently delivered to my doorstep).

Happy Book Day!

Now is the time

* written June 10, 2013

I am reading a book review—about one woman’s yearlong adventure in Iceland—in the Sunday paper’s Variety section as if I’m going to have time to not only check the book out next time I’m casually strolling through Barnes & Noble, but to actually purchase the book and read it! I know instinctively this is not going to happen. I still have a couple books to read about how to survive labor which is now a mere eight weeks away, and then a book about breastfeeding, a book about keeping God and your faith front and center in the midst of a new baby, a book about healthy sleeping habits for babies, a book about how to make your own baby food, a book about the best books about surviving the first year of motherhood—and the list goes on. And from what I understand, all this reading better be done before my cervix dilates to 10 because after that, it’s all over.

Supposedly I won’t have time (or energy) to even go to the bathroom let alone do any sort of pleasure reading. There will be no more going out to eat (scrounging for crumbs at home will be hard enough), no more sleeping in, no more caring what you look like or when you look like it, no more quiet, no more peace, no more sex. But congratulations on the forthcoming arrival of your baby boy!

The warnings of many have been somewhat daunting for me and my husband! To be fair, they’re usually quickly followed up with assurances about how wonderful parenting is, that kids are pretty much the best thing ever, and that we will be fantastic parents. Thanks, but…

In one way or another all of the warnings seem to do with time—lack thereof or how it’s spent or where it goes. And I get it—I will likely not get to read about one woman’s yearlong adventure in Iceland…just for the heck of it.

But I can’t help but think that there’s actually plenty of time. Amazingly God creates a baby between husband and wife. And amazingly, He has created my body to build this baby without me really having to do a thing for 9 months! He will soon prepare my body to push this baby out. And if all of this is any indication, He has built in the appropriate and necessary time to enjoy and be present as compassionate parents during this special time. It’s me who will—I know I will—clutter my time with earthly things and wonder where it’s gone once this baby arrives.

So, as I worry about how quickly time is running out—only eight more weeks!—I am praying that my husband and I prepare to honor God’s timing. Clearly, now is the time He has called us to be parents. Now is our time to have and nurture a baby. 

Skype me

Skype is great.

When we first moved to Los Angeles, we carried my laptop around our new patio and house using Skype to “show” our families our new digs. Based on their reactions when they actually experienced our new digs in person, Skype likes to make things seem bigger than they really are.

My Minnesota girlfriends Skyped me in for our Christmas party at the end of which, I actually put on my first-ever, newly purchased skinny jeans to dance around my living room hoping my friends could get the idea. Did they look OK? Did they look ridiculous? Should I return them? But they were cheap. And if the bigger-then-reality thing is true, they said I looked great, but they were probably thinking, wow, her thighs have gotten much thicker!

Oh, and there was the time when B and I thought it’d be fun to begin our marriage with seven months of Skyping while he was away at training. Yes, that was a good time!

But have you ever noticed—or maybe it’s just us—Skype never goes smoothly. Never. You set a date/time with your family or friends, and something doesn’t work. One party can’t see the other. Or one party can’t hear the other. Or it freezes. Or one party’s words don’t match their mouths and it’s really hard to follow. Or it sounds like one party is in a cave or a bubble or outer space. Or when B was at training, and for some reason he was always jaundice. The screen would always be this sick yellow color. We never did figure it out.

A couple weeks ago, B and I Skyped with some family members, except we couldn’t see them. They could see us, but we couldn’t see them. We could hear each other though. I suggested just talking on the phone as Skype wasn’t working appropriately but the idea was thrown out because the other party was happy as a clam…they could see us without having to look at themselves in a little box the whole time. Meanwhile on our end, we talked into a computer screen, staring at ourselves the whole time. This also happened to be a day or two after the first bob haircut. Awful. 

It’s funny, too, when new-to-Skype users log in and then don’t understand why the other party isn’t there. So they’ll call or text and say, hey, I thought you had a Skype account. Where are you? Well, not at my computer, logged in to Skype, just waiting for one of my friends or family to come on! I guess some people probably are though.

