"The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five," part II

Tonight I continue my itemization of the the twenty-five best "bests" of my twenty-fifth year. Beginning with...

6. The best concert

Sufjan Stevens at the Wiltern in Los Angeles, October 23, 2010. It was unequivocally the greatest combined celebration of outer space and dancing I have ever witnessed. My experience was actually incredibly similar to that of my friend, Casey. She saw him perform in Phoenix the night before and shared her thoughts about it on her blog, here

After the concert, I joined several of my friends in enjoying some good eats from a local Korean taco truck. That's right: Korean tacos. You can get anything in L.A.

7. The best wedding

I attended four in the last year. All were good, but Mike and Lindsay's was exceptional. The ceremony, which took place on the cliffs of Point Loma, was simple, picturesque, beautiful. The reception, which took place at our home, was intimate, lively, and one of the best parties I've been to in my life.

8. The best feminine hygiene product

For a considerable time I had been interested in finding a more eco-friendly alternative to tampons and maxi pads. After researching several brands of organic cotton tampons, cloth pads, sea sponges, and menstrual cups, I decided to order the Diva Cup. Excellent decision. Though it's a bit pricey, the fact that it can be reused for over a year indicates that, in the long run, it's a more economical option than disposable menstrual products. As an added bonus, I've noticed a significant decrease in the severity of my menstrual cramps since I switched to the Diva Cup. I'll never go back to tampons, and I would be remiss if I didn't share this revelation with any friends who are looking for a means of dealing with their lady times that is gentler on the environment and, ultimately, on the wallet.

9. The best new skill

Skills Month was a bust, but I still managed to pick up some helpful new knowledge and abilities this year. My favorite by far, however, is my newfound ability to milk a goat. During the week and a half that I spent WWOOFing on a goat farm in France, I went from barely being able to eke out a few drops from the poor goat's utter to filling a whole bucket with frothy milk in ten minutes flat. Though I took great pleasure and satisfaction in several of the tasks I was asked to carry out while on the farm, milking the goats was, without a doubt, my favorite chore.

10. The best Eastern European cuisine

It was so good. Since the evening that I visited Pomegranite Russian-Georgian Restaurant with Mike and Lindsay, I've been dreaming of going back. I've made several attempts at replicating their amazing borscht in my home kitchen, but I've yet to concoct anything remotely as delectable.

"The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five," part I

For this last week of twenty-five, I would like to take some time to highlight some events or discoveries that might not have gotten much--if any--mention on this blog, but nevertheless played a formative or otherwise interesting role my last year of life. Each day, for the next five days, I will highlight five "Best Ofs" from my twenty-fifth year, comprising, altogether, "The Best Twenty-five of twenty-five."

Here goes:

1. The best birthday gift

This is way hard to choose, actually, because I had so many amazing birthday presents last year! Ashley Jones gave me a skirt that I love and the best key cover ever. I got a beautiful sweater and some great books from my sisters. And Josiah, in his usual custom, gave a hand-made greeting card, complete with personalized coupons to be redeemed for special outings and fun activities. In the end, I guess I have to say that Josiah's present would be the best, because there's no greater gift than time.

2. The best (and by "best," I mean worst) near-death experience

I'm not exaggerating. I really could have died. Back in September, when Josiah, Jared, and I took a two-night backpacking trip in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, the weather was less than kind to us. The first morning, it started to drizzle. With hopes of climbing nearby Madera Peak, we eyed the sky hopefully all day, casting furtive glances at the southern horizon, where dark clouds persistently loomed over the mountain tops.

Finally, at mid afternoon, the clouds in the south still showing no immediate intention to move our direction, we decided to just go for it. Armed with water and snacks, we began to scale the steep, granite slope. Once we cleared the tree line, the going became especially difficult, with loose rock shards slipping out from under us as we climbed higher and higher, our gaze remaining cautiously on the clouds in the south, ready to detect the slightest hint of threat.

A clap of thunder sounded so loud and so close you could feel it in the ground. Immediately, we realized our folly: we had been watching the clouds in the south so intently, we had entirely failed to notice the storm advancing on us rapidly from the north! We were absolutely exposed and standing on the side of one of the tallest mountain peaks in the vicinity, nothing but loose granite beneath our feet.

