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.

A Brief Personal History of Journaling

I was ten years old when I started keeping a diary. Back then, the sentences I scrawled in pink ink and unpracticed cursive attempted to mimic the corny vernacular patterns of the boy-crazing young girls I'd seen portrayed in teen dramas and sitcoms (à la Clarissa Explains It All). Keeping a diary coalesced naturally with wearing high-heeled jelly sandals and hair scrunchies and founding a babysitters' club with my friends; they all served to establish and reinforce a certain image that I aspired to: the shining ideal of the well rounded, positive minded, fashion savvy preteen.

Over time, the person composing the entries in my diary began to sound less and less like a Judy Bloom character; still, it was several years before my writing began to take on a voice of its own. On through high school, the pages of my journal remain filled exclusively with my gushings and pinings over boys who liked me or didn't like me; however, no matter how stupid the subject matter, the style evidences definite improvement.

This blog is kind of like that. No, I don't discuss boys or experiment too wildly beyond my established writing style (I save both those things for my private journal!); but I do write a lot of crap. Stuff I don't necessarily feel proud of. But that's okay. Through this process, my approach to journaling and writing in general continues to evolve, and I'm learning.

How to Be a French Farmer

One morning on the farm, Isabelle and I were moving the paddock where the goats graze. This involved gathering up the electric fences and carrying them to another end of the property, where the goats had not been to pasture for several weeks, giving the earth a chance to replenish itself and for the variety of grasses and flowers and leafy plants to spring up, healthier than ever. The goats were very happy on the days when we moved their paddock. They would literally jump for joy. It was really fun to watch.

We were just about finished with the task of moving the fence when I got stung by a bee on my finger. I don't think I'd ever been stung by a bee before (only a wasp, once) and it really hurt. Isabelle felt responsible because she suspected it could have been one of her own honeybees. "And now she's dead," she added, rather matter-of-factly. I apologized for having unintentionally murdered her (possible) bee.

The next morning, the finger that the bee had stung was really swollen. To the point that the skin was tight and itchy and I couldn't make a fist all the way. Isabelle noticed. "That's not normal," she said. She had a sad, concerned look on her face: which was the look she usually had on her face, but now even more so.

I didn't think my finger could get any more swollen but, the next day, it was. Isabelle gave me some green clay to put on it that she said would bring the swelling down. I rubbed the clay thickly all over my finger and then sealed it up with plastic wrap. It started to feel really hot. With my finger wrapped up this way, my whole left hand was out of commission, and I found myself incapable of carrying out some of my chores (including my favorite: milking the goats). I felt rather guilty about this, but my concern for the way the swelling was now progressing into my hand slightly outweighed my guilt.

I wanted to go to a doctor, to tell you the truth. But I didn't want to be the one to have to say it. I wanted them to be the ones to make the suggestion that I consult a professional. So I sat at the breakfast table saying things like, "I don't know what to do!" and "This definitely isn't normal."

Isabelle's mother, Dany, told me I was behaving like a baby. "Oui, c'est normal," she said.

I think of myself as rather tough, and I'm used to people taking me and my maladies seriously. Dany's comments left me somewhat taken aback. Fine, I would not insist on seeing a doctor. But now, if I lost the arm, it would be on her conscience.

The next morning, the swelling in my finger had gone down significantly. The day after that it was restored to its usual size. Oui, c'est normal. I guess I still have a ways to go before I can become a farmer.

More life lessons from animals

Sometimes, it's okay if all you did today was pet a cat.

Pets can be messy. They can be expensive. They can be pesky and needy and intrusive. But, sometimes, pets really help make life more bearable than it would be without them.

My parents have four cats and a dog. They drive me crazy on a regular basis. But most of the time, even when I'm mad at them, part of me is still thankful that they're there.

I typically find it a bit annoying when people glorify their relationships with their pets as though the devotion and loyalty that their animals show them qualify these relationships as being somehow superior to the more complicated relationships they have with other humans. That's so simple minded, I think. It reflects self centered-ness and an unwillingness to extend oneself on behalf of others (though, I realize, there are situations where an ill, traumatized, or otherwise unstable person may find this sort of uncomplicated companionship to be a therapeutic stand-in for more emotionally or psychologically demanding human relationships). No matter how well-trained they are or how much you enjoy their company, animals are not people.