I can’t knock Skype too much because as I’ve said, it affords a much more personal connection with friends and family who are many miles away. But it is a funny phenomenon. And now even my 87-year-old, very-hip grandpa has joined the more than 405 million people across the world who have a Skype account.

Like we're really living...

Every now and then B talks in his sleep. A few weeks ago, he actually whispered in his sleep. Groggily, I rolled over and began to wake up as I heard B moving and then, in a whisper...

"If we keep moving forward, it'll feel like we're really living." 

Um. What? I started chuckling and then repeated the line about 10 times in my head so as not to forget it when I re-woke up in the morning. I wanted to remember to tell B.

So, now we've been trying to figure out what it means (and why the whispering?!). I said I think he was dreaming that he was leading an expedition through a cave. I can see him holding a flashlight and in all seriousness he turned to his followers and whispered: "If we keep moving forward, it'll feel like we're really living."

He thinks it's about L.A., and the lack of real living one can do here. He was merely offering some encouragement that if we keep on keepin' on, things will get better.

He also thought maybe it was pre-marriage, and he was trying to convince me to make out more on the couch.

Whatever it was, the phrase has become part of our everyday vernacular. The other night, we were so tired after a really long day, and yet we still had a few things we needed to knock of our list..."If we keep moving forward, it'll feel like we're really living," I said...encouragingly...in a whisper.

Nice Hair

I hadn’t had my hair cut in a very long time. It needn’t to be done. One day recently, while B and I took a walk through Hermosa Beach, I peeked into each and every salon…Which one did I like? Which one had a good vibe? I took a few business cards, even met the owner of one. I went home and looked them up online…checking cost and reading reviews. I landed on one that had unending good reviews and one of the lowest prices. Which by the way…absolutely kills me…the cost of haircuts. In fact, I took to haircutting myself just to save us some money. I now cut B’s hair on a  regular basis (outside, with him on our step stool under a plastic tarp…he loves it!). But anyways, I call and make an appointment at the salon and remind myself that I’m going to use my birthday money, so it's OK. I excitedly await my appointment.

I go. I say I’m willing to go short.

He says, what about a bob?

I say, sure. I’ve had before and I like.

He says, how about an asymmetrical bob?

I say no, thanks. It’ll bother me to have one side longer than the other. I’m a pretty even girl.

He says, c’mon. Give it a try.

Mmm. I don’t think so.

Oh, c’mon. Just try it for a few days. If you don’t like, come back in and we’ll fix.

So, in my head I’m thinking, yeah, Heather, live a little, this guy gets paid to do this, give it a whirl. Ok. I say.

He gives me an asymmetrical bob as I try to figure out what the tattoos covering his arms mean.

I get home. I hate it. I hate the bob. I take the scissors to it myself. And then when B gets home from work, I make him take a scissors to it in efforts of evening it out. It doesn’t work. It gets worse, and I almost start crying, to which B says, “It’s OK. I get it. I started crying when I got a bad haircut once.” At the time, I was too wrapped up in my hair horror to pay much attention to his words. But later, I asked him, "did you really say you cried once because of a bad haircut?" He says "Yes, I did. I didn’t tell you though it was when I was like six and it was more because I didn’t want the haircut in the first place…not because it was a bad cut." But you can see why I love the man. He tells me he cries after a bad haircut too.

So, I call the salon the next morning and say I have to come in. I go back in that afternoon. He evens it up. But he doesn’t wet my hair down to do it. He spends maybe three minutes tops on it. I know as I walk out, he hasn’t done it. He hasn’t fixed it. It was still—although even in length—an asymmetrical bob. And I am not asymmetrical. I get home and again take the scissors to it myself. Hair snip-its all over the bathroom. B gets home. I make him take a scissors to it too. More hair snip-its all over the bathroom.