Fully aware that a scraped knee or even a twisted ankle would be preferable to being struck by lightning, we began to descend as quickly as possible, running and sometimes sliding down hillsides of sharp stones. As incautiously as we hurried, however, we were no match for the rolling black clouds, which advanced on us rapidly, releasing terrifying cracks of lightning. I moved as fast as I could, but both Jared and Josiah were far ahead of me. The clouds were finally right overhead. And then I was passing trees and shrubs and, as the rain began to fall, my hiking boots touched soft dirt, and I knew I was probably going to live.

3. The best thing I got in the mail

A letter from a student in Japan.

4. The best job

I genuinely loved working for UPS in December. I never thought it would be possible to love a job and occasionally, specifically on the days that it rained, it could be a little bit miserable. But I loved the feeling of working hard and doing something physically exerting while being outdoors and interacting with lots of different people in a positive setting all day. What was there not to love?

5. The best thing I crocheted

In late 2010 and early 2011, I crocheted several fun little things of which I was quite proud, but my favorite would have to be this guy right here.

He's an iPod sleeve.

Ahhhh...Fashion!

Though I've already broken my new year's resolution to not buy any clothes all year, I am hopeful that I will be able to make it though the rest of 2011 without falling prey to the temptations of Target and Forever 21. Recent readings and conversations with wise people have alerted me more acutely to the value of simple living and a healthy disconnect from possessions--including clothing. Still, in a society where so much value is placed on personal appearance, it's hard for me not to want to look well-groomed and stylish. Especially this week, anticipating the wedding I will be attending tomorrow, I was overwhelmed by the desire to have something fun and fresh to wear.

It's in times like these that I am so grateful that my fashion savvy, expert minimalist sister Lindsay lives only a short drive away.

Lindsay has some really cute dresses. Lindsay has some really cute everything, but it's the dresses that would probably stand out most prominently in one's observation. And yet, a look inside Lindsay's closet reveals surprisingly that she doesn't necessarily have a lot of clothes, relatively speaking. She just knows how to pick 'em.

Tonight I headed over to Mike and Lindsay's place and raided Lindsay's very tidy closet. The following fashion show ensued:

It was a tough call, but the winner is...

Family Vacation Videos

There’s the sudden realization that my sisters were always cooler than me. Way cooler than me. Simply because I, throughout my adolescence, tried too hard to be cool and they, in the tenacity of youth, didn’t have to try. And yet, though they always seemed deny it adamantly back then, they now attest, unashamedly, to the many ways that they admired, even idolized me. We are watching an old family vacation video and Lindsay says, “I remember that swimsuit. I couldn’t wait for you to grow out of it so that I could have it.” I am shocked. I never knew back then that either Ashley or Lindsay liked or coveted anything I had or did. I wanted them to. I really, really wanted them to. But they always seemed so confident and secure in the unyielding sisterly support that they, as twins, offered one another and I, as the non-twin, was generally exempt from. The news that they, at that age, did indeed see me as someone to look up to is thoroughly surprising.

The debate regenerates from time to time and we still are at an impasse as to who was the more injured party. I felt ostracized by them, the twins, and they felt ostracized by me, the older sibling. At least, as I cannot help but point out whenever the argument arises in conversation, they felt rejected together. I had no ally. In my family, my parents had each other, my sisters had each other, and then there was me.

In the video, a little girl is swinging in a hammock. She is playing with a plastic toy dog and she is singing to herself, a song that she is making up as she goes. I am so outstandingly jealous of that girl, jealous that she doesn’t worry about being too old for her toy, jealous of her unconcern for how much sense her lyrics make and who might hear them. The camera spans right across the family campsite and I can see her older sister, examining her reflection in the minivan’s windows, feeling restless.

I forced myself to grown up too fast, obsessed with winning the approval of others. But part of growing up--as once said a young nun with an uncanny ability to put into words the self-examining questions I had hitherto been scared to ask--is learning to simply accept what is an not obsess over what could be or might have been. No one can ever truly know what others think of her. Slowly, very slowly, I am digesting these truths and learning to apply them.

My sister is famous.