Still, there is something to be learned from the unexacting, nonjudgmental company my cats offer me when I'm feeling less than wonderful. People are not always the best comforters. We have lots of different ideas, perspectives, and opinions and all of these have a way of of expressing themselves, even when we're not necessarily conscious of it. I know that, on occasions where I've been depressed or upset about something, I've refrained from speaking about it with certain friends simply because I could imagine how they would respond. And I know of friends of mine who have kept their thoughts and struggles secret from me for the same reasons. Sometimes, the best support you can offer a friend is to just be there and not judge, but the only way you can really do that effectively is to never judge at all. For me, that's hard work. I can learn a lot from my cats about how to be a better friend.

Thanks, cats.

P.Y.T.

Pie

My mother's favorite treat is boysenberry pie. Every year, around this time, the vines in my parents' back yard overflow with tart, juicy berries. Some of the boysenberries get eaten fresh off the vine. Some get put into plastic bags and stored in the freezer. And some get put into a pie. Today, all three happened. When I was younger, we used to can dozens of jars' worth of preserves, slap them with the label "Janssenberry Jam," and give them away as Christmas gifts. I still sort of think of boysenberries as our berries.

Yoga

My gym recently hired a yoga instructor and I attended one of her classes for the first time today. The class wasn't very good. I spent the time thinking about the last yoga class I went to, during my first weekend in Paris. The girl whose couch I was surfing invited me to come with her. As it turned out, the instructor was Polish, and the class was conducted in English. The instructor was very dainty, had knobby feet, and pretty hair.

Tomatoes

Micah gave me some heirloom tomato seedlings that he didn't have the space to plant. I put them in the ground and they started to grow. I love them. The healthy green color of the leaves is thrilling to me. They haven't yet started to produce fruit, but I'm already bursting with pride over them.

Job Jumble

Is it bad that this makes me feel a little bit stressed out?

I guess because making time to do all those things sounds difficult. Despite the fact that I, being unemployed, should have all the time in the world.

Unemployed? Yeah. I was supposed to start working at a certain big-name book retailer this afternoon, but the assistant manager called to say that she was too busy to do my orientation this week and would have to reschedule for next Tuesday. Another week to not work? That would be all fine and good, were it not for the fact that it pushes back the day when I will at last begin earning a paycheck.

I've been hired at two places since I got back from France (four weeks ago today!). Both times, I was led to believe that I would be starting work right away. And, both in both cases, the actual start date has been pushed back (the offer I received two weeks ago to work at a vegan food booth has been put on hold indefinitely).

I'm trying not to feel stressed out about this. Yes, my savings account is rapidly approaching nonexistence, but, feeling anxious about it probably won't help anything. At present, I'm reading Richard Foster's Freedom of Simplicity, and his discussion of some of Jesus' teachings in the book of Matthew, concerning the conflict between material possessions and the spiritual life, seems especially deserving of consideration right now. In Matthew 6, Jesus instructs his disciples, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth [...] For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (v. 19 & 21), and he admonishes his followers to not worry about food or clothes, "But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well" (v. 33). Foster comments on Jesus' command, clarifying that we are not being forbidden from making provision, but rather told to "live the carefree life of unconcern for possession in the midst of our work" (37). In other words, serving God rather than wealth doesn't mean we have to wear animal skins and forage in the wild for food. Nor does it mean that we just sit comfortably in our parents' house and watch Netflix in expectation that a job will magically appear. It means doing our work, but not letting it become the source of our hope; that's God's job.

It's been a long time since I was in a position where I didn't feel like I could just buy whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. In Japan, my income was always beyond sufficient for my means. And with the savings I acquired during my two years abroad, there was little to dissuade me, upon my return to America, from buying a car, going on a vacation or three, and basically just taking it easy for a few months. This situation of having to abstain from my usual consumerist tendencies and to consider all my purchases carefully is rather foreign to me. But it feels healthy. Despite the fact that I occasionally have moments of panic where I wonder how on earth I'm going to afford the gas to get me to my job until my first paycheck (that's what credit cards are for!), this experience, overall, is good for my soul. I am learning. I am growing. I am grateful.

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!