For the next few weeks, I can’t walk past a mirror without wincing in pain at the horror that is my hair. It feels like I have 10 more pounds of hair on my left side. I also have a nice shelf going on all the way around. I mean I could put some hooks in and hang stuff on my shelf! It vaguely resembles a bowl cut. An asymmetrical bowl cut. And the worst part, literally…if I don’t part my hair in the exact spot it was parted when tattoo man cut it, I have chunks of hair an inch longer (or more) than the rest.

After spending nearly an hour in the bathroom one night, multiple wet downs, blow drys and breakdowns, and making us 15 minutes to a friends’ happy hour, I reluctantly agree with B. For his sake and mine, I need to go back in. I need to spend more money to fix my stupid bob for which I want to bob tattoo man’s head.  

So, I take to the internet again. Searching. Reading reviews. Etc. I land on a salon called Tangles because Lord knows I’ve really gotten myself into one. I go. I sit and wait and look around. On the wall is an artistic rendering of a woman with a bob. In fact, the word “Bob” is in some fancy calligraphy under the woman. Bob, bob, bob. I feel like Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents. "Bomb Bomb Bomb. I said bomb on an airplane." Bob bob bob. I say bob in a salon.

I sit in Tangles chair. Tangles lady asks what I’d like done. I nearly wail…HELP! I tell her my problems, the extra weight, the shelf, the part. She nods. She feels my hair. She nods again. She cuts out a lot of hair. A lot. Not much in length, but everywhere else. The nasty shelf lies in strands around me on the floor. The extra weight is shed. The part moves once more! She fixes my bob.

I walk out knowing I got a good hair cut. I go home and smile. B gets home and smiles. I go out and get a compliment: “nice hair.” 

Letting Them Win

B always jokes that I let him win in the kitchen. Like I’d maybe let a child win at checkers, I let B think he can help with the cooking and baking. Well, maybe he’s right, a little. But it’s not really his fault. It’s the nature of our jobs and schedules right now.

Here’s how it works…

B will ask if he can make dinner one night—to give me a break. I say sure! So, he’ll find the recipe. But then I’ll actually pick up all the ingredients at the grocery store because I do the grocery shopping. I mean, with his long hours, it just wouldn’t make sense for him to make an extra stop at the zoo, aka grocery store. And then with the recipe sitting out on the counter…I’m home…and he won’t be home until late…so, of course, I’m going to do as much prep work as possible. Otherwise, we won’t eat until bedtime. So, all this to say, by the time B gets home to “make” dinner, the veggies are chopped, the marinade's been made, the spices are out, etc. etc. etc. All he has to do is turn the oven or grill on.

After we eat , I say, "Wow, Brian, that was really good. Thank you!"

He says, “Sure, so glad I could make you dinner.”

And in this fashion, I let him win at checkers. 

Well, he is super helpful in the kitchen, and I did in fact, need his help the other night as we got dinner ready and made dessert. I tried a new cookie-in-a-skillet recipe—it’s a chocolate chip cookie that bakes in the cast-iron skillet and then you slice like a pie and serve with ice cream.

So, I made the cookie dough, smooshed it into the skillet, and threw it in the oven. I took it out a tad early as it seemed to be getting plenty brown on top (and toothpick came out clean). I let it cool for a few minutes as the recipe said. Then, as I moved forward on dinner, B offered to flip the cookie onto a wire rack from the skillet. Sure! Great! Thanks! So, he flips the skillet over and the cookie plunks down on the wire rack in its solid form as it's supposed to. As I ask him if I can get him a plate so he can flip it  once more, so it’s right side up, I see the wheels spinning in his head. He’s going to do it on his own. He dosn't need another plate. And almost in slow motion, as my mind says nooooooooo, I watch him take the wire rack and cookie in one hand and assuredly flip it so that the cookie lands on his other hand. And…cookie-in-a-skillet becomes cookie-mush-all-over-the-counter.