Lindsay was recently featured in an article in the La Mesa Patch, an online regional news source. Since I don't think Lindsay regularly reads my blog, I don't think she will be any the wiser if I pass along a link to the story. If you take a minute to read through the short piece, you will probably understand why Lindsay would be less than enthusiastic about me spreading the word of her small advance to fame: though it's supposed to be a piece about her workplace's weekly wine event, it's fleshed out with irrelevant and poorly incorporated snidbits about Lindsay's experiences with wine. I can't help but laugh as I read through it.

I think that my little sister deserves a better exposition of her employment at Ceramicafe Art Lounge and her relationship to wine in general, so I am now taking it upon myself to provide the world with a very brief, very unauthorized biography of my sister, Lindsay Janssen Smith.

On a weeknight or a weekend afternoon, if I'm lucky enough, I get to pay a visit to the apartment of Lindsay and Michael Smith. Unfailingly, I'm greeted with a spirited game of Yahtzee and something delicious to drink.

Upon entering Mike and Lindsay's place, I observe the tell-tale sign of a good host: a well-stocked wine rack. And I don't mean anything extensive or exceptionally fancy--you're sure to find a Charles Shaw or two amid the half-dozen or so bottles that they always have on hand--but it's enough to have a selection to choose from and for me, the guest, to feel like I'm not putting them out by accepting a glass.

I'm Lindsay's older sister, but I often feel that I should be looking up to her (and that's entirely aside from the fact that she's taller than me by a full quarter-inch). Lindsay is so well put-together. Throughout her high school and university studies, she was always a top student. She's a brilliant mathematician (a quality that shines brightly when it comes time to add up our Yahtzee scores; Mike calls her the human calculator) and a talented artist. Her creativity finds an outlet in her job as an assistant manager at a paint-your-own pottery art lounge, Ceramicafe, where it has been her responsibility for several years to paint sample pieces of the different products available.

Lindsay has great taste: in beers, wines, home decor, fashion, and, of course, in life partners. She and her hubby--who got married this January after having dated since high school--are an adorable couple and as amazing as they are as individuals are even more amazing as a unit. I love spending time with them and visiting them in their very tastefully furnished (Lindsay's influence) yet remarkably homey dwelling. Even if there were no adult beverages and no games, I would still love going there. But, knowing Mike and Lindsay and their unwavering spirit of hospitality, there will always be plenty of wine and plenty of Yahtzee to go around.

This is my Brain on Harry Potter

I'm not sure if the fact that I hold a degree in English Literature should make me feel more or less apologetic about my love of the Harry Potter books. I've always attempted to justify myself by categorizing them as a "guilty pleasure." However, for the sake of getting through this post, I'm setting the guilt aspect aside and focusing, at least for tonight, on the pleasure.

I'm as excited for the July 15 as any Harry Potter lover. Despite the fact that the last two films have been, in my opinion, unsatisfying, the hype surrounding the end of the film saga and my sentimental allegiance to the story itself are enough to make me completely overlook any shortcomings in the film adaptations. It doesn't matter how much they botch up essential plot elements in favor of gratuitous make-out scenes or how wince-inducing the acting may be at times; I still love it, and I'll still pay whatever they charge to attend one of the midnight screenings.

Here is a picture of my sister, Lindsay, and me, getting ready to leave the house on the evening of November 18, 2010:

In preparation for July 15, I've been rereading the series. I'm in the middle of book four, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, right now. Since the plot no longer holds any mysteries for me as it did the first time around, I'm more than ever drawn into J. K. Rowling's magical world. I'm enchanted and inspired. I want to bring a little bit of the wizarding world to my own mundane life, and I've been thinking up a few ways to make that happen.

For instance, the Weasley family's clock, mentioned the first time in book four, sounds like it could translate very nicely into a fun craft project. But I figured that I wasn't the first person to have that notion, so I did a quick Google search and, sure enough, someone devised a real-life family "clock" that would update the whereabouts of his family members according to his Twitter updates.



Wow. I'm not going to do anything that involved (like I even could), but I may still try a hand at my own interpretation. My version would probably focus more on appearance than functionality (although the one above obviously does an excellent job on both counts).

And, of course, there are a countless number of recipes on the Web aimed at imitating magical food items mentioned in one or more of the books. Certainly not the least appealing of these are the recipes for butterbeer. The standout recipe that I've come across so far has been this one, mostly because it's a real Tudor butterbeer recipe that actually contains both butter AND beer. Judging from the list of ingredients, I'd say there's about an equal chance of it being either surprisingly yummy or downright gross. But I guess we'll just have to try it out and see.

Well, there you have it. I'll continue to contemplate ways to translate inspiring items from the wizarding world into real-life fun and keep you posted if my contemplations lead to anything interesting. And, if this confession of my love of Harry Potter has in fact caused you to lose some respect for me, then...

Obliviate!

The one where she decides to go to France

"You must be brave," people kept saying to me. Brave? It might sound brave to some, I suppose, if not downright brazen, that I would suddenly decide to put the remainder of my English-teaching savings toward taking a two-month solo trip to France. I didn't know anyone in France. My mission, simply, was to learn a bit of French and spend some time on some French farms. I had a French school in Paris picked out for the first three weeks but, otherwise, I would be making plans as I went. "Brave." The choice of descriptor seemed logical and, yet, I didn't feel brave. I didn't feel anything. Not even scared. The fact that I was truly going to France--had paid for the non-refundable airline ticket and sent a deposit for the language school--didn't seem real to me. Empirically, yes, I knew I was going. But I didn't feel it.

This emotional numbness, this unshakable malaise, was one of the main motivations that led me to decide to go to France in the first place: I wanted to feel something. It seemed that I hadn't really felt anything for a considerable while. Which, in retrospect, was probably not entirely accurate. I was just depressed. And I think we've all experienced moments (I do almost daily) where we compare the present moment to a preceding one, and are filled with insufferable angst that things aren't as good now as they were when we were in that other town, other job, other relationship, other mindset. Of course, that earlier reality had its imperfections, too, we just don't consider them because we are depressed.

Such was my condition in February of this year. I was jobless, living with my parents, my savings from teaching in Japan trickling away slowly as I searched less-than-half-heartedly for a job. My sister, Lindsay, had just gotten married and, with no more wedding to plan and prepare for, I was left to face the void of my future, armed with nothing but a bachelor's degree in English and a vague intention to go back to school for something. I started to panic. It seemed that all of the career advice I had ever received--to follow my dreams, to do what I love--was rendered irrelevant by the growing realization that I had no dreams and, if in fact there was something I would love doing, I had no idea what it was because I had never done it before.

One day in late February I was hanging out with some friends. This is usually a good idea because being with friends helps me to feel better about my lack of direction in life because most of my friends are in a similar situation. However, since we share the same predicament, my friends are unable to give me any helpful advice and, as soon as I am no longer with them, I go back to being depressed. But on this particular day, one of my friends said something to me that changed everything. She asked me where I wanted to go on my next vacation. It was an innocent question, I'm sure, posed simply for the sake of interesting conversation. Without having to think about it much, I told her I wanted to go to France and spend some time learning French. It was an idea that I had toyed with for a while toward the end of my second year in Japan, and I had never completely discarded it, though the quizzical looks I got from people when I told them the idea and their unanswerable questions, "Why France? Why French?" had persuaded me, in my insecurity, to let it become obscured in the back of the closet of my brain. Now, with the permission of my friend's hypothetical question, I pulled the idea back into the light and, dusting it off, noted just how strongly it still appealed to me.

Yet, in answer to those questions as to my reasons for choosing France and it's language, "Because I want to," didn't seem like strong enough justification for spending several thousand dollars to go on vacation for two months. For the sake of explaining myself to others, I focused mainly on the reasons I shouldn't not go to France:

1. I may never have the time and money to do something like this again.
2. I'm 25 now and it's cheaper to do a lot of things in Europe if you're 25 or younger.
3. I don't have a family to look after.
4. I might regret it later if I don't.

Though it works unfailingly in arithmetic equations, in life, a double negative does not make a positive. Using a roundabout means to justify myself to others rather than simply having the confidence to be honest about my own hopes and passions provided me with a compelling enough argument to legitimize my trip to France and to motivate me to take the practical steps needed to get the trip in motion; but, it set the precedent that this trip was intertwined with my need to prove myself to others, a need that on several occasions threatened to destroy what otherwise turned out to be possibly the greatest two months of my life. It was not until the last week of my trip that I finally confronted this need of mine more seriously than I ever have before and, in a monastery not far from the border to Germany, glimpsed the road to freedom from self-deprecation. It is a road I continue now and will probably always continue to walk but, on the first of March, the day I officially decided to go to France, I was miles from the trail head.