I wish I could have taken a picture of B’s face. He was so sheepish and so sorry. It wasn’t all his fault though. I should have let it keep baking, I told him adamantly! That would have solidified it a bit more. Definitely not his fault...he's winning the checkers game.


But, really? You’re going to flip it on your hand?! Well, nevertheless, the cookie mush sure tastes good. We’ve been eating off of it like vultures for a few days now. I’d recommend the recipe. Just bake it as long as it says, don’t flip onto your hand, and let them win. 

Customer Service is (not) Here

Here in Los Angeles, customer service was taken to a new level when customer service themselves were not even aware that they were customer service.

We hit up Macy's a few weeks ago to do a couple of exchanges from Christmas. Stopping at the first register area, we asked the Macy's worker where customer service was located. Could you please point us to customer service, please? 

Young, skinny jeans, heavy eye makeup, she said, um, yeah, hold on. In front of us she walked two feet to her coworker and said, can you show them where customer service is? Her coworker said..."this IS customer service." Young, skinny jeans Macy's worker walked two feet back over to us, gave a little sheepish giggle and said, "yeah, so, this is customer service." 

Holy Busy and Whole Foods

Alright. So, I’m honored that people have been asking me why I haven’t written on this blog in so long. But it also makes me feel delinquent! I’m sorry!

The main reason? At the beginning of the year, I started co-blogging with dad. We are walking people through the Bible chronologically in a year at BjsBrew.blogspot.com. So, we post each day—dad does video or I write. And that has been sucking up a lot of my time and the remaining creative juices I have after school and freelance.

Additionally, I am 1.5 classes shy of getting my masters and am in full-on cram mode trying to write my senior statement.

It’s been a little busy! But, I’m going to try to check in more frequently to HJ’s Haunt and will likely talk about very frivolous topics and the stupid, quirky things that I observe in Southern California. For my deeper, more philosophical, spiritual thoughts, you’ll have to go to BJsBrew.

So, anyways, B and I hit up Whole Foods a while ago for a nice guilt-ridden meal.

The Whole Foods out here is not just a store. It’s an experience. You can take yoga classes, buy yoga clothes—and Tom’s shoes, taste beer and wine, take cooking classes, grab espresso at the coffee shop, get your groceries, and eat your heart out. One whole side of the store is a big multi-cultural buffet. There’s the Asian counter, the Mexican counter, the Japanese sushi counter, panini counter, soup and salad counter, deli, bakery. And then after you’ve spent an hour just trying to figure out what to have, you can enjoy a nice sit-down dinner IN the store at one of the many booths and tables available.

On a busy, errand-running evening, B and I became those people. You know, the people who eat hotdogs at Costco or Subway inside the Wal-Mart, amidst the consumer chaos. I’ve always thought that was gross (sorry if you do it on a regular basis!). And there I was eating food where people shopped. But again, Whole Foods not just a store. It’s an experience!

After about 20 minutes of wandering the buffet befuddled by so many options, we paid $20 for cups of soup and grilled sandwiches. B and I sat down at a booth and then proceeded to watch all the people pay for their insanely high-end, organic groceries, put them in expensive, organic reusable bags, and then walk out in their brand-name yoga or workout clothes. Lululemon is, in fact, just across the street!

With my mouth full, I told B…this is sort of disgusting.

"Whuddya mean?" he asked.

All this organic, fancy-schmancy food and the only people who get it are the rich!

"Yeah."

Slurp on some nummy soup.

And, B says, "This just encourages our society to be what we don't like..."

Whuddya mean?

"Well, we can’t take time for anything. Heaven forbid you slow down and enjoy life. We need a store where you eat, work out, get caffeine, say hi to friends, get your liquor (taste your liquor), eat again, get your vitamins, and leave. Maybe there’s even a room in back where you can sleep. But do everything as fast as possible with as little effort as possible."

Yeah.

Nother bite of our tasty sammiches.

So, next time, just eat at home?

"Yeah."