In the three weeks leading up to my departure, I tried to mentally grasp the gravity of what was coming, but all my pondering failed to elicit the feelings of enthusiasm or nervousness that might be expected of someone in my situation. How can you be excited about something if you have no idea what to expect? And how can you know what to expect if you've never done anything remotely like it before? No, I wasn't scared. But one thing I certainly didn't feel--even as I packed all the belongings I would need for two months into a 65-liter backpack, as I sent emails to the absolute strangers who didn't speak English whom I would be staying with in Paris, as I hugged my dad goodbye in front of the San Diego airport on the morning of the 23rd of March--was brave.

Married, Married, Married!

At last! They're hitched!

Here are just a few of many beautiful moments from Michael and Lindsay's wedding weekend.

Check out banner, Michael!

In just one week, Lindsay and Michael are getting married! Mike has been like a brother to me for years now and I'm overjoyed that he is finally going to be part of my family.

I'm also having a grand old time creating gilding, garnish, and assorted knick-knackery to decorate the house for the reception. I've already made yards of button garlands for adorning doorways, bookshelves, and table ends. And I'm in the process of making mini banners--bearing captions such as "Welcome," "Hooray For Love," and "Toilet"--to hang in various places throughout the house.

I'm looking forward to sharing more of my crafting creations for the wedding after the big day.

Organization

Yesterday my mother and I spent literally the entire day shopping. To some this may sound like fun and, actually, for a little while, it is. But my mom approaches shopping as one might approach the Iron Man triathlon: as soon as you're finished with one shop, power through to the next; no breaks until we've hit every last thrift store and consignment shop in the North Park/University Heights/Normal Heights and Point Loma sectors of the city of San Diego. Around mid-afternoon, when I realize that we're skipping lunch, it ceases to be a pleasurable outing with my mom and becomes a brutal task we must carry out to its bitter end.

We were searching for a dresser. Lindsay laid claim to the one in my room months ago, intending to move it into her future married-person apartment; and since she and her fiancé had, as of last week, found a place, it was time for me to procure a new receptacle to hold my clothes and loose papers.

It was at our final stop for the evening--the Salvation Army in Point Loma--that I at last spied a piece of furniture that that got passing marks across the board in appearance, functionality, and price. At this point in the evening, it was difficult to tell if I was simply at last settling for something that was no more outstanding than half a dozen other dressers I had looked at that day. Still, the dresser was paid for and my mom and I returned to the shop today to pick it up. It's now sitting beside me as I type these words, and I must say I'm tremendously pleased with this purchase. Its ample drawer space has solved all my former storage problems and it's just a solid, attractive piece of furniture.

Finally being able to store in drawers some items that, for the past four months, had been sitting in brown paper bags at the foot of my bed, inspired me to get even more organized in ways that I've never been organized before. I made a rack to hold and display my earrings, a vast improvement on the clump they'd been sitting in in a bag for the last five years.

Wrap Wars

A few days ago, as I was passing by the family Christmas tree, I noticed that my sister Lindsay had already wrapped and placed a few packages 'neath its branches.



What? And Christmas still nearly two weeks away? I hadn't anticipated seeing her fall into formation so early. Armed with saved scraps of paper, yarn, and jingle bells, I immediately retaliated with a few maneuvers of my own.







After that, there was a long period of silence. No new parcels were placed under the tree. It seemed my tactics had prevailed. Then, without warning, Lindsay broke out the heavy artillery.



I threw up the white flag and retreated to my craft box...I mean, bunker...to regroup for next year.

The Best Day

But it didn't start off that way. I awoke at 7:30--a good two hours earlier than my unemployed self has lately become accustomed to--feeling groggy. I was up late the night before, turning my room upside down in search of a manila envelope that contained the important personal documents I would need to have on hand for my job interview this morning. I lost a good hour and a half of sleep and was ready to call off the search before the obvious place finally occurred to me. All that for a tiny little piece of paper with my social security number written on it? I went to bed in a foul mood.

This morning, I was assembling my usual breakfast of yogurt, granola, and raisins, when Lindsay, running out the door on her way to work, explained apologetically that the dog had "puked his guts out" all over the living room and, though she'd tried to clean it up a little, she didn't have time to finish the job. I looked at the clock: I was intending to head to my interview in half an hour, but I still needed to eat, get dressed, blow dry my hair, and write down directions. "Okay," I told her, "I'll do my best to clean it, if I have time."

I cleaned up the dog's vomit (which resembled, much to the misfortune of my gag reflex, the granola I'd just eaten), slipped into a half-ironed shirt, skipped the blow dry, jotted down what turns to take after the freeway exit, and dashed out the door about fifteen minutes later than I'd intended. I made it to the interview location exactly on time.

Fortunately, it was a group interview and the group was large, so nobody took much notice of my lack of punctuality. It was mostly an information session for a seasonal position with UPS, which, as it turns out, I may or may not qualify for on account of the area where I live. We'll see.

Gloriously, however, the interview location was in Kearny Mesa, a part of San Diego that is a veritable heaven to a recently repatriated former English teacher in Japan (like me). Immediately west of California 163, off Balboa Avenue, is a more than satisfying conglomeration of Japanese shops and restaurants, including a discount variety store and a used book shop that also had locations in Moka, Japan! Immediately after leaving the UPS warehouse, I headed down to Daiso, where I simply basked for about an hour in the familiar foreignness of it all, reading labels in Japanese and listening to small children speaking to their mothers in a language that I am remorsefully rapidly forgetting.

I left Daiso without purchasing anything and headed next door, to a Japanese market. After perusing the aisles, my mouth literally watering the entire time, I concluded decisively that tonight is definitely going to be a nabe night. I bought the soup base, tofu and vegetables I would need--including five kinds of mushrooms--and went across the street to lunch on fresh authentic hot udon noodles at Kayaba in the Mitsuwa Marketplace. As I headed back to my car, I couldn't help but dance a little through the parking lot from the utter joy that this noontime excursion had brought me. True, it's not the same as a trip to Japan, but, for a fraction of the cost, it comes delightfully close.

An Evening with the Janssens

It's a quarter to seven. Mom just got home and she's sitting in front of the computer. I'm in the kitchen, carefully watching the clock. Dad walks in the front door, carrying the tell-tale bags from Grocery Outlet ("I can't not stop by when I'm in the neighborhood, because they've always got insanely good deals on cheese and outstanding prices on vegetarian meat analogs."). If Grocery Outlet were a human, my dad would leave my mom for her, no doubt about it.

Now that both parents are present and accounted for, I swoop in and immediately begin administering the finishing touches to the dinner that's been in process for the last hour or so. Dad comes into the kitchen, reaches for the roasted pumpkin seeds from the night before that are in a plastic container on the counter and munches on a few. I tell him, "Don't snack! Dinner is in the process of being served!" He looks up at me sheepishly, throws his hands in the air, and backs away from the seeds.

The table is piled with grocery bags, so we eat on the couch. I can tell my mom is pleased with dinner, because she tells me I should open a restaurant. This is what she tells me every time I cook something that she likes. Tonight I made sandwiches, so she says, "You and your dad should open a sandwich shop!" Then she and my dad agree, as always, that owning a restaurant would be an overly time-consuming enterprise, better left to those who are truly passionate about it. I bring out dessert, and it is greeted with further exultations of entrepreneurial potential.

I suggest that we watch a movie together. I make popcorn. Dad watches the first two minutes and then goes to the other room to watch hockey. Mom watches the first eight minutes and then begins to snore. I watch the next hour of it by myself until Lindsay comes home from work and watches the ending with me.

After that, Lindsay and I retreat to our respective bedrooms. I round out the night with a few TV comedy episodes on Netflix and, if I'm up to it, some light blogging.

I feel like I'm stuck in a rut. I'm keeping an eye out for ladders.

Wedding Shower Invites

These are the postcard invitations that my sister Ashley and I created for Lindsay and Mike's wedding shower. Ashley and I devoted nearly the entire day to gathering materials for and then assembling the cards. Was it worth it? The jury is still out.